St. Valentine returns—the pleasant timeOf opening verdure and of singing birdsNoted for mystic fantasies in rhyme,Where gay devices, mingled with soft words,To many a blushing ladye-love impartThe feelings of her timid lover's heart.Beneath St. Valentine's protecting shroud,Lady, I dare thy favor to beseech;I am at once too humble and too proudTo woo thee in a fluent form of speech;Methinks my trembling spirit could not brookThy cold rejoinder, or thy grave rebuke.Therefore, my deep and never-changing lovePours forth its ardor in this veiled disguise;Shouldst thou my passion scorn or disapprove,Meet me with distant look and frigid eyes;I will abide by that denial mute,As though the voice of worlds forbade my suit.But if thy heart of kindred love should tell,Let warm inspiring smiles thy thoughts express;Then shall this scroll have done its bidding well,And my freed tongue shall joyously confessHow first I strove to win thy faith to mine,In the quaint fashion of St. Valentine!
St. Valentine returns—the pleasant timeOf opening verdure and of singing birdsNoted for mystic fantasies in rhyme,Where gay devices, mingled with soft words,To many a blushing ladye-love impartThe feelings of her timid lover's heart.Beneath St. Valentine's protecting shroud,Lady, I dare thy favor to beseech;I am at once too humble and too proudTo woo thee in a fluent form of speech;Methinks my trembling spirit could not brookThy cold rejoinder, or thy grave rebuke.Therefore, my deep and never-changing lovePours forth its ardor in this veiled disguise;Shouldst thou my passion scorn or disapprove,Meet me with distant look and frigid eyes;I will abide by that denial mute,As though the voice of worlds forbade my suit.But if thy heart of kindred love should tell,Let warm inspiring smiles thy thoughts express;Then shall this scroll have done its bidding well,And my freed tongue shall joyously confessHow first I strove to win thy faith to mine,In the quaint fashion of St. Valentine!
St. Valentine returns—the pleasant timeOf opening verdure and of singing birdsNoted for mystic fantasies in rhyme,Where gay devices, mingled with soft words,To many a blushing ladye-love impartThe feelings of her timid lover's heart.
St. Valentine returns—the pleasant time
Of opening verdure and of singing birds
Noted for mystic fantasies in rhyme,
Where gay devices, mingled with soft words,
To many a blushing ladye-love impart
The feelings of her timid lover's heart.
Beneath St. Valentine's protecting shroud,Lady, I dare thy favor to beseech;I am at once too humble and too proudTo woo thee in a fluent form of speech;Methinks my trembling spirit could not brookThy cold rejoinder, or thy grave rebuke.
Beneath St. Valentine's protecting shroud,
Lady, I dare thy favor to beseech;
I am at once too humble and too proud
To woo thee in a fluent form of speech;
Methinks my trembling spirit could not brook
Thy cold rejoinder, or thy grave rebuke.
Therefore, my deep and never-changing lovePours forth its ardor in this veiled disguise;Shouldst thou my passion scorn or disapprove,Meet me with distant look and frigid eyes;I will abide by that denial mute,As though the voice of worlds forbade my suit.
Therefore, my deep and never-changing love
Pours forth its ardor in this veiled disguise;
Shouldst thou my passion scorn or disapprove,
Meet me with distant look and frigid eyes;
I will abide by that denial mute,
As though the voice of worlds forbade my suit.
But if thy heart of kindred love should tell,Let warm inspiring smiles thy thoughts express;Then shall this scroll have done its bidding well,And my freed tongue shall joyously confessHow first I strove to win thy faith to mine,In the quaint fashion of St. Valentine!
But if thy heart of kindred love should tell,
Let warm inspiring smiles thy thoughts express;
Then shall this scroll have done its bidding well,
And my freed tongue shall joyously confess
How first I strove to win thy faith to mine,
In the quaint fashion of St. Valentine!
Janet felt much as Cinderella may be supposed to have done when her fairy godmother converted her ragged attire into a splendid gala-dress. Life in a moment seemed changed to her view; all misanthropic fancies, all gloomy forebodings took flight; she was ready to exclaim, in the words of the song,
"This world is a beautiful world after all!"
Away with all feelings of jealous longing to share the advantages of other women! With whom would she now change? Had she not, misshapen and unlovely as she was, achieved the conquest of one who had long appeared, in her eyes, as the most perfect of human beings? How often had she fondly wished to possess the beautiful features and graceful form of Philippa, and yet Philippa had merely won the homage of gay, fashionable triflers, while she had received a declaration of affection from one so dear to her, that if she had been endowed with the most brilliant loveliness, and the most lavish wealth, she would have wished, like Portia, to be for his sake
"A thousand times more fair—ten thousand times more rich!"
These raptures may appear to our readers rather beyond what can be justified by the receipt of a valentine; but be it remembered that it was not in the style of a common valentine, that Heathcote was not a common character, and that poor Janet had never received even the slightest token of admiration before that eventful fourteenth of February. Martin Farquhar Tupper says, in his "Proverbial Philosophy,"
"It is a holy thirst to long for Love's requital;Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved;And many a thorn is thrust into the side of one that is forgotten."
