“Built i’ the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,”
“Built i’ the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,”
“Built i’ the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,”
“Built i’ the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,”
but for the sound reason that her rotten timbers and unsound planks were cut in the moon’s waning weeks. By the by, who ever saw a ship that was not rigged with curses, and navigated, too, for that matter? What is there about salt water that predisposes one to swear so? No wonder that the sea is “deep blue!” If all the oaths that sailors ever swore fell overboard, the ocean must be fourth proof “liquid d—nation” by this time! Rum is dove’s milk in comparison.
No farmer of the old school plants his corn, cuts his hay, or, especially, kills his pork in the moon’s wane. Therefore swine in his pen are safe for a fortnight after “the full o’ the moon,” lest, perchance, when the summer heats shall have come again, and six stout, hungry “men folks” assemble round his board, waiting with moist brows and watering lips, impatient for the wonted unctuous noon-day meal, the mighty slab of “strange flesh” which, erewhile, was with difficulty forced into the capacious pot, be found, upon the raising of the lid, shrunken, withered, boiled away, curtailed of its fair proportions; all that remains a little “nub,” scarce half enough for one of the voracious, disappointed crew.
At such a time, sore is the mortification of the farmer’s buxom wife. Thrifty she means to be, but never stingy. She blusheth as she deposits on the table a huge pewter platter, covered, apparently, with naught but turnips, potatoes and other “garden sauce.” She answereth deprecatingly to her husband’s wondering inquiry, if she has “forgotten the pork.” Forgotten it! no! nor ever will! The ghost of the vanished meat now stareth her in the face! Fork in hand, she wipeth her flushed brow with her plump, bare arm, and pointeth to the pile of smoking potatoes, beneath which is buried the shrivelled abortion of a meal. She telleth, while her husband makes a Barmecidical show of carving the bit, how that “pork killed in the old o’ the moon is sure to shrink in the pot.” She glanceth furtively around the board, to see whether any churlish or waggish hind smiles skeptically or disdainfully, or winketh at his neighbor. She calleth hastily to Jane to bring the cider-pitcher, forgotten in the trouble, and hurrieth away to the kitchen to pack up an unusually munificent and toothsome afternoon’s luncheon. There we leave her, and invoke in her behalf the sympathy of Mr. Gliddon. Who so well as he knoweth the embarrassments and disappointments which sometimes follow the taking off the cover?
An inexperienced housewife, sometimes, will, for once, adventure upon soap-making “in the old of the moon.” Albeit such an attempt is but an unavailing expenditure of grease and patience. The incredulous tyro is forced to remember sadly the precepts,receipts, and warnings of her wiser and less philosophical mother. She repenteth her folly in apron of tow-cloth and ashes. Satan seemeth, indeed, to be the father of all lyes. Death is in the potash. The carefully preserved contents of the soap-grease barrel disdain an alliance with such bedevilled trash. The potash, in its turn, has lost its Russian-like appetite for grease, and turns up its nose at the odorous drippings and unctuous pot-scum. The vexed young matron mingles her sweatand tears with the boiling, steaming, ill savored, ill assorted mass, which does, indeed, seem to “bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” in a bewitched caldron. All is in vain. Crying wont help it. Coaxing wont do. Stirring is unavailable. For once agitation is ineffectual. Invocation is useless. The soft soap wont come. Human nature gives way. The compost heap receives the ingredients which were intended for the soap barrel.
Gentle reader, didst ever go on a sleigh-ride in the full of the January moon? We speak not now of one of your city rides, half the way over almost naked pavements, to some suburban hotel—but a regular-built, old-fashioned country sleigh-ride, with a supper and ball at the end of it. No? Can we depict such a scene to you? With many doubts and fears we undertake the work—a pleasant task if it can be well accomplished.
Imagine then, a small, New England, country village; one of those that are formed by a cluster of white houses about a shaded square, and rows of similar dwellings on each side of a long, wide street, lined with elms and buttonwoods. The time is seven o’clock; the round full moon has risen above the distant eastern hills—all over the square, and adown the broad street stretches an expanse of dazzling snow. The sleigh paths are yet almost as purely white as the untrodden snow on either side. Savewhere the steel-shod runners have left gleaming stripes, and the shadows of the snow banks fall, these tracks are hardly distinguishable. The deep snow fell only last night, and the roofs of the houses, the fences, and the dark fir trees in the front-door yards are yet covered with heavy, glittering, sparkling burdens. The houses on the east side cast long shadows across the street. Those on the other side glow in the moonbeams only less white than the snow itself. Columns of pale, gray smoke ascend from every chimney, straight and steadily, until they mingle with the dark blue sky. One chimney alone emits a rushing crowd of fiery sparks; and all around the low, wide portal of the rude shed it overtops, a ruddy gleam shines out upon troops of men and startled horses, and casts a fierce glare upon the trampled snow around. Then the cheerful ring of hammer and anvil is heard. The sturdy smiths work half the night at such a time, for smooth-shod horses are not the nags for a sleigh ride.
In the village houses lights are rapidly flitting from chamber to chamber, and if we pass along the side paths we shall hear gay laughs, and merry screams, and the sounds of hurried preparation. At each door stands a gayly adorned sleigh, a perfect nest of bear-skins and buffalo-robes. The impatient horses stamp and chafe, and the merry sound of sleigh-bells chimes in with the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil. Around the piazzas of the hotel a crowd of the villagers is assembled. The boys and loafers are in a state of extreme excitement. Hark! A whoop—a hurrah from the stable-yard in the rear!—a sharp, clear crack of a whip! Hi! hi! Then a plunging and trampling. Another hurrah, and a fierce jangling of a hundred varied toned bells! Around the corner it comes! The boys and loafers shout again—six horses, rearing, pitching, plunging, rush with a wide sweep from out the lane, dragging after them a huge, open, omnibus sleigh. As the great ark ranges in front of the hotel, and its mad team subsides into comparative quiet, forth issue from the thronged piazzas crowds of village belles and beaux. Can it be that so many may find room aboard the sleigh, capacious as it is? Leave that to the Genius who presides over expeditions of this sort. In a sleigh, large or small, there is always room for one more. In the meantime the doors of the private dwellings have been opened, and from each emerges a beshawled, bemuffed, behooded, and overshod damsel—or two or three perhaps. Their happy beaux, clad in overcoats of pilot-cloth, in seal-skin caps, red worsted leggings, and buckskin gloves, escort them to the sleighs. The procession is formed in front of the hotel. Twenty sleighs, besides the teeming omnibus. The last in the line is a crockery crate, mounted upon a rude pair of runners and hitched behind a tandem team. The leader is a three-year old colt, wild and but half broken, and now, crazy with the noise, he is kicking and plunging like mad. In the crate stands the dare-devil of the village; a rich, handsome, graceless, good-natured scamp—the darling of the girls, the marvel of the boys, the terror of the piously disposed, and the favorite of all. He prefers to ride alone. Now all is ready—the band strikes up—the driver of the omnibus stands erect and tightens his reins—crack, goes the long whiplash—the horses plunge and start, the snow creaks, the bells jingle, the boys and loafers hurrah, the beaux laugh as the girls scream, and away flies the long caravan, like an express train, down the broad street, thundering, cracking, screaming, laughing. They turn the corner, all but the daredevil and his crockery crate,theyare upset in a snow-drift, but before the army of boys and loafers can reach the scene of the mishap, all is right side up again, and the last seen of dare-devil he is driving by the whole train, his frantic leader touching the snow only once in a rod.
