CHAPTER X.-THE BIRTHDAY.

THE letters which Ida received from her father were brief, and came at long intervals. It was beyond the power of his self-discipline to write to her with the fulness and freedom of that affection which had made the happiness of both, when he knew all the while by what a blow the links which had bound them were to be smitten asunder. It was strange to him thus, as it were, to contemplate his own death in the person of another-to join in the tears that should hereafter be wept upon his grave. For the first time in his life he felt actual cowardice-impotence of will-prostration of mental strength; and this was especially painful to him, as it proved the incompleteness of the self-conquest at which he was aiming. Sometimes this view of the subject would press so forcibly upon him, that he would start up and snatch his pen with the sudden resolution to acquaint her at once with his state. He would write the first words-" My dearest Ida," and then, pausing as the name brought before his mind in an instant the vision of those young clear eyes whose fountains were scarcely yet opened, of that pure unsunned heart, of that happy child-nature, he would throw aside what he had written, and bury his face in his hands in a passion of helpless sorrow. Sometimes he would rejoice when he saw the ravages which disease had already wrought in his appearance, thinking that it would thus be easier to break the truth to her-that, in fact, it would reveal itself; at other times he would use every stratagem to conceal those very symptoms, in the dread of shocking her too suddenly, in the utter desolation which overwhelmed his spirit when he thought how the joy of their meeting would be dashed. Deep was his self-abasement, earnest his entreaty for that strength which is made perfect in weakness! He, who would have died to save her from sorrow, was now to die in order to inflict sorrow upon her; and in bitterness of soul he prayed that the cup might pass from him!

the separation, to weakness in herself, to anything
except a want of tenderness in him. Eagerly and
eloquently she wrote to him, opening her whole
soul, detailing every particular of her new life,
making humble confessions of not loving aunt Me-,
lissa so well as uncle John-of having gone to
sleep in the twilight when the former was recount-
ing the history of her youth-of having laughed
in spite of all her efforts when the latter was read-
ing Milton aloud :-no worse sins had she to
chronicle. But the correspondence of those we
love is a poor substitute for their company; one
look is better than a thousand words.
The man
who said that language was invented to disguise
thought, stumbled upon a truth where he only
meant a sarcasm; for, indeed, how dense a veil
do the simplest words weave around the feeling
which they profess to exhibit! Words are the
clouds which gather upon the mountain's edge,
and suggest the height while they conceal the
form; looks and tones are the bright flashes which
cleave the vapor, and give a momentary glimpse
of the mighty outline beneath it.

Ida felt so lonely on this birthday morning! True, she was waked by Madeline's soft kiss upon her cheek; but, much as she loved Madeline, it was but a small, weak affection, compared with that which she cherished for her father, and she pined feverishly and hopelessly for the sound of his blessing in her ears. Besides, Madeline had grown graver than ever of late, and would sometimes look silently at Ida till her eyes filled with tears; which was not very cheering to spirits already disposed to sink. True, uncle John had taken her kindly in his arms, and presented her with a very pretty bracelet; and aunt Melissa had touched her forehead with her lips as cautiously as though she feared it would burn her, and had produced her gift also-a sachet of amber satin, embroidered in green braid by her own fair hands. It was remarkable how pale the green and amber were; indeed, they looked a little faded-which was not wonderful, as the sachet had reposed ingloriously in a drawer for four years and a half, having been originally manufactured for a friend, with whom the work woman had unluckily contrived to quarrel just as her labors came to a happy issue. But this history was not to be published; and aunt Melissa's equivocal little speech

Meanwhile, Ida heard that the business which had summoned him away was advancing very slowly. He had traced the supposed Mrs. Gordon from place to place, and finally discovered that she was, beyond a doubt, now residing in Malta; but ere he returned so far upon his steps, it was necessary for him to go on to Delhi "Will you accept this trifle, my love?—you to receive and examine his friend's legacy, as he may perhaps value it as my work!"-would have did not choose to incur the risk of having it sent passed exceedingly well, and did pass, till uncle to him. There had been much delay, and instead John stopped it short by bidding Ida guess why it of returning home, according to his original inten- was lucky for her that Miss Lee and Lady Anne tion, to assist in the celebration of his daughter's Grimston were not on terms. Ida was altogether eighteenth birthday, he was at that very time on puzzled, and, with a merry chuckle, he answered his road to Delhi. This was a bitter disappoint- the riddle himself, unobservant of the battery of ment to poor Ida; and, perhaps, when that long-frowns which was discharging itself upon him— expected birthday dawned upon her, she had never Because, but for that, you would n't have got felt so unhappy in her life. No thought so pro- your bag!" fane as one of blaming her father ever entered her gentle heart; and when she received one of those unsatisfactory letters, she attributed the chillness and depression which came upon her, to pain at CCXXXIX. LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 33

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Melissa, as a last resource, hurried the breakfast very much, and flattered herself that Ida had not understood the joke.

