I wandered on the lonely strand,A setting sun shone brightly there,And bathed in glory sea and land,And streamed in beauty through the air!A playful breeze the waters curled,Touched their light waves and passed them by,Then fanned a bird whose wings unfurledWere waving on the sunset sky!The bird had gone. The sun had set.His beams still tipped the hills and trees,And flung a rainbow radiance yetOn clouds reflected in the seas!A distant boatman plied the oar,All sparkling with its golden spray,His voice came softened to the shore,Then melted with the dying day!And when the last bright lines on highDeparted as the twilight came,A large star showed its lone, sweet eyeAll margined with a cloud of flame!The winds were hushed. Their latest breathIn soft, low murmurs died afar—The rippling of the wave beneathShowed dancing there that one bright star!So fair a scene, so sweet an hour,Were felt and passed. In stilly calmThey shed around me beauty's power,Yet gave no peace, and brought no balm.I was alone! I saw no eyesWith mine gaze on the twilight sea—No heart returned my lonely sighs—No lips breathed sympathy with me.I was alone! I looked above.That star seemed happy thus to laveIts fairy light and glance of loveDeep in the bosom of the wave.I gazed no more! The blinding tearRose from my heart, and dimmed my sight.Had one dear voice then whispered near,That scene how changed!—That heart how light!My soul was swelling like the sea!Had thine eyes gleamed there with mine own,That soul a mirror true to theeOn ev'ry wave thyself had shown!
I wandered on the lonely strand,A setting sun shone brightly there,And bathed in glory sea and land,And streamed in beauty through the air!
A playful breeze the waters curled,Touched their light waves and passed them by,Then fanned a bird whose wings unfurledWere waving on the sunset sky!
The bird had gone. The sun had set.His beams still tipped the hills and trees,And flung a rainbow radiance yetOn clouds reflected in the seas!
A distant boatman plied the oar,All sparkling with its golden spray,His voice came softened to the shore,Then melted with the dying day!
And when the last bright lines on highDeparted as the twilight came,A large star showed its lone, sweet eyeAll margined with a cloud of flame!
The winds were hushed. Their latest breathIn soft, low murmurs died afar—The rippling of the wave beneathShowed dancing there that one bright star!
So fair a scene, so sweet an hour,Were felt and passed. In stilly calmThey shed around me beauty's power,Yet gave no peace, and brought no balm.
I was alone! I saw no eyesWith mine gaze on the twilight sea—No heart returned my lonely sighs—No lips breathed sympathy with me.
I was alone! I looked above.That star seemed happy thus to laveIts fairy light and glance of loveDeep in the bosom of the wave.
I gazed no more! The blinding tearRose from my heart, and dimmed my sight.Had one dear voice then whispered near,That scene how changed!—That heart how light!
My soul was swelling like the sea!Had thine eyes gleamed there with mine own,That soul a mirror true to theeOn ev'ry wave thyself had shown!
"Mrs. Goldsborough's party is to-night, is it not?" said Mr. Pelby Smith to his wife; "are we going my dear?"
"Aproposof parties," returned she, waiving the question; "I don't see how we are to get on any longer without giving one ourselves."
"Why so, my dear? We cannot afford to give a party, and that will be an apology all-sufficient to a woman of Cousin Sabina's sense."
"Cousin Sabina!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith; "as if I, or any one else, ever thought of going to the trouble of a party for a plain old maid, like cousin Sabina Incledon!"
"My dear, I wish you would not speak in that way of Cousin Sabina; she is an excellent woman, of superior mind, and manners to command respect in any society."
"That may beyouropinion, Mr. Smith," answered the lady tartly; "mine is that a quiet old maid, from somewhere far off in the country, and with an income of two or three hundred dollars a year, would not make much of a figure inoursociety. At all events, I shan't make a trial of it."
"I thought you alluded to her visit as making it incumbent on us to give a party," said Mr. Smith meekly; "there is no other reason, I believe."
"You will allow me to have some judgment in such matters, Mr. Smith. I think it is absolutely necessary that we should, that is, if we wish to go to parties for the future. We have been going to them all our lives without giving any, and people will grow tired of inviting us."
"Then, my dear, why not make up our minds to stay at home. I would rather."
"ButIwould not, Mr. Smith. I shall go to parties as long as possible. My duty to my children requires it."
Mr. Smith opened his eyes as wide as his timidity would let him.
"My duty to my children, I repeat," pursued she with energy; "they will have to be introduced to society."
"Not for seven or eight years yet, any of them," interposed Mr. Smith.
