When Mittie retired that night, instead of preparing for sleep, she sat down in the window, and tried to analyze the charm which drew her towards this stranger, without any volition of her own. She could not do it—it was intangible, evasive and subtle. The effect of his presence was like the sun-burst on the landscape, the moment of his arrival. The dark places of her soul seemed suddenly illumined; the massy columns of her intellect turned like the tree trunks, into pillars of gold and light; gilded foliage, in new born leaflets, played about the branches. She looked up into the heavens, and thought they had never bent in such grandeur and splendor over her, nor the solemn poetry of night ever addressed her in such deep, earnest language. All her senses appeared to have acquired an acuteness, an exquisiteness that made them susceptible almost to pain. The stars dazzled her like sunbeams, and those low, murmuring, monotonous sounds, the muffled beatings of the heart of night, rung loudly and distinctly on her ear. Alarmed at the strange excitement of her nerves, she rose and looked round the apartment which her step-mother’s hand had adorned, and ingratitude seemed written in large, dark characters on the soft, grayish colored walls. Why had she never seen this writing before? Why had the debt she owed this long suffering and now alienated benefactress, never before been acknowledged before the tribunal of conscience? Because her heart was awakening out of a life-long sleep, and the light of a new creation was beaming around her.
She took the lamp, and placing it in front of the mirror, gazed deliberately on her person.
“Am I handsome?” she mentally asked, taking out her comb, whose pressure seemed intolerable, and suffering the dark redundance of her hair to flow, unrestrained, around her. “Louis says that I am, and methinks this mirror reflects a glorious image. Surely I am changed, or I have never really looked on myself before.”
Yes! she was changed. The light within the cold, alabaster vase was kindled, giving a life and a glow to what was before merely symmetrical and classic. There was a color coming and going in her cheek, a warm lustre coming and going in her eye, and she could not tell whence it came, nor whither it went.
From this evening a new era in her life commenced.
Days and weeks glided by, and Clinton still remained the guest of Louis. He sometimes spoke of going home, but Louis said—“not yet”—and the sudden paleness of Mittie’s cheek spoke volumes. During all this time, they had walked, and rode, and talked together, and the enchantment had become stronger and more pervading Mr. Gleason sometimes thought he ought not to allow so close an intimacy between his daughter and a young man of whose private character he knew so little, but when he reflected how soon he was to depart to his distant home, probably never to return, there seemed little danger to be apprehended from his short sojourn with them. Then Mittie, though she might be susceptible of admiration for his splendid qualities, and though her vanity might be gratified by his apparent devotion—Mittie had no heart. If it were Helen, it would be a very different thing, but Mittie was incapable of love, uninflammable as asbestos, and cold as marble.
Mrs. Gleason, with the quicker perception of woman, penetrated deeper than her husband, and saw that passions were aroused in that hitherto insensible heart which, if opposed, might be terrible in their power. Since her conversation with Mittie, where she yielded up all attempt at maternal influence, and like “Ephraim joined to idols, let her alone,” she had never uttered a word of counsel or rebuke. She had been coldly, distantly courteous, and as she had prophesied, met with at least the semblance of respect. It was more than the semblance, it was the reality. Mittie disdained dissimulation, and from the moment her step-mother asserted her own dignity, she felt it. Mrs Gleason would have lifted up her warning voice, but she knew it would be disregarded, and moreover, she had pledged herself to neutrality, unless admonition or counsel were asked.
“Let us go in and see Miss Thusa,” said Louis, as they were returning one evening from a long walk in the woods. “I must show Clinton all the lions in the neighborhood, and Miss Thusa is the queen of the menagerie.”
“It is too late, brother,” cried Mittie, well knowing that she was no favorite of Miss Thusa, who might recall some of the incidents of her childhood, which she now wished buried in oblivion.
“Just the hour to make a fashionable call,” said Clinton. “I should like to see this belle of the wild woods.”