‘A creaturefartoo bright and good,For human nature’s daily food,’
‘A creaturefartoo bright and good,For human nature’s daily food,’
‘A creaturefartoo bright and good,For human nature’s daily food,’
‘A creaturefartoo bright and good,For human nature’s daily food,’
‘A creaturefartoo bright and good,
For human nature’s daily food,’
but, thank Folly! you remind me that you are nothing but a woman after all!”
The next morning Ada ordered the carriage early; for besides having various purchases to make, she wished to deliver to Catharine Ashton, in person, a dressing-case, which she had ordered as a wedding-present for her friend.
Ada was ushered into Catharine’s own room, where on a centre-table lay scattered the countless pretty offerings, which, at such a period, never fail a bride, (I mean a bride rich enough to buy them for herself,) for it is a remarkable fact in the physiology of present making, that gifts are carefullydisproportioned to the need of the donees; to the rich, much, to the poor, little is invariably given. Miss Ashton was wealthy, and, therefore, her friends had spent a great deal of money in her honor; and many a rich bauble calling itself “Friendship’s offering,” had it been labeled “Gift of ostentation,” would have worn the livery of the motive that sent it.
Over the glittering heap that dazzled Ada’s eyes, as she entered the room, was flung the scarf of delicate Brussels, no longer the veil but the ornament of brides; and Kate herself was standing before a Cheval-glass, adjusting the folds of a bright Cashmere, which fell, soft as silk, around her slight figure.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Ada, herself an exquisite judge of dress: “and how becoming.”
“Which is more to the purpose,” replied Catharine, laughing; and she threw her shawl upon the bed, thereby disturbing the flounces of six silk dresses, which flew up like so many peacocks’ tails. The next moment she was snapping asunder the cords that bound up Ada’s package, and her busy fingers had soon torn off the papers that enveloped it.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” cried she, delighted, “the very, theonlything I wanted. Oh,” cried she, opening it, “this is really prettier than Mrs. Darrington’s gift to you in days of yore, Ada. Do you remember your exultation, and my envy on that memorable evening? And the ring—poor James’ emerald! Suppose he were to return withanotherring, do you think your heart could be made to beat to the tune of ‘Auld lang syne’?”
“I should not know him if I met him,” replied Ada; but she was so busy fastening her glove that Catharine could not see whether her saucy question had made an impression. She knew that Ada disliked the least allusion to her early love, a symptom which, as Catharine was “herself and not Œdipus,” puzzled her exceedingly.
“What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” said she, carelessly, and after replacing all the boxes and flacons she had taken out of her dressing-case, she continued: “Well! I suppose I must give you up. George wouldn’t do, would he?” asked she, with a saucy smile, and then shaking her head: “No—No—I see you resent my old offer of him as successor to the unfortunate James, whose memory now lies ‘five fathom deep under the blade waters of Lethe.’ ”
Ada leaned her head upon her hand, and her fancy wandered back to the days of her childish love, and the spell of memory was so potent that her heart beat as if the black waters of Lethe had not engulfedallremembrance. Catharine looked at her in some surprise, and then snatching from the table a little Cupid ofbronze artistique, whose quiver was filled with harmless lamplighters, she placed it before Ada, saying:
“ ‘Qui que tu sois, voici ton maîtreIl est, le fut, ou le doit être.’
“ ‘Qui que tu sois, voici ton maîtreIl est, le fut, ou le doit être.’
“ ‘Qui que tu sois, voici ton maîtreIl est, le fut, ou le doit être.’
“ ‘Qui que tu sois, voici ton maîtreIl est, le fut, ou le doit être.’
“ ‘Qui que tu sois, voici ton maître
Il est, le fut, ou le doit être.’
After all, Ada, there is nothing but the difference of a tense between you and me. Iam, and youhave beenin love, and if ‘Il a bu boira,’ I think I may venture to hope that ‘Elle a aimée, aimera.’ ”
Ada shook her head. “Bad taste and false reasoning, Kate. The false reasoning I pass over, for there is often poetry, if seldom justice in comparisons between things tangible and immaterial, but for the crime of sinking love to a level with intemperance, you deserve ‘La peine forte et dure.’ ” And having enlisted Catharine in a defense of her taste and judgment, Ada took advantage of the first pause that ensued, to take her leave.
She threw herself back into her carriage, and her reveries were of auld lang syne. Her rescue—(it had been no jest!) her subsequent love for the noble boy who had risked something to save her—his departure—her childish grief—one by one, in the twilight of memory, rose the phantoms of the past; and then, as Ada’s fancy sketched its ideal of James Darrington’s present self, she wondered whether —
But just at that moment she felt the carriage violently thrown back, and heard a tumult of voices, giving token that something unusual had happened.
A child had just been rescued from under her horses’ feet.
“Is he killed?” exclaimed the shuddering girl; but no answer was vouchsafed to her terrified inquiries;for the crowd was like all other crowds, and a fine lady was of less consequence than a mangled child—for a mangled child was a spectacle!
There was much pushing—many oaths—much angry contention; for every man in the crowd was determined to see the child himself, and was fiercely engaged in forcing his way, and in abusing the curiosity of his fellows.
Ada shuddered again—but it was with disgust.
At length the dense mass before her began to thin—and the oaths to cease. The child was not mangled, and there had been nothing to see.
There was now room for her to act. She dared not alight, but she called her footman. “Quick! Quick, Grey, go bring me news of that poor child, and say that I will take it in my carriage to the nearest physician.”
