"I should think you would despair, dear Grace, of charming one into life who has been so long dead. The task would be more congenial to your taste, I imagine, to roll me up and lay me away in your casket of precious relics for memory to grow sentimental over in future years. Why do you not do it, la Petite? Own that you are weary, as the rest do, and thrust me out of sight."
"No, indeed; I have no passion for musty relics. Come, let us away to the drawing-room. It is nearly time for breakfast."
"Are you aware, cousin mine, of the compliments you have been showering upon me, 'fading, withering,' etc.? To tell the truth, I am quite unwilling, under their pressure, to appear before our brilliant guests, understanding now the full array of blemishes of which I am the possessor."
"I was only prattling, Lily-Bell. Nothing human could be purer or sweeter than that face of yours. Let me picture it," and kneeling on the carpet before her companion, she took a little white hand and pressed it lovingly in her own.
"No, no; do not call me silly. There, keep that smile. That little mouth was just made for such glowing sunbeams to play about. How I would like to tear away those lines of sadness which so mar its exquisite formation, and bring back the soft tints to those lips. Not that it would enhance its perfection, but it would denote health of body and heart. Then those eyes, so dark, deep and fathomless! I cannot look into their depths without a feeling of purity and holiness stealing into my soul, as though I had taken a peep into the land of spirits where there is no sin. What, a tear? Forgive me, darling. I should have known better. I too often pelt the door of your heart's sepulcher with the pebbles of my thoughtless volubility. Thank you for that look of forgiveness. Now let me depart before I sin again. But, just a moment. Whenever I plant my tripping feet on sacred ground, bid me hush, begone. Check me, dearest. I want to be your sunbeam, not the east wind that blows up dark clouds; will you?"
"I will let you act and talk naturally. I like it. If at times you discover tears, it need not frighten or silence you. They seem as necessary to my existence as the rain to the summer flowers. Now begone; I shall go out among the zephyrs awhile that they may freshen up these 'withered petals.' Do not mention me below. Good bye," and Lillian, kissing her hand to her companion, glided through the open door and away out of sight.
At the time of which I write there could not be found in all Georgia a more charming home retreat from the cares and tumults of the bustling world than the home of the Belmont's.
"Rosedale" was what its name would seem to designate, a garden of roses. The house was built around three sides of a hollow square in the center of which a fountain sent up its sparkling jets above the cool twinkling shadows of the trees which surrounded it, up into the sunlight, catching its rainbow tints and falling back into the marble basin beneath, with a cool trickling sound that charmed the weary and enervated into quiet and repose, lulling the restless spirit into dreams of future peace and rest. The open side looked towards the north, and as far as the eye could reach the most charming landscape was extended. A thoroughly cultivated cotton field was near by, but it wound around to the right and was lost sight of behind the orange grove. On the left the white rude huts of the negroes were just discernable. On—on, the distant hills kept rising, over which the blue sky seemed to hover lovingly, giving to the bright green fields a darker hue, and to the little busy river below the terrace, a robe of its own soft color.
The constructor of this beautiful home had been sleeping for many years where the fir trees nestled together and the purling river sang all day its rippling song as if to hush to more silent repose the quiet slumberer. The widow, however, who had never laid aside her weeds, had well maintained her position. There was no plantation in all that region more thrifty or prosperous than this. It was a pleasure to visit Rosedale, particularly now, as Charles, the only son, had returned from his European tour as reputed heir and proprietor of the beautiful estate, and of course the spacious drawing-rooms were crowded.
One hour after Lillian had left her chamber she was sitting alone in a quiet summer house at the foot of the terrace looking dreamily out upon the landscape, listlessly plucking the roses which drooped about her and scattering their bright petals on the ground at her feet. Perhaps she imagined who would look for her there at that hour, still when the sound of a footstep fell on her ear she started and her pale cheek flushed for a moment; but when George St. Clair entered she smiled and extended her hand in welcome. He took it tenderly in his own and seated himself at her feet.