"It is a holy thirst to long for Love's requital;Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved;And many a thorn is thrust into the side of one that is forgotten."
"It is a holy thirst to long for Love's requital;Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved;And many a thorn is thrust into the side of one that is forgotten."
"It is a holy thirst to long for Love's requital;
Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved;
And many a thorn is thrust into the side of one that is forgotten."
If such, then, be the suffering of the neglected, what must be the delight of feeling the long-borne load suddenly removed from the heart!
Janet, after enjoying her newly-found happiness in solitude for some time, sought her friend Philippa, who kindly congratulated her on her acquisition, and reminded her how often she had told her that she greatly exaggerated the neglect and unkindness of the world; but Philippa would not be persuaded into thinking that a valentine was at all equivalent to a promise of marriage, or even to a declaration of love.
"You will know better in a little while, Janet," she said kindly; "but at present I cannot prevail upon myself to damp your happiness; you are looking cheerful, and hopeful for the first time in your life."
Happy indeed was that day to Janet; and the ensuing one was no less so. Heathcote and a few other friends dined with Mr. Chetwode, and in the evening he entered the drawing-room shortly after Captain Warrington, who had seated himself between the two young ladies, and was discoursing to Philippa in a low voice on the subject of valentines in general, and doubtless one valentine in particular. Heathcote took a chair by the side of Janet: her heart throbbed violently at his approach, but Janet's eyes and complexion were not of the sort to betray sudden emotion, and no alteration was visible in her usually quiet, and somewhat dull demeanor.
"You will pardon the question I am about to ask, Miss Penson," said Heathcote, catching a few words of the conversation between Philippa and her admirer; "but for the first time in my life I have been endeavoring to perpetrate poetry, and have had the presumption to send my humble attempt to this house, taking advantage of an occasion when even the most inexperienced rhymster may anticipate merciful criticism. May I hope that my offering has not offended?"
Janet felt for a moment unable to reply, but her good sense suggested to her that none but beauties are privileged to be coquettish and tormenting; therefore she promptly replied—
"It has not offended."
"Dear Miss Penson," exclaimed Heathcote, fixing on her his dark, sparkling eyes, full of pleasure and gratitude, "how kind and amiable it is of you thus speedily to relieve my anxiety; but we shall soon be interrupted. I see that the piano has just been opened: one word more, and pardon me if it seems abrupt. I have hitherto visited occasionally at this house; will it be considered intrusive if my visits become more frequent?"
"I am sure," said Janet, again exerting herself to speak calmly and distinctly, "that your visits here will always be welcome to my guardian—to Philippa;" and after a moment's pause she added, "and to myself."
Heathcote had only time to thank her, by another of those brief, bright glances, so precious in her eyes, when she was summoned to the piano to play the accompaniment to a new ballad, delightfully warbled by Philippa, and she was gratified to observe that Heathcote followed her, and kept his post by the instrument during the greater part of the evening.
Happy was the little party of lovers during the next fortnight. Captain Warrington and Heathcote were constantly at Mr. Chetwode's house, constantly accompanying Philippa and Janet in walks, drives, and visits to morning exhibitions. No young persons ever enjoyed their own way more than the wards of Mr. Chetwode. He had a decided aversion to the idea of adame de compagniein the house; consequently, although the wife of one of his friends always chaperoned Philippa and Janet in society, their mornings were entirely at their own disposal. Mr. Chetwode spent the greater part of every day comfortably ensconced in his luxurious easy-chair at the club, wielding a paper-knife in one hand, and holding a new review, magazine, or pamphlet, in the other; and if he thought at all about his wards, he concluded them to be occupied in netting purses, watering geraniums, petting canaries, or reading "The Queens of England."
At the end of the fortnight, the member of the party whom my readers will conclude to be the happiest began to feel somewhat anxious, nervous, and discontented. Poor Janet, although the most humble-minded of living creatures, felt greatly mortified that her intimacy with Heathcote did not seem in the slightest manner to progress; he was still kind, courteous, and considerate to her, as he had ever been, but nothing more. She had given him every encouragement that he could expect, but he did not fulfil the promises of his poetry; he never uttered a word that could even be construed into "talking near" the subject of love. Janet mentioned this apparent inconsistency to Philippa.
"Did I not warn you, dear Janet," said her friend, laughingly, "that you were affixing too much importance to a trifle? You should not expect an admirer to fulfil all the promises of a valentine; you might as reasonably expect a member of Parliament to fulfil the promises that he had made during his canvass."