The footman disappeared, and Ada counted five minutes of intense anxiety. At length he returned. The gentleman who had rescued the child, accepted her offer, for no physician resided any where near, and this was the best plan that as yet had been proposed.
“Then fetch him, Grey, and let us begone,” said his trembling mistress.
Grey pointed to an opening, where a gentleman was seen advancing with the child in his arms. He then opened the door, and Ada leaned forward to receive the little plebian, but his preserver drew back.
“Nay,” said he, respectfully, “that would be repaying benevolence with imposition. The child is heavy and unfit for such hands as yours. If you will not deem me impertinent then,” added he, slightly coloring, “I will carry him myself.”
Ada comprehended the implied request, and permission was as frankly given as it had been asked.
The stranger had foreseen every exigency. The first object was to consult a physician, and then the child would be conveyed home. Ada thought only of the speediest means of relieving its suffering; she therefore approved of every thing, and the carriage rolled away from the gaping crowd.
This was rather a perplexing position for two young people who had never met before, but strange to say, neither of them felt it. They were too much engrossed with benevolence, to remember convention.
Meanwhile, the carriage drew up before the door of the physician, and as, contrary to the custom of the faculty, he was sometimes to be found at his own house, no delay ensued. To Ada’s infinite joy, he pronounced the child sound in limb. There was nothing, he said, to prevent its immediate removal; and if the lady and gentleman would allow him, he would accompany, instead of following them; it would be safer than to wait for his own phæton.
“Lady and gentleman!” These were the first words that awakened Ada to the fact of her having allowed a handsome young man, a perfect stranger, to enter her carriage. She blushed, and inwardly blessing the doctor for his proposal, she soon found herself going, she knew not whither, in the company of, she knew not whom.
Dr. B. was an eminent surgeon, and a very humane man, and to prevent any offer of remuneration for his services, he expressed his pleasure to his new acquaintances, at the opportunity they had afforded him, of being included in a deed of charity. Something more he added, which would have been all very admissible, had he rightly conjectured the relation, or rather the non-relation of the parties addressed; but as he mistook them for husband and wife, his words not only brought a glow of burning shame upon the cheek of our poor Ada, thoughtless, through excess of thoughtfulness for another, but they somewhat heightened the complexion of her guest also.
With a delicacy and tact, for which the young girl thanked him from her heart, he explained the accident which had brought them together; and while the disturbed Ada was beginning to accuse herself of culpable imprudence, the doctor scarcely knew whether most to admire her for her disinterestedness or to pity her for confusion.
Ada was sensibly relieved, when, having restored the child to its mother, and promised to call again on the morrow, she was once more alone on her way home.
The stranger watched her till she was out of sight, and then went home with the doctor.
As they walked together, the doctor thought that if so remarkable a meeting between two such interesting persons came to nothing, it would be a great waste of romance in real life.
The next day Ada begged her mother to accompany her on her visit to little Johnny Wilson; she had some scruples about going alone. But when the hour came, Mrs. Somers was indisposed, and Ada was forced to go unaccompanied. The first person she saw on entering Mrs. Wilson’s little parlor, was the stranger; and not even the sight of his arm in a sling had power to soften Ada’s displeasure at his appearance. Good Mrs. Wilson, however, was in high spirits; Johnny was better; the gentleman had brought him some toys, and she attributed entirely to the said Johnny’s attractions, the two hours which her guest had been spending at her front window. When in the height of her volubility, Mrs. Wilson deposed that he had spent the whole morning with Johnny, the culprit had once more recourse to the window, to hide his embarrassment; and while he was wondering what he should do next, Ada, after a few brief inquiries as to Johnny’s wants, bowed coldly, and took her leave in serious displeasure; for she felt that this interview had all the appearance of a rendezvous.
Just as she opened the street door, she was met by Doctor B., the sight of whom by no means contributed to diminish her vexation or confusion. The doctor saw that she seemed uneasy, and a glance at the person looking out of the parlor window accounted to him for it; he therefore checked the greetings he was about to offer, and gracefully bidding Ada good morning, he entered the house.
Doctor B. comprehended the whole matter, without help or hint—for he was in the habit of studying the mental as well as the bodily ailments of mankind.
“Foolish fellow!” said the kind-hearted physician, to himself. “No wonder that pretty creature isoffended. I must really tell him that there is no tact in his proceedings. What a magnificent creature she is!” continued he, musing, “with her wide brow and intellectual eye. I must find out her name, and give my friend here a hint not to dog her steps, as if she were a vain and silly miss of every-day mould.”
Meanwhile the subject of his musings walked home in no serene state of mind. If she had been disturbed yesterday, to-day she was cruelly mortified. But it was all owing to her own misconduct. How could she so far forget herself as to share her carriage with an entire stranger! Why had she not resigned it to him, and walked home? But what indiscretion—what utter absence of delicacy to go with him! She could never forgive herself. And poor Ada’s cheek burned with the stinging shame of delicacy compromised. And then she colored, and asked herself “what right she had to suppose herself an object in a visit so natural? Perhaps he had not thought of her at all;” and she began to breathe more freely, when she suddenly remembered his conscious look, when Mrs. Wilson had expatiated upon his kindness in sitting with them so long. Back, then, came thronging confusion and shame; so that by the time Ada reached home, she had tortured herself into a headache, and was obliged to send an apology to Catharine, with whom she had promised to spend that evening.