"Sooner or later," continued the lady; "and how is that to be done unless I keep the footing which I have attained—with trouble enough, as I only know, and without any thanks to you, Mr. Smith. If I give up parties, I may fall at once into the obscurity for which you have such a taste. People of fortune and distinction can voluntarily withdraw for a while, and then reappear with as much success as ever, but that is not the case with persons of our position."
"It is only the expense that I object to, my dear; my business is so limited that it is impossible for us to live in any other than a plain, quiet way. The cost of a party would be a serious inconvenience to me."
"The advantages will be of greater consequence than the sacrifices," returned the lady, softening as she saw her husband yielding; "the loss will soon be made up to you through an increase of friends. Party-giving people are always popular."
Mr. Smith saw that his wife was determined to carry her point, which was nothing new. He had learned to submit, and to submit in silence, so, after sitting moodily for a few minutes, he took up his hat to go to his place of business.
"I knew, my dear," said Mrs. Smith smoothly, "that you would soon see the matter in a proper light; and now about Mrs. Goldsborough's party. I shall lay out your things for you. I can go with some satisfaction now that I have a prospect of soon being on equal terms with my entertainers."
Mrs. Smith walked round her two small and by no means elegant rooms, reassuring herself as to the capabilities of her lamps, girandoles and candlesticks, for she had mentally gone through all her arrangements long before; the act of consulting her husband being, generally, her last step toward the undertaking of any important project. She was joined by the object of some of her recent remarks, Miss Sabina Incledon, a cousin of Mr. Smith's, who, until within a few days, had been a stranger to her. She was a plainly dressed person of middle age, with an agreeable though not striking countenance, and unobtrusive, lady-like manners.
"I am sorry you are not going to Mrs. Goldsborough's to-night, Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith; "I have no doubt she would have sent an invitation had she known I had a friend visiting me."
"Not improbable. I do not, however, feel much inclination just now to go to a party. Had it not been for that, I should have sent my card to Mrs. Goldsborough after my arrival. I met her at the springs last summer, and received much politeness from her."
"Mrs. Goldsborough is a very polite woman—very much disposed to be civil to every one," said Mrs. Smith; "by the bye," she added, "Pelby and I have it in contemplation to give a large party ourselves."
"Indeed? I thought you were not party-giving people; Cousin Pelby assured me so."
"And never would be if Pelby Smith had his own way. To be sure, we are not in circumstances to entertain much, conveniently, but for the sake of a firmer place in society, I am always willing to strain a point. As to Pelby, he has so little spirit that he would as soon be at the bottom of the social ladder as at the top. I can speak of it without improprietyto you, as you are his relation, not mine. He has been a perpetual drag and drawback upon me, but, notwithstanding, I have accomplished a great deal. Five or six years ago we were merely on speaking terms with the Goldsboroughs, and the Pendletons, and the Longacres, and the Van Pelts and that set, and now I visit most of them, and receive invitations to all their general parties. I have always felt ashamed of not having entertained them in return, and now I am resolved to do so, as a favorable opportunity offers of doing it advantageously. I mean the coming out of Julia Goldsborough, Mrs. Goldsborough's only daughter. It will be something to say that I have given her a party."
"Do the family expect the compliment of you?" asked Miss Incledon, looking at her in surprise; "I did not know that you were on such intimate terms."
Mrs. Smith smiled in conscious superiority. "Ah, Cousin Sabina!" said she, "you are very unsophisticated. Don't you know that a party goes off with much moreeclâtfor being associated with some name of importance. Now Julia Goldsborough, from her beauty and vivacity, and the fashion and fortune of her family, is to be the belle of the season, and a party got up for her must necessarily make a sensation. All her friends, and they are at the head of society, will attend on her account, if for nothing else, and everybody else will be glad to go where they do. Then the Pendletons and the Longacres and the Van Pelts, several of them, will give her parties—so it is understood—and it will be worth an effort to make mine one of the series."
A faint expression of sarcastic humor passed over the placid countenance of Miss Incledon, but she made no comment.
Mrs. Pelby Smith entered the brilliant rooms of Mrs. Goldsborough that night with an elated spirit, seeing in herself the future hostess of the fashionable throng there assembled. Instead of standing in a corner, listening with unctuous deference or sympathy to any who chanced to come against her, as was her wont, proffering her fan, or her essence-bottle, or in some quiet way ministering to their egotism, she now stepped freely forth upon the field of action, nodding and smiling at the young men to whom she might have been at some time introduced; whispering and jesting with some marked young lady, while she made an occasion to arrange herbertheor her ringlets, and adding herself, as if by accident, to any trio or quartette of pre-eminent distinction. She had at length the anxiously desired opportunity to put out her feelers at Mrs. Goldsborough.