And Ida strolled out into the hall and arranged

the geraniums, and felt that oppressive sense of | moment in reflection ere she crossed the threshold womanhood, so common when one is still half a again.

child; and she wondered when the other members "I was selfish this morning," thought she; of the family party would arrive, and tried to stir" when aunt Melissa asked me to read Dante, and herself up to that keen, curious interest about uncle John said I ought to have no lessons (as he them which she had formerly felt. And good always calls reading) on my birthday, I agreed Mrs. Vickers now ventured to approach with her with him directly. Now, I suppose, the best congratulations, and her little offering a rose-tree thing I can do is to go and ask her to read with from the garden at Croye, brought away privately, me. Doing right is very disagreeable sometimes!" and carefully preserved for this grand occasion. (with a sigh.) "I hardly know why I dislike it "God bless you, missy!" concluded she, kissing so much; but I suppose it is because I feel so the hand which her young lady had put into hers; shy and stupid when aunt Melissa is admiring. I "and many happy returns of the day to you never know what to say when I am told what to Oh, what a pity master is n't here!" admire. And then it is so unlucky for me when she makes mistakes. I don't know how to tell her of them, and yet it would not be sincere to let them pass; and then I always feel inclined to laugh.-How I wish," added Ida, unconsciously uttering her thoughts aloud, "how I wish I had never learned Italian !"

This little stroke was quite too much for poor Ida, who could bear the multitude of her own thoughts, but not three words from another; and she burst into a flood of tears as free and rapid as ever poured from the eyes of childhood.

She hastened out into the garden to escape the well-meant condolences of Mrs. Vickers, and passing rapidly through the shrubbery, seated herself upon the grass in a favorite retreat of hers, at the foot of a fine old beech-tree, whose drooping branches formed a natural arbor.

"What a cross master you must have had,” said a voice close to her ear, "if the lessons are so afflicting, even in recollection!"

She started, and looking up beheld the face of an exceedingly handsome young man, who was resting his chin on the sill of the window, and contemplating her very much at his leisure. With an exclamation of surprise, not unmingled with terror, she ran out. The stranger followed her, his face expressing as clearly as possible, "What a timid little rustic this is! How am I ever to tame her?"

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Why did you run away?" asked he, as he strode to her side. "Are you frightened at me?" "Oh, no!" returned Ida, stopping, and smiling very composedly in his face; "only I thought you did n't know it was the chapel."

"What did papa say was my great fault?" soliloquized she. "Want of power to control my feelings! Oh, how true! He did not say temper; but I think he would have said so, if he had known how cross I sometimes feel when I am wanted to read Dante. Alas, alas! It is six months since he went," (here her tears began to flow afresh,)" and I am not improved. Oh, how I will endeavor! It is good, I think, to make a resolution on one's birthday; it seems so solemn -like beginning life again. If, when he comes back, he should find that I have cured my great fault-what happiness! I wonder what it comes He looked puzzled, and seemed about to speak, from; froin selfishness, I suppose. Yes, it must but checked himself. Ida held out her hand to be selfish; because it is indulging my own incli- him. "Are you Alexander, or Godfrey?” innation and not thinking of others. I will pray to quired she. be quite unselfish. Oh, what a long time I shall "I will leave you to find that out for yourself," have to try! How I wish one could grow per- he replied. "Whichever I am, I was so anxious fect directly, by one great effort! How happy to make my cousin Ida's acquaintance, that I had the angels must be, who have only to take care not patience to wait for the rest of the party; so that they do not fall, instead of perpetually labor- here I am, to wish you many happy returns of the ing to rise! A just man made perfect;' quite day, and total ignorance of Italian, since that apperfect-that might be, even on earth. I think pears to be the only thing wanting to your happipapa is, though he is not old; and I am sure Mr. ness. I wish you would explain that mysterious Becket was. But I shall never be so, I am afraid, sentence." if I am six months without improving. I will begin to-day. How I must watch for opportunities! I must practise being unselfish in all kinds of little things, and then I suppose the strength will come to conquer myself in great things. Oh, how much easier it is to be good when one is happy!"

"Oh! it is quite impossible to explain it ;— -it was only nonsense," said Ida, blushing, and looking uncomfortable.

"Nay," cried he, so far from its being nonsense, I think it is the most refreshing sentiment I ever heard from the lips of a young lady of the As Ida came to this conclusion, in which very present day. You wish yourself back again in a few moralists will agree with her, she rose, and state of blissful ignorance; you wish to undo the slowly and thoughtfully entered the chapel. Kneel- misdirected labors of the school-room. No woning down on the pavement, she made her simple der! It is the conventional law of to-day, to confession, and put up her innocent prayer, finish- smother every unhappy female mind under a huge ing her devotions by an earnest vow against self-conglomerate of knowledge, swelling and empty indulgence in matters of feeling. She stood a like a great air-cushion. We start by saying that

women have less intellect than men, and then we teach a girl thirty things in the time which it takes a boy to learn three. It is a very wise piece of consistency."

