The mother rested her eyes, full of gratitude upon the young man: her eyes, so dark and earnest, spoke to his soul. He felt a new life spring up within him; a life he had only dreamed of till then. Her eyes were of that peculiar shade of hazel, neither light nor dark, sometimes both, at times almost blue: a ring of heaven enclosing a world of earthly love.
Agnes led the way into the cottage, and asked Frank, with a voice as sweet as her eyes were beautiful, to follow her. She left him in the drawing-room, taking with her the little Nina.
Frank had time to admire the rooms, as he stood drying his clothes by the cheerful grate; the days had then begun to be somewhat chilly. All around bespoke the most elegant simplicity, the utmost refinement. The eye of the young man was delighted as it wandered around the room—books, music, flowers—all was softness and ease. Frank was enchanted. Still more was he enchanted when, all radiant, the sweet mistress of the cottage entered. A thousand smiles of joy beamed from every part of her face. “She brightened all over,” like Moore’s Nourmahal. Her face was of that strictly classic mould, so beautiful even unaccompanied by expression. Expression was her chief attraction: the color came and left her face as shadows do beside a bright fire. Soul was in all she did. Her soul was like a blazing mass of pearls—bright and soft. Frank was completely charmed. She thanked him so prettily for rescuing her child—was afraid he would take cold—were his clothes perfectly dry?
“Perfectly,” replied Frank.
They glided from one topic of conversation to another, scarcely knowing they were talking, with so little constraint did their words flow. What she said came so from her heart. Frank had heard the same things uttered, but there was an indefinable charm accompanied her every word, however commonplace the subject was.
Music came up at length. Both her piano and harp were brought into requisition. Agnes played and sang well. Frank was an enthusiastic lover of music, and just what and all he loved did she play. Never sang so sweet a voice as hers.
Music! dear Music! What nurse like thee will soothe the world-worn, weary soul? When we are sad and sullen, what will bring us to ourselves—to hope again—like music? Soft, wild music. Bellini music!
Agnes played, Frank listened. Agnes talked, Frank listened—his heart beat a young whirlwind. Time flew by unheeded—unmarked.
Francis recollected himself before it was quite midnight, and rose to go.
“I am so sorry William is not at home; you would like him. He is very much like you. He went this morning to the city, and will not be home till to-morrow.”