CHAPTER XXIII.
Laura was at the next class. I had almost forgotten her until I saw her eyes. I felt quite wicked when I perceived how thin and transparent the child had grown,—wicked to have thought so little of her in suffering, while I had been enjoying myself. I cannot give the least idea how large her eyes looked,—they quite frightened me. I was not used to see persons just out of illness. Her hair, too, was cut much shorter, and, altogether, I did not admire her so much. I felt myself again wicked for this very reason, and was quite unhappy about it. She gave me a nod. Her cheeks were quite pale, and usually they were very pink: this also affected me deeply. Clara appeared to counter-charm me, and I saw no other immediately.
"Ah, Laura, dear! you are looking quite nice again, so pretty," said this sweet girl as she took her seat; and then she stooped down and kissed the little dancer.
I found myself rather in the way; for to Clara it seemed quite natural to scatter happiness with her very looks. She turned to me, after whispering with Laura:
"She wants to thank you for the flowers, but she does not like to speak to you."
I was positively ashamed, and, to hide my confusion, said to Laura, "Do you like violets?"
"Yes, but I like large flowers better. I like red roses and blue cornflowers."
I did not care for cornflowers myself, except among the corn; and I thought it very likely Laura took the poppies for roses; still, I did not set her right,—it was too much trouble. But if I had known I should never see her again,—I mean, see her as she then was,—I should have taken more care to do her kindness. Is it not ever so? Clara entirely engaged me; in fact, I was getting quite used not to do without her. How well I remember that evening! We sang a service. Davy had written several very simple ones, and I longed to perform them in public,—that is to say, in the singing gallery of our church. But I might as well have aspired to sing them up in heaven, so utterly would they have been spurned as innovatory.
It was this evening I felt for the first time what I suppose all boys feel at one time or another,—that they cannot remain always just as they are. It was no satiety, it was no disappointed hope, nor any vague desire. It was purely a conviction that some change was awaiting me. I suppose, in fact, it was a presentiment. The voices of our choir seemed thin and far away; the pale cheek of Lenhart Davy seemed stamped with unearthly lustre; the room and roof were wider, higher; the evening colors, clustered in the shape of windows, wooed to that distant sky. I was agitated, ecstatic. I could not sing; and when I listened, I was bewildered in more than usual excitement. Snatches of hymns and ancient psalms, morsels of the Bible, lullabies and bells, speeches of no significance, uttered years and, as it seemed, centuries ago, floated into my brain and through it, despite the present, and made there a murmurous clamor, like the din of a mighty city wafted to the ear of one who stands on a commanding hill. I mention this to prove that presentiment is not a fatuity, but something mysterious in its actuality,—like love, like joy; perhaps a passion of memory, that anticipates its treasures and delights to be.