"What a lovely creature Julia has become, Mrs. Goldsborough!" she exclaimed; "it seems but a few months since she was a little fairy onlysohigh, and now she is so well grown and so commanding in her figure! and her manners, they are as pronounced anddistinguéas if she were twenty-five; they appear the more remarkable for her sweet, youthful face. I have been watching her the whole evening, and seeing every one offering her their tribute, I have gotten quite into the spirit of it myself. I'm sure you will smile at me, for you well know that I am not at all in the habit of such things, but I really must give her a party. I have known her so long, almost since she could first run about, and I always loved the little creature so much! I feel as if I have almost a right to be proud of her myself. Have you any engagements for the beginning of next week? If not, unless you positively forbid it, I shall send out invitations at once."
"You are very kind, indeed, Mrs. Smith," said Mrs. Goldsborough, smiling cordially, for she was a fond mother, and also was full of courtesy and amiability; "it will be an unexpected compliment to Julia. She will be flattered that your partiality for her is as warm as ever. We have no engagements for the first of next week. The parties with which my friends will try to spoil Julia do not come on so soon."
Her scheme having been not unfavorably received, Mrs. Smith whispered it to one and another, until it was known to half the company before they dispersed that Miss Goldsborough was to befêtednext by Mrs. Pelby Smith.
Our heroine ought to have overheard the conversation which took place at the late breakfast of Mrs. Goldsborough the following morning.
"You could hardly guess whom you have charmed into party intentions toward you, Julia," said Mrs. Goldsborough; "I suppose you have not heard? Mrs. Pelby Smith."
"Defend me from Mrs. Pelby Smith!" laughed Julia; "but are you in earnest, mamma?"
"Certainly, my dear; she told me last night that she intended to give you a party in the beginning of next week."
"That intolerable, toadying Mrs. Pelby Smith!" exclaimed young Frank Goldsborough; "I would not allow her to cover the iniquities of her ambition with my name, Julia, if I were you. Depend upon it, she has some sinister design in this thing."
"I agree with Frank," rejoined Miss Pendleton, Mrs. Goldsborough's sister; "such as elevating herself in society on your shoulders, Julia, or rather those of your family."
"Charity, charity! you know I don't like such remarks," interposed Mrs. Goldsborough, but with little show of severity; "we have no reason to decide that Mrs. Smith does not really mean a kindness. She always seemed very fond of Julia when a child."
"And so she would have appeared, mamma, of any other that might have happened to be a grandchild of General Pendleton and Judge Goldsborough. I had sense enough to understand her even then. She used to call me in on my way to school, to warm my hands, when they did not need it, and inquire after the health of my mother and grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles, and admire my clothes, and wish her little Jane was old enough to run to school with me, and flatter me on the beauty of my hair and eyes and complexion, in such a way that very few children would have been so stupid as not to have seen through it. Could you not have said something to discourage the new idea, ma'ma?"
"Not without rudeness, Julia, though, I confess, I would rather it could have been done. Even presuming that she is sincere in her professions of regard, I do not like the thought of a person in her circumstances going to what to her must be serious trouble and expense on our account. The easiest way to reconcile myself to it would be by believing with you all, that she has some personal motive in it."
At that same hour Mrs. Smith was immersed in her preliminary arrangements.
"I shall have to ask you to write some of the invitations, Cousin Sabina," said she to Miss Incledon; "I am not much in the habit of writing, even notes; and Pelby, who has not time to attend to it, says that you write a very pretty hand. Here are pen and paper to make out the list—I will give you the names. In the first place, there are all the Goldsboroughs and Pendletons, and Longacres, and Van Pelts—"
"You forget," interrupted Miss Incledon, "that it is necessary to name them individually."
"True, I had forgotten—I have so many things to think about. Beginning with the Goldsboroughs—Mrs., Miss, and Mr.; then General and Mrs. Pendleton, Miss Pendleton, Mr. and Mrs. John, Mr. and Mrs. Henry, and Mr. and Mrs. James Pendleton;" and so Mrs. Smith kept on in continuous nomenclature for a considerable time. It was only as she came down into the lower ranks of fashion, after a regular gradation, that she hesitated for a moment—and then her pauses grew longer and longer.
"Perhaps I can assist your memory, Cousin Sarah," said Miss Incledon; "I have seen several of your acquaintances, and have heard of a good many more; there is Mrs. Wills, with whom you were taking tea the evening of my arrival."
"I have reflected upon that, and conclude that I shall not ask Mrs. Wills," replied Mrs. Smith; "she is a plain person, and seldom goes to parties, which I can make a sufficient excuse for leaving her out, though, to be sure, she would come to mine, if I invited her; and to prevent her from being offended, I shall send for her a few days after to come socially to tea, with a few others of the same set. There will, of course, be plenty of refreshments left, and it will, therefore, be no additional expense."
