The International Monthly, Volume 5, No. 3, March, 1852Various
History
The International Monthly, Volume 5, No. 3, March, 1852
Various
Art, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Science -- History -- Periodicals
She came in like a very sunbeam, all light and peace, dispersing, as it
were, by her presence, the storm of angry passions that had been raging
there. Both of them were disposed to meet her with preconceived
animosity, but they were at once disarmed by the serene purity of her
aspect. The large candid eyes, with their timid glance, half shy, half
free, so like a young fawn; the sweet face, glowing beneath the soft
hair, with a faint blush of diffidence; the whole atmosphere of
innocence, and hope, and loving kindness towards all men, which seemed
to be around her, had power to stir long silent depths in both those
seared and angry hearts; the bitter strife, whose cause and results had
become magnified to their distorted vision, to an importance which
nothing on this fleeting earth could really merit, almost melted away
before _her_ presence, who seemed prepared to walk through life in such
joyousness and singleness of heart, with eyes that could see nothing but
beauty, and a mind that could perceive only goodness. Lady Randolph came
forward, and took her hand with a degree of politeness which Sir Michael
knew to be a most unwonted act of condescension, but which to the
sunny-hearted Lilias seemed to be a very cold, repulsive welcome. She
looked up with her clear eyes to the proud, handsome face that bent over
her and wondered if it was of this stately lady that she was to beware,
for the half-uttered words of the stranger had impressed her strangely,
and the one thought, that there was to be for her a hidden enemy within
these walls, had appeared to haunt her very footsteps ever since she
entered Randolph Abbey. Sir Michael approached, and Lady Randolph at
once let fall the little hand that fluttered in her own. Lilias timidly
advanced towards her uncle; involuntarily he put his arm round her, and
stroked down the soft brown hair: "Poor Edward," he murmured, "how
wonderfully you resemble him."
"Then you will love me for his sake, will you not?" and she looked
coaxingly up to him.
"Dear child, would that you could be like what he was, to me, the only
creature who ever loved me."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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