Ida felt rather dismayed, not being in the habit of hearing so long and sudden a disquisition from a new acquaintance. She did not think herself nearly clever enough to reply to such a speech, so she held her tongue.

After a short pause, her new cousin proceeded. "I want to be good friends with you, Ida; you must n't be afraid of me."

"But you form friendships, I suppose," said Ida, rather pursuing the course of her own thoughts than answering the last observation, "which last for life. That must be the happy part of school and college."

"Yes," he replied, "you form friendshipsthat is, you form a few friendships; for the most part, however, I fear you meet with ingratitude and disappointment. But sometimes I think I was particularly unfortunate. Some opportunities which I had of serving others, which I was not slack to take advantage of, showed me a very

"Oh no!" cried she, laughing quite easily, "I dark side of human nature, and I grew dispirited. am not afraid of you. Why should I be ?" It has ended in an unfortunate reserve, which I

He looked a little disconcerted in his turn, but cannot shake off, though I am conscious that it replied directly—

"You are an enviable person. Many would find your situation overpoweringly nervous, as ladies call it; and you don't even know why you should be afraid. And you are quite right; there is no reason for you to fear the reception you might meet with from anybody."

often prevents me from making friends where I might really do so. I regret it but I cannot get rid of it; except, indeed, where I feel immediately that I shall meet with comprehension and sympathy, and then the attraction is irresistible. And such moments are the happiest of my life; it is so delightful to confide, especially where it is one's habit to withhold confidence."

"Not the reception I may meet with from my own cousins, certainly," answered Ida; either dis- "Hush!" said Ida softly, holding up her hand. regarding, or not comprehending, the compliment- He stared. "A nightingale," whispered she; ary emphasis, and the admiring expression. "I" don't you hear it?" and she stood still, in a remember so well the few days we spent here to- listening posture, scarcely drawing her breath, gether, when we were children. I can't fancy that she might drink in that flood of music, that this a first introduction, though in reality you are luxury of sound. If her new friend was irritated all strangers to me." by the interruption, he was a great deal too well bred to show it.

"No, no, not strangers," he exclaimed; "that is a hard word. We can never be strangers to each other. You cannot remember those few happy days so vividly as I do. You cannot fancy the sweet, innocent, peaceful picture which they impressed on my mind, and which has remained there ever since through many dark days of trial and trouble. You have been living a happy life; you have been tenderly cherished, you have breathed nothing but love from your cradle, and you don't know what it is to have to imprison all that you feel in your inmost heart, and never suffer it to see the light of day, because you live among those who But I must not speak of this."

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Ah," whispered he, with a sigh, "it is charming indeed, to retain that keen, fresh enjoyment of nature! The rough hand of life rubs it away from most of us as soon as we leave our childhood."

"How much you must lose!" said Ida simply. "We do, indeed," was his answer; "I remember well when I returned from college, thinking that all my triumphs and all my prizes were dearly purchased by the loss of the fearless, innocent glee of boyhood."

"

"Are boys so very fond of nightingales?" asked Ida demurely. Then blushing with a sud"Ah!" said Ida, "you have lived at school den fear that she had been unpolite, she added in and college. I often think how much harder a a great hurry: I was only joking. But, do you man's life must be than a woman's. It is no know, I fancy that gaining of prizes must be such wonder that men should sometimes be stern- a happy part of a man's life-such a joyful kind and, indeed, it seems strange that they should of triumph. And then, the coming home afterever be gentle, when one thinks what struggles wards-causing such happiness by one's own they must have with their feelings, what sorrow exertions, and then coming home to see it! Was and desolation of heart they have to encounter it not very delightful?" even in boyhood. The boy's first going to school -surely it must change and stamp his character for life."

"Especially," answered he, "where, as in my case, the boy would rather die than show what he suffers. I have always had a perfect horror of occupying others with my trials and sorrows— which have not been few—or, indeed, with myself in any way. Life does not seem to me to be life, unless it is devoted to some one whom we love."

"How alike we are in our manner of feeling !” he replied, the exclamation escaping him suddenly, and as if unawares. 66 Yes; that is a very delightful part of one's life, and you have exactly expressed the cause and nature of its happiness. It is not the triumph, it is the consciousness of the joy which it creates at home, the bright fireside picture which is before the mind's eye, which is so delightful! Yet there is one great drawback

you triumph at the expense of others. I declare to you I have grieved so much over the defeat of

1

a rival, if he was a good kind of fellow and I liked | see you are shocked, though you can't help him, that I have lost all pleasure in my own suc- laughing; I am going to begin my portrait-gal

heaviness of German sentiment! Very well! I that the reverence which one must needs feel towards long to recant my heresies-to be convinced how a parent, is altogether different from the easy familcharming all I have most dreaded may be. But iar affection for any other relation. I could not conwe are getting on very slowly with our portraits.demn a mother's faults." I must finish my first sketch by letting you know that your uncle is extremely fond of young ladies, and that, by a very little coaxing, you may win him to whatever you like."