"Then Mrs. Salisbury and her two daughters, who called yesterday."
"I believe not; they are not decidedly and exclusively of the first circle, though, as you seemed to consider them, quite superior women—very accomplished and agreeable. They have not much fortune, however, and have no connections here. On the whole, I do not see that any thing could be gained by inviting the Salisburys."
"I have not your neighbor, Mrs. Streeter down," observed Cousin Sabina.
"No; I don't see the necessity for having Mrs. Streeter; she is a good creature—very obliging when one needs a neighbor, in cases of sickness, or the like, but would be far from ornamental. I can have an excuse for omitting her in never having received an invitation from her—she does not give parties. She will be very well satisfied, I dare say, if I send her a basket of fragments afterward. You must understand, Cousin Sabina, that as this is my first party, I mean it to be very select."
"Then you will also, I presume, leave out Mrs. Brownell."
"By no means; I calculate a great deal on Mrs. Brownell. She has the greatest quantity of elegant china and cut-glass, which it will be necessary for me to borrow. My own supply is rather limited, and I must depend chiefly on my acquaintances. It was on that account that I set down the Greelys. They have the largest lot of silver forks and spoons of any family I know—owing, it is whispered, to their having, where they came from, kept a fashionable boarding-house. Also, you may put down Mrs. Crabbe."
"Mrs. Crabbe?—did I not hear you describe her as a very low person?"
"Peculiarly so in her manners—but what am I to do? I must have persons to assist me; and Mrs. Crabbe makes the most beautiful jellies and the most delicious Charlotte-Russe I ever tasted. She has a natural talent for all sorts of nice cookery, and with my little experience in it, she will be of the greatest service to me. It saves a great deal to make every thing except the confectionary at home; and I shall go at once and ask Mrs. Crabbe if she will prepare the materials for my fruit-cake, and mix it up."
"You have said nothing about your Aunt Tomkins, of whom Cousin Pelby has talked to me, and of the different members of her family—they are to have invitations, of course?" suggested Miss Incledon.
"No—that is—I shall attend to it myself—I mean you need not mind;" and Mrs. Smith hurried to the door, beginning to perceive something she would rather escape in the countenance and interrogatories of Cousin Sabina. "Bless me!" she exclaimed, turning back, "I almost forgot—and what a mistake it would have been! put down Miss Debby Coggins; I should never have been forgiven if I had neglected her. She has a great many oddities, but she is related to all the first families, and one must keep on her right side. Have you the name?—Miss Deborah Coggins."
We shall not follow Mrs. Smith into the turmoil of her preparations, which would have been much more wearisome and bewildering, from her inexperience in getting up a large entertainment, had it not been for the good judgment and quiet activity of Miss Incledon, and which the night of fruition at last terminated.
All was ready, even the lighting of the rooms, when Mrs. Smith, before commencing her own toilette, entered the apartment of her guest. Miss Incledon, who considered herself past the time of life for other than matronly decorations of the person, was laying out a handsome pelerine, and a tasteful cap, to wear with a rich, dark silk dress.
"My dear Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith, "do help me out of a difficulty; I have no one to remain on duty in the supper-room, and there certainly ought to be some one to sit there and see that nothing is disturbed—for there is a great quantity of silverthere, mostly borrowed, and with so many strange servants about, I feel uneasy to leave it a moment."
"Are you not able to get some one for that service?" asked Miss Incledon.
"No, indeed; I thought of Aunt Tomkins, but the truth is, I could not request her to do it without sending invitations to the whole family, which I concluded would not be advisable: there are so many of them, and as they would not be acquainted with the rest of the company, it seemed best not to have any of them. I thought, too, of old Mrs. Joyce, who sometimes does quilting and knitting for me, but she has a large family of grandchildren, some of whom she always drags with her when she goes to where there is any thing good to eat; and it would never do to have them poking their fingers into the refreshments. So it struck me that perhaps you might oblige me. You don't appear to care for parties, and as you would be a stranger in the room, it is not likely you would have much enjoyment. Of course, if I believed you would prefer the trouble of dressing, and taking your chance among the company, I would not ask it of you."
Nothing daunted by the glow of indignation which followed a look of astonishment on the face of Cousin Sabina, she paused for a reply. After a moment's reflection, Miss Incledon answered calmly, "I am your guest, Sarah—dispose of me as you please;" and returning her cap and white gloves to their boxes, she refastened her wrapper to enter upon the office assigned to her.