Two hours afterward six reeking horses drag the omnibus up to the hotel piazzas again—a string of sleighs come in behind—one by one the stragglers arrive. Dare-devil and his team are among the missing, and on inquiry are reported as seen last, the one kissing the landlady at a tavern ten miles away, and the other engrossing the attention, and calling into active exercise all the strength and agility of the landlord and his negro hostler.
In the meantime twenty miles of snow path have been scoured over by the merry, frost-covered throng disembarking on the steps. Thousands of merry speeches have been said—a whole jest-book full of funny stories have been told. Every pretty hand in the company has been squeezed. Every pretty cheek has been kissed, and, we doubt not, almost every pretty lip. At least nine flirtations have been commenced. The moon has drawn together three pairs of twin hearts, and set them throbbing in unison—and one little question has been put and answered,very satisfactorily to the absorbed couple in yonder sleigh, which is arriving late, closely pursued by the shouting dare-devil and his prancing team.
All night the glaring windows of the ball-room shake and rattle. The inspiring music, to which they keep time, the sound of the dancers’ feet, the merry ringing of lamps, and the buzz of conversation are heard by the sleepy watchers in the bar-room below, who while away the hours, except when disturbed by eruptions of the beaux from above, in quest of confectionary and lemonade, or perhaps stronger beverages, by playing checkers, drinking flip, smoking cigars, and endlessly discussing the points and merits of divers horses of the neighborhood.
The pale moon lights home the revelers, just in time to save her sister Aurora the trouble.
The young May moon has been justly celebrated by the poets, and many have supposed, that at this season the hearts of lovers are more susceptible than at any other time. Truly the moonlight of May is very beautiful and love inspiring—but the August and September moon is the time of times—when the air is clear and warm, without cloud or chill, and rich and faint with the odors of the ripe fruits—when the corn and grain and all that grows from the earth’s bosom are at full height and verging toward maturity—when other leaves than those of tall trees rustle in the night wind—when the katy-did and cricket hold cheerful conversation, and fill the air with noisy clamor, near akin to silence—when the nights have grown longer and cooler than in the fierce mid-summer—when the moon seems larger and fuller than its wont, and its light has a deeper tone—then is the time to enjoy, in perfection, moonlight nights and lunatic fancies. Nights we say—not evenings. In the evenings one sees company and receives calls, takes wearying walks, hears commonplace remarks about the beauty of the weather and the prospects of the crops, eats ice-creams, drinks sherry-cobblers, or, it may be, smokes cigars and reads the evening newspaper. It is a border ground, upon which the people of the work-day world make forays. But “the small hours,” far in “the stilly night,” from twelve to three, contain the true romance of moonlight. The dull world is asleep, there is a new heaven and a new earth, peopled only by fairies, lunatics, ghosts and poets. Bright heavenly hours! Methinks in praise of them we could “mark out a measure of verse.”
They may tell of the sunlight’s brilliant dyesWhen the day in the Orient breaks;Of the splendid glare which dazzles the eyesAs his noontide course he takes;They may talk of the gorgeous hues that glowIn the western sky at eve,When, in gaudy pomp and with gilded show,Of the world he takes his leave.
They may tell of the sunlight’s brilliant dyesWhen the day in the Orient breaks;Of the splendid glare which dazzles the eyesAs his noontide course he takes;They may talk of the gorgeous hues that glowIn the western sky at eve,When, in gaudy pomp and with gilded show,Of the world he takes his leave.
They may tell of the sunlight’s brilliant dyesWhen the day in the Orient breaks;Of the splendid glare which dazzles the eyesAs his noontide course he takes;They may talk of the gorgeous hues that glowIn the western sky at eve,When, in gaudy pomp and with gilded show,Of the world he takes his leave.
They may tell of the sunlight’s brilliant dyes
When the day in the Orient breaks;
Of the splendid glare which dazzles the eyes
As his noontide course he takes;
They may talk of the gorgeous hues that glow
In the western sky at eve,
When, in gaudy pomp and with gilded show,
Of the world he takes his leave.
They may praise the Aurora’s wayward gleam,As far up the northern skyThe ruddy flashes fitfully stream,Then suddenly fade and die;And flash anew, and again sink low,Like the love of a fickle swain;While the shadows flicker over the snowThat covers the wintry plain.
They may praise the Aurora’s wayward gleam,As far up the northern skyThe ruddy flashes fitfully stream,Then suddenly fade and die;And flash anew, and again sink low,Like the love of a fickle swain;While the shadows flicker over the snowThat covers the wintry plain.
They may praise the Aurora’s wayward gleam,As far up the northern skyThe ruddy flashes fitfully stream,Then suddenly fade and die;And flash anew, and again sink low,Like the love of a fickle swain;While the shadows flicker over the snowThat covers the wintry plain.
They may praise the Aurora’s wayward gleam,
As far up the northern sky
The ruddy flashes fitfully stream,
Then suddenly fade and die;
And flash anew, and again sink low,
Like the love of a fickle swain;
While the shadows flicker over the snow
That covers the wintry plain.
The poets sing of the twilight hour,The twilight hour of eve;And teach that it hath a magic powerTo soothe the hearts that grieve;That lovers prefer this gentle time—To courting it gives such a zest—And, as for themselves, for the stringing of rhymeThat the twilight hour’s the best.
The poets sing of the twilight hour,The twilight hour of eve;And teach that it hath a magic powerTo soothe the hearts that grieve;That lovers prefer this gentle time—To courting it gives such a zest—And, as for themselves, for the stringing of rhymeThat the twilight hour’s the best.
The poets sing of the twilight hour,The twilight hour of eve;And teach that it hath a magic powerTo soothe the hearts that grieve;That lovers prefer this gentle time—To courting it gives such a zest—And, as for themselves, for the stringing of rhymeThat the twilight hour’s the best.
