"You deceive yourself," he said, and there was something chilling in his tone, "it is not love you feel for them, for that is unchangeable, and admits but one object."
"I was not speaking of human love," I answered, busily arranging the flowers in their vases, in which I had already placed some icy cold water. He walked up and down the room, stopping occasionally to observe the process, and making some passing remark. I was astonished at finding myself so much at ease. I suppose the awe he inspired, like the fear of ghosts, subsided at the dawning of morning. There was something so exhilarating in the pure fresh air, in the dewy brightness of the hour, in the exercise of roaming through a wilderness of sweets, that my spirits were too elastic to be held down. He seemed to take an interest in watching me, and even altered the position of some white roses, which he said wanted a shading of green.
"And what are these beautiful clusters laid aside for?" he asked, taking up some which I had deposited on the table.
"I thought," I answered, after a slight hesitation, "that Edith would like them for your room."
"Then it is only to please Edith you place them there, not to please yourself?"
"I should not dare to do it to please myself," I hastily replied.
I thought I must have said something wrong, for he turned away with a peculiar smile. I colored with vexation, and was glad that Edith came in to divert his attention from me.
Nothing could be more gentle and affectionate than his greeting. He went up and kissed her, as if she were a little child, put his arm round her, and taking one of her crutches, made her lean on him for support. I understood something of the secret of her idolatry.
Where was the impenetrable reserve of which his mother had spoken?
I had not yet seen him in society. As he talked with Edith, his head slightly bent and his profile turned towards me, I could look at him unobserved, and I was struck even more than the evening before with the transparent paleness of his complexion. Dark, delicate, and smooth as alabaster, it gave an air of extreme refinement and sensibility to his face, without detracting from its manliness or intellectual power. It was a face to peruse, to study, to think of,—it was a baffling, haunting face. Hieroglyphics of thought were there, too mysterious for the common eye to interpret. It was a dark lantern, flashing light before it, itself all in shadow.