The party passed off with the crowding, crushing, talking and eating common to parties. The supper was a handsome one—for Mr. Smith wisely decided that if the thing must be done at all, it should be done well—and therefore he had hinted no restrictions to his wife as to the expense. Many "regrets" had been sent in, but still Mrs. Smith was at the post she had coveted for years—that of receiving a fashionable assemblage in her own house; and if her choicest guests courted her notice as little as they would have done any where else, she was too much elated and flustered, and overheated to think about it. One of her principal concerns was to keep her eye on her husband, who, being a shy, timid man, with very little tact, was not much calculated for playing the host on such an occasion. He had, however, been doing better than she expected, when, a little before supper, he wandered through the crowd to where she was standing, for the moment, alone, and asked, "Where is Cousin Sabina?"
"In the supper-room. It is necessary at such times to have some one behind the scenes, and I had to get her to remain in the supper-room, to watch that things went on properly; and, in particular, to see that none of the silver was carried off, nor the refreshments wasted after supper."
Mr. Smith looked disturbed, and exclaimed, rather too loudly, "Is it possible that you could ask a woman like Sabina Incledon to do such a thing! one of my most respectable relations, and a visiter in my house?"
"Don't speak so loudly. I left out all my own relations, and I dare say they would, any of them, have looked as creditably as Sabina Incledon. When we have established our own standing, Mr. Smith, it will be time enough for us to bring out such people as your Cousin Sabina. To be sure, if I had had any one to trust in her place, I should not have objected at all to her coming in."
Mrs. Smith was turning away, when she saw, at her elbow, Mrs. Goldsborough and Miss Pendleton, who must have overheard the conversation. To her it was the mortification of the evening.
The next morning at the breakfast-table Mrs. Smith was too much occupied in descanting upon the events of the night, describing the dresses, and detailing the commendations on different viands of the supper, to notice that Miss Incledon spoke but little, and when she did, with more dignity and gravity than usual. On rising from the table, she unlocked the sideboard, and taking from it a basket of silver, she said, "I would thank you, Cousin Sabina, to assort these forks and spoons for me. It will be something of a task, as they have to go to half a dozen different places. When you have got through I will look over them to see that all is right;" and she was hurrying off to commence some of the multifarious duties of the day.
"Excuse me, Sarah," said Miss Incledon; "I'll expect that a carriage will be here in a few minutes to take me into the country."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, looking disappointed and somewhat displeased; "I thought I should have your assistance in putting away things—I had no idea of your leaving us to-day."
"You may remember my telling you, Cousin Pelby," said Miss Incledon, addressing Mr. Smith, "that I would be but a few days with you. I took advantage of traveling in this direction to renew our old family intercourse; but the principal object of my journey was to visit a very particular friend, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee."
"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee!" said Mrs. Smith—"are you not mistaken, Cousin Sabina? I presume you mean Mrs. Edward Silsbee. Mrs. Morgan Silsbee lives ten or twelve miles out; their place is said to be magnificent, and I know that she and her husband drives a coach-and-four on state occasions. Mrs. Goldsborough made a splendid dinner for them a short time ago. Mrs. Edward Silsbee I have met often; I didn't know that you were acquainted with her."
"I amnotacquainted with Mrs. Edward Silsbee," said Miss Incledon, with dignity; "I mean her sister-in-law, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. She is an old friend of mine, and I have been under engagement to her since I met her last summer, at the Springs, to make this visit. I had a note from her last night, written from one of the hotels, saying that she would stop for me this morning at nine or ten o'clock—your party preventing her from calling in person."
Had a halo suddenly appeared around the head of Cousin Sabina, Mrs. Smith could hardly have changed her countenance and manner more markedly. "If I had only known it," she exclaimed,"how gratified I should have been to have had an invitation, with my card, sent to her, and to have had her at my party. But, surely, Cousin Sabina, you will soon return to us?"
"I shall certainly pass through town on my way homeward, but will stop at a boarding-house," said Miss Incledon.
The conscious Mrs. Smith reddened violently, but was relieved by the interruption of a handsome carriage, though not the coach-and-four, stopping before her house. Miss Incledon stepped to the parlor-door, to answer the footman, who inquired for her.
"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee's compliments, ma'am," said the man, "and the carriage is at your service whenever you are ready. We are to take her up at Mrs. Goldsborough's, where she got out to wait for you."
It took but a moment for Cousin Sabina to reappear bonneted and shawled, and to have her baggage put on the carriage. Then kindly bidding Mr. Smith farewell, she gave her hand to his wife, escaping the embrace in preparation for her, and was rapidly driven away.
"You see there are some persons who can appreciate Cousin Sabina," said Mr. Smith; and afraid to wait for a reply, he hastened to his place of business.