The poets sing of the twilight hour,
The twilight hour of eve;
And teach that it hath a magic power
To soothe the hearts that grieve;
That lovers prefer this gentle time—
To courting it gives such a zest—
And, as for themselves, for the stringing of rhyme
That the twilight hour’s the best.
There are some who delight in a starlight night,And some like a chandelier;And others a grate-full of anthracite,Or of hickory burning clear,And some the religious light that is shedAdown in a church’s aisle—And some will turn out from a nice, warm bedTo gaze on a burning pile.
There are some who delight in a starlight night,And some like a chandelier;And others a grate-full of anthracite,Or of hickory burning clear,And some the religious light that is shedAdown in a church’s aisle—And some will turn out from a nice, warm bedTo gaze on a burning pile.
There are some who delight in a starlight night,And some like a chandelier;And others a grate-full of anthracite,Or of hickory burning clear,And some the religious light that is shedAdown in a church’s aisle—And some will turn out from a nice, warm bedTo gaze on a burning pile.
There are some who delight in a starlight night,
And some like a chandelier;
And others a grate-full of anthracite,
Or of hickory burning clear,
And some the religious light that is shed
Adown in a church’s aisle—
And some will turn out from a nice, warm bed
To gaze on a burning pile.
But the light that we love far better than allIs the light of the golden moonAt the sweet, short hour “ayont the twal,”Just past the summer night’s noon.Oh! then ’tis sweet to roam alone,Or to sit in the shaded bower!No enchantment, we ween, on earth is knownLike the magic of such an hour.
But the light that we love far better than allIs the light of the golden moonAt the sweet, short hour “ayont the twal,”Just past the summer night’s noon.Oh! then ’tis sweet to roam alone,Or to sit in the shaded bower!No enchantment, we ween, on earth is knownLike the magic of such an hour.
But the light that we love far better than allIs the light of the golden moonAt the sweet, short hour “ayont the twal,”Just past the summer night’s noon.Oh! then ’tis sweet to roam alone,Or to sit in the shaded bower!No enchantment, we ween, on earth is knownLike the magic of such an hour.
But the light that we love far better than all
Is the light of the golden moon
At the sweet, short hour “ayont the twal,”
Just past the summer night’s noon.
Oh! then ’tis sweet to roam alone,
Or to sit in the shaded bower!
No enchantment, we ween, on earth is known
Like the magic of such an hour.
’Tis sweet when the night by the moon is gracedTo wander with her we love;Or to sit with our arm around her waist,While we coax from her hand the glove;And to teaze in a whisper for one sweet kissTill we gain the darling boon!Oh! for making love ne’er a time like this—By the light of the August moon.
’Tis sweet when the night by the moon is gracedTo wander with her we love;Or to sit with our arm around her waist,While we coax from her hand the glove;And to teaze in a whisper for one sweet kissTill we gain the darling boon!Oh! for making love ne’er a time like this—By the light of the August moon.
’Tis sweet when the night by the moon is gracedTo wander with her we love;Or to sit with our arm around her waist,While we coax from her hand the glove;And to teaze in a whisper for one sweet kissTill we gain the darling boon!Oh! for making love ne’er a time like this—By the light of the August moon.
’Tis sweet when the night by the moon is graced
To wander with her we love;
Or to sit with our arm around her waist,
While we coax from her hand the glove;
And to teaze in a whisper for one sweet kiss
Till we gain the darling boon!
Oh! for making love ne’er a time like this—
By the light of the August moon.
“And so on,” as Elia says, “one might proceed in this strain forever.”
Give to us, then, the moonlit nights of fragrant August and mature September. There is a body to them, a delicate aroma withal—the intoxication is heavenly, such as nectar might produce. Then it is that heaven seems descended to the earth, and fairy land restored. Then it is, that, if we find ourselves alone with one of the other sex, by the soft light, we are prone to imagine her to be our better self, our other moiety, the twin soul for which we have longed in our dreams, and—hence the propriety of a proper selection of moonlight company, judiciously made, before sunset. Then it is that we like to talk but little, and only in whispers and low tones. Then it is that our souls grow large, and we cannot believe ourselves mortal. Deep ardent longings seize us for something we know not what. Tears, neither of sadness or joy, spring to our eyes. Delicious, incomprehensible emotions agitate our hearts. Strange things seem easy of credence, and to see a troop of fairies dancing on the green lawn, or the placid ghost of a dear friend, half hidden in the shade of yonder vine, would startle us but little, and would seem all in keeping. Then we grow poetical—romantic—at peace with all the world—then chilly—then—ah! poor human nature!—then sleepy! and when, six hours after, we rise, at the third call, to a late cold breakfast, eggs, rolls and coffee seem to us of great importance, and occupy the whole attention of asoul, which, but lately, held the whole world in its embrace and felt a void the while.
Gentle reader—while we write the pale, exhausted moon is setting behind the distant ridge of Talcott mountain. The tall tower of Montevideo stands like a lonely, belated giant, in full relief against the silver-gray western sky. Our hair is damp with dew—our numb and weary fingers can hardly retain the blunt pencil with which we have indited the preceding extravagances. There is a faint, ruddy glow in the east—we hear the neigh of Aurora’s steeds. Good night then, dear, lunatic reader. May the morn find you sane—the night mad again—and long may it be ere the soft light of the full moon shall rest upon the green sod of your grave, and glow, reflected from the marble of your monument.
TO MISS MARTHA GRIFFITH.
———
BY G. D. P.
———
Beautiful girl, I have wandered far,Toward the rising sun and the evening star,I have roamed ’mid the Northern wastes of snow,And strayedwhere the soft magnolias blow,But I never gazed on a face as brightAs thine, sweet spirit of young delight.Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fairAs an angel-shape in the moonlight air,No shadow rests on thy brow of snowSave that of thy tresses drooping low,Love’s own dear light is wandering oftO’er thy gentle lip of carmine soft,Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glowOf the warm blood melts through the virgin snow,Is sweetly blending in one rich dyeThe woven beauties of earth and sky;Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwellsDeep, deep in thy dark eyes’ shaded wells,And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam,Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream,And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden’s bowers,And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers.Beautiful girl, I have seen thee moveA floating creature of joy and love,As light as a mist on the sunrise gale,Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil,Till I almost looked to see thee riseLike a soaring thought to the free blue skies,Or melt away in the thin blue air,Like a vision of fancy painted there.Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around,Seems less a sound than a dream of sound;Softly and wildly its clear notes swellLike the spirit-tones of a silver bell,And the lips whence the fairy music flowsIs to fancy’s eye like a speaking rose.Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou artA vision of joy to the throbbing heart,A star sent down from a world of blissAnd all undimmed by the shades of this;A rainbow pictured by love’s own sunOn the clouds of being, beautiful one.Beautiful girl, ’tis a weary yearSince thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear.’Tis a long, long year of light and gloomSince I gazed on thy young cheek’s lovely bloom—Yet thy gentle tones of music stillThrough the holiest depths of memory thrillLike tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird,In the long gone years of childhood heard.And oft in my dark and lonely moods,When a demon-wing o’er my spirit broods,Thine image seems on my soul to breakLike the sweet young moon o’er a gloomy lake,Filling its depths as the shadows flee,With beauty and love and melody.Beautiful girl, thou art far away,And I know not where thy steps now stray;But oh! ’tis sweet, it is very sweet,In the fairy realms of dreams to greetThy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl,And thy voice of music, beautiful girl.
