They wandered on, and they beheld the beauties of the setting sun, only on each other’s countenances. They became more thoughtful, but not less happy. The two lovers,—for such was the relationship between James Dawson, and Katharine Norton,—frequently exchanged kind looks, which the playful Alice did not fail to remark. James and Alice were the only children of a wealthy physician in Manchester. Their mother had died early, and this circumstance made them cling closer to each other. Dr. Dawson was harsh to them: he had been disappointed in the marriage-portion of his wife; and he bade a very cold adieu to his son, as he left for Cambridge, and chided Alice for crying and teazing herself many days after. Yet, at times, affection arose in his breast towards them, for they were the exact image of her, who had once been enshrined in his love, until avarice hoarded up other treasures. Besides, he knew that he could not, with justice, condemn his son as a mere bookworm, for James excelled in every athletic and graceful accomplishment: and he could not, on the other hand, taunt him as only a gamester and a fencer, for he had carried off the highest literary and scholastic honours. His endowments, both physical and mental, had frequently drawn forth the admiration of his father, but it soon subsided into indifference and neglect. Alice, occasionally, as she sung the lays which her mother had taught her, and romped about his chair, in all her beauty and innocence, could warm her father’s heart, so that he pronounced a blessing upon her destiny. But often, all her smiles and fond arts to please him were disregarded: she could not relax, by all her attentions, the sternness of his countenance. A tear would then start into her deep blue eye, and she would retire to call up the remembrance of her sainted mother.
Katharine Norton was an orphan, and her parents had been of illustrious rank. She had travelled with a maiden aunt, and, as they were residing for a few weeks in the vicinity of Cambridge, she had met with young Dawson, and thus commenced an ardent attachment between them. And well might her appearance have inspired even a stoic with the most thrilling love. Smooth, and fair as light was her finely-formed brow,—changing its expression as a dark ringlet fell upon it,—or was thrown back. Her eyes seemed to be souls in themselves, endued with the faculty of thinking and feeling; their brilliancy their colour, and their form, were as if they had been given by the emotion which then ruled her mind. The features were stamped with a wild and noble beauty. Nor was her form inferior to her countenance: majestic, yet playful; like a vision with all the movements of music. She was now spending the summer in Manchester, where Dawson had introduced to her his sister, and they were seldom out of each other’s presence. They walked together, and James frequently joined them.
The shadows of twilight were now mixing with the fading light of the western sky, and the hush of early eve was whispering silence in the vale where they were wandering. At length they reached the angle; on rounding which, at a short distance, was the Hermit’s Well, not famed for any medicinal properties, but for the pure water, which was said to have refreshed an old man (who, in olden times, haunted the adjacent hills,) every morning, as soon as he had left his hard couch to journey along with the sun.
On a stone beside it, there sat a young female, dressed in the rustic simplicity of a foreign country. Her age seemed only that of a child. Yet there was a feverish rolling of the eye, a changing tremor of the lips, and a gentle throbbing of the breast, which speak the mystery of a hidden sorrow, or of a superior nature. Not a blush of colour tinged the pure pallor of her face—like a statue dedicated to thought, in the midst of fragrance and light. Her hands were playing with flowers, carelessly,—for her thoughts, it was evident, were on a less tranquil subject,—and although they were, at intervals, raised to her face, yet it assumed a still sadder expression.
She was singing to herself in a low and melancholy strain, almost modulated to the still hush of the vale: and the notes seemed not so much to be proceeding from her voice, as her soul. Once or twice she started up, held her hands towards the west, and then placed them on her brow. Then she dipped them in the well, and with the pure water bathed her eyes. As soon, however, as young Dawson and his fair companions had approached within a few yards, her eyes quickly moved in the direction of the spot where they stood, and she became silent in her song.
“Ah, brother,” cried the laughing Alice, evidently not conscious of the merry tone in which she spoke, for her heart had quickly sympathized with the youthful sadness, of which she had now, unexpectedly, been a witness;—“is this your young and interesting Mrs. Twilight? What a beautiful creature! She seems to enjoy all the luxury of grief, and her heart refuses to lose a tear of its sorrow. That brow might have been kissed by the last breath of many a brother, sister, and playmate:—so pale, calm and holy.”
“She is not of our country,” added Katharine Norton. “Her dress, as well as her air, is foreign. How simply are those raven tresses braided!”
“Katharine,” said her lover, “dost thou believe in young spirits, who are said to haunt solitary places? Here, you might almost imagine, that we have intruded upon one of them. How beautiful and thoughtful that girlish face is! Now she looks towards us. Let us draw near, and entreat her to sing to us, while the stars are taking their places in the sky.”
The object of their curiosity and admiration arose meekly, as they stood before her, and allowed the hand of Katharine to be laid on her head.