Thy heart is like the billowy tideOf some impetuous river,That mighty in its power and pride,Sweeps on and on forever.The white foam is its battle crest,As to the charge it rushesAnd from its vast and panting breast,A stormy shout up gushes."Through all—o'er all—my way I cleave—Each barrier down-bearing—Fame is the guerdon of the brave,And victory of the daring!"While mine is like the brooklet's flow,Through peaceful valley's gliding;O'er which the willow boughs bend lowThe tiny wavelet hiding.And as it steals on, calm and clear,A little song 'tis singing,That vibrates soft upon the ear,Like fairy vespers ringing."Love me—love me!" it murmurs o'er,'Midst light and shadows ranging,"Love me," It gurgles evermore,The burden never changing.Thine is the eagle's lofty flight,With ardent hope, aspiringE'en to the flaming source of light,Undoubling and untiring.Glory, with gorgeous sunbeam, throwsAn Iris mantle o'er thee—A radiant present round thee glows—Deathless renown before thee.And I, like a shy, timid dove,That shuns noon's fervid beaming,And far within the silent grove,Sits, lost in loving dreaming—Turn, half in joy, and half in fear,From thine ambitions soaring,And seek to hide me from the glare,That o'er thy track is pouring.I cannot echo back the notesOf triumph thou art pealing,But from my woman's heart there floatsThe music of one feeling,One single, longing, pleading moan,Whose voice I cannot smother—"Love me—love me!" its song alone,And it will learn no other!
Thy heart is like the billowy tideOf some impetuous river,That mighty in its power and pride,Sweeps on and on forever.The white foam is its battle crest,As to the charge it rushesAnd from its vast and panting breast,A stormy shout up gushes."Through all—o'er all—my way I cleave—Each barrier down-bearing—Fame is the guerdon of the brave,And victory of the daring!"While mine is like the brooklet's flow,Through peaceful valley's gliding;O'er which the willow boughs bend lowThe tiny wavelet hiding.And as it steals on, calm and clear,A little song 'tis singing,That vibrates soft upon the ear,Like fairy vespers ringing."Love me—love me!" it murmurs o'er,'Midst light and shadows ranging,"Love me," It gurgles evermore,The burden never changing.Thine is the eagle's lofty flight,With ardent hope, aspiringE'en to the flaming source of light,Undoubling and untiring.Glory, with gorgeous sunbeam, throwsAn Iris mantle o'er thee—A radiant present round thee glows—Deathless renown before thee.And I, like a shy, timid dove,That shuns noon's fervid beaming,And far within the silent grove,Sits, lost in loving dreaming—Turn, half in joy, and half in fear,From thine ambitions soaring,And seek to hide me from the glare,That o'er thy track is pouring.I cannot echo back the notesOf triumph thou art pealing,But from my woman's heart there floatsThe music of one feeling,One single, longing, pleading moan,Whose voice I cannot smother—"Love me—love me!" its song alone,And it will learn no other!
Thy heart is like the billowy tideOf some impetuous river,That mighty in its power and pride,Sweeps on and on forever.The white foam is its battle crest,As to the charge it rushesAnd from its vast and panting breast,A stormy shout up gushes.
"Through all—o'er all—my way I cleave—Each barrier down-bearing—Fame is the guerdon of the brave,And victory of the daring!"While mine is like the brooklet's flow,Through peaceful valley's gliding;O'er which the willow boughs bend lowThe tiny wavelet hiding.
And as it steals on, calm and clear,A little song 'tis singing,That vibrates soft upon the ear,Like fairy vespers ringing."Love me—love me!" it murmurs o'er,'Midst light and shadows ranging,"Love me," It gurgles evermore,The burden never changing.
Thine is the eagle's lofty flight,With ardent hope, aspiringE'en to the flaming source of light,Undoubling and untiring.Glory, with gorgeous sunbeam, throwsAn Iris mantle o'er thee—A radiant present round thee glows—Deathless renown before thee.
And I, like a shy, timid dove,That shuns noon's fervid beaming,And far within the silent grove,Sits, lost in loving dreaming—Turn, half in joy, and half in fear,From thine ambitions soaring,And seek to hide me from the glare,That o'er thy track is pouring.
I cannot echo back the notesOf triumph thou art pealing,But from my woman's heart there floatsThe music of one feeling,One single, longing, pleading moan,Whose voice I cannot smother—"Love me—love me!" its song alone,And it will learn no other!
There was a long stillness. Carry was weeping silently. She was a novice to the world, and believed that many were guileless and loving as herself; but she felt, as she listened to this enthusiastic outflow from ice-girt depths, unfathomable to her, unsuspected by others, that terrible woe was in reserve for the heart so suddenly unveiled. There was, about Ida, when her real character came into action, an earnestness of passion and sentiment that forbade the utterance of trite counsels or cautions;the tide would have its way, and one must abide its ebb in patience. Her first words showed that it had retired.
