Could a false flirt copy Carry's look and tone so faithfully? and she kneeled upon the rug, as she had done on that November night, when she said, "Love me, Ida!" She could not resist the temptation to lay her lips against the snowy forehead, beneath which those matchless eyes beamed with love and gratitude. She would have recoiled as that satiric whisper again hissed through her heart; but the soft arms were around her—the beautiful head upon her shoulder.
"I am not the butterfly I seem, Ida; nor is the ephemera gaiety, in which you see me floating, my proper sphere. I have not your unwavering principle—your independence; I cannot of myself say to the world,—'I hate your vain pageantry, and pine for a nobler life!' Often, often I feel when the din of pleasure is loudest, that I am bound to a wheel whose revolutions I cannot control. Show me how to be happy."
"There is but one happiness which cannot die," said Ida, with an effort. "You do not require that I should point you to that!"
Her look of sorrowful deprecation was touching. "I know what you mean," she replied, subduedly. "You would intimate, that professing as I do, to be trying to lead a Christian's life, I ought to be as familiar with the path as yourself; but I am a child—too much the toy of impulse and fancy. I have been a pet from my infancy; have leaned upon the judgment—abided by the decision of those I love; and you cannot conceive of the difficulty I have in acting for myself, and in opposition to their wishes."
This was plausible. Ida wished from her inmost soul, that she had never heard Richard Copeland's story, which, after all, might have been coloured, if not sketched by prejudice, or revenge for some slight to himself. She would have taken this young girl, his betrothed, to her bosom, and soothed her fears, and stimulated her failing resolves. But the conviction of her heartlessness was too strong upon her; and her upright nature forbade the assumption of an appearance of confidence she did not feel. She spoke, indeed, as freely as she could of the love which pities and forgives our infirmities and backslidings; but Lelia shook her head dejectedly. She "had not reached her case. I thank you, though, and love you!" She drew her cheek down to her lips. "Have you had much sorrow?"
"Not more than falls to the lot of many, more deserving of exemption.—Why?"
"Your serenity is so remarkable; you seem never to have suffered."
"The ocean is calm sometimes," said Ida, unconsciously.
"That is not your emblem," rejoined Lelia. "It is mine; ruffled by every breath—dark in storms—flashing and laughing in sunshine—always changing, yet always the same—and, ah! who believes that there are treasures under the waters which are worth the seeking?"
"The ocean is constant in nothing except change," said Ida.