A Strange Story — Volume 02Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
General
A Strange Story — Volume 02
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century
Never have I seen human face so radiant as that young man's. There was in
the aspect an indescribable something that literally dazzled. As one
continued to gaze, it was with surprise; one was forced to acknowledge
that in the features themselves there was no faultless regularity; nor was
the young man's stature imposing, about the middle height. But the effect
of the whole was not less transcendent. Large eyes, unspeakably lustrous;
a most harmonious colouring; an expression of contagious animation and
joyousness; and the form itself so critically fine, that the welded
strength of its sinews was best shown in the lightness and grace of its
movements.
He was resting one hand carelessly on the golden locks of a child that had
nestled itself against his knees, looking up to his face in that silent
loving wonder with which children regard something too strangely beautiful
for noisy admiration; he himself was conversing with the host, an old
gray-haired, gouty man, propped on his crutched stick, and listening with
a look of mournful envy. To the wealth of the old man all the flowers in
that garden owed their renewed delight in the summer air and sun. Oh,
that his wealth could renew to himself one hour of the youth whose
incarnation stood beside him, Lord, indeed, of Creation; its splendour
woven into his crown of beauty, its enjoyments subject to his sceptre of
hope and gladness.
I was startled by the hearty voice of the merchant's son. "Ah, my dear
Fenwick, I was afraid you would not come,--you are late. There is the new
friend of whom I spoke to you last night; let me now make you acquainted
with him." He drew my arm in his, and led me up to the young man, where
he stood under the arching flowers, and whom he then introduced to me by
the name of Margrave.
Nothing could be more frankly cordial than Mr. Margrave's manner. In a
few minutes I found myself conversing with him familiarly, as if we had
been reared in the same home, and sported together in the same playground.
His vein of talk was peculiar, off-hand, careless, shifting from topic to
topic with a bright rapidity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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