"I appear strangely fitful to your gentle little self, dear one. It is seldom that I yield to these humours. You have pierced to the bottom of my heart to-night;" linking her arm again in Carry's. "Forget my vehemence, and believe me if you will, the iceberg people say I am."
"Never! oh, Ida! Why do yourself such injustice? Why not let your friends know that you have feeling? They would love you but the more."
"Do not believe it. I should be sent to the Insane Hospital. Hearts are at a discount in the market just now, and hypocrisy above par."
"There you go!" exclaimed Carry. "One moment all softness—the next, an ocean is between us. Contradictory enigma! If I loved you less, I should be angry. You read every leaf of my heart as easily as you unfold a newspaper; and just as I fancy that I have the key to yours, it is shut close—a casket, whose spring I cannot find."
"Or like an oyster," said Ida. "Apropos de bottes—here come the candles, harbingers of supper, and I hear our brace of Esculapii, upon the porch, ready to discuss it."
Carry asked herself if it could be the impassioned improvisatrice, who charmed her father and Arthur into forgetfulness of professional anxieties, and the attractions of the inviting board, by her brilliant play of wit, sparkling and pleasant as foam upon champagne, without its evanescence. The gentlemen admired and liked her. That they unconsciously identified her with Carry, may have accounted for this, in part, but most was owing to her powers of pleasing. An inquiry, made with extreme gravity, as to the number and welfare of their patients, was the preface to a burlesque sketch of the saddle-bag scene; in which, not a hint of the reflections it inspired, escaped her; and when she described the doctor's rueful countenance, as he held up the neck and stopple of a large phial, saying dolefully, "The Calomel too, and three cases of fever on hand!" Arthur resigned knife and fork, in despair of eating another mouthful, and Dr. Carleton drew out his Bandanna to wipe off the coursing tears.
"Hist," said Ida, her finger uplifted, "some one is coming!"The roll of an approaching vehicle was plainly heard; the coachman's sharp "Whoa!" followed by a cheer, in sound like a view-hallo, but it said, "Ship ahoy!"
"Charley! Charley!" screamed Carry, upsetting the tea-urn on her way to the door, pursued by Arthur and Dr. Carleton. Ida went as far as the porch. She heard Mrs. John Dana's voice, then her husband's; and Elle's incoherent response to the efforts made to awaken her; but the stranger was chief spokesman. "Look after your wife and the baggage, John; I will disembark the lighter freight. Elle! Elle! don't you want to see Aladdin's lamp? Aha! well, here is something prettier—Aunt Carry, and a nice supper. Charley! you monkey! wide awake as usual! Feel if you have your own head, my boy! People are apt to make mistakes in the dark. Give me that small-sized bundle, Jenny—you'll lose it in the weeds, and then there will be the mischief to pay. One, two, three, all right!" And with the "small-sized bundle" in his arms, he marched up the walk, Carry scolding and laughing.
"Charley! you are too bad! give her to me—a pretty figure you are, playing nurse!"
"He has carried her, or Elle, before him, on the horse, all the way!" said Mrs. Dana. "Ida, my love, how do you do?" warmly kissing her. John Dana shook hands with her, and Elle cried, "Cousin Ida!youhere at grandpa's!"
Charley gave a comic glance at his burden, when he was presented; but his bow was respectful, and as graceful as the case admitted. Ida hardly saw him until the second supper was served; Carry insisting that she should occupy her accustomed seat, and go through the form of eating. Elle petitioned for a chair by her, and the three brothers were together on the opposite side of the table. They were an interesting study. John, with his strong, dark, yet singularly pleasing physiognomy, was the handsomest; but his precedence in age, and perhaps rougher experiences in life, had imparted an air of command, which, while it became him well, deterred one from familiarity. Charley was so unlike him, that the supposition of their being of the same lineage, seemed absurd. His hair and complexion were many shades lighter, and the features cast in a different mould, his eyes the only fine ones in the set. He was not so tall, by half ahead, and more slightly built. Arthur was the connecting link; with John's height, and Charley's figure; the perfect mouth and teeth of one; the brown eyes of the other; and hair and skin ajuste milieubetween the two. Ida's attention was most frequently directed to the new-comer. She thought him more homely than his brothers; and it certainly was not a family resemblance that troubled her with the notion, that she had seen him somewhere not very long ago—when, she could not say—except that his expression was not the same as now. Heedless of her observation, he rattled on; doing ample justice to the edibles, in some unaccountable manner; his gastronomical and vocal apparatus never interfering; yet withal, he was an excellent listener; and allowed the rest of the party to say whatever they wished. "He would be worth his weight in gold to a comic almanac-maker," thought Ida, as he dashed off caricature and anecdote, conveying a character in an epithet, and setting the table in a roar, by a grimace or inflection. His pictures, however, were coloured by his gay mood; there were no frowning portraits, and their smiles were all broad grins.
"You have not learned to love buttermilk, yet, Charley?" said Carry, as John called for a second tumbler of the cooling beverage.
"Can't say that I have. Did I write you an account of my begging expedition?"