"And my aunt Ellenor?" cried Ida. "What do you say of her? I remember such a pretty pale face, and such a musical voice."

Ida looked at him with an innocent surprise in her face, which plainly showed that she scarcely thought he would find such a condemnation impossible. He rather shrank under the glance, and said hastily, "But to proceed-shall I sketch aunt Melissa for you?"

"Not for the world!" exclaimed Ida.
"Uncle John, then?"

"The face is still pale and pretty, and the voice still musical. She is a gentle, amiable "Oh no, please do not describe anybody I know." person, who knows that she has been a beauty, "That is a singular prohibition," observed Aland is inclined to put the verb still in the present exander; "well, then, it is now your turn. I tense, not without some reason. She is kind and want to hear all about the happy, peaceful life you affectionate, and will be very fond of you; but-have been leading; you must describe your father do not make a friend of her! It hurts me to say to me. I have a bright, imperfect recollection of so, and I only say it for your sake. She is a commanding figure and a noble face; I want to sensible." have the outline filled up. And you must tell me all about the garden on the sea-shore, and the village church, and the country walks, and the poor people-all the thoughts and things that have made up the history of your childhood; and I will shut my eyes, and dream myself back into the past, and fancy myself your companion in fact, as indeed I have often been in spirit. You were always with your father, were you not?"

not "Oh, then she will suit me exactly!" exclaimed Ida quickly. "I know aunt Melissa is a very sensible woman, and—” She stopped short, coloring crimson. He burst into a fit of laughter. "How perfectly delicious!" cried he. "I would not have missed that for the world. Now, pray do not look ashamed. You seemed a little troubled at my theory, that we are specially quick to find out the faults of our relations; but only see how charmingly you have illustrated it. That sudden silence was more eloquent than a thousand words. But I shall have to take charge of your education, I see; and one of the first lessons I shall teach you is, that your aunt Melissa is a very silly woman. We will put her into the portrait-gallery by-and-by. Poor Frederick comes next. He is exactly like his mother, both in person and mind; perfectly sweet-tempered, but with no judgment. Of Godfrey I must say little; I believe he is capable of better things than he has ever yet achieved. His unfortunate temper meets him at every turn, and does him irreparable injuries."

"And Alexander ?" inquired Ida. "Is altogether detestable."

"Oh," said she, laughing, "you need not be so careful to mislead me. I have known for a long while that you are Alexander."

Ida looked about her with a kind of dismay that was positively comic. "I am a very stupid person," she said, "I like listening a great deal better than talking, it is so much easier."

"Do you always feel that?" asked Alexander, insinuatingly, in the hope that a compliment to his powers of conversation was implied.

"Oh no, only sometimes, and with some people. I could talk forever to Mrs. Chester, but I never can talk at all to aunt Melissa."

"Tell me," exclaimed he, scizing both her hands, and trying to hide his annoyance at the class to which she seemed to be consigning him, under a sudden outbreak of vivacity, "tell me why you cannot talk to me!"

She extricated herself gently, but very decidedly. "One reason is," she said, "because there is no time; the dressing-bell has rung, and I must not be late for dinner on this important day." And she bounded from his side and was in the house ere

"And you say you are not a witch! By what he could stretch out a hand to stop her. necromancy did you discover me?"

"I don't know," she replied, "but I felt quite sure of it from the first. And then, you know, you described aunt Ellenor in language that Godfrey could not have used."

Did I cried he, "I thought my description of her was quite couleur de rose. I said she was pretty, amiable, affectionate-what more could a woman wish to be? In what was my portrait deficient?"

"In respect," said Ida, blushing.

He looked at her for an instant, as if he felt inclined to laugh, but quickly changing the expression, replied with an air of conviction, "You are right. That was a false move of mine. I forgot

Alexander felt excessively uncomfortable, though he could not exactly tell the cause. He had planned his part in the conversation which had just taken place with great care and consummate skill, and he had a strong suspicion that somehow or other he had been baffled. He had intended to suit himself exactly to the character which he had imagined for Ida; avoiding small talk, which would have been unintelligible, and the ordinary language of gallantry, which might have proved distasteful; and presenting her with just such a mélange of sentiment, philosophy, and frankness, with a softening under-current of compliment, and a stimulating dash or two of satire, as could not fail to win her at once. He had done it all to perfection, but