Beautiful girl, I have wandered far,Toward the rising sun and the evening star,I have roamed ’mid the Northern wastes of snow,And strayedwhere the soft magnolias blow,But I never gazed on a face as brightAs thine, sweet spirit of young delight.Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fairAs an angel-shape in the moonlight air,No shadow rests on thy brow of snowSave that of thy tresses drooping low,Love’s own dear light is wandering oftO’er thy gentle lip of carmine soft,Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glowOf the warm blood melts through the virgin snow,Is sweetly blending in one rich dyeThe woven beauties of earth and sky;Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwellsDeep, deep in thy dark eyes’ shaded wells,And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam,Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream,And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden’s bowers,And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers.Beautiful girl, I have seen thee moveA floating creature of joy and love,As light as a mist on the sunrise gale,Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil,Till I almost looked to see thee riseLike a soaring thought to the free blue skies,Or melt away in the thin blue air,Like a vision of fancy painted there.Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around,Seems less a sound than a dream of sound;Softly and wildly its clear notes swellLike the spirit-tones of a silver bell,And the lips whence the fairy music flowsIs to fancy’s eye like a speaking rose.Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou artA vision of joy to the throbbing heart,A star sent down from a world of blissAnd all undimmed by the shades of this;A rainbow pictured by love’s own sunOn the clouds of being, beautiful one.Beautiful girl, ’tis a weary yearSince thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear.’Tis a long, long year of light and gloomSince I gazed on thy young cheek’s lovely bloom—Yet thy gentle tones of music stillThrough the holiest depths of memory thrillLike tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird,In the long gone years of childhood heard.And oft in my dark and lonely moods,When a demon-wing o’er my spirit broods,Thine image seems on my soul to breakLike the sweet young moon o’er a gloomy lake,Filling its depths as the shadows flee,With beauty and love and melody.Beautiful girl, thou art far away,And I know not where thy steps now stray;But oh! ’tis sweet, it is very sweet,In the fairy realms of dreams to greetThy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl,And thy voice of music, beautiful girl.
Beautiful girl, I have wandered far,
Toward the rising sun and the evening star,
I have roamed ’mid the Northern wastes of snow,
And strayedwhere the soft magnolias blow,
But I never gazed on a face as bright
As thine, sweet spirit of young delight.
Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fair
As an angel-shape in the moonlight air,
No shadow rests on thy brow of snow
Save that of thy tresses drooping low,
Love’s own dear light is wandering oft
O’er thy gentle lip of carmine soft,
Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow
Of the warm blood melts through the virgin snow,
Is sweetly blending in one rich dye
The woven beauties of earth and sky;
Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwells
Deep, deep in thy dark eyes’ shaded wells,
And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam,
Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream,
And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden’s bowers,
And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers.
Beautiful girl, I have seen thee move
A floating creature of joy and love,
As light as a mist on the sunrise gale,
Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil,
Till I almost looked to see thee rise
Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies,
Or melt away in the thin blue air,
Like a vision of fancy painted there.
Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around,
Seems less a sound than a dream of sound;
Softly and wildly its clear notes swell
Like the spirit-tones of a silver bell,
And the lips whence the fairy music flows
Is to fancy’s eye like a speaking rose.
Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou art
A vision of joy to the throbbing heart,
A star sent down from a world of bliss
And all undimmed by the shades of this;
A rainbow pictured by love’s own sun
On the clouds of being, beautiful one.
Beautiful girl, ’tis a weary year
Since thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear.
’Tis a long, long year of light and gloom
Since I gazed on thy young cheek’s lovely bloom—
Yet thy gentle tones of music still
Through the holiest depths of memory thrill
Like tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird,
In the long gone years of childhood heard.
And oft in my dark and lonely moods,
When a demon-wing o’er my spirit broods,
Thine image seems on my soul to break
Like the sweet young moon o’er a gloomy lake,
Filling its depths as the shadows flee,
With beauty and love and melody.
Beautiful girl, thou art far away,
And I know not where thy steps now stray;
But oh! ’tis sweet, it is very sweet,
In the fairy realms of dreams to greet
Thy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl,
And thy voice of music, beautiful girl.
PICTURE OF CHILDHOOD.
———
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
———
Forth issuing from a craggy mountain’s side,A stream is seen. Anon, with gilded prowAnd silvery oars, a bark appears to glide,Bearing a happy infant, on whose brow,Pictured are Joy and Wonder. Onward stillOver the widening stream’s wild waves, eke, skimsIt merrily. The tiny steersman hymnsHis roundelay of Joy, or at his will,Plucks the gay flowers of early morn,Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn—Unmindful that such pleasures fade away,That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay—Life is a launch—we voyage to the grave,We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave.
Forth issuing from a craggy mountain’s side,A stream is seen. Anon, with gilded prowAnd silvery oars, a bark appears to glide,Bearing a happy infant, on whose brow,Pictured are Joy and Wonder. Onward stillOver the widening stream’s wild waves, eke, skimsIt merrily. The tiny steersman hymnsHis roundelay of Joy, or at his will,Plucks the gay flowers of early morn,Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn—Unmindful that such pleasures fade away,That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay—Life is a launch—we voyage to the grave,We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave.
Forth issuing from a craggy mountain’s side,
A stream is seen. Anon, with gilded prow
And silvery oars, a bark appears to glide,
Bearing a happy infant, on whose brow,
Pictured are Joy and Wonder. Onward still
Over the widening stream’s wild waves, eke, skims
It merrily. The tiny steersman hymns
His roundelay of Joy, or at his will,
Plucks the gay flowers of early morn,
Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn—
Unmindful that such pleasures fade away,
That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay—
Life is a launch—we voyage to the grave,
We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave.
MINNIE DE LA CROIX:
OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.
———
BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.
———
(Concluded from page 304.)
“Lord bless us, my children! what a noise,” cried Mr. de la Croix on the morrow as he entered the store-room. “I am deaf! give me some claret and water some of you! I am thirsty enough to swallow bottle and all. I have had lamps fastened to every other tree in the avenue and every column around the piazza.”