"And so Cousin Sabina is the friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the friend of Mrs. Goldsborough!" said Mrs. Smith to herself, while a series of not very satisfactory reflections ran through her mind. But her attention was claimed by other things. What with putting away and distributing the fragments of the feast, washing and sending home table-furniture, gathering up candle ends, and other onerous duties, the day wore on. At last, late in the afternoon, with aching head and wearied limbs, she sat down in her rocking-chair in the dining-room to rest. A ring at the door-bell soon disturbed her. "Say I'm engaged, unless it is some person very particular," said she to the servant.
"It is Miss Debby Coggins, ma'am," said the colored girl, returning, with a grin; "I let her in, because she's very partic'lar."
Miss Deborah Coggins, from being connected in some way or other with each of the great families of the town, and having money enough not to be dependent on any of them, was what is called a privileged character—a class of individuals hard to be endured, unless they possess the specific virtue of good-nature, to which Miss Debby had no claim. She talked without ceasing, and her motto was to speak "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." She was of a thin figure, always dressed in rusty black silk, which must sometimes have been renewed or changed, though no one could ever tell when, and a velvet bonnet, of the same hue, with a peculiar lateral flare, which, however, was really made to look something like new once every three or four years. She wore a demi-wreath of frizzly, flaxen curls close above her shaggy eyebrows, which were of the same color; and her very long, distended nose was always filled with snuff, which assisted in giving a trombone sound to as harsh a voice as ever passed through the lips of a woman.
She had drawn up the blinds, and opened the sash of the windows when Mrs. Smith entered the front parlor. "How're you this evening, Mrs. Smith?" said she, in answer to the bland welcome she received; "I was just telling your black girl that if you ever should happen to have a party again, she should open the rooms and have the air changed better the next day; and as you are not used to such things yourself, I thought I might as well let you know it, too. I raised the windows myself. Now," she added, "the room is too cold to sit in, and I would prefer going to your dining-room, or wherever you were when I came in."
"Certainly, certainly, Miss Debby," said Mrs. Smith, marshaling the way.
"Stop!" said Miss Debby, "I want to take a look at your wall paper—I never noticed it before. I can't say I like your taste; though, no doubt, you took it for the sake of economy—ugly papers sometimes go very cheap."
"You are quite mistaken, I assure you, Miss Debby," began Mrs. Smith, eagerly.
"Well, it's of no consequence," interrupted Miss Debby, "only I heard Matilda Shipley say yesterday, that there would be no use in dressing much for Mrs. Pelby Smith's party, as her low rooms, with their dingy, dirt-colored paper, could never be lighted up to make any one look well."
Mrs. Smith cleared her throat, but said nothing, recollecting by this time that all retort or explanation was lost upon Miss Deborah Coggins. To change the subject she remarked, "How disappointed I was at your not coming last night, my dear Miss Debby—one of the friends I most wished to see."
"I have been rather sorry myself that I did not come, since I heard that the party turned out better than could have been expected. I supposed that there would have been a great many here that I did not know, and that my own set, mostly, would have stayed away, like myself, not caring much to meet them."
"What an idea, Miss Debby! there was scarcely one in the room that you did not know. My company was very select."
"So I was told to-day. Mrs. William Van Pelt said that you had invited every body that would not thank you, and, as she had been told, had left out those that had the best right to expect invitations. I should like to have had a share of the supper," continued Miss Debby. "I heard that you had worried yourself nearly to death preparing it, and that it was really good, considering that you were not used to such things. Young John Pendleton said that it made him some little amends for being forced to go to a place where he made a mistake every time he addressed his entertainers and called them Joneses."
Sorely wincing as Mrs. Smith was, she did not forget Miss Debby's notoriety for following close upon the heels of a party for a share of the goodthings left. Accordingly, she opened her sideboard, and produced a choice variety of her store.
"I suppose it is too late to get some of the ice cream?" said Miss Debby, losing no time in attacking what was set before her; "you have used it, or let the ice run out, I dare say?—though, now that I think of it, I made up my mind that I would not care to have any of it, for old Mrs. Longacre told me that what she got was bitter, from being made partly of milk, she supposed, that had been burnt in boiling."
This was more than Mrs. Smith could stand. "It is totally erroneous!" she exclaimed; "I used none but the purest cream, and that without boiling; I don't know how the old lady could have made such a mistake, unless it was that she got some of the almond, which, perhaps, had too much of the bitter-almond flavor for her taste."
"Perhaps so; and she said that she did not venture to taste the Charlotte-Russe, fearing it might turn out to be nothing but sponge-cake and custard, without jelly or whipped cream. But if it was all like this, nobody could complain of it;" and, absorbed in the gratification of her palate, Miss Debby gave her auditor a few minutes respite.
"Your party, on the whole, made something of a talk, Mrs. Smith," she resumed.
Mrs. Smith bowed and smiled, taking the observation for a compliment.
"I was out making calls the day the invitations went round. You know making calls is a business with me, when I undertake it. I commence directly after breakfast, and keep on till night, eating my dinner wherever I suppose dinner chances to be ready. Well, the first I heard of your intentions was from Mrs. Harvey, who said she wondered you could think yourself under obligations to give a party to Julia Goldsborough, though, to be sure, like some other of your devices, she supposed that was only aruse; and she was surprised that the Goldsboroughs were willing to be cat's paws to help you along in 'society.'"
Mrs. Smith's face grew as red as thebon bonpaper she was nervously twisting.
"That was to Mrs. Nicolas and me," pursued Miss Debby; "and Mrs. Nicolas wondered how upon earth the Pelby Smiths could afford to give a party at all. She concluded that you would have to live on bacon and potatoes for the remainder of the season, to retrieve the cost, and would have to turn that changeable silk of yours the third time."
"Oh, I don't mind what people say," observed Mrs. Smith, with a distorted smile.
"I know you don't, or, at least, that you don't resent any thing toward persons of such standing as those two, or I would not have repeated the conversation. But, is it true, that you had some trouble to get the party out of your husband?"
"Mr. Smith and I always act in concert," said Mrs. Smith, looking dutiful.
"Do you? well, that's a happy thing. I understood quite the contrary, though, that you always carried the day, from what Mrs. Joe Culpepper said. I was at her house when your invitation came in, and after she had opened it, she exclaimed, with her sly laugh, "Only think, Miss Debby, that manœuvring, pushing Mrs. Pelby Smith has at last worried her poor husband into giving a party!" and from the way she pitied Mr. Smith, I inferred she must have some reason to believe that if you did not wield a pretty high hand, he would not be quite such a man of wax as he seems."
Had Miss Debby been any thing less than a relation in common to the "Goldsboroughs, the Pendletons, the Longacres, and the Van Pelts," Mrs. Smith would have been tempted to request her to leave the house; but as it was, her policy taught her to endure whatever Miss Debby might choose to inflict. So she leaned back hopelessly in her chair, while the old lady snapped and cracked a plate of candied fruits with a vigor of which her teeth looked incapable.
"Had you any of your borrowed things broken?—for I heard that you had to borrow nearly every thing," resumed her torturer.
"Not any thing at all but two or three plates, which can easily be replaced," replied Mrs. Smith, not knowing what next to expect on that point. But Miss Debby tacked about.
"I believe," said she, "you had a visiter staying with you for a few days?"
"Yes—a cousin of Mr. Smith's—Miss Sabina Incledon—"
"That's the name," interrupted Miss Debby, nodding; "the person that went out home with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, this morning, I presume?"
"The same," replied Mrs. Smith, feeling her consequence looking up; "Cousin Sabina is a very particular friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, who for a long time had been soliciting the visit."
"Then, surely, she could not have been the person you set to watching the kitchen and supper-room! Susan Goldsborough and Lydia Pendleton were talking about it, and repeating to each other what they overheard of a conversation between yourself and your husband, who seemed greatly shocked that you had done it. Susan Goldsborough remarked that if she had known that you had so little sense as to undervalue such a woman in that way, or so little feeling and good-breeding as to violate the laws of common hospitality and politeness so grossly, she would assuredly have declined the party for Julia when you proposed it to her."
Mrs. Smith had grown quite pale, and could only answer tremulously, "What a misconstruction!—dear me—it was Cousin Sabina's wish—how strange a mistake."
"It certainly is strange if they were so mistaken, and stranger still that a woman of so much dignity, and so accustomed to society as Miss Incledon, should have preferred watching your servants to taking her proper place among your guests. I thought to myself whilst they were talking, that it seemed hardly consistent with your usual way of doing things, to put upon such duty a person who in all probability would soon be Mrs. Colonel Raynor, andthe aunt of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. I shouldn't wonder if the match came off in a month."
"Cousin Sabina likely to be married in a month!—and to Colonel Raynor!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, startled out of her usual tact, and her lips growing yet bluer.
"Bless me! didn't you know the story?" said Miss Debby, in her turn looking surprised; "they met last summer at the Springs, and the colonel was so pleased with her unpretending good sense, excellent principles, and superior mental cultivation, that he proposed to her before she went away. She deferred her answer until she and his children should have become acquainted. You know he is a widower with three daughters—two of them married. She has been in correspondence ever since with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the colonel's niece, who has been trying to make the match, and who, that her cousins may meet her, has insisted upon the present visit. They are lovely young women, the daughters, whom she cannot fail to like, and as they know how to appreciate such a woman as Miss Incledon, there is no doubt of the marriage taking place. It will be a great thing for you, Mrs. Smith; the connection will do more for you than a dozen parties. And such a charming place as you will have to visit! The colonel lives like a prince, and at only a few hours' drive from here. You can go there in the summer with your children, and meet a constant run of company more choice than at a watering-place, and all without any expense. When your cousin comes back to town, be sure to let me know, that I may call upon her. Susan Goldsborough is fretted enough that she was not apprised of her being here, and so are some of the Longacres; they blame you with it all."
Mrs. Smith did not attempt to reply, and Miss Debby rose to go.
"It is getting late," said she, "and I must walk. If you have no objection I will take those slices of fruit and almond cake, and a paper of candied fruit andbon bonswith me—and perhaps you can spare some more Malaga grapes—or could you send them home for me by one of your servants? I should like to stop at Susan Goldsborough's to tell her that you knew nothing about the good fortune in prospect for your cousin, and it is probable she will wish me to stay for tea."
Mrs. Smith restrained herself until she had escorted her visiter to the door, and then returning to her rocking-chair, she indulged in a fit of weeping that looked very much like hysterics. Her most prominent thought was, "If I had only given the party to Cousin Sabina!"
This she had ample opportunity to reiterate—for time proved to her that the prime object of her grand effort had failed—those who comprised her select party never including her in any of theirs. More particularly did it recur to her, when, some months afterward, Mrs. Colonel Raynor, though she sometimes stopped to exchange a few kindly words with Mr. Smith at his place of business, evaded every invitation to his dwelling, while she went the rounds of sumptuous fêting among the Goldsboroughs, Pendletons, Longacres & Co.
"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,As in morning's hour it stoleSpeaking to thee from the home of its choice,Deep in the unfathomed soul:Telling of things that the ear hath not heard,Neither the mind conceived;Bringing a balm in each gentle wordUnto the heart bereaved?"O, I have heard it in days of the spring,When gladness and joy were rife.'Twas a voice of hope, that came whisperingIts story of strength and life.It told me that seasons of vigor and mirthFollow the night of pain;And the heaven-born soul, like the flowers of earth,Withers, to live again!"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,At the sunny hour of noon;Bidding the soul in its light rejoice,For the darkness cometh soon;Telling of blossoms that early bloomAnd as early pine and fade;And the bright hopes that must find a tombIn the dark, approaching shade?"Yes, I have heard it in summer's hour,When the year was in its strength:'T was a voice of faith, and it spoke with powerOf joys that shall come at length.It told how the holy and beautiful gainFruition of peace and love;And the blest ones, freed from this world of pain,Flourish and ripen above."Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,At the solemn noon of night,When the fair visions of memory riseRobed in their fancied light.When the loved forms that are cold and deadPass in their train sad and slow;And the waking soul, from its pleasures fled,Turns to its present wo?"Oft have I heard it when day was o'er;And the welcome tones I knew:Like the voices of those who have gone before,The Beautiful and the True.And it turned my thoughts to that blissful timeWhen ceaseth cold winter's breath;When the free spirit shall seek that climeWhere there is no more death.
"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,As in morning's hour it stoleSpeaking to thee from the home of its choice,Deep in the unfathomed soul:Telling of things that the ear hath not heard,Neither the mind conceived;Bringing a balm in each gentle wordUnto the heart bereaved?"
O, I have heard it in days of the spring,When gladness and joy were rife.'Twas a voice of hope, that came whisperingIts story of strength and life.It told me that seasons of vigor and mirthFollow the night of pain;And the heaven-born soul, like the flowers of earth,Withers, to live again!
"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,At the sunny hour of noon;Bidding the soul in its light rejoice,For the darkness cometh soon;Telling of blossoms that early bloomAnd as early pine and fade;And the bright hopes that must find a tombIn the dark, approaching shade?"
Yes, I have heard it in summer's hour,When the year was in its strength:'T was a voice of faith, and it spoke with powerOf joys that shall come at length.It told how the holy and beautiful gainFruition of peace and love;And the blest ones, freed from this world of pain,Flourish and ripen above.
"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,At the solemn noon of night,When the fair visions of memory riseRobed in their fancied light.When the loved forms that are cold and deadPass in their train sad and slow;And the waking soul, from its pleasures fled,Turns to its present wo?"
Oft have I heard it when day was o'er;And the welcome tones I knew:Like the voices of those who have gone before,The Beautiful and the True.And it turned my thoughts to that blissful timeWhen ceaseth cold winter's breath;When the free spirit shall seek that climeWhere there is no more death.