CHAPTER LXVI.

MRS. DENNISON'S JOURNAL.

How many years will this last? I did not expect that this dull stagnation of life would oppress me so. I knew that he was seventy years of age, and thought it would be no great hardship to be petted as an old man's darling, for the few years that might follow. Indeed, he is a gentleman, and loves me, I am sure, more devotedly than ever a young man loved his bride. At first I really thought myself almost happy. It was so pleasant to get away from my old home, after it had been torn to pieces by hungry creditors, and all the old servants driven into new places, that protection and kindness made everything seem like a blessed new life. Mr. Dennison told me that he has loved me ever since I was a little girl, and always intended to make me his wife. He has been a firm, firm friend to my father, I know that well enough, and never would have permitted the old home to be torn up had poor papa lived. As it is, he let all the rest go, and rescuing Cora and myself from the wreck, made me his wife and gave her the liberty she would not take.

"He was kind in showing us something of the world, before he brought us here for good, yet I am not sure that it was wise to throw me suddenly into the society from which I was to be withdrawn so soon. I learned one thing there which sometimes stirs the wish in my heart that I had waited. This thing I have become assured of: I am beautiful, and beauty is a great power. No matter, it has done something for me in winning this fine old gentleman; but when I think what it might have accomplished, I feel defrauded out of half my life. No, no, I do not often feel this. My life was pleasant enough at first, when our wedding brought so many gay and clever people around us. But now that we have retreated to the plantation, everything is dull as the grave. Cotton-fields here, blossoming all over, as with snow by the handful, corn there, tall and thrifty, great live-oaks bearded with moss, and half strangled under the everlasting clasp of mistletoe, make the landscape beautiful, and these things interested me greatly for a time. But I am getting weary of them, and of the grand old house, with its endless verandas and clinging roses, its delicate India matting, and the snowy whiteness of its draperies. I long for change--pine for society, while he seems to think that his presence alone should make this place a heaven. What is it to me, that even in mid-winter I can stoop from my window and gather oranges from the green boughs that bend across it? The novelty has worn away, and this profusion of roses satiates me. You find them everywhere, hiding the fences in ridges and slopes of glossy foliage, studded thickly with great stars of whiteness, that would be exquisite but for the commonness, the negroes bringing them to me by the basketful, until I sicken with the fragrance,--yellow, white, crimson, and damask, all heaped together in gorgeous masses that delight you at first, and then become tiresome, are every day brought to me from the grounds.

"Yesterday one of the negroes came in with a whole armful of magnolias in full bloom. The marvellous white blossoms, with their great chalices running over with fragrance, filled the air with such richness as I have never dreamed of before. I sat down upon a low stool on the front veranda, and with the quivering shadows from a great catalpa-tree falling around me, had these noble blossoms heaped at my feet, yielding myself to the exquisite perfume, till the atmosphere made me faint with delight. It was a delicious, sensuous enjoyment which I shall never forget, but one cannot repeat such things, and 'not even love can live on flowers.' Where love is not and never can be, such things sicken one.

"While I sat there, with the great white blossoms breathing at my feet, and a mocking-bird up in the catalpa-tree thrilling the air with music, a horseman came riding up the avenue, now in the sunshine, now in the shadow of the great live-oaks, leisurely, as if he found pleasure in lingering on a road so beautiful and tranquil. He was a young man, tall and well-formed, who rode his horse with an easy military air full of command. Even at the distance I could see that his bearing was noble and his face a grand one.

"The sight of this man aroused me from the dreamy languor which had been so delightful, and I watched his approach with interest. Directly I was sensible that he had discovered me sitting there in the shadows; for his horse quickened its pace, and in a moment he drew up, and, leaning from his saddle, addressed me,--

"'Excuse me, madam; but I have been unable to discover any servant on the ground, and may have intruded. Does this place belong to Mr. Dennison?'

"I answered that it did, and arising from my seat, desired him to dismount. Mr. Dennison, I said, would be at home in a short time, and would doubtless be happy to see him.

"The stranger sprang from his horse, and flung the bridle to one of the men who came lazily from the house to receive it. I made a movement toward the door, but he gave a glance around at the beautiful view--the flowery thickets and rich slopes of grass--as if reluctant to leave them. Then his eyes fell upon me, and I saw them light up with sudden admiration. I did not intend it, but at the moment I must have taken some attitude of grace to bring such light into a stranger's countenance. He stood for a whole minute gazing on me as if I had been a picture. I felt myself blushing, and drew the flowing muslin of my sleeve over the arm on which his glance fell as it left my face. Then he turned away, and as I sunk to my seat again, placed himself in a garden-chair, drawing a deep breath.

"'Ah, forgive me,' he said, 'what awkwardness. I have trodden upon one of your beautiful flowers.'

"'But there still remain more than enough to make the air oppressive,' I answered.

"'For my part,' he said, smiling pleasantly, 'I could breathe it forever. Indeed, lady, you have a paradise here.'