Minnie brought him the iced wine and ran off to work again. She was beating eggs for a mayonnaise, and directing the servant behind her in chopping celery and chicken for salad.
Lisa was standing on a table pouring from an immense bowl a stream of icing over a pyramid of cake that stood in a salver on the floor. Rose was frothing eggs for something else, Kate was churning syllabub, and Blanche was pounding almonds.
Mr. de la Croix stopped his ears and called out as loudly as he could, “Halt! order! I want to talk. Where are those great china bowls to be placed, and the pride of Rose’s existence, the diamond-cut wonder—the crystal one? No one can carry them among you here, and I must tell Sampson to do it.”
“The two first on the piazza, the glass one in the middle of the table,” answered Lisa, looking up from her task. “I only hope Sampson will not serve them like Philistines, with the exertion.”
“Do you think there is too much strength under those woolly locks of his, Lisa, or do you fear a superfluity of grace in his ‘fantastic toe?’” said Kate.
“I know that his ‘fantastic toe,’ as you are pleased to dignify it, kicked over a pan of milk an hour ago, when I sent him to the dairy, and these tricks have not certainly power to make angels smile.”
“Samp want to white hisself for to-night,” said his wife, showing her ivory as she looked at him. “Miss Lisa never scold him for it, but you may know I did, Miss Kate. What he do such ladicalous things for?”
“He could not help it, Aunt Winny,” said Minnie as she turned her dish of well frothed eggs to prove her skill. “Now here is a magnificent float for your ‘island.’ You know I always said that you should make your favorite dish for my wedding-supper, and this is an occasion quite as important. Here is the sugar, sand and every thing you want.”
“Thank’ee, Miss Minnie. I’ll make it splendid, you may know that. But dis an’t no wedding-supper, my child, and it musn’t be so grand a floatin’ island as the bride’s. Ah! didn’t I make two for Miss Kate and Miss Blanche if dey wos married in de mornin’. I nussed you all—fine gals you is! Dey an’t such young ladies for miles round, and please God! I may live to see you all happy and lovin’ your pardners asthemdo. My old mistress herself would love to see ’em so.”
And Winny left the room majestically—a pan on her head and one in each hand, six little nigs at her heels, each dismissed with a lump of sugar as they went along in a straight line to the kitchen.
“Winny grows eloquent, as she gets older,” said Lisa. “If every body believed her, we would all be like Miranda with every creature’s best. I wonder what she will say when she sees us all dressed to-night.”
Winny was not the only one delighted with her young mistresses as they made their appearance in the hall, one after another, and surveyed the beautifully decorated walls of the several apartments opened for the occasion. Festoons of cedar were hung around and above, and beneath each were large bouquets of fresh flowers, arranged in perfect taste. The orchestra hung in scarlet cloth, was wreathed in roses and evergreens, and surrounded by lamps placed so as to illuminate these fairy bowers independent of the glittering row of lights for the musicians. Stands of exotics occupied one side of the hall, the fair and tender buds throwing out a thousand perfumes on the air, yet even these were not more fragrant than the flowers of the season that hung around, the delicate maiden’s-blush and the pale tea-rose. Long after the chilly autumn winds have made us close our casements and doors, these sweet sisters are blooming in the gardens without, and from Mr. de la Croix’s thick and extended hedges he had found a harvest for his daughter’s ball.
Nothing could be more brilliant than thetout ensembleof garden, house and avenue. Every nook and corner had its light, every room its comfort, and before the guests began to assemble Lisa had satisfied herself that the arrangements for their enjoyment were indeed complete. Her queenly form well became the blue tarlatan with its moss-roses in bunches of half opened buds. Her hair was simply twisted, and in satin-like bands over her ears.
Blanche and Kate floated about in their pure white, their elegance conspicuous from their simplicity, while Rose and Minnie, like twin roses, were radiant with beauty. The excitement had deepened the color on their cheeks and brightened their eyes into stars. Who wonders then at the father’s pride as helooked at his crown of jewels this night? Who wonders that the guests loved their pleasant smiles, and treasured their gentle welcomes? No one was neglected by them, not one in the whole crowd felt forgotten or slighted, and the hours flew by as though Time had laid his hour-glass in the green bowers and slept at its side.
“Minnie, Minnie!” whispered Blanche, “you talk too heedlessly. Be more quiet, my dear girl.”
“Ah, do not scold me to-night,” cried she, as she leant half panting for breath upon her partner’s arm. “Is it not a shame to scold me now?” And she raised her bright eyes to his with a look that dazzled him.
“It is a shame ever to do so,” replied he earnestly. “Surely Mrs. Stuart you are not so cruel?”
“Only prudent, Mr. Milton, that is all; remember this is my little sister’s ‘first appearance.’”
“You mean that she is one of the unsophisticated,” said he laughing. “And by far more bewitching in consequence,” was added in a whisper.
Blanche smiled and shook her head at him, but they whirled off in a waltz before she could reply, so she returned to her station by Kate, who was talking in a very old-fashioned kind of way to—her husband.
“Paul and I were thinking the same,” said Kate, as she placed her arm within hers. “Minnie istant soit peuinclined to flirtation, and we must warn her before it becomes a passion.”
“A passion, Kate!” said her husband smiling.
“Yes; a passion for admiration—for change, and a sickly love of flattery that is beneath a girl like our Minnie. How I do hope she will preserve that perfect freedom from all affectation that is one of her greatest charms.”
Paul made no answer, but as the quadrille broke up, went forward to the object of this enconium as she accepted her partner’s offer of a quiet promenade after her dance.
“Minnie,” said he, “you have not danced with me this evening.”
“Because you have not asked me,” replied she, putting her arm through his with an affectionate smile. “I have felt myself quite neglected by you and Kenneth, I assure you.”
“I was just coming to claim you, Minnie,” said Mr. Stuart, who had heard her last remark. “But since I am supplanted this time, we are engaged for the next.”
She nodded to him and passed on to a group of young girls who were talking gayly, and joined them. One, a fair-haired blonde with a pair of melting blue orbs, accosted her with a congratulatory remark upon the entire success of her fête.
“We are all delighted with every thing—with you and with ourselves, par parentheses. But why does not your father dance, Minnie?”
“Go and ask him,” said she laughing. “I have not seen him dance since I was a little girl.”
“Well, he shall dance with me then,” exclaimed the pretty questioner, “and I am going to invite him for the very next quadrille.” And off she tripped to find Mr. de la Croix.
“Dance with you, my sweet young lady,” cried he. “And what will all these gay and handsome fellows say to my usurping their place?”
“That I show very good taste in my selection of a cavalier,” was the reply. “Youmustdance with me Mr. de la Croix because—I have said that you must.”