"Begging! no—tell me now."
"It was in the Valley. Fitzgerald and I—you know Fitz., Arthur—were on a hunting frolic. We went up on the mountains, and fell in with game in abundance, but despicable accommodations. We were at it for three days. The first night we 'camped out,' gipsy style; built a rousing fire to scare the wild beasts; wrapped our dreadnoughts around us, and 'lay, like gentlemen taking a snooze,' feet towards the fire, and faces towards the moon. I had made up my mind that there would be precious little romance, and less comfort, in this very roomy hotel; but Fitz. was sentimentally inclined, and I let him alone. 'A life in the woods for me!' said he, as he stretched himself upon the ground. I was fast asleep in two minutes, so far as sounds went. 'Charley!' he exclaimed, at my heavy breathing.'Pshaw! he's off! he has no more poetry in him than there is in a—rock!"
"I guessed that he was helped to this illustration, by his discovery of the quantity of the substance in the soil thereabouts, for he shifted his position. He was tolerably still for about five minutes; then there was a jerk, and 'I have not picked the softest spot, surely!' After another season of quiet came, 'How he sleeps! If he were to swap sides with me, he would not be disturbing the echoes in that style!'
"A brief objurgation to an unnamed annoyance, was comment fourth. I slept on perseveringly. He bore it for an hour, and then got up and mended the fire, by which he was moodily seated, when I awoke from my first nap. 'Hallo!' said I, rubbing my eyes, 'Is it morning?' 'No! and what's more, I don't believe it's ever coming?' with a savage accent. 'Ah well! just hail me when it does break,' and I dropped back 'That is more than flesh and blood can bear!' said he, with awful deliberateness, 'Here I can't get a wink of sleep, and you are snoring away with a forty horse power. Maybe you think you are on a feather bed, man!' fiercely ironical.
"'A feather bed!' just opening my eyes—'a feather bed is nothing to it, Fitz.'
"'Ibelieveyou!' he said.
"The morning did come, and we had splendid shooting, and happened on a log cabin that night, where we were permitted to lodge, leaving most of our game for its mistress, who refused money for her hospitality. By three o'clock of the last day, we turned our faces towards home, and by rare luck, overtook a man who lived upon Fitz.'s farm, him we loaded with our guns and game-bags, he being on horseback, and fresh, we on foot and tired. Presently a traveller passed us, crossing to the other side of the road, and eyeing us suspiciously. 'Fitz.,' observed I, 'How hard that man looked at you. You are not exactly in holiday trim, my dear fellow!'
"'I haven't seen any man, or thought of myself, I was too much absorbed in conjecturing how such an ugly creature as you, was ever raised—you couldn't have been, except in Eastern Virginia.'
"After some sparring, we laid a bet as to how the people ofthe first house we came to, would decide the question of our comparative beauty, 'I have it!' said he, 'We are foreigners; talk the most villainous jargon you can invent, and trust me for the rest. We shall hear criticisms enough, I'll warrant.'
"We were ripe for fun; and reaching a small farm-house, Fitz. opened the gate. 'Recollect we know no Inglese!' We were grotesque figures, wearing bell-crowned hats of white felt, drab wrappers, coated with mud, and green-hunting shirts. Add a beard of three days' growth, and brigandish mustachios, and you have our 'picters.' The men were off at work, but the women peeped at us from all quarters. Fitz. walked meekly up to a girl who was washing in the yard.
"'Avezyouvuspaimum?'
"'What!' said she, wringing the suds from her hands.
"'Wevusivusfaimetsoif,' winking at me for confirmation.
"'Yaw! pax vobiscum!' returned I, in imitation of poor Wamba; and pointing into my throat.
"'Two forrinners,' said an older woman. 'Come, see 'em, chillen.'
'You are hungry, ain't you?' said the girl.
"'Novuscomprendum.'
"'And thirsty, too?' to me.
"I put my finger to my mouth, with a voracious snap. Away she ran, and was back in a minute, with a plate of cold Irish potatoes and a bowl of buttermilk; a younger sister following with another."
"Whatdidyou do?"
"I drank it! absolutely! I, who had never looked at a churn without shuddering. I desired to make a favorable impression. The children were gaping at the sights; and I contrived, before handing the bowl to one of them, to drop a piece of money into the milk left in the bottom 'for manners.' I wished it back in my pocket, as the old hag, after a prolonged stare, pointed her skinny hand at me, 'Sary, I think this 'ere one is rayther thewuss looking, don't you?'
"Fitz. burst into a laugh, that scared them all in one direction, while we beat a retreat in the other."
"A hearty laugh helpeth digestion," said Dr. Carleton, setting back in his chair. "Miss Ida, if you and Charley will undertakemy practice, I am in hopes that the casualty of the afternoon will be less disastrous than we apprehend."
"What casualty?" asked Charley.
The doctor explained:
"And you seize upon a prime lot of choice spirits, as a substitute for your tinctures and drugs. Fie, Doctor! I thought you were a temperance man!"
