Gothic fiction; Guardian and ward -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
I am luxuriously established in the saloon, with every imaginable wish
attended to, and easy-chairs, books, papers, and cushions enough to
satisfy five invalids, but they do not satisfy me. I am bored with the
heat, and the whimpering of the pale children, whom a lean,
sallow-looking mother feeds unremittingly with "bolivars" and "taffy;" I
am tired with the swinging of those lamps overhead, and the everlasting
rocking of a stout lady in a red plush rocking-chair, and with looking
at the gaudy colors in the carpet, and I rush out for a brisk walk on
the deck with Mr. Rutledge. What a day it is! How impossible to be
otherwise than happy and hopeful; how inevitably the dark phantoms of
doubt and dread take themselves off in the light of such a sun as this,
and in the sight of such a scene! The waves dance bright and gay in the
sunshine; the mountains rise, on either hand, into the blue and
cloudless sky; in a word, the loveliest river in all this lovely
river-braided New World lays before me, the heart of seventeen beats in
my bosom, the glow of health and exercise tingles in my veins; what
wonder that I forget the tears of yesterday, the separation, the
homesickness, the loneliness that I so dreaded.
Neither can my companion altogether resist the influences of the hour.
If the sharp air and the quick walk have, as he says, made the tardy
roses bloom again on my cheeks, they have also brought a glow to his
face, and a sparkle to his eye, and untamed wit and sarcasm to his lips.
He quizzes our fellow voyagers, tells me odd stories of former travel,
droll sketches of western journeyings, and California "experiences."
Then the laugh dies, as some winding of the river brings suddenly before
us a picture too grand to be looked at with trifling words and laughter
on our lips. And Mr. Rutledge has the "right thing" to say then, in his
rich manly voice, and the right words to embody the voiceless thoughts
that crowd to my own lips--words that do not jar or desecrate, but make
the beauty tangible and the grandeur more ennobling.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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