Eugene had not visited the cottage for many days; a Friday night came round, and for two whole weeks he had absented himself. On this day, as by mutual consent, the books were laid aside, the school-room deserted, Lucy retired to her own room ill—certainly at heart—and Kitty, silent and troubled, yet stronger to bear her burden of sorrow, because she felt that another suffered more than she, walked, practiced her music, arranged flowers with the utmost determination, and then, restless, but not knowing what to do with herself, she wandered about the house, quite as if in a dream, yet cautious as a somnambulist, for how carefully she shunned the presence and inquiring glances of her good old father. She was dreaming—such a dream, indeed, as adds years to the “inner life” of the young—dreaming of bereavement, self-sacrifice, and death! even she, that bright young girl!
But at last, with assured purpose, Kitty seated herself to write a letter. A difficult work it was to pen it, good and loving soul, thou wilt not doubt it. No attempt at disguise was made in the writing, yet she left the letter without signature, thinking to herself he will understand how it all is; he will, if there is any honor in him, explain—at least he shall feel that there is one here who watches him.
“Mr. Lind,—Because you seem blind, and deaf, and dumb, to all that you should, as a man of honor, be proud to see and know, I deem myself excusable in reminding you of what you owe to one who has received you into her presence as a brother, as more. I have no feeling of false delicacy in thus appealing to you. A sense of right you must have. You will feel that I am only true to myself, to my sense of right, in so doing. Halting thus, when you have gone so far, you do that which no gentleman should do. I cannot yet believe that you have sought the presence of one who loves you well, if not wisely, merely because it afforded you a momentary pleasure. Let me remind you that the life-peace of a human being depends upon the course you shall pursue.”
This heroic epistle was, of course, written, destroyed, and rewritten many times before Kitty became fully satisfied that it was to her purpose. That very night it was despatched to the post with no feelings of false delicacy, as she said, but with a very little trepidation. Dear child! she must certainly have been laboring under a species of moral insanity, when she thought it better to risk so much as she did, rather than a whole life should be made miserable by her hesitation, as she believed Lucy Freer’s would be.
The next day, Saturday, happened to be consecrated to the memory of St. Valentine, February the fourteenth. Much relieved in mind, Kitty sat on this “All Fool’s Day,” with the governess in her boudoir—a very charming place it was, by the way, where beauty lived with the heiress. They were listlessly looking over the love declarations which filled the silver waiter before them; and it was evident that the passionate confessions on which they gazed, produced little effect, save a vague, momentary curiosity in the minds of either. One of them, in her young heart, had renounced all loves, and as for the other—
But at last Lucy looked upon her pupil with a flushed, smiling face, exclaiming, “Here is a missive for you from Eugene! You know the writing—isn’t it his? It will be worth reading.”
“Hum!” was the doubtful, brief reply—and Kitty held out her hand quite carelessly for the Valentine, though, try as she might, she could not conceal the sudden flashing of her eyes, and her hand, I believe, trembled a little. She took the note and read—to herself.
I who love you duly, truly,
Dare to tell you so to-day;
Sweetest maiden, though love-laden,