"I have the best right to your services," said Carry, clasping her hands around his arm, and walking with him towards the parlor. "And I forewarn you, I have enough for you to do. Ida and I have moped here for a fortnight, without a single frolic, and with an alarmingly scanty supply of beaux."
He looked down at her, as he would have done at Elle.
"You ride, do you not?"
"There is a pleasant fiction that we have morning excursions, daily; but history records but three such felicitous events."
"Where was Arthur?"
"Hush, my dear sir, the country is sickly; and——" she said,sotto voce, "He will not hear of father's going out after nightfall; and they have had several difficult cases, of late, demanding almost constant attendance."
"Then, if you are willing, I will enter upon my duties as escort, to-morrow morning."
"Oh! not so soon! you may have time to recover from your fatigue."
"Fatigue! fudge! I could dance all night. Are you fond of riding, Miss Ross?"
"I used to like it; I am sadly out of practice now."
"A fault easily cured, if you are not timid."
"Not she!" said Carry; "and want of practice notwithstanding, she is a better horsewoman than I."
This was demonstrated in the course of the first ride; and both improved rapidly under the tuition of their self-constituted instructor.
John returned to the city; Arthur's time was never at his own disposal; the care of the girls devolved entirely upon Charley. From the moment of his arrival, Ida studied him intently, and each hour brought difficulties, instead of elucidation. Easy and kind, always at their service; and performing the tasksassigned him, as if they were real pleasures, he was nothing of a "ladies' man;" eschewed gallant speeches, and consigned flatterers to the tender mercies of Mrs. Opie. She felt that he was affectionate, but would have been at a loss to produce proof thereof. He never let fall a syllable of endearment, yet Carry and the children read something in his face which said more. His tastes were cultivated, and his mind well-informed, but he set at naught the laws of conversational etiquette; his sayings had as marked a style as his features; a style, which those who did not know better, termed "droll," and those who did, dubbed "Charley's;" it was referable to no thing or person else. His candor was not his least remarkable trait. He was obstinately silent when appealed to for an opinion, or gave it rough-hewn; no rounding-off of sharp corners; no filling out here, or sloping in there, so as to fit neatly to another's. He made no distinctions of rank; pulled off his hat to the meanest field-hand, with as gentle courtesy as though he had been the President; and severed the thread of her most sprightly narrations, to thank the ragged urchin, who unfastened gates, or let down drawbars, in their desultory excursions.
"He is one of the best of men," delivered Mammy, as foreman of the kitchen jury. Ida smiled at the harum-scarum figure, which arose in her mind, in opposition to the image of sanctity, Mammy's description should have summoned.
"You do not do him justice, Ida," observed Carry.
"My smile was not of unbelief, but amusement; I like him. There is a rich vein of quaint humor in his mind; and his unebbing spirits entitle him to the honors of the laughing philosopher."
"He is more than that—"
"Who was it I heard wishing for a frolic?" asked Charley, coming in. "I met a boy with a basket full of perfumery and white satin ribbon, at the gate. I had to stand between him and the wind, while he gave me these. 'Miss Carleton'—'Miss Ross'—'Dr. Danaand brother,' they would swindle a fellow out of his birth-right! 'Mr. and Mrs. Truman solicit the pleasure—' hum—no doubt they will be overjoyed—'evening, 27th August'—what is it, Carry?"
"We were talking of it this morning, the bridal party given to William Truman and lady."
"Whom did he marry?"
"He isn't married at all; on the 26th, he is to conduct to the hymeneal altar, the beautiful Miss Sophia Morris, of Richmond, Virginia."
"No newspaper reporter could be more explicit. You will go?"
"That depends upon Miss Ross' inclinations, and somebody's gallantry."
"Poor dependence—that last! Do you know the bride elect—that is to be?"
"The bride elect, thatis—is sister to a school-mate of ours; and I have some acquaintance with herself."
"Ellen will be with her sister," said Ida. "I shall enjoy meeting her. Her laugh will carry us back to days of yore."
"To days of yore," said Charley, balancéing to an imaginary partner. "Is it three or four weeks since you parted! In a young lady's calendar, a month is an age, six months eternity. You look upon me as a miracle of longevity, do you not?"
"As old enough to be less saucy," said Carry. "Do you know that this habit of catching up one's words is very rude?"
He threw a quick glance to Ida. "Miss Ross is not offended, I trust. Nothing was further from my intention than to wound or offend. I am too prone to speak without thought. Forgive me this time."
"Upon two conditions."
"Name them."
"First, that you never again imagine an apology due, when no offence has been committed; secondly, that you drop that very punctilious 'Miss Ross,' and adopt your brother's manner of address."
"Agreed! to both. If I presume upon my privileges, I rely upon you for admonition."
"And this party?" said Carry. "Sit down and be a good boy, while Ida and I talk it over."
He brought up a stool in front of their sofa, and, knees at a right angle, feet close together; and folded hands, waited humbly for the crumbs that might be flung to him.