Early the next morning came Catharine on a visit of inquiry. Mr. Stanley (whom she had invited expressly to meet Ada) had been so stupid and so unlike himself that she had been several times on the point of going to sleep; and she had half forgiven him, in the belief that he was stupid with disappointment, when he suddenly interrupted a long pause by relating an adventure which had befallen him the day before. There was a beautiful girl in question, and she it was, and not Ada, who had made Mr. Stanley “duller than the fat weed of Lethe.”
Ada then heardhisversion of their meeting, and Catharine, in the fullness of her indignation, grew so red and angry as she dwelt on the marks of his visible infatuation, that Ada laughed outright. Still she was sufficiently ashamed of the whole affair to have kept it quietly to herself, had the hero thereof been any one but Mr. Stanley. This she now saw was not possible, for in four days the wedding was to take place, and for her own sake the confession must not be withheld.
It was made as briefly as possible, and Catharine was so overjoyed that she scarcely marked the cold and discouraging tone of Ada’s recital. “Just like him,” exclaimed she, “to sprain his wrist in saving the life of a little ragged democrat—it is not the first time he has risked himself for others.” And she was now as loud in praise as she had just been in condemnation.
Ada never doubted for a moment, that Catharine, whose impetuous nature converted life into a series of telegraphic dispatches, would fly off and relate what she had just heard to Charles, Mr. Stanley, and the whole world. She implored her therefore to confine her disclosures to the two former, and to be as sparing as possible of raptures. Catharine promised every thing, for she had just been seized with the humorous idea of saying nothing at all about it, and so of witnessing the effect of Ada’s unexpected appearance upon Mr. Stanley.
Four days are not long in passing, even to lovers—and the wedding-evening came at last. Catharine was as free in step, as joyous in heart as ever. She laughed and talked of her happiness, as she twined her fingers around her glossy curls; and she spoke gayly of her love for Charles, as she gathered up the folds of her veil, and requested Ada to fasten in her hair, so as to make it becoming, as well as emblematic.
Catharine was more than ever an enigma to her friend, for Ada could not comprehend that happiness which wears the form of so much gayety. To the one, happiness was a deep and subdued feeling; to the other she came
“With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
“With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
“With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
“With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
“With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
But the two girls were as dissimilar—as friends usually are.
At length, with heightened color, and eyes dewy with emotion, (for she dearly loved Catharine,) Ada followed the bride; and perhaps she had never looked so lovely as she did to the astonished eyes of Mr. Stanley, when, scarcely believing the evidence of his senses, he recognized the face which for one whole week had visited him in dreams.
His surprise was not to be mistaken, and Ada, overwhelmed with confusion, turned upon Catharine a glance so reproachful, that the glaring impropriety of what she had done instantly flashed upon her. She remembered that Stanley knew her too well, not to be assured that she had poured the history of his adventure into Ada’s ears; and now it seemed as if both had been conspiring to enjoy his surprise—as if poor Ada had been accessary to a joke—a thing for which she had the greatest aversion. Catharine was so displeased with her heedless conduct, that she was unable to detest herself sufficiently; and not possessing Ada’s habitual self-control, her penitence and apologies only made the matter ten times worse.
Ada’s humiliation is not to be described. The mistake of Dr. B.—the visit to Johnny Wilson were bad enough—but this was a positive indelicacy, a thing for which Mr. Stanley must justly despise her. But she was mistaken. Mr. Stanley knew Catharine well enough to recognize her as sole author of the plot, and his behaviour on the occasion testified his conviction of the same. Ada felt his kindness, but her wounds bled none the less; and with bitter reluctance she placed her arm within his, and descended to the parlor.
What a dangerous thing it is to interfere with the inclinations of others. If there is anything in the world calculated to disgust two people with one another, it is the discovery that their friends are laboring “to make a match between them.”
Ada had just made this discovery.
The ceremony over, etiquette required that for a time at least she should endure the attentions of her luckless admirer. He really was in a position of some difficulty, but he acquitted himself therein with such perfect tact and good-breeding, that Ada felt bound to hate him less. But as soon as an excuse presented itself, she crossedthe room, to join another group, and left Mr. Stanley to the civilities of a young lady, who seemed disposed to pay him every attention in her power. He, poor fellow, almost sighed, as he followed her graceful figure; but he resolved not to distress her with pursuit; so he addressed himself to the young lady beside him—talked a variety of elegant nonsense to half the company, and finally took his seat by Catharine.
“What have you done?” said he, reproachfully.
“Enough to mar the pleasure of my bridal day,” replied the penitent bride; “but how could I dream—it was all a jest springing from my unbounded delight, when I found that, like Romeo, you had fallen in love with her at first sight.”
Mr. Stanley shook his head and smiled.
“It might as well have been,” answered she, and then lowering her voice, she added, “How strange! how very strange! and how delightful!”
“Delightful for you, perhaps,” said her companion, in a serious tone; “but first from my own, and now fromyourblunder, Catharine, I fear that the day on which I first met her, will be an inauspicious one for me.” He then related to Catharine all that Ada had omitted—blamed himself for the indiscretion of his visit to Mrs. Wilson; “and now, my dear Catharine,” said he, “have you and I together not done enough to make her hate me?”
“Hate you! Heaven forbid! for then I shall have held my tongue to no purpose, and shall have wasted a great deal of good feeling in your service.”
