CHAPTER XXXII. THE FIRST LETTER.

kfastIcarriedmyletterup-stairs,andhavingsecuredmyselfbyturningthekeyinthedoor,Ibegantostudytheoutsideofmytreasure:itwassomeminutesbeforeIcouldgetoverthedirectionandpenetratethesealonedoesnottakeastrongplaceofthiskindbyinstantstorm—onesitsdownawhilebeforeit,asbeleaguerssay.Graham’shandislikehimself,Lucy,andsoishisseal—allclear,firm,androunded—noslovenlysplashofwax—afull,solid,steadydrop—adistinctimpressnopointedturnsharshlyprickingtheopticnerve,butaclean,mellow,pleasantmanuscript,thatsoothesyouasyouread.Itislikehisface—justlikethechisellingofhisfeatures:doyouknowhisautograph?” “Ihaveseenit:goon.” “Thesealwastoobeautifultobebroken,soIcutitroundwithmyscissors.Onthepointofreadingtheletteratlast,Ioncemoredrewbackvoluntarilyitwastoosoonyettodrinkthatdraught—thesparkleinthecupwassobeautiful—Iwouldwatchityetaminute.ThenIrememberedallatoncethatIhadnotsaidmyprayersthatmorning.Havingheardpapagodowntobreakfastalittleearlierthanusual,Ihadbeenafraidofkeepinghimwaiting,andhadhastenedtojoinhimassoonasdressed,thinkingnoharmtoputoffprayerstillafterwards.SomepeoplewouldsayIoughttohaveservedGodfirstandthenmanbutIdon’tthinkheavencouldbejealousofanythingImightdoforpapa.IbelieveIamsuperstitious.Avoiceseemednowtosaythatanotherfeelingthanfilialaffectionwasinquestion—tourgemetopraybeforeIdaredtoreadwhatIsolongedtoread—todenymyselfyetamoment,andrememberfirstagreatduty.IhavehadtheseimpulseseversinceIcanremember.Iputtheletterdownandsaidmyprayers,adding,attheend,astrongentreatythatwhateverhappened,Imightnotbetemptedorledtocausepapaanysorrow,andmightnever,incaringforothers,neglecthim.Theverythoughtofsuchapossibility,sopiercedmyheartthatitmademecry.Butstill,Lucy,Ifeltthatintimepapawouldhavetobetaughtthetruth,managed,andinducedtohearreason. “Ireadtheletter.Lucy,lifeissaidtobealldisappointment.Iwasnotdisappointed.EreIread,andwhileIread,myheartdidmorethanthrob—ittrembledfast—everyquiverseemedlikethepantofananimalathirst,laiddownatawellanddrinkingandthewellprovedquitefull,gloriouslyclearitroseupmunificentlyofitsownimpulseIsawthesunthroughitsgush,andnotamote,Lucy,nomoss,noinsect,noatominthethrice-refinedgoldengurgle. “Life,”shewenton,“issaidtobefullofpaintosome.IhavereadbiographieswherethewayfarerseemedtojourneyonfromsufferingtosufferingwhereHopeflewbeforehimfast,neveralightingsonear,orlingeringsolong,astogivehishandachanceofonerealizinggrasp.Ihavereadofthosewhosowedintears,andwhoseharvest,sofarfrombeingreapedinjoy,perishedbyuntimelyblight,orwasborneoffbysuddenwhirlwindand,alas!someofthesemetthewinterwithemptygarners,anddiedofutterwantinthedarkestandcoldestoftheyear.” “Wasittheirfault,Paulina,thattheyofwhomyouspeakthusdied?” “Notalwaystheirfault.Someofthemweregoodendeavouringpeople.Iamnotendeavouring,noractivelygood,yetGodhascausedmetogrowinsun,duemoisture,andsafeprotection,sheltered,fostered,taught,bymydearfatherandnow—now—anothercomes.Grahamlovesme.” Forsomeminuteswebothpausedonthisclimax. “Doesyourfatherknow?”Iinquired,inalowvoice. “Grahamspokewithdeeprespectofpapa,butimpliedthathedarednotapproachthatquarterasyethemustfirstprovehisworth:headdedthathemusthavesomelightrespectingmyselfandmyownfeelingser