"It is eight miles off," said Carry, "but there will be a moon—"
("Most generally is!")
"Be quiet, sir! it will be moonlight, and the road is level and dry—"
("It stops at the creek to get a drink!")
She aimed a blow at him with her fan, which he dodged.
"I am so little acquainted with them," objected Ida.
"That's nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Truman are the most hospitable of human beings, and Mary is a lovely girl—"
("Per latest steamer from Paradise.")
"We must go. Sister is here to keep father company. Now the last query—what shall we wear?"
("The first shall be last.")
"White muslins," returned Ida.
"Yes; and the thinnest we have. Nothing else is endurable this weather—"
("Except iced juleps!")
"Arthur!" cried Carry, with a pretty affectation of vexation. "Come in, and keep your brother quiet!"
"What is he doing? he seems very harmless," said Dr. Dana, stepping through the window from the piazza.
The maligned individual applied his fist to his eye. "I ain't a-touching nothin!"
"I am security for his good behaviour," continued Arthur, laying his arm across his shoulder. "Proceed with the case in hand."
The rival merits of peach-blossoms and azure were set forth; bandeaux preferred to curls—the gentlemen giving the casting vote;—kid and satin slippers paraded—Charley advocating "calf-skin;"—a muttering of "patriotism" and "domestic manufacture," checked by a pinch from his brother;—every knot of ribbon;—each bud and leaf of the bouquets were settled to the taste of the fair wearers before the council adjourned.
The most spacious of Mrs. Truman's chambers was prepared for the ladies' dressing-room, on the evening of the party; and there were no spare corners, although several of the neighbours offered their houses for the use of those who dared not tempt the chance of crumpled robes and disarranged coiffures; the probable consequence of a ride eight or ten miles in gala dress. Every stage of the toilet was in progress, from the chrysalis of the dressing-gown to the full-winged butterfly, the sylph, who, with a dainty adjustment of her diaphanous drapery, and a last, lingering look at the flattering mirror, declared herself "ready."
Ida and Carry were bent upon dressing alike; no easy matter to do, consistently with their perceptions of colours and fitness. No one hue became both; so they proscribed the prismatic tints and appeared in virgin white. Carry was beautiful as a dream of Fairy Land. The plump, white arms were bare to the shoulder, and without other ornament than their own fairness, except a chain of gold, attached to a locket, containing her parents' hair. This she never left off. Snowy gloves hid hands, softer still; the exquisitely-fitted corsage, and the waist it enclasped, were the admiration, and, if truth must be told, the envy of the bevy of talkative damsels; but few remarked upon these after a sight of her face. Her hair would curl, do what she would; the rebellious bandeaux refused to be plastered upon the blue-veined temples, but rippled and glittered, like nothing but a stream, golden in the sunset. The most artfulsoupçonof rouge was a palpable counterfeit compared with her living bloom; pearls lay between the ruby lips; and a spirit, more priceless than gold or rubies, or pearls beamed from the liquid eyes. Ida looked forward with delight to Arthur's exultant smile, when he should behold her; and Carry, alike forgetful of self, was lost in gratified contemplation of the elegant figure of her friend. With not a tithe of the beauty of half the girls present, her tout ensemble was striking and attractive. The haughtiness which held the crowd at a distance, gave a high-bredtone to her bearing, and one sentence, uttered in her clear voice, and a smile dispelled all unfavourable impressions.
Arthur and Charley were at the foot of the stairs.
"What a Babel!" said Ida, as they entered the thronged rooms.
"And what a waste of breath!" replied Charley. "There is neither sociability, or rational enjoyment, to be had in these very large assemblies."
"I rather like the excitement of the crowd;" said Ida, "it affects me strangely, but agreeably; with the same sensation the waves may feel in their sports,—a tumultuous glee at being a part of the restless whole,—never still, and always bounding onward."
"How do you account for it? Is it magnetism—animal electricity?"
"Perhaps so. If, as some contend, we are electrical machines, the revolving currents of the subtle fluid must operate powerfully upon the system of each, in a crowd like this. But to leave speculative ground—perilous to me, inasmuch as I do not know what I am talking about—"
"And I understand the science less," interrupted he. "You remember the Scotchman's definition of metaphysics—what were you going to ask?"
"Why you dislike these scenes? I fancied you would be in your element."
"Excuse me for saying that I suspect you class me among amphibious creatures—asui generis—equally at home in the air, earth, and water, and not over-well qualified for any of these states of existence."
Ida would have disclaimed; but he had come too near the mark; the eyes that asked a reply were penetrating as laughing; she was thankful that the bridal party released her from their regards.
"The bride is pretty," he observed, when the confusion was a little over.
"Tame praise for such beauty," said Ida.
"What then? superb—magnificent? and if I wish to describe the Alps or Niagara, can you help me to a word?"
"You do not affect the florid style now in vogue?"
"No. It is the vice of American language and literature. We 'pile on the agony,' until the idea is smothered; plain words lose their meaning, become too weak to go alone, and have to be bolstered up by sonorous adjectives."