“The little maid would have her will,” quoted he, much amused. “So come, my little conqueror, I could not refuse, even if an old man’s bygone steps are shocking to polka lovers and sliding graces.”
“I have gained a victory,” said Miss Ashton, as he led her to a place among the dancers. “See, Minnie! I have chosen my own partner, in spite of ceremony and etiquette.”
“Age has its privileges,” observed Mr. de la Croix, with a courtly bow, “and this is one of its most pleasant advantages. I had never been so honored but for my silver-streaked head.”
“Ah, Mr. de la Croix!” said his young companion archly, “your youth has only to return to put us to the test. I’m sure you could tell us of bright eyes that followed you wistfully in days of yore.”
“Little flatterer!” exclaimed he, as the music struck up. “My age again has helped me to this.”
But the gay girl bounded forward, and he watched her graceful movements with so much pleasure that he almost forgot his own part.
Minnie was opposite too, and seemed so delighted at seeing her father dance, that he quite enjoyed an amusement that had been for so many years discarded, as one too frivolous for apère de famille.
Mr. Selby had to follow his example, as Minnie declared it his duty to do so, and thus her “first party” was a perfect triumph, as not only the younger but the older heads were giddy with their exertions to amuse and be amused. It was nearly daylight before Sampson had finished his task of putting out the lights, and the hall, like all other banquet halls, deserted. There were no heavy hearts carried away, though many perhaps were lost to merciful finders, and Minnie laid her young head on her pillow with a feeling of consciousness that her debut had been one of unusual and brilliant success.
And so it proved, for during the season that followed, no party of pleasure—no crowded ball was complete without her presence. She was a perpetual sunbeam, shedding light by her winning smile and sweet temper. Her sisters accompanied her by turns, and watched her flying steps with affectionate pride; but Kate’s fears were partly verified, and her young sister too fond of admiration to escape that love of sway over the hearts of the many that seemed to live but in her glances. In vain they warned—in vain they lectured, Minnie had been too long careless of advice to heed it now in this whirlpool of constant gayety. Still artless, still unaffected, she dispensed her smiles too lavishly, and fanned the flame her varied charms had kindled, where she might have spared her victims many a pang, had she heeded the voice of reason.
“Would you have me cross to people?” said she to Kate.
“No, Minnie; but seemingly less pleased with their attentions. Did not Mr. Douglas have reason to complain that you had encouraged him, when you refused his offer last week?”
“Who told you that?” asked Minnie, crimsoning to the temples. “Who told you that, Kate?”
“Himself, and I could not but feel for his disappointment,” said Kate earnestly. “I have seen you look pleased at his assiduities—so pleased, that I could not wonder at the reproach he made you.”
“I granted him no more than I did to others,” said the girl tearfully.
“But you have a way, Minnie, of accepting homage that is flattering to those who offer it.”
“Iam flattered, and return only what I receive.”
“But you do not, my dear sister. What they offer is too often sincere; they, then, according to your mode of reasoning, have a right to expect the same. Harry Lamfear left here in consequence of your refusal, for, as he said, he could not bear to meet you wherever he went, and I own that I thought you were partial to him from a promise I heard you make, to wear no bouquets but his for one month.”
“You are making mountains of mole-hills,” said Minnie, blushing again. “I never dreamed that such a promise was equivalent to ‘Certainly, sir! go and order the furniture.’ I did like Harry Lamfear exceedingly, but love was no part of the liking. I told him more than once—more than twice, since I must defend myself, that it was useless for him to expect any thing more than friendship from me. I could not refuse to speak to him—it will not do to insult a man because he wants to marry you, will it?”
“Decidedly no; but then you should have refused to dance with him more than once in the evening—you should have denied yourself on more occasions than one, when he called. I saw you one morning get up from the sofa, where you were suffering actually with a headache, and dress your hair as becomingly as you knew how, with a morning-cap that was really a charming set-off to your piquante style, and go in the parlor to receive him. You told him of your indisposition of course, and his inference was, that there must have been somethingmorethan friendship to rouse you in the midst of pain, to the exertion of entertaining him. Did it look like indifference?”
“I was wrong there, sister,” said Minnie, rising and seating herself beside her. “Tell me what I must do.”
“Be kind and courteous to all, my little pink-cheek, and do not listen with such a ready ear to the honied words that make you giddy. Do not every week or month select one on whom to bestow your favors, but treat all alike indifferently until you really find your own feelings enlisted. Then I need not advise, your own delicacy, your own natural modesty will make you every thing you ought to be. But for heaven’s sake do not give people the idea, that you are caught like a candle-fly by every glare, and wear a battered down heart after your first winter is over.”
“Oh, Kate, how matter-of-fact you are! Why didn’t you say ‘pretty moth,’ and ‘withered heart?’ You shock me with your every day-isms.”
“You have very fastidious ears, Minnie, and I am not jesting. There is one thing more to be said and I have done. Beware of trifling with young Freeman. He will not suffer himself to be led like his predecessors if he is serious. And if he is, as I think, merely playing your game offlirting, he will make you regret ever having seen him. I do not like him—I cannot look at him without a feeling of uneasiness.”
“How foolish!” cried Minnie, laughing, “and how ungrateful! he is always praising my charming sister Mrs. Linden.”
“Yes, so as to tell you immediately afterward how much you resemble her,” said Kate gravely. “I am not old, Minnie, but I am sorrowed, and feel no longer young. Let what I have said this morning be of some benefit to you, for your own sake, if not for mine. I must watch and warn you, heedless as you are to all counsel, and in so doing I make a sacrifice that costs me something, for I might be conversing pleasantly on other subjects, and feel secure that my sister Minnie does not think me harsh and disagreeable,” and her eyes filled with tears.
“How unjust!” cried Minnie, throwing her arms around Kate’s neck, and kissing her affectionately. “How very unjust! Do I not know how to value your advice, Kate—am I so heartless in your eyes? Heedless I am indeed, but not heartless, and I will try and remember what you have said, that I may act upon it.”
And so she did until it was forgotten, and young Freeman’s devotion became once more a triumph to the unreflecting Minnie. Her sisters rejoiced as the end of the season drew nigh, as the entire summer would be undisturbed by these constant amusements. They would once more live in quiet after the gay and to them tiresome winter, passed in following their young charge from place to place, and in the meantime a change might come over the “spirit of her dream.”
It was at the opera that Minnie sat once more, while Mme. —— enchanted and fascinated her audience. Her bright eyes were fixed upon the sweet singer, and she did not perceive the door of her box opened to admit a gentleman, who took his seat and gazed in silence at the lovely form before him. Ever and anon he turned to Mr. Stuart, who stood behind with a smile of pleasurable surprise upon his fine open countenance, and watched with some impatience the close of the second act of “Jerusalem,” in spite of his love of music and the beauty of this particular opera.