“Your feelings are just what they ought to be, ardent and affectionate, but your judgment, I fear,” added he, with a smile, “is no better—than my own.”
“Then whatshallI do?” asked Catharine, despairingly.
“Do, my dear Catharine? Do—nothing.”
“Well, this is sentence of death, indeed, upon my talents for meddling; but never mind, I am so much more anxious to serve you than to distinguish myself, that I will—try.”
She kept her promise; and for a month at least, Ada was suffered to like or dislike Mr. Stanley in peace. During this time, many parties were given to the popular bride; and though Ada was not fond of balls, still, as bridemaid, she was forced not only to attend them, but to accept as much attention as the enemy chose to offer. He was careful that this attention should be no more than etiquette required of him; and it was so unobtrusive, that at length Ada felt less and less embarrassed in his presence, and ceased to think of his acquaintance as the greatest misfortune of her life.
——
“Noch seh’ ich sieDie herrlichste von allen, stand sie da.”
“Noch seh’ ich sieDie herrlichste von allen, stand sie da.”
“Noch seh’ ich sie
Die herrlichste von allen, stand sie da.”
At length, to Ada’s infinite relief, came the last of Catharine’s bridal parties. This was one of the largest and gayest of the season; and the throng was so great that the two friends were separated soon after entering the room, and saw nothing of each other till the evening was more than half over.
The music had been so inviting that Catharine danced on until, thoroughly exhausted, she made her way to another room, and sunk into the depths of a Louis Quatorze, which, despised by the dancers, had been tending its cushioned-arms for hours in vain. When she was sufficiently rested, she began to look around her, and perceived that at last accident had brought her so near to Ada, that the light folds of her crape dress almost touched Catharine as the air from the open windows swayed it to and fro.
Ada was talking with Mr. Stanley, and listening to his animated and brilliant conversation with an interest which spoke in her smiling lips and sparkling eyes. As for the gentleman, he was perfectly happy; he would have asked nothing better than to look into those eyes for ever; and, elated with the conviction that he had conquered her growing aversion for him, he was now cherishing the hope that time might win for him her regard. He already judged too correctly of her character, to fancy it subject to sudden changes or hasty attachments; but he thought it something to have brought her to a state of amiable indifference—to have “smoothed the raven down of darkness till it smiled.”
“If you like the sentiment, Miss Somers,” were the first words Catharine overheard, “I am sure you will be pleased with the whole book. The author of Lacon, though he has borrowed largely from La Rochefoucauld and La Bruyère, has some claims to originality. His style, moreover, is epigrammatic, and his subjects will interest one like you, whose cast of mind is metaphysical.”
“Humph!” said Catharine to herself, “you have been studying its nature,con amore, I perceive;” while Mr. Stanley, unconscious of listeners, went on.
“Will you allow me to bring it to you to-morrow, together with Picciola?”
Ada gave a gracious assent, while Catharine pursued the current of her remarks.
“Picciola! Lacon! Upon my word, he is advising a course of reading.” And the demon of mischief strongly tempted her to break her promise—but this time she resisted, or rather mischief was stifled by curiosity; for, just at that moment, Charles advanced toward Ada with a middle-aged and gentlemanly-looking man, whom he begged to present to Miss Somers as Doctor B., a gentleman who, for some time, had been anxious for the honor of her acquaintance.
“Doctor B.!” exclaimed Catharine, almost audibly. Why that is the celebrated surgeon. What interest canhehave in Ada, so particularly to desire her acquaintance? And, gracious heavens! how Ada blushes! What can there be in the appearance of a respectable-looking elderly gentleman to cause such a fluttering? And he and Stanley appear to be such excellent friends, too. Oh, I can stand this no longer. “Charles! Charles!” cried she, as Ada was led off to the dance, and Doctor B. and Stanley moved away together; “Come quickly and tell me why you took such special pains to make Ada acquainted with Doctor B. I was not aware that you knew him personally.”
“I did not until this evening,” replied Charles, “and I introduced him to Ada by Stanley’s request.”
“Why that is singular. I never knew they wereintimate before. But why, then, did he not introduce him himself?”
“He would not take the liberty,” said Charles, with a smile.
Catharine understood and returned the smile; then observed, “Stanley ought to go on the stage. He has great talents for playing ‘The Stranger.’ ”
Charles nodded his head, and then explained the origin of the intimacy between Dr. B. and Stanley, and left Catharine traveling in seven-league boots, till she ended her journey with Ada’s marriage.
Catharine had seen and heard too much that evening not to be primed for mischief; and an opportunity soon occurred which put to flight all her promises of neutrality. The dance was ended, and she had just comfortably married Ada, when she once more spied the object of her thoughts. She was alone, for her partner had gone in search of an ice for her; and her attitude was that of complete meditation. Slowly and deliberately she was tearing to pieces the prettiest flowers in her bouquet, without seeming to know what she did. Catharine had just seen Mr. Stanley leaning against themantel-piece, gazing at Ada as if his whole soul had been in his eyes; she instantly converted what she saw into cause and effect; and delighted with her own penetration, she could not resist so favorable an occasion for displaying it.
Catharine was right as to the object, mistaken as to the cause of her friend’s meditation. Ada was thinking with genuine satisfaction of the very agreeable person whom she had just escaped hating; and though, like all generous minds, she liked him the better for her former injustice, her thoughts were neither of rapture nor of love; they wore the sober hue of justice; and if she was thinking of Mr. Stanley without prejudice, she was also thinking of him without enthusiasm, and she was unconscious of his gaze until Catharine called her attention to it.