Janet, however, would not allow her faith in valentines to be weakened; she put her own construction on the coolness of Heathcote, and a very painful construction it was. She thought that although for a time his approbation of her mind and manners had overcome his distaste to her personal appearance, the latter feeling was gaining ground upon him, and that he was unable to love her, and ashamed to introduce her to the world as the object of his choice. "I will give him back his faith," thought poor Janet, little surmising how she would be wondered at in society for talking of giving back the faith of a valentine. Before Janet could give Heathcote back his faith, he was summoned into Shropshire, to see a married sister who was believed to be dying; and Janet, instead of pondering over the uncertainty of her own love-affair, had a different subject for her attention, in watching the progress of a far more fortunate wooing. Captain Warrington, by Philippa's permission, had spoken to Mr. Chetwode touching his affection for his beautiful ward; and Mr. Chetwode, after a slight show of reluctance, and an ineffectual attempt to induce the young people to consent to a twelvemonth's engagement, had suffered himself to be persuaded into a promise that he would give the bride away whenever she chose to call upon him to do so.
Mr. Chetwode was a very reasonable guardian; he did not insist on sacrificing his ward to a citizen whose money-bags outweighed his own; or to a patrician, whose "face, like his family, was wonderfully old."
All went on smoothly and satisfactorily; the lawyers were busy with the settlements, and Philippa busy with the choice of her wedding-dresses. But Janet was not without a little gleam of comfort on her own account.
Heathcote had written to Mr. Chetwode. "My sister," he wrote, "I am most thankful to say, is almost convalescent, and in a little while I shall venture to tell her of an important step in life that I contemplate taking. I shall then fly back on the wings of impatience to London, and need scarcely say that my first visit will be to your house."
Mr. Chetwode read aloud Heathcote's letter at the breakfast-table, but made no comment on the sentence in question. Janet placed her own construction on it; she thought that Heathcote, unlike men in general, was a much more ardent lover when absent than when present, because he did justice to the qualities of her mind, but disliked her personal appearance. Moore says of the heroine of one of his sweet melodies—
"She looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two."
"She looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two."
"She looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two."
"She looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two."
But Janet "looked in the glass" not with any pleasurable sensations; she came to the conclusion that she grew plainer every day, and she anticipated Heathcote's return with as much fear as hope. One morning Janet was sitting alone in the drawing-room, and felt remarkably nervous and depressed. "Are there such things as presentiments of evil?" she thought; but her previous anticipations were changed into joyous realities when Heathcote was announced. She started up to greet him, but appearing not to notice her outstretched hand, he threw himself into a chair: she thought him very much out of spirits; an indifferent person would have thought him very much out of temper.
"Your sister, I trust, is not worse," said Janet, timidly.
"She is almost well again," he replied impatiently; "but, had I been aware of what has just been told me, I do not think I should have troubled myself to visit London."
"What has been told you?" gasped the agitated Janet; "you alarm me by your vehemence."
"I have been told," he said, directing a searching glance at her, "that I have a favored rival, who not only has taken advantage of my absence from London to press his suit, but has succeeded in obtaining a propitious answer to it."
How did Janet's heart beat with rapture! "Heathcote's love for her could not now be doubted; he had love enough to be jealous; his anxious misgivings should immediately be removed; he should be told that her love was for him alone."
"You have been deceived, indeed you have been deceived," she exclaimed; "no rival is in the case; you cannot love with greater sincerity and truth than you are loved in return."
"Dear Miss Penson," cried Heathcote, taking her hand, "how can I thank you sufficiently for having so promptly relieved my mind from its groundless suspicions? My sister is prepared to welcome and to value the object of my choice. I begin to fancy myself almost too happy; but I do not see Philippa, and am quite impatient for an interview."
Again was Janet perplexed by the conduct of her lover. Why should he speak of her friend as "Philippa," while he addressed herself as "Miss Penson?" Why should he seem anxious for the entrance of Philippa, while enjoying what ought to be the perfection of happiness to a lover—atête-à-têtewith his beloved one?
Even the most humble-minded of women can feel and resent a palpable slight; and it was with some little dignity that Janet replied, "Miss Roxby is not at home at present; Captain Warrington has accompanied her to the jeweller's; the wedding is fixed for this day fortnight, and she is of course so much engaged that I cannot expect to enjoy a great deal of her society."
Heathcote seemed quite transfixed by this simple speech. "Philippa's wedding-day fixed!" he exclaimed angrily; "then you have been cruelly trifling with my feelings, Miss Penson. Why did you tell me that I had no rival? Why did you cheat me into a few minutes of happiness only to give me deeper and more poignant misery?"
"I do not understand you," said Janet. "I feel bewildered and confused; what power can Philippa's engagement have to affect your tranquillity? You asked me if I had encouraged a rival in your absence, and I candidly told you that my heart was all your own."
"You!" exclaimed Heathcote, fixing on her a look of astonished contempt, as if he thought her a fitting inmate for a lunatic asylum. "If you are jesting, Miss Penson, you have chosen a very inappropriate time for it; if you are in earnest, I scarcely know whether to regard with the more pity or anger the absurd vanity which can have led you to construe common civilities into individual attachment."
"Your attentions exceeded common civilities," faltered the unhappy Janet, as she mentally repeated some of the soft passages of the valentine.