But the curtain fell, and Minnie turned to speak her delight to her brother. She started as she recognized Harry Selby!
He could not but be flattered at the expression of pleasure upon that speaking countenance, and the fluttering of the little hand, which, for a moment, rested in his; while Minnie read in those dark eloquent eyes a story that sent the tell-tale blush to hercheek, and forced her into a silence that provoked and embarrassed her.
But Rose came to her aid, and poured inquiries into hisnotover attentive ear. When did he arrive—when did he sail? Where was his uncle?
“I arrived this morning—I sailed three weeks ago from Liverpool to New York, and lost not a minute in coming south, and left my uncle at home.”
“You are a perfect telegraph,” said Minnie, recovering her speech. “Your friends must feel highly flattered at your haste to reach them.”
“Ah!” exclaimed he, fixing his eyes upon her, “I felt that I could not trust myself to remain absent any longer! I had so much to learn! so much to lose!”
Minnie turned to the stage and lifted her opera-glass, while Rose smiled in spite of herself. Here was a lovercomme il y’en a peu. And as she contemplated his handsome countenance expressive of high and noble qualities, his attractive manner and pleasant flow of words, she felt that Minnie was a conqueror indeed.
“Come and dine with us to-morrow, Harry,” whispered she, as he handed her in the carriage. “And bring your uncle with you. Tell him I have a japonica in full bloom and he must see it.”
“Ah, Rose!” was the reply, “you are an angel! You do not mock the ear with promises—you mean to keep them.”
And they drove off at a rapid pace, leaving him to rejoice over the beauty and fascination of his youthful love, while she leaned back and wondered at the beating of that hitherto quiet heart—the strange but pleasurable emotion that seemed gushing from its depths.
“How remarkably he has improved!” exclaimed she, turning to her sister. “How proud his uncle must be.”
“Proud indeed!” replied Rose. “And Harry’s worth does not consist in his good looks, he has a well-regulated, intelligent mind, a noble heart, and that rare pride that scorns an unworthy thought. I saw him constantly when I was in Paris, and I am certain that he will fully justify the opinion I formed of him.”
The carriage stopped at Mrs. Bliss’s door for Kenneth and Blanche, and Mr. Selby came out to meet his favorite. Minnie parried his questions as well as she could, but Rose’s congratulations upon his nephew’s arrival and appearance satisfied him, and he accepted her invitation to dinner with unmistakeable pleasure. He had intended to take them by storm, but now Lisa would have warning, and be able to fuss over them as they deserved, and he bade them “good night” with a hearty shake of the hand.
Down the pleasant avenue wandered two graceful forms a few weeks after this, the gentle tones of a young girl’s voice mingling with the deeper, more tender ones of a youth, who was gazing earnestly on her deepening cheek.
“I need not have told you, Minnie, for you knew it that night at the opera,” said he pleadingly. “You could not but see that I loved you as few love—that in spite of time and space your image had remained within my heart, its fondest remembrance. Tell me, Minnie,” and he paused as they reached a vine-covered bower, and led her to a seat beneath its shade, “tell me honestly, did you not read all this ere now?”
She trembled—her lot now was to be cast, her fate determined, and there seemed a spell upon her, for she could not speak; but there was no shade upon that fair smooth brow, no anger in those softened looks, and Harry, like many a one before him, dared to interpret for himself what her own lips at length were able to affirm.
And now to them the world seemed a paradise indeed, and life one long summer day, o’er which no cloud could ever come, to shadow their sunny hopes. The blue sky seemed clearer above their heads—the flowers were brighter, and the fair earth fairer still. Happiness was theirs, for they were all to one another, and as the hours passed unheeded, and the gleaming stars burst forth into the quiet heavens, they raised their eyes and likened their love to the quenchless beauty of its countless lamps.
Alas, poor dreamers! ye are granted this one momentary perfection of bliss! Ye can linger for once over this dawn of promised light—for once ye are convinced of its duration. But the sky must darken, the lamps must go out—the flowers must perish—the hopes must wither! There is but one hope—one home of happiness—the home that is not to be won without its pains, its fierce and mighty struggles, its chastenings, that purify and fit the soul for the presence of Him who promised it to the pure of heart.
Poor Minnie had to wake from her dream of love, but not yet—not until she was once more in the giddy round of engagements for the spring. It was at Mrs. Bliss’s last soirée that she was seen flying about like a vision of light, while Harry Selby watched her every glance. He had a right to be proud of her, for she was his own—his promised one, and proud he was. But a shade passed over his face as he beheld her extending to another the same smiles she gave to him; exerting for another the same fascinations that bound him captive from the hour he first beheld her. He did not intend, dear reader, that Minnie should give up all for him; he did not expect her to be less gay or less fond of dancing, but he could see no difference now between her conduct to those around her, and to him alone. He had a right to more than they, but although Minnie’s engagement was generally known, she allowed her lover to be pitied or jested with upon the danger of marrying a flirt, who cared more for admiration than for the love he bore her.
I am no advocate for the exactions or fastidiousness of the stronger sex, exactions that in all cases become that conjugal tyranny that drives us with broken hearts to an early and welcome tomb. I cannot uphold that constant recurrence to the difference of duties and deportment that marked the single and the married woman. The ceremony that binds in a few moments, cannot change the disposition of eighteen or twenty years—cannot blanch the dark braidsof the bride into a matron’s sober locks; and yet there are few husband’s in the world who do not frown and wonder, if before the honey-moon is half over, he sees in his young wife the same ways and manners of the unfettered creature he had sworn so perfect, that her faults,iffaults she could have, were virtues. He had vowed that his life was a curse without her, that he asked only her love in return for his passionate devotion. But no sooner is she won, no sooner is she the wife who has bound herself to him “for better, for worse,” than he expects, God help her! the sacrifice of every thought she has to his prejudices, and never dreams how often she has been shocked at faults and habits that tore from her eyes the veil her own youth and inexperience had helped to weave.
But Harry Selby was not as a lover more exacting than was natural and proper, and he had imbibed some of Kate’s opinions concerning young Freeman, knowing too, more than she did, to justify his aversion. His devotion to Minnie de la Croix was not at first sincere, for his object was merely to triumph over others, and win a wager he had already made to do so. But her indifference to all his protestations enraged him, and her subsequent betrothal had made him jealous, and proved how madly he had learned to love her. He swore that he would force her to dismiss his rival, and Minnie’s acceptance of his attentions allowed him to dream of success in spite of her coldness to his suit, and laughing answers to his serious questions. He was well aware of his powers; he was one of the most attractive of his sex, witty, entertaining, and having that peculiar expression of high respect in his manner, that is particularly pleasing to women. Many would have given up, with more success than he could boast of, but he had vowed to revenge himself on Harry Selby, and his friends had heard him; so around poor Minnie a web was forming which her own thoughtlessness but helped to strengthen. She was convinced that Mr. Freeman fully comprehended her sentiments, and thus excused herself for carrying him in her train, unwilling to give up one who added so much to her amusement, and the splendor of her triumphs. In the midst of a merry argument upon the rights of two waltzers that stood before her, Harry approached.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked, and offering his arm to her. “I have waited patiently until now, you were so surrounded!”