“Where’s your bouquet, Ada?” said Catharine, pointing to the carnations and geraniums that strewed the floor; and looking so intensely mischievous, that Ada, innocent though she was, felt guilty.
“Really—I—it was so heavy,” stammered she, scarcely knowing what to say.
“Indeed!” said Catharine, significantly; “then do let me ask Mr. Stanley to come and hold it for you; it is the least he can do after causing its destruction—shall I call him?”
Ada followed the direction of Catharine’s eyes, and one glance at Mr. Stanley, gazing at her with an expression of intense admiration, explained what was passing in Catharine’s mind. Ada was not pleased with such public homage; moreover she had an aversion to what is commonly called “being teazed about a gentleman;” but this was no place to remonstrate with Catharine, and she resigned herself.
“Oh, no!” said she, smiling, “he has probably some object in view. Perhaps he is practicing for a tableau vivant, designed to represent Lara, or the leaning tower of Pisa. I have no desire to interfere with so rational an amusement.”
“In other words,” replied Catharine, intent upon tormenting, “I am politely requested to mind my business, and let Mr. Stanley look at Miss Somers as long as he pleases. Well, all I have to beg is, that you will keep out of my green-house whenever you indulge him in this ‘rational amusement,’ at least till you have read Picciola, and have learned the value of a flower.”
“Picciola!” echoed Ada, looking surprised, but by no means confused, as Catharine had anticipated. “So, Kate, you have been playing Hephæstion to-night! What a waste of conscience for a parcel of ballroom nonsense!”
“Oh, no! not Hephæstion,” exclaimed Catharine, “I am not so ambitious. I am a mere snapper up of inconsidered trifles.”
“Well! considering the way in which you collect them,” said Ada, good-humoredly, “I think you might be more scrupulous as to the way you use them; and though you disclaim the resemblance, let me tell you that you are quite as much in need of a seal to your lips as Hephæstion himself.”
At this moment appeared Ada’s partner with an iced peach, and many apologies for not bringing it sooner. He then offered to procure another for Mrs. Ingleby—and she, to rid herself of his presence, accepted the offer.
“Upon my word, he is staring at you yet!” exclaimed she.
This time Ada thought Catharine was jesting; and she looked up to prove her indifference. But no! Once more her eye met his, and blushing with displeasure, she replied to Catharine’s exclamation of triumph,
“I should never have suspectedanygentleman of trying to stare a lady out of countenance; but you know Mr. Stanley better than I do, Catharine, and since you have constituted yourself his protectress, you would do well to teach him the rudiments of politeness.”
“He will be delighted with such a proof of your interest,” replied she, “and as I am just about to challenge him to a walk on yonder balcony, I’ll not fail to tell him what you have said. And if Charles inquires for me, tell him, that at your special request, I am undertaking the education of his friend; and pray be particular on that point, for I remember some ten years ago, when gray eyes were in the ascendency with us, and Charles might think that such a pair as Mr. Stanley’s, and given to staring, too, might be dangerous. And now thank me, Ada, for I am going to take him away;” and off she flew, delighted with having achieved the difficult task of vexing Ada, and convinced that because she was vexed, she must be in love.
A few moments after, Catharine was pacing the balcony on Mr. Stanley’s arm, and actually repeating to him Ada’s very words.
“No wonder,” sighed her mortified companion, “you have never any peace till you vex her with me in some way or other. She, so gentle—why should you provoke her to speak harshly?”
“Oh, I could not help it!” said Catharine. “I was sorry for the poor flowers—anxious that your admiring glances should not be thrown away, and—in short, the fit was upon me.”
“What a reason, Catharine, for wounding the feelings of your dearest friend, and enlisting her womanly pride against one whom you profess—nay, I will be just, whom you really like.”
Catharine looked penitent, while he continued, “If I had not made that foolish promise, she would not think me so presumptuous as she does; and but for your interference, Catharine, I might perhaps have no cause to regret it. But —”
“But remember that I am going away to-morrow, and you will then have the entire management of your love affairs in your own hands.”
“True,” said he, smiling; “and you are such a mischievous Puck, that I shall certainly mark the day of your departure with a white stone.”
“Saucy, are you, sir? Well! I shall punish you on my return. But hist! no more of Ada, for she comes this way. The traitress! she has been flirting with my husband, while I have been tormenting her lover.”
“My dear Catharine,” said Ada, advancing, “I defended you to Mr. Ingleby to the best of my abilities, but he insisted upon testing my sincerity by confronting us.”
“Mr. Ingleby is pleased to play the Othello,” returned Catharine; “I demand, therefore, that you give him up to my vengeance.” And Catharine would have taken her husband’s arm, but seeing that Ada had no mind to relinquish it, she whispered, “For shame! to bear malice so long; his eyes are not basalisks.” But Ada went on quietly talking to Ingleby’s sister, Mrs. Howard, who had joined them; and the conversation became general, and turned upon the expected departure of the newly-married pair. Not long after, they took their leave, and Ada, to atone for her unkind remarks, accepted Mr. Stanley’s arm to the carriage, and bade him a cordial good-night.
