It is the natural course of womanhood. Ah! that we could always be children. We have seen that after Edith had learned the story of the Lady Ursula, she began to solve some of the mysteries of life. She had since turned over many of its leaves, all fair with innocence and truth, but she had not yet found an answer to the question, "Why do we suffer?"
The change that had taken place in young Seymore was deeper and sterner, but not so apparent. Externally, he was the same beautiful youth that he was when we introduced him to our kind readers, in his attic.
Since then, he had had much to struggle with; but poverty had not been his greatest temptation. He could not indeed hope to be exempt from the bitter experience of almost all who at that time were scholars.
To this very day, the sons of clergymen, and many of the most distinguished men in New England, have held the plough in the intervals of their preparation for the university. How many poor mothers have striven, and labored, and denied themselves all but the bare necessaries of life, that their sons might gain that sole distinction in New England,—an education at one of the colleges.
Poverty was not his greatest trial. When he first saw Edith, her timid and innocent beauty had made an impression on his fancy, that all his subsequent dreams in solitude, and his lonely reveries, had only served to deepen. She seemed to embody all his imaginations of female loveliness. He had, indeed, never before seen a beautiful girl, and he had no acquaintance with women, except his grandmother.
The remembrance of his mother came softened to him, like something unconnected with earth; and when he thought of the darkened chamber, the pale, faint smile, her hand on his head, and her solemn consecration of him to the church, on her death-bed, he felt a sensation of awe that chilled and appalled him.
After his acquaintance with Edith and her father, life wore a brighter hue. His efforts to gain an education to distinguish himself were redoubled. Mr. Grafton aided in every way; and with the sympathy of his kind friend came the image of his beautiful daughter. His labors were lightened, his heart cheered, by the thought that she would smile and approve.
Thus days of bodily labor were succeeded by nights of study; and, for some time, with his youth and vigorous health, this was hardly felt as an evil. But we have seen, in our first chapter, that he had moments of despondency, and of late they had been of more frequent occurrence.
At such times, the remembrance of his mother, and her solemn dedication of him to the church, came back with redoubled power, and the time he had spent in lighter literature, in poetry, and even his dreams of Edith, seemed to him like sins. A darker and less joyous spirit was gradually overshadowing him. A morbid sensitiveness to moral evil, an exaggerated sense of his own sins, and of the strict requisitions of the spirit of the times, clouded his natural gayety.
His visits to the parsonage, indeed, always dissipated his fears for a little time. Edith received him as a valued friend, and he returned to his studies, cheered by her smiles, and sustained by new hopes.