Mrs. Fitzpatrick"s was just the sort of house where one might lounge away the morning delightfully. Chairs and sofas of all patterns were scattered about the room; drawn to the carved tables, or placed temptingly near the large, open window, from which you could step at once into the garden, where the finest flowers filled the air with their perfume, and seemed to overrun the wire baskets in which they were planted. The tables were strewn with books and prints; with cameos, carvings and choice miniatures. Aveline"s painting was generally on a reading stand near the sofa, and a little lava tray of modelling tools stood on a slab at the farthest end of the room, covered by a cambric handkerchief with a foreign border of brilliant colours.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was generally to be found seated near the sofa, working at a large frame of embroidery, an employment at once picturesque and dignified for persons of middle age, but which in young people seems to be the resource of an indolent mind. Aveline had as yet but few of the habits of an invalid. She was very careful of her costume, which was generally a richly worked muslin made in a foreign fashion; with a large Cachemere lying somewhere about the room, which wrapped her from head to foot when she became chilly. And though it was out of her power to occupy herself for more than a few minutes at a time, yet it was surprising how little of languor pervaded her manner and conversation.
She had always a book by her side to glance into when she was at ease, and when her restless fits came over her, she would wander about the room arranging the flowers, or tuning her harp, or turning over the beautiful articles of virtu, with which the room was decorated. And when wrapped in her bright coloured Cachemere she reclined in an easy chair with her silver _bonbonniere_ in her fingers which she handled as an old courtier might have done a snuff-box, a stranger could not easily have been made to believe that but a few weeks of life remained to her.
It was singular that Mr. Haveloc never suspected her affection for him.
She who seemed to receive new life from his presence; who was entirely and exclusively occupied with him--who hardly removed her eyes from him when he came, and who spent her time in expecting him when he was away.
He treated it all as a sick person"s fancy, and submitted far more implicitly to her demands, than if he had been seeking to ingratiate himself in her heart.
Serious illness generally weakens the mind; and in the case of Aveline, it somewhat dimmed her perceptions. She did not attach the exact meaning to Mr. Haveloc"s constant visits, that she could not fail to have done in health. She had mourned his absence, she was contented in his society, and it seemed as if she felt no desire to penetrate the future, or to antic.i.p.ate a time when they must part.
"He is late, mamma," said Aveline one day. "He is certainly later this morning; something has happened. That yacht--you know it was very windy last night."
"My dear child, I can see the yacht from the window; and I do not think he has been on board of her since we went with him. Besides, we must not be so unreasonable as to look for him always at one hour."
Aveline took up her book again. Presently Mr. Haveloc made his appearance at the drawing-room window with a large flower in his hand; a splendid cup-shaped blossom, with white leaves tinged with pink, that shed a delightful perfume all over the room.
"Look, Miss Fitzpatrick," he said coming up to Aveline, "I have waited for some purpose; my water-lilly has flowered this morning. Did you ever see anything so beautiful?"
"And you have brought it me," said Aveline taking the flower, "how good you are. I will put it in water directly. It shall have the Dresden jar all to itself; that with the holly berries."
Mr. Haveloc brought the jar and rang for water.
"And is this a water-lilly?" said she, still admiring the flower. "Of that species; it came from South America, and is I believe, the only one in England. I had hoped it was a lotus just to put one in mind of Moore"s poetry. And how are you to-day?"
"To-day? Charming. I could do all sorts of things. Walk down to the beach, or up to the village; or play a fantasia on the harp." As she spoke, a string flew. "Hark;" she said, "I have lost a harp-string; a small one I think by the sound. Just look and tell me the extent of the damage, Mr. Haveloc."
"One of the very smallest. Look--up at the top here."
"I must get up and mend it," said Aveline. "The harp-strings are in that drawer, Mr. Haveloc; may I trouble you?"
She rose languidly, and moved to the harp; resting her hand on the table as she went: selected one of the strings Mr. Haveloc brought her, and began to undo the broken one. But, in spite of her boast, it was not one of her good days. She wavered, and caught the harp for support.
"Why will you not rest;" he said, drawing a chair close to her. "I can put on your string--give me the key."
Aveline sank into the chair and resigned her task to him.
"But who taught you to put on harp-strings?" said she, with a searching look.
"I learned it years ago of a harp player, who was teaching the sister of a friend of mine. He said I should one day find it a useful accomplishment. Do you not agree with him?"
"Perfectly!" said Aveline, looking up to him with a smile.
"And which does this string rhyme to?" he asked, when he had put it on.
"Ah! you are right," said Aveline, "the octaves are the rhymes of music.
Look, this is the octave."
"Now, will you go back to the sofa?" he asked.
Aveline shook her head. "I am comfortable here," she said. "I don"t mean to move till I grow restless. Will you have the goodness to bring me that tray? I want to look over my tools."
She threw off the handkerchief, and sat playing with her tools and turning them over like a child.
Mr. Haveloc drew a low chair close to hers and began to examine them also.
"Ah!" said Aveline, looking up, "I was just going to advise you to address yourself to sculpture. It is the finest of all the arts."
"Do you place it above poetry?" he asked.
"Sculpture is poetry," said Aveline eagerly, "only it is a universal language. It is the highest art. It is profaned as every thing in these days is profaned, by the language of ridicule and burlesque. But everything in sculpture that is not addressed to the most ideal feelings, becomes disagreeable. The ideal is the atmosphere of sculpture. It does not admit of caricature. Think of Danton"s villanous statuettes," and Aveline looked all disgust.
"Ah!" said Mr. Haveloc, "there is one of Litzt, on the drawing-room mantel-piece in my villa--a wonderful likeness."
"And you have not broken it to pieces?" claimed Aveline.
"That would not be in accordance with the Ideal," said Mr. Haveloc.
"Justice is a cardinal virtue, and I presume a subject worthy of the chisel; and M. Litzt does not belong to me."
"Don"t laugh," said Aveline.
"I did not know," said Mr. Haveloc, "that you were such an enemy to the comic muse. I am sure you must enjoy wit."
"Yes. But the spirit of wit is the very essence of prose, in direct opposition to poetry, which takes all things in a serious light. And in these days everything is mocked and parodied until people are laughed out of the little love they have left for what is n.o.ble and beautiful."
"And then there will be a great reaction," said Mr. Haveloc. "We shall all become as sober as judges a few years hence."
"I hope at least," said Aveline "that we shall learn to laugh in the right place, and that will be, not at great, but at little sentiments and actions."
"Do you know, Miss Fitzpatrick, you will think me guilty of treason after your exordium on sculpture. But you talk of the chisel, and your instruments remind me of nothing so much as the apparatus of a dentist."
"Oh, mamma, do scold him!" cried Aveline. "It is atrocious--a dentist too! A race of people of whom I have as much horror as the Egyptians had of their embalmers."
"Well, really," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking up from her work. "All those mysterious slender little instruments, Aveline?"
"It is a calumny!" cried Aveline, gathering up her tools. "Do not be angry, Miss Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Haveloc. "I will tell you what I do admire. This handkerchief; the border is superb. You got it abroad. I always know people who have travelled, by their coloured handkerchiefs--they are sure to pick them up at Paris."
"Oh! they are common enough in England, now," said Aveline. "But that is a good border, the pattern is Arabesque. You wear them, don"t you? Let me look at yours."
Mr. Haveloc produced his handkerchief with a violet edge.
"How dare you!" said Aveline playfully, "It is much finer than mine.
What a c.o.xcomb."
"Change then," said Mr. Haveloc.
Aveline seized his handkerchief with all the eagerness of a child, and threw him hers.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked with rather a grave smile at Aveline; but she laughed and squeezed it behind the cushion at the back of her chair, as if to make sure of her new possession.