Early the next morning Catharine started on her bridal tour, to be absent the entire summer. She wished Mr. Stanley much happiness, and he, bowing with mock gravity, assured her that he looked upon her disappearance as the first step thereunto. And he was really as glad to have her gone, as he professed to be; for Catharine, with a warm heart, a generous nature, and a thousand good qualities, lacked seriousness of character—and she was too apt to lay the sacrilegious hand of mirth, upon the heart’s sacred altar, and to jest of what to Stanley seemed matters of deep and serious import.
He therefore went home light of heart; for he was not only relieved from the presence of his tormentor, but he was glad that the gay season was now over. He felt that the regard of Ada Somers was not to be won at balls and parties, and he longed to know her where she would seem loveliest—in the tranquil intercourse of a refined and happy home.
——
“Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,And men below, and gods above.”
“Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,And men below, and gods above.”
“Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,
And men below, and gods above.”
The month of May saw the Somers family once more settled at Somerton; and twice a week did Mr. Stanley’s curricle make its appearance there also, until the month of September; when suddenly his visits doubled, not only in number, but in length; and as Miss Somers never complained of the same, it is to be presumed that he had made all the improvement she could desire in politeness, and all the progress he could have wished in her esteem.
Early in October, on a day as bright as herself, came Catharine—the wild, merry, but affectionate Catharine. She kissed Ada o’er and o’er, vowed she was prettier than ever, though she had never written her a line for the last two months, and was just about to ask what had become of Mr. Stanley, when her attention was called off by the sight of a diamond ring which glittered like a star on Ada’s third finger. In her admiration of its brilliancy, she quite forgot Mr. Stanley.
“What a beautiful solitaire!” exclaimed she; “what a pure water!—where did you get this, Ada?”
Ada’s cheeks were crimsoned in a moment. She fastened her eyes upon the ring, as if to gain courage from the sight, and in a low voice she replied:
“It was a gift.”
“And the giver,” quickly replied Catharine.
The color deepened—the eyes were raised with an expression which Catharine had never seen before, and she guessed rather than heard, the scarcely audible name of “Mr. Stanley.”
She gave a cry of delight, threw her arms around Ada’s neck, and gave vent to her joy in broken sentences:
“Oh, I am so happy!—I knew it would be so!—my dear Ada, did I not predict it, and am I not indeed Cassandra? To think of every thing ending so charmingly when the beginning was so inauspicious. And I—oh, Ada, do forgive me my heedless impertinences; I have often thought of them with contrition. Why is not Charles here to have a hornpipe with me for joy?—But never mind—now I remember, he went to see Stanley, and perhaps he is hearing it all from him!Youin love, Ada! Ah! confess that the word is a sweet one! And now come and tell me all about it! But stay,” said she, relapsing into her own saucy vein, “what have you to say for your high-flown opinions of last winter, on celibacy?”
“They remain unchanged,” replied Ada.
“But your feelings. Defend them if you dare from inconsistency.”
“I will not attempt it,” said Ada, smiling. “Like Rousseau, ‘Je serais bien fâché d’être du nombre de ceux qui savent répondre à tout.’ ”
“Ah! there is nothing like wit to silence just accusation,” began Catharine, but just then she felt the little hand which she still held, tremble, and her ear soon after, caught the sound of carriage-wheels. “Ah, that must be he!” cried she. “Commend me to the acuteness of lovers’ ears! Why, Ada, your heart has almost the gift of prescience!” and away bounded Catharine to greet her favorite.
“And so, Stanley, the sun has at last risen on Memnon’s statue,” were almost the first words she uttered.
“Yes,” answered Charles Ingleby, emerging from the carriage, “and very much elated he seems to be with his new achievement.”
“Why, Charles, are you there too?” said his wife.“See,” exclaimed she to Stanley, “how marriage blunts the sensibilities. There was Ada who had an electric presentiment ofyourcoming; while I, though I have been a wife but seven months, stood as dumb as an effigy, while Charles was near.”
“Encouraging for you, Stanley,” observed Ingleby, and he passed into the parlor where Ada was sitting. Stanley looked wistfully after him, and having caught the first sound of Ada’s sweet voice, he took Catharine’s arm within his, and they walked to the opposite end of the piazza, where they talked together for some time, in a low voice.
Catharine was the first to break out into an audible tone. “Arrived to-day,” exclaimed she, with evident delight, “when will she be here?”
“In an hour, I think,” replied he, “and I must now go and prepare Ada to receive her. I really begin to tremble as the time draws nigh; and I owe it all to you, for scaring me with the spectre of my own name.”
“Then pray, modest youth, let me do it for you. I long to take thisdénouementin my own hands. I have always had a talent for comedy, and this is probably the only opportunity I shall ever have of making my appearance on any stage.”
“Now, Catharine! none of your plots. I have a shuddering recollection of your talents for comedy, last winter, and I beg that you will not lay your wicked little hand upon the web of my destiny.”
Catharine held up a hand as white as snow. “Does this look like a thing having power to harm your great clumsy destiny? I scorn to meddle with any thing so weighty. I am intent upon pleasure only—a scene—a surprise—dramatic effect—tears—joy, &c., and when that is over, the curtain may fall on you and your ladye love, while I shall go home, like a good Griselda, and mend Charles’ clothes.”
Who could help laughing when Catharine chose it? Not Mr. Stanley, so he yielded the point; and she had soon arranged her scene, and taken to herself the lion’s share of prominence therein.
