“Tell her what you will,” said Mr. Carlisle; “only, for heaven's sake, say no more to me upon the subject. I am not Augustine Percival, and consequently not elevated above the power of human feeling.”
Poor Assunta! she too was not above human feeling, and sometimes it was very hard for her to keep her heart from being rebellious; but she had learned to put God before every earthly consideration, and to find her strength in his presence. But it required constant watchfulness and untiring patience to conquer herself. Therefore she could not but feel great [pg 239] compassion for her friend, who must bear his disappointment with no help outside of his own strong nature. She rose from the table, and moved it a little to one side, in order that she might arrange the cushions for her guardian, who looked unusually weary to-night.
“Are you angry with me, Mr. Carlisle?” said she softly, as he sank back in his chair.
“Angry, petite?” he repeated, looking steadily in her face. “Yes, I am angry, but not with you, or with anything you have said to-night, but rather with that accursed barrier. Go, child, ring for Giovanni, or I shall say what you will not like to hear.” As she turned away, he caught her hand, saying:
“One moment. I have been very rude, and yet I would die for you! There, I will not say another word. Please ring for Giovanni, since I am compelled to be so ungallant as to request the favor of you; and then let us talk a little about the Sienna plans. I must try and put myself into a good-humor before Clara comes; for she will have something to say about her handsome Sinclair, and then I would not give much for my temper.”
The table having been removed, and the wood which had been laid ready in the fire-place kindled into a blaze—for the evenings were still cool enough to admit of its cheery influence—the two, whose lives seemed so united, and yet were, in reality, so far apart, drew towards the fire. The heavy curtains, which had been put aside to admit the warm, genial air and sunshine of mid-day, were now closely drawn, in order to shut out the chilling dampness of evening. A hanging lamp cast a soft, mellow light through its porcelain shade upon an exquisite basket of roses and carnations adorning the centre of the table, which was covered elsewhere with books, arranged with studied negligence, and numberless little suggestions of refinement and feminine occupation. Everything seemed favorable to a most harmonious conversation, except that inevitable something which, like a malicious sprite, awakens us from our dreams just when they are brightest; breaks the spell of our illusions at the moment when we are clinging to them most persistently; ruthlessly crosses, with its fatal track, our promised pleasures; and unfeelingly interrupts us in some hour of complete rest and satisfaction. Ah! we may fret in our impatience, and wonder at the fatality which seems to pursue us. It is no mischief-loving Puck, no evil-minded genie, but a good angel, who thus thwarts us. This is no time to dream and cherish illusions which can but deceive. It is no time for repose. To detach ourselves from all these things which would make this world a satisfaction to us is the labor we must all perform, more or less generously and heroically, if we would one day enjoy the reality of the one dream that never fades—the vision of the Apocalypse; the one repose that never palls—the rest that remaineth for the people of God. Welcome, then, those misnamed “juggling fiends” that “keep the word of promise to our ear, and break it to our hope.” Welcome the many disappointments, trifling in themselves, the daily crossings of our will and pleasure, which seem so petty; they perform a great mission if they succeed in loosening ever so little the cords which bind down to [pg 240] earth the souls that were meant for heaven. Thrice welcome whatever helps to turn the sweetness of this world to bitterness!
Poor Mrs. Grey! it had never occurred to her that she had a mission, still less such an one as we have now assigned to her. For it was her voice which caused Mr. Carlisle to sigh so profoundly that Assunta could not but smile, in spite of the regretful feeling in her own heart. It was better—and she knew it—that the softening influence of the hour should be thus rudely interrupted; but nature will not be crushed without an occasional protest. The expression of annoyance still lingered on Mr. Carlisle's face when Clara entered the room, exclaiming:
“Come, caro mio, they have had the livelong day to themselves, and must have talked out by this time, even if they had the whole encyclopædia in their brains.” And as Mr. Sinclair followed with an apologetic bow, she continued:
“This ridiculous man has conscientious objections to interrupting your tête-à-tête. I am sure, Severn, if Assunta is not tired to death of you by this time, she ought to be, particularly if you have been as solemn all day as you look now. I would much rather spend the whole day in church—and that is the most gloomy thing I can think of—than be condemned to the company of a man in a mood. Make a note of that, George.
“I think, Clara,” said her brother, somewhat coldly, “that Mr. Sinclair was judging others by himself, and in doing so he judged kindly in my regard and gallantly in yours; but this is not always the true criterion. Mr. Sinclair, I beg you will be seated, and excuse me if I do not rise. I am still obliged to claim the invalid's cloak of charity. No doubt a cup of tea will be acceptable after your long drive; and it will soon be served.”