breath were melody, so sweet and natural was the modulation of the tone.
"How very beautiful!" said I, dazzled by her brightness, as the fire-light shone upon her eloquent countenance, and gave to the whole of it the hue of a lighted transparency.
Archibald made no reply, but threw himself from the saddle, and struck the gate with his whip handle. The sound immediately ceased, and some tokens of alarm were given; for hands were busy in letting down the curtains of the room, all around, and it was some minutes before we were admitted. But then "O!"—our welcome was that of the heart.
"Oh, my dear, dear friend," cried Lucia, running to Archibald, and putting her hands into his, "how glad I am that you are here."
"Why so?" said he, colouring a little.
"O!" she answered, "O!"—her pleasant, dark, hazel eyes, with lashes black as death, were shaded, for a moment, with embarrassment—"we have been terrified this afternoon, with some stories about a troop of horse in the neighbourhood."
"But you seem to have forgotten Mr. Oadley," said her eldest sister Clara, a remarkably pale, tall girl, with a serious cast of countenance, and very bright eyes, incessantly in motion.
Lucia coloured to the temples, and stepping forward, her superb person just losing its girlishness for the graver beauty of womanhood—"I pray Mr. Oadley to pardon me," she said. "I have always been more intimate with his brother, as he knows well, and when I see him, there are so many feelings of the old schoolfellow at my heart, that I am half inclined to forget both our ages in a game of romps!"
Her sister smiled, a little scornfully, I thought and her mother, one of the most truly beautiful women of the age, immediately set all matters right by shaking her finger at Lucia—and welcoming, with her accustomed gracefulness and ease—her "caro amico!"
"I am really glad that you have come, separate from the pleasure that your company always gives to us, on account of this report, and the absence of my husband." "Absent?" said I, but before I could say more, a look from Archibald cut me short.
There was a momentary embarrassment in all our faces—for I dreaded to mention, that I had seen him within an hour or two; and still less would I have told her where—for there was something rather mysterious—and, as my father thought, dangerous in the movements and authority of Mr. Arnauld; but it soon wore off, and we joined, pleasantly, in conversation.
"I heard your voice, I believe," said Archibald, looking at Lucia, "as we approached."
"Mine!" she answered, with surprise, a—laughing, I suppose?"
"No—singing—your favourite air."
"O no: that was Clara's"
Archibald and I exchanged a look with each other, and smiled. Here had been one of those delusions, at which men may laugh if they will, but which are strangely mortifying to them, after all. We had united, heretofore, in our condemnation of Clara's voice, chiefly, I dare say, because we had not often heard it, and when we had, only by stealth or accident; yet, to-night, in the depth of our feelings, we had mistaken it for that of her sister, which was undeniably, the richest, sweetest, and most passionate of all the country. We! no, how do I know that he was deceived?
"One song," said my brother, Miss Lucia, and we will then leave you."
"A strong temptation!" she said, softly, to me, looking through her abundant dark hair, "shall I?"
"O, certainly!" I answered, "I have on purpose to hear one more of—"
"Why, what is all this?" said her mother, glancing at Archibald, "your countenance is more than commonly serious. Has any thing happened?"
"My brother," said Archibald, "will join the army to-morrow."
"The army; gracious heaven!" said Clara, and then checked herself, while the blood darkened her whole forehead.
"And your brother," said a faint voice to me; I looked up, and saw the face of Lucia, near mine, exceedingly pale, and her white hand raised, "will he go with you?"
I shook my head, and her hand fell. Tho next moment I saw her sitting back, as far as she could, with her eyes upon a book; but occasionally they turned timidly aside, to the face of my brother, who sat, in his usual mood, studying the fire, with his under lip working, and shadows flitting, now and then, over his intensely white forehead, as if the thoughts of his heart took wing, one after the other.
His reverie was profound and undisturbed, till the clock struck, and he started upon his feet, and began buttoning up his coat to depart.
"You will not leave us to-night," said the mother. Clara walked up to me, as pallid as ever, and the book fell from Lucia s hand.
"Madam," answered my brother, "if you have any apprehension remaining, we certainly shall not; one of us (Lucia moved near to him, and Clara to me, as he continued) one of us will remain."
She shook her head.
"Well, then, both of us will remain," said Archibald, drawing up his chair to the corner, and entering into conversation, as if his thoughts were any where in this world but in that room.
"But why do you not join the army?" said Mrs. Arnauld to him.
Archibald turned slowly round, and smiled rather bitterly, I thought; and Lucia sat more erect for a while, and then leaned forward, as if to catch every word, and tone, and look.
"For two or three reasons," said Archibald, firmly. "In the first place, I am not twenty-one—not my own man; in the next place, I am to be a parson—a parson! and, finally, I am so weakly a creature, that I might be run away with by my horse, or trampled to death by the foot. Excellent reasons, madam; are they not?"
I could perceive that Mrs. Arnauld looked astonished, and Lucia terrified; and I—I confess that I should have been equally so had I not seen the late development of his character before my father; for his irony was a naked blade—it went to the heart.
Here Lucia's hair fell, and she consumed ten minutes, at least, in adjusting it, all the time keeping her beautiful eyes turned in the direction where he sat, with his fingers playing involuntarily upon the next chair, without moving a limb or uttering a sound.
On the whole, it was a melancholy evening, such as I should not desire to pass again, under any circumstances. It was saddening to my heart, oppressive to the spirits; and, when I thought of the possibility—nay, of the probability, that we might never all meet again in the same room, it was with difficulty that I could refrain from expressing a