"In your opinion, perhaps they might," said Heathcote, with an expression of countenance somewhat closely bordering on a sneer; "your personal drawbacks have doubtless been the cause of obtaining for you the frequent neglect of the coarse and unfeeling. I certainly, however, could never have deemed it possible that you could have supposed yourself likely to inspire passion in my heart, or in that of any other man, especially by the side of the brilliant and fascinating Philippa Roxby. I have serious trouble enough in losing her, without this ridiculous and provoking misunderstanding. I advise you never to expose yourself to sarcasm by making public to the world your unreasonable expectations; and, for my part, I am willing to promise to be equally silent on the subject: let us both endeavor to forget the untoward conversation of this morning."
Heathcote's injunctions of secrecy and promise to be secret were rendered unavailing, for Mr. Chetwode, who had entered unperceived, had been the astonished auditor of his last speech. Heathcote, with the instinctive dislike that all selfish men feel to the idea of "a scene," uttered a few hasty words of apology to Mr. Chetwode, and made a speedy escape, while the astonished guardian took a seat near Janet in silence: he felt hurt and annoyed; no one likesto meet with vexations that they have not anticipated, and certainly Mr. Chetwode had never dreamed that his poor little ward, Janet, would give him any trouble about her love affairs.
"My dear Janet," he said at length, "I gather from the few words that I heard on entering the room, that you have construed some slight civilities, shown you by Mr. Heathcote, into proofs of a serious attachment. I am sorry and also surprised that you should have fallen under such a misapprehension; for it was quite evident to me, and to many others, that Mr. Heathcote was an admirer of Philippa."
Janet removed her hands from her face, and steadily met the glance of her guardian. "I assure you," she said, "that I have received more than slight attentions from Mr. Heathcote; Philippa is aware of it, and there has never been any feeling of rivalry between us; he declared his affection for me some weeks ago."
Mr. Chetwode could not avoid giving rather a discourteous start of amazement; but quickly remembering the proverb, that "there is no accounting for tastes," he said, in a kinder tone of voice, "And how did he make this avowal to you, my dear?"
"By letter," replied Janet.
Mr. Chetwode began to feel exceedingly indignant with Heathcote. To write a declaration of love to a young lady, and then, without assigning any reason for his conduct, to break faith with her, was, he justly thought, highly blamable under any circumstances, and peculiarly mysterious under those of poor Janet, since a lover who could once forget her personal disadvantages must be very much in love indeed, and could not have the shadow of an excuse for changing his mind afterwards, as the qualities of her mind and temper were such as to improve upon acquaintance. "Have you any objection, Janet," he said, "to show me this letter?"
"It is not a letter," faltered Janet, "it is a copy of verses."
Mr. Chetwode hastily rose from his chair, and walked up and down the room as an escape-valve for his irritation. He could not bring himself to say a harsh word to the suffering girl before him, but he felt thoroughly provoked with her. Mr. Chetwode was an essentially prosaic, matter-of-fact man, and had once seriously offended a young poet of his acquaintance by averring that he considered poetry "as a cramp way of people saying what they wanted to say!" He controlled, however, his inclination to be very bitter and caustic on the occasion, and merely said, "Your inexperience, my poor Janet, has wofully misled you; young men present copies of verses as they do boxes ofbon-bonsto several of their lady friends in succession, and mean no more by the one trifle than the other; endeavor, my dear, to forget the past, and resolve to be more wise in future."
Thus saying, Mr. Chetwode left the room, went to his club, and after remaining there an hour, took a few turns in St. James's-park, where he was somewhat annoyed to encounter Heathcote. He had, however, no opportunity of escaping him; for Heathcote, who felt a little ashamed of his recent behavior, joined him, and made some inquiries respecting Philippa, lamenting his own ill-fortune in not having been able to make himself acceptable to her.
"Philippa has chosen for herself," replied Mr. Chetwode, somewhat coldly, "and I see no reason to object to her choice. I am sorry, Mr. Heathcote, that you should have considered yourself obliged to make love to both my wards. I do not attach any importance to such a trifle as a copy of verses; but poor Janet, who has, as you may easily conclude, been unused to the slightest attention, actually considered that you were making an offer of your heart in rhyme, and has sadly felt the disappointment of her hopes."
"Write verses to Miss Penson!" repeated Heathcote, in a half-derisive, half-astonished tone; "I never did such a thing, never dreamed of doing it; whoever told you so, my dear sir, has most grossly deceived you."
"I heard it," replied Mr. Chetwode angrily, "from the lips of one whose truth has never been doubted—from poor Janet herself."
"I can only repeat my asseveration," said Heathcote, "and am ready to do it in the presence of Miss Penson, of whose truthfulness I must beg to entertain a less favorable opinion than you seem to do; perhaps, however, some one has been sporting with her vanity, by writing verses to her in my name, in which case she is to be pitied."
"Perhaps so," said Mr. Chetwode, thoughtfully. And he parted from Heathcote, and pursued his way home.
Janet was in her own chamber, but he sent to desire her presence.
"I am very much inclined, my poor girl," he said kindly, "from some hints which have been given to me, to surmise that the verses to which you allude were not sent to you by Heathcote, but by some one who successfully imitated his hand."
"You are wrong, dear sir," replied Janet; "not only were the verses unquestionably in the hand-writing of Heathcote, but he alludedto them the next day in conversation with me, and expressed his hope that they had not given offence."
"And yet, Janet," said her guardian, fixing his eyes sternly on her, "it is from Heathcote himself that I have just heard the suggestion that his hand-writing has been counterfeited; he most strongly and utterly denies that he has ever written verses to you."
"I am concerned," said Janet, "that Heathcote should show himself not only deficient in honor and kindness, but in common truth and honesty. You, however, my dear sir, who have so long known me, will not, I am sure, feel a moment's hesitation in believing my statement in preference to his."
Mr. Chetwode did not speak, but he regarded Janet with a look by no means indicative of the perfect trust which she had anticipated. She burst into tears.
At this moment Philippa entered, radiant with beauty, health, and happiness, having just parted from her lover at the door. She stood astonished at the scene that met her eyes.
"Philippa," said Mr. Chetwode, gravely, "you will be sorry to hear that you must either think very ill of a favorite friend, or of a pleasant acquaintance. A circumstance has arisen, trifling in itself, but involving the veracity either of Janet or of Heathcote; she avers that a few weeks ago he wrote verses to her, containing a declaration of love; he denies that he did any such thing."
Philippa turned very pale, and sat down in silence.
"On what occasion were these verses written?" said Mr. Chetwode, turning to Janet with a predetermined air of disbelief in the reality of them.
"They were entitled," said Janet, "'A valentine, to be read when the others are forgotten.'"
"A valentine!" repeated Mr. Chetwode, indignantly; "and is it possible that the verses of which you speak as containing an avowal of affection, almost amounting to a promise of marriage, were nothing but a valentine? and have I been induced, by your misrepresentations, to reprove and lecture a young man for adding one to the many chartered blockheads who commit fooleries to paper on Valentine's Day? I no longer doubt your truth, Janet; but I have serious doubts of your sanity. You, Philippa, also," he added, turning to her, "have been much to blame; you know more of the world than Janet; why did you let her make herself so ridiculous as she has been pleased to do?"
"Do not censure Philippa," said Janet; "my sorrows have been all of my own making: she repeatedly told me that I affixed far too much consequence to so trifling a mark of attention as a valentine."
"Dearest Janet, forgive me," cried Philippa, in much agitation; "I will make now, in the presence of our guardian, a confession that I ought to have made before. I have been acting as your enemy, when my only wish was to be your friend. You remember our conversation on Valentine's Day. When I repaired to my dressing-room after luncheon, I perceived that one of my valentines was unopened; I broke the seal, the writing within was in the hand of Heathcote; and without even reading it, I inclosed it in a blank envelop, directed it to you, and put it into the post that morning. I wished to give you a few minutes' pleasure, and to prove to you that you were not quite forgotten. I knew Heathcote to be a favorite with you, and imagined that you would be gratified by his attention. When you brought the verses, and read them to me, I was surprised at their warmth and earnestness, and repented of what I had done, and I have repented more and more ever since."
"And those verses were never intended for me!" exclaimed the weeping Janet. "Heathcote never felt a moment's preference for me! Oh, Philippa! I know you intended kindness to me, but this was cruel kindness."
And poor Janet now indeed felt the cope-stone placed on her humiliation; she would have much rather believed Heathcote to be fickle and inconstant, than have discovered that he had never loved her at all. She pressed Philippa's hand, however, in token of forgiveness, and left the room; and the bride elect, for the first time in her life, was called upon to listen to a lecture from her guardian, beginning with some strictures on her own officious folly, continuing with a few allusions to the vanity and blindness of her friend Janet, and concluding with an earnestly expressed hope that none of his friends would ever place a young lady under his guardianship again!
Philippa's wedding-day arrived. Janet was present at it, not as a bridesmaid, for she had refused to spoil the group of beautiful girls who appeared in that character by joining them—she was plainly and quietly dressed; none among the brilliant assemblage prayed more fervently than she did for the happiness of Philippa; but her cheek grew paler than ever, and her tears fell fast, as she listened to the solemn ceremony, feeling that similar vows could never be plighted to herself, and that domestic happiness was asmuch beyond her reach as if she had been a being of another sphere. She left London on that day to return to the village where her mother died, and where she took up her residence with an old friend, with whom she had previously communicated by letter.
Almost a year has elapsed since that time: she is calm and composed, but her spirits have never recovered the severe shock that they have sustained; she feels that for a short time she was living in an unreal region, and her violent descent to earth has humbled and bewildered her. Had she never been led to fancy that she was an object of tenderness and affection, her good sense would in time have reconciled her to the disadvantages under which she labored; but the fitful light thrown across her path only served to make the darkness more unbearable when it was withdrawn. Mr. Chetwode and Philippa have each requested her to visit them, but she has resolutely excused herself from again joining a world for which she feels herself alike unfitted in person and in spirit.
The marriage of Philippa and Captain Warrington has, to use the words of Theodore Hook, produced as much "happiness for two" as the world can be expected to give. Philippa is as charming as ever, and in one respect her character has materially improved. Formerly, Philippa, partly from good-nature, and partly from a wish to be universally popular, was very much in the habit of saying things to her friends that were more pleasant than true; she would tell fourth-rate poetasters that everybody was in raptures with their genius; she would assure mothers that their sickly pedantic prodigies were extolled in every circle; and she would protest to faded spinsters that the gentlemen declared them to be handsomer than they were a dozen years ago. Now, however, Philippa, although still kind and courteous, is as particular in the veracity of her civil speeches as if she had studied Mrs. Opie's "Illustrations of Lying" for the last five years: and all are delighted to obtain her praise, because all feel that she is sincere in bestowing it.
One day her husband found her in tears, and anxiously inquired the reason of her sorrow.
"It will soon pass away," she said; "but I have just been thinking with grief and repentance of a very faulty action in my life, although you, to console me, are in the habit of calling it an amiable weakness. I allude to my unjustifiable imposition on poor Janet; the present day causes it to recur most forcibly to my mind—it is the anniversary ofValentine's Day!"
BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.
"I don't believe it," said my cousin Ned, who was passing his college vacation at our house, and there was a world of unwritten scepticism in the air with which he dashed down the paper over whose damp columns his eyes had been travelling for the previous half hour.
"You see, Cousin Nelly," continued Ned, getting up and pacing the long old-fashioned parlor with quick, nervous strides, "it's all sheer nonsense to talk about these doors in every human heart. It sounds very pretty and pathetic in a story, I'll admit; but so do a great many other things which reason and actual experience entirely repudiate. There are hearts—alas! that their name should be legion—where 'far away up' there is no door to be opened, and 'far away down' are no deeps to be fathomed. Now don't, Cousin Nelly, level another such rebuking glance at me from those brown eyes, for I have just thought of a case illustrative of my theory. Don't you remember Miss Stebbins, the old maid, who lived at the foot of the hill, and how I picked a rose for you one morning which had climbed over her fence into the road, and so, of course, became 'public property?' Faugh! I shall never forget the tones of the virago's voice, or the scowl on her forehead as she sallied out of the front door and shook her hand at me. A woman who could refuse a half withered flower to a little child, I wonder that roses could blossom on her soil! At the 'smiting of the rod,' no waters could flow out of such a granite heart. In the moral desert of such a character, no fertilizing stream can make its way."
I did not answer Cousin Ned's earnest, eloquent tones, for just then there was the low rap of visitors at the parlor door; but I have always thought there was a good angel in the room while he was speaking, and that it flew straight to Miss Stebbins, and looking down, down, very far down in her heart, he saw a fountain there, rank weeds grew all around it, the seal of years was on its lip, and the dust of time deep on the seal; but the angel smiled, as it floated upwardand murmured, "I shall return and remove the seal, and the waters will flow."
Stern and grim sat Miss Stebbins at her work, one summer afternoon. The golden sunshine slept and danced in its play-place in the corner, and broke into a broad laugh along the ceiling, and a single beam, bolder than the rest, crept to the hem of Miss Stebbins's gown, and looked up with a timid, loving smile in her face, such as no human being ever wore when looking there.
Poor Miss Stebbins! those stern, harsh features only daguerreotyped too faithfully the desolate, arid heart beneath them; and that heart, with its dry fountain, was a true type of her life, with the one flower of human affection which had blossomed many years before along its bleak, barren highway.
She never seemed to love anybody, unless it was her brother William, who was a favorite with everybody; but he went to sea, and had never been heard of since. Sally had always been a stray sheep among the family; but dark hours, and at lastdeath, came upon all the rest, and so the homestead fell into her hands. Such was the brief verbal history of Miss Stebbins's life, which I received from Aunt Mary, who closed it there, in rigid adherence to her favorite maxim, never to speak evil of her neighbors.
But, that summer afternoon, there came the patter of children's feet along the gravel-walk which led to Miss Stebbins's front door; and, at the same moment, the angel with golden-edged wings came down from its blue-sky home into Miss Stebbins's parlor.
She raised her head and saw them, two weary-looking little children, with golden hair and blue eyes, standing hand in hand under the little portico, and then that old termagant scowl darkened her forehead, and she asked, with a sharp, disagreeable note in her voice, like the raw breath in the north-east wind—
"Wa-all! I should like to know what you want standing there?"
"Please, ma'am," said the boy, in a timid, entreating voice, which ought to have found its way straight into any heart, "little sister and I feel very tired, for we have walked a long way. Will you let us sit down on the step and rest a little while?"
"No; I can't have children loafing round on my premises," said Miss Stebbins, with the same vinegar sharpness of tone which had characterized her preceding reply. Moreover, the sight of any of the miniature specimens of her race seemed always fated to arouse her belligerent propensities. "So just take yourselves off; and the quicker, the better 'twill be for you."
"Don't stay any longer, Willy. I am afraid," whispered the little girl, with a tremor rippling through her voice, as she pulled significantly at her brother's coat sleeve.
"Willy! Willy! That was your brother's name; don't you remember?" the angel bent down and whispered very softly in the harsh woman's ear; and all the time his hand was gliding down, down in her heart, searching for that hidden fountain. "You must have been just about that little girl's age when you and he used to go trudging down into the meadows together to find sweet flagroot. And you used to keep tight hold of his hand, just as she does. Oh, how tired you used to get! Don't you remember that old brown house, where nobody lived but starved rats and a swarm of wasps, who made their nest there in the summer-time? And you used to sit down on the old step, which the worms had eaten in so many places, and rest there. How he loved you! and how careful he was always to give you the best seat! and, then, he never spoke one cross word to you, if everybody else did. Now, if you should let those children sit down and rest, just as you and Willy did on the old brown step, you could keep a sharp eye on them, to see they didn't get into any mischief."
The angel must have said all this in a very little time, for the children had only reached the gravel-walk again, when Miss Stebbins called out to them; and, this time, that spiteful little note in her voice was not quite so prominent—
"Here, you may sit right down on that corner a little while; but, mind you, don't stir; for, if you do, you'll have to budge."
"Little sister," said the boy, in a low tone, after they were seated, "lay your head here, and try to go to sleep."
The little girl laid her head, with its shower of golden bright curls, on her brother's breast; but, the next moment, she raised it, saying—
"I can't sleep, brother, I'm so thirsty."
"Don't you remember that day you and Willy went into the woods after blackberries, and how you lost your way groping in the twilight of the forest?" again whispered the angel, with his hand feeling all the time for the fountain. "You found an old lightning-blasted tree, and you sat down on it, and he put his arm round you just so, and said, 'Try and go to sleep, little sister.' But you couldn't, you were so thirsty; for you had walked full three miles. Who knows but what those children have, too?"
There was a little pause after the angel hadsaid this, and then Miss Stebbins rose up and went into her pantry, where the shelves were all of immaculate whiteness, and she could see her face in the brightly scoured tin. She brought out a white pitcher, and, going into the garden, filled it at the spring. Returning, she poured some of the cool contents into a cup which stood on the table, and carried it to the children; and she really held it to the little girl's lips all the time she was drinking.
Farther and farther down in the heart of the woman crept the hand of the angel; nearer and nearer to the fountain it drew.
Miss Stebbins went back to her sewing, but, somehow, her fingers did not fly as nimbly as usual. The memories of bygone years were rising out of their mouldy sepulchres; but all freshly they came before her, with none of the grave's rust and dampness upon them.
"That little boy's eyes, when he thanked you for the water, looked just as Willy's used to," once more whispered the angel, bending down close to Miss Stebbins's ear. "And his hair looks like Willy's, too, as he sits there with that sunbeam brightening its gold, and his arm thrown so lovingly around his sister's waist. There! did you see how wistfully he looked up at the grapes, whose purple side are turned towards him as they hang over the portico? How Willy used to love grapes! And how sweet your bowls of bread and milk used to taste, after one of your rambles into the woods! If those children have walked as far as you did—and don't you see the little boy's coat and the little girl's faded dress are all covered with dust?—they must be very hungry, as well as tired and thirsty. Don't you remember that apple-pie you baked this morning? I never saw a pie done to a finer brown in my life. How sweet it would taste to those little tired things, if they could only eat a piece here in the parlor, where the flies and the sun wouldn't keep tormenting them all the time!"
A moment after, Miss Stebbins had stolen with noiseless step to her pantry, and, cutting out two generous slices from her apple-pie, she placed them in saucers, returned to the front door, and said to the children—
"You may come in here, and sit down on the stools by the fire-place and eat some pie; but you must mind and not drop any crumbs on the floor."
It was very strange, but that old harsh tone had almost left her voice. The large, tempting slices were placed in the little hands eagerly lifted up to receive them; and, at that moment, out from the lip of the fountain, out from the dust which lay heavy upon its seal, there came a single drop, and it fell down upon Miss Stebbins's heart. It was the first which had fallen there for years. Ah, the angel had found the fountain then!
The softened woman went back to her seat, and the angel did not bend down and whisper in her ear again; but all the time his hand was busy, very busy at its work.
"Where is your home, children?" inquired Miss Stebbins, after she had watched for a while, with a new, pleasant enjoyment, the children, as they dispatched with hungry avidity their pie.
"Mary and I haven't any home now. We had one once before papa died, a great way over the sea," answered the boy.
"And where are you going now? and what brought you and your little sister over the sea?" still farther queried the now interested woman.
"Why, you see, ma'am, just before papa died, he called old Tony to him—now, Tony was black, and always lived with us—'Tony,' said he, 'I am going to die, and you know I have lost everything, and the children will be all alone in the world. But, Tony, I had a sister once that I loved, and she loved me; and, though I haven't seen her for a great many years, still I know she loves me, if she's living, just as well as she did when she and I used to go hand in hand through the apple-orchard to school; and, Tony, when I'm dead and buried, I want you to sell the furniture, and take the money it brings you and carry the children back to New England. You'll find her name and the place she used to live in a paper—which anybody'll read for you—in the drawer there. And, Tony, when you find her, just take Willy and Mary to her, and tell her I was their father, and that I sent them to her on my death-bed, and asked her to be a mother to them for my sake. It'll be enough, Tony, to tell her that.' And Tony cried real loud, and he said, 'Massa, if I forget one word of what you've said, may God forget me.'
"Well, papa died, and, after he was buried, Tony brought little sister and me over the waters. But, before we got here, Tony was taken sick with the fever, and he died a little while after the ship reached the land and they had carried him on shore. But, just before he died, he called me to him and put a piece of paper in my hand. 'Don't lose it, Willy,' he said, 'for poor Tony's going, and you'll have to find the way to your aunt's all alone. The money's all spent, too, and they say it's a good hundred miles to the place where she lived. But keep up a good heart, and ask the folks the way, andfor something to eat when you're hungry; and don't walk too many miles a day, 'cause little sister ain't strong. Perhaps somebody'll help you on with a ride, or let you sleep in their house nights. Now don't forget, Willy; and shake hands the last time with poor Tony.'
"After that, we stayed at the inn till the next day, when they buried Tony; and, when they asked us what we were going to do, we told them we were going to our aunt's, for papa had sent us to her, and then they let us go. When we asked folks the way they told us, though they always stared, and sometimes shook their heads. We got two rides, and always a good place to sleep. They said our aunt lived round here; but, we got so tired walking, we had to stop."
"And what was your father's name?" asked Miss Stebbins, and, somehow, there was a choking in her throat, and the hand of the angel was placed on the fountain as she spoke.
"William Stebbins; and our aunt's name was Sally Stebbins. Please, ma'am, do you know her?"
Off, at that moment, came the seal, and out leaped a fresh, blessed tide of human affection, and fell down upon the barren heart-soil that grew fertile in a moment.
"William! my brother William!" cried Miss Stebbins, as she sprang towards the children with outstretched arms and tears raining fast down her cheeks. "Oh, for your sake, I will be a mother to them!"
A year had passed away; college vacation had come again, and once more Cousin Ned was at our house. In the summer gloaming we went to walk, and our way lay past Miss Stebbins's cottage. As we drew near the wicket, the sound of merry child-laughter rippled gleefully to our ears, and a moment after, from behind that very rose-tree so disagreeably associated with its owner in Cousin Ned's mind, bounded two golden-haired children.
"Come, Willy! Mary! you have made wreaths of my roses until they are wellnigh gone. You must gather violets after this."
"Mirabile dictu!" ejaculated Cousin Ned. "Isthatthe woman who gave me such a blessing a long time ago for plucking a half withered rose from that very tree?"
"The very same, Cousin Ned," I answered; and then I told him of the change which had come over the harsh woman, of her love, her gentleness, and patience for the orphan children of her brother; and that, after all, there was a fountain very far down in her heart, as there surely was in everybody's, if we could only find it.
"Well, Cousin Nelly," said Ned, "I'll agree to become a convert to your theory without further demurring, if you'll promise to tell me where to find a hidden fountain that lies very far down in a dear little somebody's heart, and whose precious waters are gushing only for me."
There was a glance, half arch, half loving, from those dark, handsome eyes, which made me think Cousin Ned knew he would not have to go very far to find it.
BY HARLAND COULTAS.
The Process of Fertilization.—All organic beings, animals, and plants reproduce themselves by means of fecundated germs, which we call embryos. The embryos of plants form in a particular organ called an ovule, and the matter which fecundates them is termed pollen.
The character of an embryo in organic beings is that it contains, in a rudimentary state, all the organs of which the organic being is composed in its entire developments. Thus, in the animal, the uterine fœtus is composed of the head, the trunk, and the extremities; in other words, of all the parts of which the adult animal is composed. In like manner, the embryos of plants, like those of animals, contain all the parts which compose the fabric of the fully developed plant in a rudimentary condition. The embryo of a bean, for example, consists of a plumule or young stem, a pair of leaves or cotyledons, and a radicle or young root, or the entire plant in a rudimentary state; and, by the act of germination, analogous in its effects to the commencement of life in the extra-uterine fœtus, all the parts of the plant develop themselves into their wonted figure and hues, in accordance with thosepeculiarorganic laws to which the plant is subjected. But germination does not increase the number of these parts,which existed before its influence was exercised on them.
Now, plants have sexes, or sexual organs, as well as animals. The female sexual organs in plants are named carpels. The pistil, already described, consisting of stigma, style, and germen, is only a fully developed carpel. The male sexual organs are named stamens, the anthers of which contain the pollen or fecundating matter. The stamens and carpels are therefore the essential organs of reproduction in plants, since it is by the mutual action of these bodies that the embryo of the future plant is formed, and the same form of life continued in the earth. Fig. 1 is a representation of a petal, stamen, and the pistil of Berberis vulgaris, or the common barberry. In this plant, the anthers open by two valves to let out the pollen. These valves are seen in the figure, and the pistil is exhibited in section, to show the ovules in the cavity of the germen.