“And now,” said she, “go and tell Ada, for the thousandth time, that she is ‘dearer to you than the ruddy drops that visit your sad,’—Oh, no! not sad, I must alter Shakspeare a little—‘yourjoyfulheart;’ send Charles to me, and—Oh! there comes Mrs. Somers, and I must speak with her directly,” and away darted Catharine through the shrubbery to meet Mrs. Somers, who had just returned from a walk. As she bounded lightly down the walk, Stanley could not help confessing that she was graceful as a nymph, but there was one still more graceful in his eyes, whom he had not yet seen; and with a quick step he entered the house. His first act was, faithfully to deliver Catharine’s message, and send Ingleby away. He then took a seat by Ada, and paraphrased the words “I love,” with commendable ingenuity, for nearly half an hour. He then suddenly remembered that he had another mission to perform, and after a pause, during which he wondered how he should begin:
“Ada,” said he, “you have not yet asked me any questions relative to my family. Have you no curiosity to know who I am?”
“On all subjects connected with you,” replied Ada, “I feel an interest too strong to be called curiosity; but in matters relating to your family, your communications, to give me pleasure, must be voluntary. I expect to be toldwithoutthe asking,” added she, smiling, “who you are.”
“So you shall, my Ada, and you are about to receive the astounding information.”
“Must it be astounding?” laughed Ada, “for if so, I am bound to conclude that I have been over hasty in my acceptance of your attentions. I hope you are not Jupiter Tonnans, for I have no ambition to be dazzled to death. But perhaps you are only an earthly prince in disguise, or, perchance, The Wandering Jew. If the last of these, I must be permitted to decline the honor of becoming ‘The Wandering Jewess.’ ”
Stanley laughed, and shook his head. “I am the son of one of those princes, who govern in America under the name of ‘The sovereign people,’ but for further particulars I refer you to your friend, Mrs. Ingleby, for—”
“Parlez du diable,” said a voice at the door, and in walked Catharine herself, followed by Ingleby, who having been forbidden to say a word, crossed the room, and meekly seated himself in a corner. “May I be allowed,” continued Catharine, “to ask what use was being made of my name, as I entered this room?”
“Certainly,” replied Stanley. “Miss Somers has been affecting to doubt the respectability of my parentage—”
“I!” exclaimed Ada, who scarcely knew whether he was in jest or earnest.
“Can you deny it! when you began by accusing me of being a heathen, and ended by kindly suggesting that I might possibly be The Wandering Jew?”
“To the point, Mr. Stanley, if you please,” said Catharine, with mock dignity.
Stanley bowed submissively. “I was about to say then, that however well I may be known to your husband,yourknowledge of my name and station is, I believe, anterior even to his; I beg that you will now declare the same to this young lady, together with any incidents of my life which it may please you to reveal; and in the presence of her who is to be my judge, I fearlessly request that of my past deeds you will ‘nothing extenuate.’ ”
Here was a beginning after Catharine’s own heart, but its effect was somewhat spoiled by Charles Ingleby, who called out familiarly from his corner: “Faith, Stanley, you run far more risk in Kate’s hands of having ‘much set down in malice.’ ”
“Silence in the court, Mr. Ingleby!” cried his wife, trying very hard not to smile.
“Oh! I am the court, am I?” persisted Charles, “then I can almost say with Louis the Fourteenth, ‘L’état c’est moi.’ ”
“Oh, Charles! I wish you would not interrupt me to show off your learning,” cried Catharine, who began to feel her comedy fast degenerating into farce; but determined to make a certain speech which she had prepared for the occasion, she quickly composed her features—compressed her lips, and thus began:
“James Stanley! I do accuse you, in presence of these witnesses here assembled,” (here Charles mutteredsomething about its being quite true that he was a host within himself, but Catharine went steadily on,) “I do accuse you of having basely insinuated yourself into the affections of this damsel, (Ada, be quiet) insomuch that she hath eyes for no one else—and this you have done under false colors and a false name. Therefore, I here pronounce you traitor and impostor, and denounce you to the said damsel by the name you blush to bear—the infamous name of James Darrington!”
“James Darrington!” exclaimed Ada, in a tone of the deepest emotion. “Yes, yes,” murmured she, “my heart spoke truly—from its depths I heard his name, even before—before—” she paused and timidly raised her eyes to her lover’s countenance. That smile! she had seen it in her dreams—those eyes, so tenderly riveted upon her! how often had their glance awakened in her soul vague recollections of something loved and forgotten. Her heart beat violently, and pressing her hands to her eyes, her over-wrought feelings found relief in tears.
But they were tears of joy, and while they flow undisturbed, we must defend James Darrington from the serious charges preferred against him by Mrs. Ingleby.
It will be remembered that at the time of Mr. Darrington’s death, he resided in Paris. Partly by the expenses entailed upon him by his position as American minister, partly by the failure of banks at home, he became so involved, that at his death, a mere pittance remained for the support of his widow and son. Mrs. Darrington decided upon an immediate return to America, but her plans were changed by the reception of a letter from a near relative, then residing in England. The letter was not simply one of condolence—Mr. Stanley offered a home to his impoverished niece, and before she had time to accept or refuse his proposal, it was followed by himself in person.
The parties were mutually pleased. Mrs. Darrington was prepossessed in favor of her uncle, by his resemblance to her father, and he, without ties, seemed anxious to find an object for his tenderness in the person of his brother’s only child.
Thenceforward Julia, and Julia’s son, became the first objects in his heart. To minister to the happiness of the mother, and to shower every advantage of education that wealth can confer upon the child, seemed the aims of his existence.