Ida smiled, and turned her head to look for Ellen Morris. Charley remarked the movement, and imitated it.
"Ha! can it be!" he exclaimed.
"What!" she questioned.
"I cannot be mistaken! it is he! What wind has blown him hither? An old—I thought, a transatlantic friend; the gentleman with the moustache, conversing with one of the bridesmaids."
"Ellen Morris! I see him; but he deserves more than the doubtful designation of the 'gentleman with the moustache.' Who, and what is he?"
"An artist and poet, just returned from Italy, and the hero of divers adventures, which, as you love the romantic, I may relate to you in my poor way some day. His cognomen is Lynn Holmes."
"He looks the poet; how handsome!"
"'Tame praise for such beauty,'" quoted Charley, with mock gravity.
It was, when applied to the face and form before them. He was not above the medium height; symmetrically proportioned, hair purplish in its blackness, the arched nostril, and short upper lip indicative of spirit end gentle birth, and the rich, warm complexion had caught its flush from Italian suns. Its rapid fluctuations, plainly visible through the transparent olive of his cheek, spoke too, of passions kindled by that burning clime. But his eyes! Ida's were darker, as she gazed into their midnight—large and dreamy and melancholy! a world of unwritten poetry; but when did poet have, or artist paint such!
"What is the conclusion of the whole matter?" asked Charley, patiently.
"That you should speak to your friend;" letting go his arm. "I shall not mind your leaving me alone."
He replaced her hand. "Content yourself. Miss Morris will not thank me, if I intrude at present. There is time enough. Pity he has chosen a starving profession."
"And why 'pity,' if in so doing he has followed the beckoningof genius! He has hearkened to, and obeyed the teachings of his higher nature. Can they mislead?"
"When we mistake their meaning. Genius steers wildly astray if the compass-box of judgment is wanting. My remark was a general one"—seeing her grave look. "Holmes is one of the gifted of the earth; and when I lamented his choice of a profession, I did not censure him, but the public. He ought to have a nabob's fortune to perfect his schemes; and he will not make a living. Men squander thousands for the intellectual gratification of a horse-race; an exhibition in which, I allow, the brute is generally the nobler animal;—and knowingly brand him 'a verdant 'un,' who expends a quarter of that sum in works of art. Will you dance? I hear a violin."
"I think not. It is too warm."
"To say nothing of the crowd. In dancing, as in most things, I prefer standing upon my own footing—not upon other people's toes."
Nevertheless, there were those present who could not withstand the allurement of a "hop," under any circumstances; and by snug packing on the part of the soberly-inclined, while numbers sought the freer air of the passages and piazzas, room was made for a set. Ellen Morris joined it, and Mr. Holmes had time to look about him. His start of delight as he recognised Charley, and the heartiness of their greetings, showed their mutual attachment; and imagining that they would have much to say after a lengthy separation, Ida would have fallen in the rear, had not Charley forestalled her by a prompt presentation of his friend. They exchanged, indeed, one or two brief questions and replies; but these over, she was the centre of attraction. The panting, heated dancers tripped by, commiserating, if they noticed the "hum-drum" group at the window; never thinking that, demure as they appeared, there was more enjoyment in that secluded recess, than in the entire mass of revellers besides. There are harmonies in conversation, the arrangement of which is wofully disregarded. Accident had collected a rare trio. The artist talked as he would have painted; descrying beauties everywhere, and bringing them together with a masterly hand; only tolerating deformity, as it displayed them to more advantage, and shedding over all the mellow glow of his fervid imagination; startling byparadoxes, to enchant by the grace and beauty of their reconciliation. And Charley, with a cooler brain and wary eye, was ready to temper, not damp his enthusiasm;—not to dam the rushing flood, but lead it aside into a smoother channel. Ida thought of the compass-box, and charmed as she was by the eloquence of this modern Raphael, acknowledged the justice of the simile. For herself, appreciative and suggestive, she fanned the flame. Her sympathetic glance and smile, the quick catching at a thought, half unuttered; the finish and polish his crude ideas received from her lighter hand, could not but please and flatter. How grating was the interruption!—
"Mr. Dana! not dancing!"
"No, Mr. Truman, but exceedingly well entertained."
"Hav'nt a doubt of it! hav'nt a doubt! but there's a young lady—a stranger—who wants a partner for the set that is forming, and as your brother is engaged—to dance, I mean—with Miss Somebody—I forget who—I thought as an old friend, I would make so free as to call upon you, ah—ah—she being a stranger, you understand, ah—ah—"
"Certainly sir, of course, where is she?" said Charley, swallowing his chagrin, in his willingness to oblige the embarrassed host. "Charles Dana, having gone to see his partner, desires the prayers of the congregation," he said aside to his companions, before plunging into the throng.
"'O, rare Ben Jonson!'" said Mr. Holmes, as they disappeared.
"And most incomprehensible of anomalies!" responded Ida.
"The dross is upon the surface—refined gold beneath. Have you known him long?"
"But a fortnight."
"You have not mastered the alphabet yet. Bright and dancing as is that eye, I have seen it shed tears in abundance and softness, like a woman's. His tongue knows other language than that of flippant trifling."
"He is a universal favorite. I am surprised he has never married."
Mr. Holmes was silent. He even looked pained; and Ida, conscious that she had unwittingly touched a sore spot, took up the strain Mr. Truman had broken. She was in the Coliseumof Rome; when among the moving sea of faces precipitated upon the retina, yet nothing to the brain, unless, perhaps, making more vivid its conceptions of the multitude, who once lined the crumbling walls of the amphitheatre—one arrested her attention. The subject was thrilling; the speaker's description graphic and earnest;—it was unkind, and ungrateful, and disrespectful—but laugh she must, and did, when in Charley's partner she beheld Celestia Pratt! Her first emotion was extreme amusement; her next, indignant compassion for him thrust into public notice as the cavalier of a tawdry fright; for the thickest of satin robes, and a load of jewelry, that gave plausibility to the tale of Hannibal's spoils at Cannæ, betrayed, instead of cloaking vulgarity. He was playing the agreeable, however, with, his wonted sang-froid, varied, as she judged from his gestures, by gratuitous hints as to the figure and step. In trying to efface the remembrance of her rudeness from Mr. Holmes' mind, and watching the oddly matched pair, she passed the time until the set was finished. Arthur approached, and the gleam of his white teeth upset her acquired gravity.
"Caught," said he, as Mr. Holmes walked away, "just as I was. I secured a partner directly I saw her; and Mr. Truman, hearing from her that I was an acquaintance, put at me two minutes later."
"He said you were engaged—to dance."
"Here he is! Charley, I thought you declined dancing."
"So I did. I consented to please Mr. Truman."
"Had you ever seen your partner before?"
"No. I know what you are at, Art., but I cannot laugh with you. I am sorry for her."
"You shame us, Mr. Dana," said Ida, frankly. "I will make amends for my uncharitableness, by fighting my way, single-handed, to the farthest end of the room, to speak to her, if you say so."
"And I, not to be outdone, will dance with her," said Arthur, with a martyr-air.
"I absolve you," said his brother. "She is a queer fish, I own," in his light tone. "Have you spoken to Holmes?"
"Yes. He says he has partly resolved to winter in Richmond. He is a groomsman; but the party disband to-morrow;only Miss Morris attending the young couple to their home up the country. I have invited Lynn to spend some time with us, before he settles to business."
"Will he come?"
"Probably."
A succession of introductions and beaux engaged Ida until supper. She forgot her purpose of speaking with Celestia, and would not have remembered her again that evening, had she not been made aware of her proximity at table by something between a grunt and exclamation, forced through a mouthful of cake.
"Lor! if that ain't Idy Ross!"
She had a saucer of ice-cream in one hand, and a slice of fruitcake in her left; so she stuck out a red elbow in lieu of either; which unique salutation Ida pretended not to see.
"How are you, Celestia? When did you come into the neighbourhood?"
"I jest got down yesterday. You see," in a stage whisper, "I heard of this party better'n a fortnight ago, and ma and I set our hearts 'pon my coming; so I had this dress made (it cost four dollars a yard!) andhappened, you know, to pay a visit to Cousin Lucindy Martin's, jest in the nick of time, and Mrs. Truman, found out, you know, that I was there, and sent me a 'bid.' Didn't I manage it nice?"
"You appear to be having a pleasant time."
"O, splendid! I've danced every set. Thar's a heap of polite beaux—ain't there?"
"Miss Ross, what shall I have the pleasure of helping you to?" asked Mr. Euston, Ida's escort.
She named an article, and Celestia twitched her arm—"Who's that?"
"Mr. Euston," said Ida, distinctly.
"Is he your beau?"
"No."
"Then you'd as lief as not interduce me, hadn't you? He's the loveliest thing I ever saw."
Ida flushed with disgust and vexation; the insufferable conceit of the girl, her bizarre appearance, and harsh tones drew the notice of many to them; and her horror of ridicule was strong upon her.
"Miss Ida," said Charles Dana, across the table. "Will you eat a philopoena with me?" As he tossed the almond, she marked his expression, and the scene in the painting-room, Josephine's derision, and the rude mirth of her supporters, her hurricane of rage and the commanding look that said to it "Be still," all rushed over her like a whirlwind, and departed suddenly. Mr. Euston was bowing with the desired delicacy; Celestia, serenely expectant, and with the mien of one who confers a favour upon both parties, she complied with the fair lady's request. Mr. Euston was handsome and gallant; he immediately dipped into his stock of pretty sayings, and presented one of the most elegant. The recipient fluttered and prinked, and baited another hook; and Ida stole a look at Charley. Her not recognizing him before was no marvel; she could hardly persuade herself that her conviction of a minute before was not an illusion; so impervious was the Momus mask. He was frequently near, and with her, in the course of the evening: but no sign betokened a suspicion of her perplexity. He was gayer than his wont; when sheer fatigue drove the votaries of pleasure from the festive hall, his spirits were at their meridian. He had passed most of the day on horseback; had talked and danced and stood for six hours; yet he sent off carriage after carriage with a lively adieu; and seeing his own party seated in theirs, vaulted into the saddle, as for a morning gallop. He cheered the weary travellers so long as he could extort replies from the lagging tongues, and serenaded them the rest of the way with snatches of melody fantastic as his mood.
"Why have you and Charley preserved such a mysterious silence respecting our former meeting?" inquired Ida, when she and Carry were laid down to sleep.
"He charged me not to name him, if I heard the matter alluded to; and, since we have been at home, enjoined secrecy more strictly, saying the incident was better forgotten than remembered," said Carry, dozingly.
This was Thursday. On Saturday the young artist made one in their midst. In his school-days he was a welcome guest at Poplar-grove, spending a portion of his vacation with his friend Charley, and the lapse of years had not rusted the hinges ofthe hospitable doors, or those of the master's heart. He was received and cherished as of old.
Mrs. Dana looked into the girls' room before retiring. Ida was brushing her hair; Carry watching and talking to her. "Yes," said she, complacently, appealing to her sister for confirmation. "I flatter myself our party could not be more select or composed of choicer materials. Four beaux—including father—handsomest of all; and but two belles—three—pardon me, Mrs. Dana. It may be a century ere we are again so blessed; and we must go somewhere, or do something to exhibit ourselves. Ida may have Charley and father, if she will leave the Italian and his lamping eyes to me."
"And Arthur—why is he neglected the division of spoils?" asked Mrs. Dana.
"I make him over to you. Brother John commended you to his care."
"Mammy applied to me for numberless passes, to-night. There is a big meeting at Rocky Mount. The servants will attend en masse, to-morrow; why not follow their example?" said Mrs. Dana, with playful irony.
"We will!" exclaimed Carry, clapping her hands. "I'll ask father this minute."
"But, my dear sister—"
"Don't say a word, Jenny; Ida would like to go, I am sure."
"When I understand the character of the entertainment; I shall be qualified to express my wishes."
"Why," answered Carry, tying the cord of the wrapper she had cast around her. "They preach a little, and sing and shout; and in intermission, we have grand fun."
"Fun! at church!"
"That is not the word precisely; but everybody meets everybody else, and we have an hour for talking and eating. How happens it, that you are a novice? you are country-born."
"I was never at a big meeting, notwithstanding."
"An additional reason, why we should be on the spot to-morrow. I will be back directly."
In five minutes she returned, blushing and laughing.
"Would you believe it? When I knocked at father's door, Arthur opened it. I slunk back in the dark, and asked for'Marster.' 'Doctor,' said he, 'Martha wants to see you,' and sauntered off. Didn't father stare, and I laugh, when I ran in! The stupid creature! to be fooled so easily!"
"The meeting!" said Ida.
"All's well! Father was afraid we might be tired, if we stayed to both sermons; but I assured him that was impossible. I hope it will be a fine day!"
She was gratified; but the weather was not brighter than the faces gathered upon the piazza, at a shockingly unfashionable hour. It was six miles to Rocky Mount; and as Charley observed, "seats in the dress circle would be at a premium, two hours before services begun."
"'Marster' does not accompany us," said Arthur, significantly, as he handed Carry into the carriage. She was too much confused to reply; but Ida and Mrs. Dana laughed outright.
"Papa and myself, having no vagrant propensities, will go to our own church," answered the latter. "And if you have waited upon the young ladies, I will thank you to put me into the gig, Dr. Dana."
Mr. Holmes accepted a seat with the ladies; Charley and Arthur were on horseback. It is doubtful if one of the merry riders realised, for an instant, the sacredness of the day, or that they were bound to a place of worship. It did not occur, even to Dr. Carleton, that their glee, innocent and proper upon ordinary occasions, now verged upon sinful levity. He saw in it, the buoyancy of youth under the influence of agreeable company, and a cloudless day. They would be subdued by the exercises of the sanctuary; and he drove along, his large heart full of love and praise to Him who had showered these gem-sparkles into his chalice of life; the young people beguiling the length of their journey, by a running fire of badinage, puns and serio-comic discussions; embarked, to all intents and purposes, upon a party of pleasure.
"Behold Rocky Mount!" said Arthur, pointing to a rising ground, tufted by a clump of oaks.
"Where is the church?" inquired Ida. "I can distinguish people and horses, but no house."
"After we get there, I will lend you my pocket microscope," responded Charley. The brown walls of a small building, inthe centre of the grove, were visible, as the road wound around the hill; but its dimensions were as great a puzzle as its absence would have been. Carry came to her aid.
"They preach out of doors, my dear."
"Out of doors!" this was a charming novelty.
"'The groves were God's first temples,'" she repeated softly, and Lynn continued the noble lines—