"Was it indeed so lovely? A moment before my soul had wearied of its very beauties; now a feeling of pride that they were mine stole into my thoughts. It certainly was something to be mistress of a place like that. While our visitor seemed to give himself up to enjoyment of the scene, I saw that his eyes were constantly returning to me. I had been sitting in the open air a long time, and felt that my hair and dress must be in some disorder. This idea made me anxious. I arose, and asking him to excuse me, ran up to my room to make sure that I was not altogether hideous. One glance in the great swinging mirror reassured me. No cloud was ever more pure than the muslin of my white dress; a cluster of red and white roses held back the thick ringlets of my hair, and a single half-open bud fastened the white folds on my bosom. My maid Cora had followed me out on the veranda that morning, and thus arranged the finest flowers she could gather. Had I studied at my glass an hour, nothing more becoming could have been invented. That girl is a treasure; she loves and serves me as no other creature ever did or ever will. She was my dower, my inheritance. The only possession I had in the world was this one girl, when Mr. Dennison married me. I sometimes wonder if he knows why I love and prize her so much. I heard her voice through the window. The stranger was asking her some question which she answered modestly, and was going away. I wonder if he thinks her beautiful. To me the pure olive of her complexion, which just admits of a tinge of carnation in the cheek, is wonderfully effective. She is a brunette intensified, but oh, how the poor thing hates the blood that separates her from us by that one dark shade. No wonder! no wonder!

"Why should I think of this, while looking in the glass to assure myself that I was presentable? I cannot tell, except that this unhappy girl is an object of such profound compassion with me at all times. The education which she has received, I sometimes think, renders her life more bitter than it might have been; but my father would have it so, and perhaps he was right.

"I went down to the veranda again, and found the stranger talking to Cora, who stood with her back against one of the pillars, answering his questions with downcast eyes. She moved away as I appeared, and went into the house. I saw the stranger follow her lithe movements with his eyes, and felt myself coloring with anger. Was he searching her features from admiration or curiosity? I wish it were possible to discover.

"I had been reading, and left a book on one of the little marble tables that stood in the veranda. Some richly colored embroidery lay in my work-basket close by it, and in taking it up, the volume fell.

"The stranger stooped to replace it on the table, but his eye caught the title; a flash of crimson shot across his forehead, and he cast a quick glance at me, as if the question in my eyes disturbed him.

"'A new book, I see; have you read it?'

"He was turning over the leaves, as he asked the question.

"'Yes,' I replied, 'I have read it more than once.'

"'More than once?'

"'Yes, it is a book that requires some thought. Full of ideas and original suggestions. The story itself is a painful one. Indeed, I have my doubts--'

"'Well, you have your doubts?'

"His face flushed, his eyes searched mine with a look almost of defiance in them.

"'Yes,' I continued, coloring painfully, for I am young and afraid to express adverse opinions, 'I sometimes doubt if it is not a little wicked.'

"He laughed, 'Oh, you are young, and a woman.'

"'Well,' I answered, 'this is what I mean, when I finished reading that book, it made me restless, unhappy--discontented with everything around me.'

"'That is, perhaps, because you did not understand it.'

"'But goodness is so simple, I can understand that always.'

"'I grant you, but human life is not all perfection; unfortunately, good and evil are pretty nearly balanced on this earth, and there is nothing picturesque enough in a dead-level of goodness to interest the reader through an entire story. To attempt that, would be like painting a picture without shadows. Your real author understands the force of contrasts.'

"'But a book which has so little of the virtuous and pure in it, yields up this power of contrast, by letting no sunshine into its pages,' I said. 'The fault of this work is, that it dwells too entirely on the dark passions.'

"'Then you condemn it?'

"'No, indeed, the pictures are too grand, the passions too strongly portrayed for that. The author, whoever he is, must be a man of powerful genius. I only wish he had softened his pictures and let in a few of the gentler sentiments.'

"'And so do I.'

"He spoke with emphasis, closing the book. Then I noticed that a flush was on his face, and he cast the volume from him with a gesture of dislike.

"'You know the author of that book?' I said on the impulse.

"'Yes, lady, I know him well--some day he shall be made the wiser, by learning your opinion.'

"'Oh, I hope not. It was rash, perhaps altogether wrong. I am no critic, and only spoke as the book impressed me.'

"'That is criticism,' he answered, 'and I dare say correct, but the volume is hardly worthy of so much consideration. The author is too much honored, that you have read it at all.'

"I was about to answer, when Mr. Dennison rode up in his carriage, and seeing my companion, waved his hand with that cordial welcome so universal in the South. The moment he appeared, I felt chilled, and took up my embroidery, knowing well that no more conversation that I could join in, would be offered that day.

"Certainly, Mr. Dennison is a handsome old gentleman. As a father, one might be very proud of him, but now a strange feeling comes over me at his approach. I turn from his elaborate elegance of speech and manner with a wish for something fresher. Cora is not more my slave than I could make him, but the task of perpetual fondness is too much. Oh, if he had only adopted me!"