James so richly repaid these benefits, that in time he became the idol of his uncle, and the old gentlemen often sighed when he remembered that his nephew was not a Stanley. After reaping, in the devotion of his niece and the respectful affection of his nephew, the rich reward of his generous conduct toward them, Mr. Stanley died, and, without condition of any kind, bequeathed his large fortune to Mrs. Darrington and her son. Attached to the will was a letter, in which he made it his last request that James should add to his own the name of Stanley. The old gentleman knew James too well to make it a stipulation; he was aware that his fortune would be rejected on such terms, and he gave it to his adopted son, bore he the name of Stanley or Darrington. But this request—couched in terms of so much tenderness—made in such an unassuming way, seemed binding to the grateful James; and what he might have refused to his uncle’s pride he granted to his affection. Moreover, Stanley was his mother’s name, and James had always loved it for her sake.
Their hearts now yearned for home; but a year’s delay ensued, from some tedious formalities of the law, and that year they passed in roaming over the Continent. In Italy they were joined by Charles Ingleby, and after spending some months in that beautiful land—beautiful, though but the whitened sepulchre of departed greatness—they decided upon passing the summer at Baden-Baden. There they met with the Ashtons.
James soon found that the pretty American girl, whose lively manners made her the toast of the “hoch-begoine” visiters of Baden, was his old friend Kate. Except that she was older and prettier, she had not much changed since the days when they had gone berrying together; and James, whose republican heart had withstood not only the heraldic charms of the De Longuevilles and De Montmorencies, but had refused to surrender itself to “all the blood of all the Howards,” hung with breathless interest upon Catharine’s words, as by turns she dwelt upon the beauty, the talent or the thousand virtues of his once cherished Ada. His old passion awoke from its long slumber, and he was now as much in love with the ideal as he had once been with the reality. Catharine was ready to worship him for his romantic fidelity, but his conviction that he would know Ada again, after ten years’ separation, she laughed to scorn.
Meanwhile, Charles Ingleby’s heart had strayed, or been stolen, and after some months’ endurance of the loss, he announced the same to Miss Ashton, accused her of the theft, and modestly professed himself willing to compromise the matter, by accepting hers in exchange. Catharine had no alternative but to submit, and the matter went no further.
James became now so restless to return home that his mother offered to wind up his affairs for him, and proposed that he should sail with the Ashton family. James knew that his mother was quite as capable of managing business as she was of managing servants, and he accepted her offer with many thanks. It was then arranged that he should act as groomsman to Ingleby, while Ada should be bridemaid to Catharine, and it was on that occasion that Catharine imagined a plan for testing their remembrance of one another.
If neither recognized the other, James was to be punished for his audacity, by keeping his secret till his mother’s arrival; all of which, in the height of his presumption, he promised, with no more expectation of being called upon to fulfill his bond than had the Merchant of Venice.
He met Ada, and the impression she made was such as to occasion certain doubts in his mind of his boasted constancy. This unknownlookedas he would have had Ada look; and he felt that if her mind at all resembled her person, he was in danger. When he discovered who she was, he was so transported with joy that he forgot to be humiliated for not knowing her at once. But we have seen how severely he was punished in the sequel by Ada’s cold reception ofhis advances, and his own inability to claim her regard by the slightest appeal to the past.
“And now,” said he, “I ask you, Charles, whether I have not been unjustly bound to secrecy? I contend that Ididrecognize her, for my heart knew her and loved her at once.”
“So you did,” replied Charles. “ ‘What’s in a name?’ Ada Somers or la belle Inconnue, James Stanley or James Darrington, were one and the same person, and both were constant to the object; how that object was called is of no importance.”
“Mere sophistry,” said Catharine disdainfully, but James appealed to Ada, and she reversed the decision.
Whilst they were still debating the matter, a carriage drew up before the door, and Catharine darted out of the room with the speed of an arrow. In a moment she returned, followed by Mrs. Somers, and a lady whom Ada recognized in an instant, and starting from her seat, she found herself in the arms of Mrs. Darrington.
——
“Et l’on revient toujours à ses premiers amours.”
(This is the veriest nonsense ever penned. It chimes in with our story and we use it, but without endorsing it the least in the world.)
That night Ada relieved her full heart, by talking over the events of the last six months to her mother, who listened, as only a mother can listen, till midnight. Mrs. Somers had scarcely kissed her daughter’s cheek and left the room, when Ada rose, unlocked one of her bureau drawers, and took thence an antiquated-looking rose-wood box. Under heaps of broken chains and old fashioned jewels lay a dingy little emerald ring; she seized upon it, and uttered an exclamation of pleasure, as she found that it fitted her third finger. She then replaced her box, kissed the ring, and murmured a “good-night” to the giver.
Some weeks after, Ada, her diamond and her emerald, became, one and all, the property of James. Dr. B. was at the wedding, and Catharine related to him every circumstance connected with what she styled “Ada’s pompousapostasy from the faith of her girlhood;” beginning with the drowning, and ending with the resumption of the emerald ring. Dr. B. evinced such lively interest in her story, that she proclaimed him to be the best listener she had ever met with in her life.
The day after the wedding, Johnny Wilson was favored with a large consignment of wedding-cake; and in after life, when, through Ada’s means, he had risen in station and fortune, he was heard to declare that he had marked with a white stone the day on which he had been nearly crushed to death by the horses of Mrs. James Darrington Stanley.