“I am sure of it,” returned his sister. “If you don't, my opinion of your taste is gone for ever.”
“She is nothing of the bread-and-butter miss, I hope? I have all Byron's antipathy, you know, for that class.”
“Byron himself could have found no fault with Edith on that ground,” said Mary.
“Well, I am relieved of no little apprehension,” said Ernest. “I have a perfect horror of the common run of girls, who haven't an idea above the last novel and the last fashion.”
The next day Edith arrived, and her appearance certainly realized all of Ernest's expectations. She was nineteen—an age when the sweet graces of girlhood still linger and lend an additional charm to the blooming woman. Her features were not regularly beautiful, but her face possessed a charm and an interest which no faultlessly beautiful face ever had. If a true woman's soul, full of the sweetest sympathy, ever brightened and beautified a human face, it was that of Edith Northcote. Then, her voice was so sweet and cordial and warm—and what is more attractive than a low, sweet voice in woman? Edith was scarcely the medium height, but exquisitely formed, and perfectly natural and graceful in all her movements, in charming contrast with the trained glances and artificial manners of our fashionable society belles. Like Alexandrine, in A Sister's Story, there was an air of refinement about this lovely girl as rare as it was delightful; she had all the freshness and fragrance of the rose without the rose's thorns. Mrs. D'Arcy, who was a female Turveydrop in the matter of deportment, said she had never seen in any society manners so elegant and at the same time so sweet and natural as the manners of Edith Northcote. Such praise from such a woman was in itself fame.
Edith soon became the life and joy of the house; she was an elegant lady in the parlor, an intelligent companion in the library, and the charming, sweet girl everywhere. The influence of her bright presence pervaded the whole household. Even stately Mrs. D'Arcy yielded to the general enthusiasm, and declared that Mary was fortunate in having such a friend. But of all the family, Ernest felt the influence of Edith's society the most. The library, where he had passed so many hours in gloom and despondency, was now brightened by her daily and hourly presence. She read beautifully, and with a voice and manner that threw a charm around everything. Her true, womanly heart sympathized deeply with Ernest in his great affliction, and she at once determined to do all in her power to relieve it. So it soon became the custom for Ernest and Edith to retire to the library every morning after breakfast, where she read the morning paper to him while he smoked his cigar. Then two or three hours were devoted to serious study. The books, so long neglected, were again resumed. The literary work, which Ernest loved so well, was again taken up. Edith was his librarian, his reader, his amanuensis. He had the true student's dislike of any person touching his books and papers; but Edith's touch seemed to have magic in it, for she could do what few ladies can ever do—put papers in order without putting them out of place.
But not only as his literary assistant was Edith serviceable to Ernest; she was his sweet and gentle companion, his kind and sympathetic friend, ever ready in all things to make him forget his blindness and his consequent dependence. Inspiring and stimulating him to renewed exertion, she also directed his ambition to the noblest ends. She opened a new life to the brilliant young student—a life full of love and sweetness and humanity. Her bright and joyous influence banished from his soul the dark despair that had been [pg 806] enthroned there so long, and again there was raised in his heart
“A hope
That he was born for something braver than
To hang his head and wear a nameless name.”