“Why, do you not see these two importunate creatures teasing my life out? They want me to waltz, when I am tired to death and want to rest,” replied she, with a toss of the head that became her amazingly.
“But I ask you to dance,” said Harry, earnestly. “It is not so fatiguing, and I am but too happy to remain here until the quadrilles recommence.”
At this moment the band began a waltz, a sweet, bird-like clarionet pouring out its enchanting sounds, and the young girl bounded from her seat.
“Come, Mr. Freeman, I cannot resist that!” cried she laughing. “I must surely have been bitten by a tarantula.”
Harry drew back, and an expression of pain and anger crossed his face as he watched Minnie and her partner, who glanced at him with a look of haughty triumph.
A hand was laid upon his arm, and Kate Linden stood beside him. “As much as I dislikehim, Harry, I must put Minnie in the wrong. For God’s sake, let there be no quarrels between men—I will speak to Minnie. She loves you dearly, but—”
“She loves adulation more,” said he bitterly. “Would to God I were not so madly fond!”
But the dance ended and Minnie returned to her place, with brightened eyes and flushed cheeks. Sending her companion for an ice, she turned to Harry.
“Now I will dance with you, patient creature, if you will wait a little longer.”
“You are very kind,” said he, more bitterly than before.
She started and looked at him, but laughed lightly as she said—
“You are very particular in commending my goodness, but you do not seem pleased.”
“No, Minnie; for I am too unhappy to conceal it,” was his reply. “I had thought you loved me better.”
“And since I did confess that love,” said she haughtily, and coloring deeply, “by what right do you doubt it?”
“Ask others beside myself, Minnie; ask all the world here, if this very hour you have not given me cause to think myself weighed in the balance with another?”
“You are jealous then. I had not deemed your breast capable of harboring so base a passion,” said she scornfully. “My actions are yet uncontrolled, and I must beg leave to decline any dictation of terms from your lips.”
He turned pale with suffering, but remembered her youth, and calmly met her eye.
“You do me injustice, Minnie; I had no such intention I assure you.”
At this moment Mr. Freeman handed her a plate of frozen strawberries, and a smile flitted over his features as he remarked their own. It was evident to him—there had been a dispute and he chose the opportunity. Quietly approaching the musicians, he gave them an order, and they began a mazourka then much in vogue. Harry’s head was turned away, and Minnie gave him a hurried glance as a most melodious voice was entreating her to dance.
“Ah!” said Mr. Freeman, smiling and gazing at her, “is it forbidden already?”
“I do not understand,” replied she in some confusion; but when Harry looked up she was gliding over the floor again, after reminding him of his own invitation. He rushed from the room, and making his adieus to Mrs. Bliss, drove rapidly home. It was not easy to imagine his state of mind, but Kate followed her sister until the mazourka ended, to warn her of a coming storm. Taking her arm, she bowedcoldly to Mr. Freeman, who bit his lip and fell back among a group of gentlemen, some of whom had heard his wager and now laughed at his defeat.
“Defeat,” echoed he. “I have drivenil carooff in despair, and a few words more will settle all between the charming Minnie and myself. Not that I care particularly for her, but rejoice in the downfall of Mr. Harry Selby.”
“Nous verrons,” said a young man, who surveyed him with a look of disgust. “Miss de la Croix may like to flirt, but she loves Mr. Selby more. And I for one doubt your success.”
“Had I but one quarter of an hour alone with her, she would no longer dream of him. She loves me now, and I will prove it yet.”
Some one touched him as he walked away, and Paul Linden beckoned him to another room.
“My sister’s name is not to be sullied by such lips as yours, Mr. Freeman. I hold you accountable for what I have heard to-night, and trust you to prepare yourself to be made so.”
They passed into the street, and angry words rose between them, but when once more Minnie’s name was pronounced, Paul passed his hand across the face of the speaker and left him.
Poor Kate! little knew she the “business” that detained him the next day, and when at length Blanche came to her with a white face and trembling lips to prepare her for the dreadful news, she seemed unable to understand until it had been repeated—that her own husband was dangerously, though not mortally wounded, in a duel with Mr. Freeman.
With a loud shriek she became insensible, and thus they lifted her into the carriage, while the rest followed. Paul had been conveyed to her aunt’s, and there lay weak and fainting from pain and loss of blood. The ball had been extracted, and his poor Kate was told to be calm! lest her agony prove fatal to the one she loved beyond all earthly things. Calm! when her heart was torn and bleeding, when there was perhaps no chance of his recovery! But woman-like, she strove against her misery and bent down to kiss him, half fainting as she gazed at his pale face. He turned to her with such a look of love!
“Do not blame me, Kate, I would have died to spare you a moment’s unhappiness, as careless as this may seem of your feelings,” murmured he.
“Hush, Paul! for God’s sake hush!” cried she clasping his hand. “Do I not know your love for me? Do not speak my own husband—be assured that I would never blame you. But for my own happiness be careful and follow the doctor’s advice—be quiet.”
He fell asleep with his hand inhers, and she sat beside him motionless as a statue, the big tears falling over her face the while. She knew how much she had at stake, she knew by what a mere thread that precious life was hung, but she nerved herself to restrain her wretchedness, to keep silent her torturing fears, and tried to hope. Poor Minnie! throwing herself upon her knees she entreated her forgiveness for the pain she had caused—the tempest of grief her fault had raised. Kate gently put her head against her breast.
“My poor Minnie! my darling! who could refuse your forgiveness? God knows you are suffering sufficiently now—but oh! ifheshould die!” Her composure gave way out of her husband’s presence, and her convulsive sobs seemed too much for her strength. They gathered around her frightened and weeping, beseeching her to cease, lest her cries reached Paul himself. A composing draught at length relieved her, and this was her last indulgence of her sorrow while a prey to such anguish as in vain assailed her. From that day her fortitude never forsook her, and neither loss of sleep or appetite were able to affect her. Minnie shared her vigils—both were mere shadows of their former selves, both watching with pale faces and sunken eyes the patient sufferer. Minnie left the room only when Harry Selby’s watch came round. She had not seen him since the fatal evening, nor mentioned his name after writing him when the meeting took place. It was a touching letter, and Harry bowed his head over it with a burst of manly grief. It ran thus: