Poor Clerie! but I have told his story,[1]so I will not tell it again. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbé, when I first came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it will not, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbé in his priest-robes, and hearing his sad tale of poor Clerie, I should forget entirely to ask about the little shoe, or the tall gentleman of the attic. Nevertheless I did, as I went out, throw a glance up to the window of the court—alas! there were more panes broken, the placard was gone, the veil was gone—there was nothing but a flimsy web which a bold spider had stretched across one of the comers. I felt sure that the last six months had brought its changes to other houses, as well as the house of Clerie.
I thought I would just step round to the conciergerie of the neighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur Very; but before I had got fairly into the court I turned directly about, and walked away—I was afraid to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the tale I had already heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge of sadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybody knows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and there are times, too—Heaven knows!—when a saddened soul shrinks, fearful as a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass, like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone!
I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very; so I walked home—one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; and another while the current of my thought would disengage itself from these hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, and sad—pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate.
I knew the abbé would tell me all next day—and so he did.
We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snug restaurantup-stairs, near the Theatre Français. We look a little cabinet to ourselves, and I ordered up a bottle of Chambertin.
The soup was gone, a nice dish offilet de veau,aux epinards, was before us, and we had drank each a couple of glasses, before I ventured to ask one word about Monsieur Very.
"Ah, mon cher," said the abbé—at the same time laying down his fork—"il est mort!"
"And mademoiselle—"
"Attendez," said the abbé, "and you shall hear it all."
The abbé resumed his fork; I filled up the glasses, and he commenced:
"You will remember,mon cher, having described to me the person of the tall pale gentleman who was our neighbor. The description was a very good one, for I recognized him the moment I saw him.
"It was a week or more after you had left for the south, and I had half forgotten—excuse me,mon ami—the curiosity you had felt in the little window in the court; I happened to be a half hour later than usual in returning from mass, and as I passed the hotel at the corner, I saw coming out a tall gentleman, in a cloak trimmed with a little tawny lace, and with an air so different from that of most lodgers in the neighborhood, that I was sure it must be Monsieur Very."
"The very same," said I.
"Indeed," continued the abbé, "I was so struck with his appearance—added to your interest in him—(here the abbé bowed and sipped his wine) that I determined to follow him a short way down the street. He kept through the Rue de Seine, and passing under the colonnade of the Institute, crossed the Pont de Fer, continued along the quay as far as the gates of the garden—into the Rue de Rivoli, and though I thought he would have stopped at some of thecafésin the neighborhood, he did not, but kept steadily on, nor did I give up pursuit until he had taken his place in one of the omnibuses which pass the head of the Rue de la Paix.
"A week after, happening to see him, as I came home from Martin's, under the Odeon, I followed him again: I took a place in the same omnibus at the head of the Rue de la Paix. Opposite the Rue de Lancry he stopped. I stopped a short way above, and stepping back, soon found the poor gentleman picking his feeble paces along the dirty sideway.
"You remember,mon cher, wandering with me in the Rue de Lancry; you remember that it is crooked and long. The poor gentleman found it so; for before he had reached the end he leaned against the wall, apparently overcome with fatigue. I offered him assistance; at first he declined; he told me he was going only to the Hôpital St. Louis, which was now near by. I told him I was going the same way, upon which he took my arm, and we walked together to the gates. The poor gentleman seemed unable or unwilling to talk with me, and at the gates he merely pulled a slip of paper from his pocket to show the concierge, and passed in. I attended him as far as the middle hall in the court, when he kindly thanked me, and turned into one of the male wards. I took occasion presently to look in, and saw my companion half way down the hall, at the bed-side of a very feeble-looking patient of perhaps seven or eight-and-twenty.
"There seemed a degree of familiarity between them, more than would belong to patient and physician. I noticed too that the attendants treated the old gentleman with marked respect; this was, I fancy, however, owing to the old gentleman's air, for not one of them could tell me who he was.
"I left him in the hospital, more puzzled than ever as to who could be the occupant of your little chamber. He seemed to me to have seen better days; and as for your lady of the slipper, it was so long before I saw any female with Monsieur Very, that I began to think she had no existence, save in your lively imagination."
Here the abbé sipped his wine.
"You saw her at length, then?" said I.
"Attendez.One evening I caught a glimpse of the tall gentleman going into the court of his hotel, with a lady closely muffled in black upon his arm."
"And she had a pretty foot?"
"Ah,mon ami, it was too dark to see."
"And did you see her again?"
"Attendez.(The abbé sipped his wine.) For a month I saw neither monsieur nor mademoiselle. I passed the court early and late; I even went up to St. Louis, but the sick man was gone. The whole matter had nearly dropped from my mind, when one night—it was late, and very dark—the little bell at the wicket rung, and presently there was a loud rap at my door. It was the concierge of the next court; a man he said was dying, and a priest was wanted.
"I hurried over, and followed the concierge up, I know not how many stairs, into a miserable little chamber. There was a yellow placard at the window—"
I filled the abbé's glass and my own.
"Poor Monsieur Very," continued the abbé, "was on the couch before me, dying! The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a third person present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place."
The abbé saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine.
"This is very good wine, monsieur," said the abbé.
"Was she pretty?" said I.
"Beautiful," said the abbé, earnestly.
I filled the abbé's glass. The garçon had taken away thefricandeau, and served us withpoulet roti.
"Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I.
"She was beautiful," said the abbé, "and her expression was so sweet, so gentle, so sad—ah,mon ami—ah, pauvre—pauvre fille!"
The abbé had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face.
"And so poor Very died?" said I.
"It was a sad sight," said the abbé.
"And he confessed to you?"
"I was too late,mon ami; he murmured a word or two in my ear I could not understand. He confessed to God."
"And mademoiselle—"
"She sat at the foot of the couch when I went in, with her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on the poor gentleman's face; now and then a tear rolled off her cheeks—but she did not know it.
"Presently the dying man beckoned to her. She stole softly to the head of the couch, and laid her little white hand in his withered fingers.
"'Marie,' said he, 'dear Marie, I shall be gone—soon.'
"The poor girl burst into tears, and gathered up the palsied hand of the old man in both hers, as if she would not let him go.
"'Marie,' continued he, very feebly, 'you will want a friend.'
"Again the poor girl answered by a burst of tears. She could say nothing.
"'I have seen Remy,' continued the old man, still addressing the girl, who seemed startled at the name, notwithstanding her grief. 'He has suffered like us; he has been ill, too—very ill; you may trust him now, Marie; he has promised to be kind. Marie, my child, will you trust him?'
"'Dear father, I will do what you wish,' said the girl, weeping.
"'Thank you, Marie,' said the old man, and he tried to carry the white hand to his lips, but he could not. 'And now, Marie—the little locket?'
"Marie stepped softly across the chamber, and brought a small gold locket, very richly wrought, and put it in the old man's hand; the old man raised it toward his face.
"'A little more light, dear Marie,' said he.
"Marie stepped to the window and removed the yellow placard.
"'A little more—light, Marie,' said the old man, feebly. He was getting lower and lower.
"Marie set the door ajar, and, stepping to the window, she pulled a little handkerchief from her pocket, and tried to rub some of the dust from the glass.
"'Light, Marie; dear Marie—more light!' He said it scarce above his breath, but she heard it, and looked at me. I shook my head. She saw how it was, and caught the stiffening hand of the old man.
"'Dear, dear father!' and her tears streamed over it. Her sobs roused the old man for a moment.
"'Marie,' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till it rested on her head, 'Marie—God bless you!'
"I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of the old man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till her knees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested on the couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay upon her white, smooth neck.
"Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes of the old man—they must have looked strangely to her.
"'Father, dear father!' said she. There was a little clock at the foot of the couch, and it ticked very—very loud.
"The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and another hurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how it must be; ah,mon ami, if you had heard her cry, 'Mon Dieu! il est mort!—il est mort!'"
For a moment the abbé could not go on.
"She was right," continued he, presently, "the old man was dead!"
The garçon removed the chicken, and served us with a dozen or two of oysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbé had not touched his wine—nor had I.
"He was buried," resumed the abbé, "just within the gates of Pere la Chaise, a little to the right of the carriage way. A cypress is growing by the grave, and there is at the head a small marble tablet, very plain, inscribed simply, 'à mon pere, 1845.'
"I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn."
"You saw mademoiselle?"
"Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with a thick black veil—not so thick, though, but I could see a white handkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figure tremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, when they commenced throwing down the earth upon the coffin.
"Oui,mon ami, I saw her walk away—not able to support herself, but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I had seen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered a carriage together, and drove away."
"It was Remy, I suppose?" said I.
"I do not know," said the abbé.
"And when did you see her again?"
"Not for months," said the abbé; and he sipped his wine.
"Shall I go on,mon cher?—it is a sad story."
I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbé's glass, and took a nut or two from the dish before us.
"I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone, the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and made inquiries for a Monsieur Remy—no such name had been entered within a year. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court; it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the grave of the old man—it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-tree had been put at the foot of the grave. I did not know, but thought who must have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautifulMarieagain.
"You remember,mon ami, the pretty little houses along the Rue de Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear marble door-steps?"
"Très bien, mon cher abbé."
"It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went in,mon ami. I made myself known as the attendant on herfather's death. She took my hand at this—ah, the soft white hand."
The abbé sipped his wine.
"She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom, and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix.
"I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled her thanks.
"I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face, and burst into tears.
"I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend.
"'Mon Dieu!' said she, looking at me earnestly, 'il est—il etait mon mari!'
"She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?"
"'Ah, non, non, monsieur—worse—Mon Dieu! quel mariage!' and she buried her face in her hands.
"What could I do,mon cher? Thefriendhad betrayed her. They told me as much at Passy."
Again the abbé stopped.
"She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom—it was from his grave—and kissed it, and then—crushed it in her hand—'Oh, God! what should I do now with flowers?' said she.
"I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave—but not to pick roses.
"She is there now," said the abbé.
There was a long pause. The abbé did not want to speak—nor did I.
At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy.
"You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbé. "Ah,mon ami, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles; but there is a time coming—it is coming,mon cher, when he will go away—where God judgeth, and not man."
Our dinner was ended. The abbé and myself took avoitureto go to Pere la Chaise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of the carriage-track, were two tablets, side by side—one was older than the other. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply—"Marie, 1846." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted about the smaller grave—but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of the old man. I have it now.
Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in the Rue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at the top.
A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirty printed curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather have seen it empty.
I half wished I had never seenLe Petit Soulier.
Learned and illustrious of all Poets thou,Whose Titan intellect sublimely boreThe weight of years unbent; thou, on whose browFlourish'd the blossom of all human lore—How dost thou take us back, as 't were by vision,To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim;And we behold in visitings Elysian,Where waved the white wings of the Cherubim;But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and "Regained,"We might, enchanted, wander evermore.Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reignedKing of our hearts; and, till upon the shoreOf the Eternal dies the voice of Time,Thy name shall mightiest stand—pure, brilliant, and sublime.
Learned and illustrious of all Poets thou,Whose Titan intellect sublimely boreThe weight of years unbent; thou, on whose browFlourish'd the blossom of all human lore—How dost thou take us back, as 't were by vision,To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim;And we behold in visitings Elysian,Where waved the white wings of the Cherubim;But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and "Regained,"We might, enchanted, wander evermore.Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reignedKing of our hearts; and, till upon the shoreOf the Eternal dies the voice of Time,Thy name shall mightiest stand—pure, brilliant, and sublime.
Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine,(Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,)The daintie Poesie of days of yore—The choice old English rhyme—and over thine,Oh! "glorious John," delightedly I pore—Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony,Deep in the soil of our humanityIt taketh root, until the goodly treeOf Poesy puts forth green branch and bough,With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloomOf one embowered haunt I see thee now,Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom.That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago,Yet its creations with immortal life still glow.
Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine,(Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,)The daintie Poesie of days of yore—The choice old English rhyme—and over thine,Oh! "glorious John," delightedly I pore—Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony,Deep in the soil of our humanityIt taketh root, until the goodly treeOf Poesy puts forth green branch and bough,With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloomOf one embowered haunt I see thee now,Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom.That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago,Yet its creations with immortal life still glow.
Thou, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen,"In thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," did shed,A noontide glory over Milton's head—He, "Prince of Poets"—thou, the prince of men—Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead.How dost thou charm for us the touching storyOf the lost children in the gloomy wood;Haunting dim memory with the early glory,That in youth's golden years our hearts imbued.From the fine world of olden Poetry,Life-like and fresh, thou bringest forth againThe gallant heroes of an earlier reign,And blend them in our minds with thoughts of thee,Whose name is ever shrined in old-world memory.
Thou, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen,"In thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," did shed,A noontide glory over Milton's head—He, "Prince of Poets"—thou, the prince of men—Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead.How dost thou charm for us the touching storyOf the lost children in the gloomy wood;Haunting dim memory with the early glory,That in youth's golden years our hearts imbued.From the fine world of olden Poetry,Life-like and fresh, thou bringest forth againThe gallant heroes of an earlier reign,And blend them in our minds with thoughts of thee,Whose name is ever shrined in old-world memory.
"You had better leave Harry alone about that girl," said Tom Leveredge to his sisters, who were talking very fast, and sometimes both together, in the heat and excitement of the subject under discussion. "You only make Harry angry, and you do no good. Take my advice, and say no more to him about her."
"And let him engage himself without one word of remonstrance," exclaimed Miss Leveredge, despairingly.
"You don't know that he means to engage himself," argued Tom; "and if he does, opposition wont prevent him. On the contrary, it may settle a passing fancy into a serious feeling; and if he does not mean it now, you are enough to put it into his head, with all the talk you make about it."
"She'llput it into his head," ejaculated Miss Leveredge, scornfully. "Leave her alone for that. She'll get him—I know she will," she continued, almost in tears at the thought. "It's too bad!"
"What do you think about it, Tom?" inquired Mrs. Castleton, earnestly. "Do you think with Emma, that it will end in his having her?"
"I should not be surprised," replied Tom, coolly.
"Then you think he is in love with her?" continued his sister, mournfully.
"There's no telling," replied Tom. "He's a good deal with her; and if he is thwarted at home, and flattered by her, I think it very possible he may fancy himself so, whether he is or not."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, "that would be melancholy, indeed—to be taken in without even being attached to her!"
"Don't be in such a hurry," said Tom. "I don't know that he is not in love with her, or that he is going to be taken in; but I do say, that Emma's course is very injudicious."
"What is that?" inquired Mrs. Castleton.
"Oh, abusing the girl so—saying she is vulgar, and—"
"I am sure I did not say any thing that is not true," said Emma, with some spirit. |
"Perhaps not," replied Tom; "but it is not always wise to be forcing the truth upon people at all times, and in all tempers."
"Where on earth did Harry become acquainted with her?" asked Mrs. Castleton.
"That's more than I can tell you," replied Tom. "He told me that Jewiston introduced him."
"I never could bear that Jewiston," remarked Miss Leveredge; "I always thought him very under-bred and vulgar. Why will Harry have any thing to do with him?"
"Who—Jewiston? He's a clever fellow enough," said Tom.
"Oh, Tom! how can you say so!"
"So he is," persisted the young man. "He's not very refined or elegant, I grant you—but still a very good fellow."
"And so you think, Tom," continued Mrs. Castleton, still intent on the main theme, "that in all probability Miss Dawson will be our sister-in-law?"
Emma shivered.
"I don't think it probable, but very possible," replied the young man, "particularly under the present system of family politics."
"And it would be very bad." pursued Mrs. Castleton, inquiringly.
"Oh, dreadful!" ejaculated Emma.
"There's nothing verydreadfulabout it," remonstrated Tom; "it would not be pleasant, certainly—but that's all. There's no use in making the matter worse than it is."
Emma looked as if that were impossible, but said nothing, while Mrs. Castleton continued with—
"What kind of a set is she in—and what are the family?"
"Very low, vulgar people," said Emma.
"Now, Emma, there again you are exaggerating," rejoined Tom. "They arenota low set—vulgar, I admit."
"The same thing," persisted Emma.
"It's not the same thing, Emma," said the young man, decidedly. "They are very far from beinglowpeople. Her father is a highly respectable man, and, indeed, so are all the family—not fashionable, I grant you."
"Fashionable!" ejaculated Emma, with a smile full of scornful meaning.
"But I admit," continued Tom, "that it is not a connection that would altogether suit us. I should be as sorry, perhaps, as any of you to see the thing take place."
"And what is the girl in herself," pursued Mrs. Castleton.
"A vulgar, forward, ugly thing," said Emma, speaking quickly, as if she could not help herself—the words must out, let Tom say what he would.
Tom said nothing, however.
"Is she?" said Mrs. Castleton, looking very much distressed, and turning to her brother.
"Emma will have it that she is," he replied.
"Now, Tom, you know she is," expostulated Emma.
"No, Emma," said Tom, "if you will permit me, I know no such thing."
"You surely don't admire her, too," said Emma, with a look of mingled alarm and disgust.
"No," said Tom, "she is as you say, vulgar, and somewhat forward—but not ugly. On the contrary, she is decidedly handsome."
"Handsome!" repeated Miss Leveredge. "Do you call her handsome, with all those hanging curls, and thatferonière, and her hat on the very back of her head; with her short petticoats and big feet—and such bright colors, and quantity of tawdry jewelry as she wears, too."
"You women never can separate a girl from her dress," said Tom, laughing. "Miss Dawson dresses execrably, I grant you; but give her one half of the advantages of the girls that you see around you in society, and she would be not only pretty, but beautiful."
"Then she may be improved," said Mrs. Castleton, hopefully.
"Not much of that," said Tom. "She is very well satisfied with herself, I imagine."
"Oh, it's evident she's a public belle and beauty in her own set," said Emma. "She's full of airs and graces."
Mrs. Castleton sighed.
"It's a bad business, I am afraid," she said, mournfully.
"No," said Tom, stoutly, "it's not pleasant, and that's all. The girl may make a very good wife, though she does dress badly. She looks amiable, and I dare say has sense enough."
"It's not her dress only," persisted Emma, "but her manners are so bad."
"Well, many a flirty girl has settled into a very respectable married woman," continued Tom.
"Where have you seen her, Emma?" asked Mrs. Castleton.
"Tom pointed her out to me one night at the theatre; and I have since seen her in the street frequently."
"Then you do not know her at all?" continued Mrs. Castleton, with some surprise in her tone. "How, then, do you know any thing about her manners, Emma?"
"It's not necessary to know her to know what her manners are," replied Emma. "One glance across the theatre is enough for that. She had two or three beaux with her—indeed, I believe she was there only with them—"
"Her mother was with her, Emma," interposed Tom, decidedly.
"Well," continued Emma, a little provoked at being set right, "she ought to have made her behave herself, then."
"But how did she behave, Emma?" pursued Mrs. Castleton, who had been absent from the city during the rise and progress of this flirtation, and was now anxious for as much information as could be obtained on the subject.
"Oh, laughing, and flirting, and shaking her long curls back, and looking up to their faces—perfectly disgusting!"
Mrs. Castleton looked at her brother in the hopes of some amendment here on his part; but he only smiled, and shook his head, and said,
"Pretty much so, Emma."
"And then, dressed—oh, you never saw a girl so bedizzened!"
"Strange!" said Mrs. Castleton. "that Harry should admire such a girl. He is generally rather critical—hates particularly to see you at all over-dressed, Emma. He never would admire Fanny Lewis, you know, because she had something of that manner. I wonder he should admire this girl."
"Oh, it all depends very much upon thecliquein which a man sees a girl how she strikes him," said Tom. "Miss Dawson's manners are very much those of the girls around her, quite as good, if not better; then she is really handsome—moreover, very much admired, the belle of the set; and Harry's vanity is rather flattered, I suppose, by the preference she shows him."
"You think, then, she likes him?" said Mrs. Castleton.
"I know nothing more about it than you do," replied Tom. "I suppose she must, for she certainly could marry richer men than Harry if she wanted to. She has the merit, at least, of disinterestedness."
"Harry would be a great match for her," said Emma, indignantly—"and she knows it. She might get more money, perhaps, but think of the difference of position."
"Yes, I suppose that has something to do with it," replied Tom. "You women all think so much of such things."
"Strange!" repeated Mrs. Castleton, "I don't know how Harry can fancy such a girl."
"Don't you know all objects vary according to the light they are in," said Tom. "If Harry saw Miss Dawson among young ladies of a different style and stamp, the changes of the 'dissolving views' would not be greater. The present picture would fade away, and a new, and in all probability a very different one, would take its place."
"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, suddenly, and clapping her hands joyfully. "I'll call and ask her to my party for the bride."
Emma looked at her for a moment aghast, as if she thought she had suddenly gone crazy.
"What do you mean, Laura?" she exclaimed.
"Why, to follow out Tom's idea," she said. "It's excellent! I'm going to give Mrs. Flemming a party. I'll make it very select, and not large; invite all the prettiest and most elegant girls, and then play amiable to Harry, by telling him I'll call upon his Miss Dawson and invite her."
Emma looked very dubious, and said,
"I don't like our countenancing the thing in this way."
"You need have nothing to do with it," returned her sister. "As it seems you and Harry have had words about it, you had better not; butI'll call—I'll have her. And it shall be such an elegant, select littleaffair that it will show her off to charming advantage," she continued, with much animation, delighted with her own cleverness in the scheme. "He can't help but be ashamed of her. Don't you think so, Tom?"
The young man laughed.
"Now, Tom," said she, a little disappointed, "don't you think so?"
"There's a good chance of it, certainly," he replied. "You can but try it."
"Then why do you laugh," she continued, still dissatisfied.
"Only to see what spiteful creatures you women are," he continued, smiling. "To see the pains you'll take to put down a girl you don't happen to fancy."
"Surely, you yourself, Tom," commenced Mrs. Castleton, seriously, and "I am sure, Tom," chimed in Emma, in the same breath, "you have always said—"and then they both poured forth such a torrent of reminiscences and good reasons for wishing to prevent the match, that he was glad to cry for mercy, and ended by saying seriously,
"I am sure I hope you may succeed."
"Harry," said Mrs. Castleton, in her prettiest and most winning manner, "I am going to call on your friend, Miss Dawson, and invite her for Thursday evening."
Harry looked up very much astonished, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or not, and said,
"What put that in your head?"
"I want to know her," continued Mrs. Castleton. "They tell me you admire her, Harry; and if she is to be my future sister, as people say—"
"People say a great deal more than they know," said Harry, hastily.
"Well," rejoined his sister, playfully, "be that as it may, Harry, I should like to see the young lady; and beside, I want as many pretty girls as I can get, they always make a party brilliant—and you say she is pretty, don't you, Harry?"
"Beautiful," he replied, with an earnestness that startled Mrs. Castleton. "You'll have no prettier girl here, I promise you that, Laura," he added, presently, more quietly. "But what will Emma say," he continued, bitterly. "She'll never give her consent, depend upon it, to your calling."
"It's not necessary that she should," said Mrs. Castleton, good humoredly; "so perhaps I had better not ask her."
"Emma gives herself airs," continued Harry, angrily. "She thinks that all the world are just confined to her one littleclique; that there's neither beauty, nor sense, nor any thing else out of her particular set. Now I can tell her that there's more beauty among those who don't give themselves half the airs, and who she looks down upon, than there is to be found among her 'fashionables.' But Emma is perfectly ridiculous with her 'exclusive' nonsense," he continued, with much feeling, evidently showing how deeply he resented his sister's reflections upon the style and stamp of his present admiration, Miss Dawson.
"Oh," said Mrs. Castleton, soothingly, "it's a mistake all very young girls make, Harry. They know nothing out of one circle. Of course, they disparage all others."
But Harry was not to be quieted so easily. He was not satisfied until he had poured forth all his complaints against Emma; and Mrs. Castleton found it best not to take her part, but trust to the result of her experiment of the next week with putting him in good humor with her again.
"Will you call with me?" she continued, presently. "I have ordered the carriage at one."
He looked pleased, and said he would. But after a little while he seemed to grow nervous and fidgetty—walked about the room—asked a good many questions, without seeming to attend much to the answers, and at last said, hurriedly,
"Well, Laura, it's rather late, and I have an engagement down town—do you care about my calling with you? You know it's only necessary for you to leave your card. You need not go in even, if you don't care about it."
"Oh, certainly," she replied. "No, don't wait for me."
And he took his hat and darted off like light, as if he had made an escape from he hardly knew what.
Mrs. Castleton could not but laugh as she heard him shut the hall-door, almost before she was aware he had left the room, well pleased with this indication of susceptibility on his part, which she took as a good omen of the future, fully believing that "future events cast their shadows before." "If Harry were nervous already, what would he be on Thursday evening."
The call was made. Miss Dawson was out. A card was left, with an invitation, which, in due time, was accepted.
"Are you going to ask the Hazletons," inquired Emma.
"No," said Mrs. Castleton; "I don't want to have too large a party. I want just enough to fill my rooms prettily, so that you can see everybody, and how they are dressed—just one of those small, select, pretty parties, where everybody is noticed. I have hardly asked a person—I don't know one—who is not in some way distinguished for either dress, manner, air, or beauty. I have taken pains to cull the most choice of my acquaintance. The rooms will be beautifully lighted—and I expect it to be a brilliant affair."
"If it were not for that Miss Dawson to spoil all," said Emma, dejectedly—for she had never liked the scheme, though she did not oppose it. "I declare, Laura, I wonder at your moral courage in having her. I don't thinkIcould introduce her among such a set, even to be sure of breaking it off. You will be terribly ashamed of her. You don't know, I think, what you have undertaken."
Mrs. Castleton could not but laugh at the earnestness, not to say solemnity, of Emma's manner.
"Not I, Emma—why should I be ashamed of her. If she were Harry's wife, or if even he were engaged to her, the case would be different—I should blush for her then, if she is vulgar. But merely as a guest, how can her dress or manners affectme. My position is not to be altered by my happening to visit a girl who dresses vilely, and flirtsà discretion."
But still Emma looked very dubious, and only said, "Well, don't introduce me."
"Don't be alarmed," replied her sister. "I don't mean to. Come, come, Emma," she continued, laughing, "I see you are nervous about it, but I think you may trust me for carrying it off well," to which her sister replied,
"Well, Laura, if any onecanget out of such a scrape gracefully, you will."
Mrs. Castleton laughed, and the subject dropped.
What Emma had said was true. There was an airy grace, a high-bred ease about Mrs. Castlelon, that could carry her through any thing she chose to undertake.
Thursday evening arrived at last. Mrs. Castleton's rooms were lighted to perfection, and she herself dressed with exquisite taste, looking the fitting priestess of the elegant shrine over which she presided. Emma, with her brothers, came early—and one glance satisfied Mrs. Castleton. The simplicity and elegance of Emma'stoilettewere not to be out-done even by her own. Tom looked at them both with great pride; and, certainly, two prettier or more elegant specimens of humanity are not often to be met with.
He made some playful observation to his sister, expressive of his admiration of her taste, and looking about, said,
"Your rooms are very well lighted. There's nothing like wax, after all."
"They are too hot," said Harry, pettishly.
"Bless you, man," replied Tom, "how can you say so. I am downright chilly; but as there is to be dancing, it is better it should be so."
"If you find this room warm, Harry," said Mrs. Castleton, "you had better go in the dancing-room—there is not a spark of fire there."
Harry walked off, and Emma said,
"I don't know what is the matter with him—he's so cross. He has been so irritable all day that I have hardly dared to speak to him."
Tom only laughed.
Mrs. Castleton gave him a quick look of intelligence, but before she had time to speak, she was called upon to receive her guests, who began to come.
At every fresh arrival Harry's face was to be seen peeping in anxiously from the dancing-room, and it wore something of a look of relief as he turned off each time to resume his restless wanderings in the still empty apartment.
Miss Dawson, meaning to be very fashionable, came late. The bride for whom the party was ostensibly given had arrived; and Mrs. Castleton was about giving orders to have the dancing-room thrown open, and just at the pause that frequently precedes such a movement in a small party, the door was thrown open, and Miss Dawson entered, leaning on the arm of a gentleman whom she introduced as Mr. Hardwicks. Now this Mr. Hardwicks was something more than Mrs. Castleton had bargained for; and Harry hastened forward with a look of some embarrassment and vexation as he perceived the mistake his fair friend had made in taking such a liberty with his high-bred sister. Miss Dawson had often takenhimto parties with her, and somehow it had not struck him then as strange. Perhaps it was because he saw it was the style among those around him. But these were not the "customs of Branksome Hall;" and Harry was evidently annoyed. Moreover, this Mr. Hardwicks was a forward, under-bred looking individual, with a quantity of black whisker, and brass buttons to his claret-colored coat, altogether a very different looking person from the black-coated, gentlemanly-looking set that Mrs. Castleton had invited. She received him with a graceful but distant bow, somewhat annoyed, it is true; but as she never allowed trifles to disturb her, she turned calmly away, and never gave him a second thought during the evening.
Miss Dawson she received withempressement. She was dressed to her heart's delight, with a profusion of mock pearl and tinsel; her hair in a shower of long curls in front, with any quantity of bows and braids behind, and a wreath!—that required all Mrs. Castleton's self-possession to look at without laughing. Her entrance excited no little sensation—for she was a striking-looking girl, being tall, and full formed, with a very brilliant complexion. Simply and quietly dressed, and she would have been decidedly handsome; but as it was, she was intenselyshowyand vulgar.
"Harry, the music is just beginning; you will find a place for Miss Dawson in the dancing-room," and so, whether he would or no, he had to ask her to dance. Probably he would have done so if his sister had let him alone; but as it was, he felt as if hehadto.
She danced very badly. Harry had not been aware of it before; but she jumped up and down—and if the truth must be told, with an air and spirit of enjoyment not just then the fashionable style.
"How in earnest your fair friend dances," said a young man, with a smile, to Harry, as they passed in the dance.
Harry colored.
"Who on earth have you there, Harry?" asked another, with rather a quizzical look. "Introduce me, wont you?" But Harry affected not to hear the request.
"Who is the young lady your brother is dancing with, Mrs. Castleton?" he heard asked several times; to which his sister answered in her sweetest and most winning manner, "Miss Dawson—a friend of Harry's;" and to some of her brother's particular friends, he heard her say, "Oh, that's Harry'sbelle. Don't you know Miss Dawson—let me introduce you."
Harry felt quite provoked, he did not know why, at hearing his sister couplehimalways with MissDawson; and if he thought the room hot at the beginning of the dance, he did not feel it any cooler before it was over.
Mrs. Castleton introduced a gentleman just as the dance finished, who asked her for the next, when Harry said quickly,
"You are fatigued, are you not? Perhaps you had better go with me and get an ice."
"Do you go and bring Miss Dawson one," said his sister. "I hope," she continued, "you are not fatigued already?"
"Oh, no," replied the young lady, with an animation and energy that proclaimed she had a dancing power within not to be readily exhausted. "Oh, no, indeed; I could dance all night."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Castleton, graciously, as if she felt her dancing a personal compliment. And before the dance was over she had introduced half a dozen young men to her.
Feeling herself a decided belle, Miss Dawson was in high spirits (that trying test to an unrefined woman.) She considered Mrs. Castleton's visit and invitation as a marked compliment, (as she had every right to do,) and her attentions now, and the admiration she received, excited her to even more than her ordinary animation, which was always, to say the least of it, sufficient. She laughed, and she talked, and shook her long curls about, and flirted in a style that made the ladies look, and the gentlemen smile. Moreover, Mr. Hardwicks, who knew no one else, (for Mrs. Castleton had no idea of forcinghimon any of her friends,) never left her side; and the easy manner in which he spoke to her, and took her fan from her hand while she was talking, and even touched her sleeve to call her attention when her head was turned away, all of which she seemed to think quite natural, made Harry color, and bite his lip more than once with mortification and vexation.
"You are not going to waltz?" he said, justly distrusting the waltzing of a lady who danced so.
"Yes," she said, "with Mr. Hardwicks;" and in a moment they were whirling round in a style quite peculiar, and altogether new to the accomplished waltzers then and there assembled.
People looked, and some smiled—and then couple after couple paused in the dance to gaze on the strangers who had just taken the floor—and soon they had it all to themselves, and on they whirled like mad ones. Harry could not stand it—he left the room.
Presently some of his young friends followed him, who seemed excessively amused, and one of them exclaimed,
"Harry, where on earth did you pick up those extraordinary waltzers. Mrs. Castleton tells me they are friends of yours?"
Harry muttered something, and said,
"Hardwicks should not ask any woman to waltz. He did not know how; no man should, if he could not waltz himself."
"Are you dancing, Francis?" asked another, of a fashionable looking young man standing near.
"No," he replied, languidly, "I am exhausted. I danced with Harry's fair friend the last dance, and it requires no small degree of physical power to keep pace with her efforts."
Harry was excessively annoyed. He heartily wished he had never seen her; and was quite angry with Mrs. Castleton for having invited her. And just then, irritated and cross as he was, Mrs. Castleton met him with,
"Harry, Miss Dawson says you have carried off her bouquet."
"I have not got her bouquet," he answered, angrily.
"Well, go and make your own apology," and before he had time to know what she was about, she had her arm in his, and had taken him up to Miss Dawson, saying,
"Here is the culprit, Miss Dawson—but he pleads not guilty;" whereupon the young lady tapped him with her fan, and declared he was a "sad fellow," and shook her curls back, and looked up in his face, and flirted, as she thought, bewitchingly, while he with pleasure could have boxed her ears.
"Your carriage is at the door," Mrs. Castlelon heard him say soon after.
"Why, Harry!" exclaimed his sister, looking almost shocked at his evident desire to hurry away her guest. "You surely don't think of going yet. Miss Dawson?" said she, in her most persuasive manner. "You will dance this polka."
A polka! Harry was in despair. He would have preferred dancing on hot ploughshares himself.
"The scheme works to admiration," said Mrs. Castleton to Emma, as they met for a moment in the crowd.
"But it has spoiled your party," replied the other.
"Not at all," she answered, laughing, "what it has withdrawn in elegance, it has made up in spirit. The joke seems to take wonderfully."
But Emma did not like such "jokes." Mrs. Castleton'shauteurwas of a more flexible kind. To spoil a match she was willing to spoil her party.
"Was I right?" she said to Tom, toward the close of the evening.
He nodded and laughed, and said, "I congratulate you."
Harry had in vain attempted to persuade Miss Dawson that she was heated and tired, and had better not polka; but the young lady thought him over-careful, and chose to dance.
"A willful thing!" muttered Harry, as he turned off. "Trifles show the temper—preserve me from an unamiable woman."
Now Miss Dawson was not unamiable, but Harry was cross. If he were ashamed of her, she was hardly to be expected to know that. At any rate he walked off and left her to take care of herself. Mr. Hardwicks took her home as he had brought her—and Harry hardly looked at her again.
He was thoroughly out of humor. Mrs. Castleton had discretion enough not to follow up her victory. She saw she was successful, and so left things to their own course.
Never was a "dissolving view" more perfect. Harry had really imagined Miss Dawson not onlyvery beautiful, but thought she would grace any drawing-room in Europe. He now saw her hoydenish, flirty, and ungraceful, with beauty of a very unrefined style—in fact, a different person. Such is the power of contrast, and the effect of a "new light."
The spell was broken—for when a lover is mortified, ashamed of his choice, the danger is over.
Fortunately, his honor was no deeper pledged than his heart. Miss Dawson had not flirted more with him than with two or three others; and though she would have preferred him, one of the others would do.
"What did Harry say of my party last night?" asked Mrs. Castleton of her sister.
"He merely said 'it was a great bore, this going out,' and seemed quite cross, and took his light and walked off to his room immediately; and, in fact, it seemed such a delicate point with him, that I did not dare to make any allusion to it this morning."
"Poor fellow! I don't wonder," said Mrs. Castleton, laughing. "How she did look beside the Claverings and Lesters."
"Like a peony among moss rose-buds," said Emma.
"Laura," said Harry, a few days after, "I am going to New Orleans for the rest of the winter."
"Are you?" she said, in surprise.
"Yes. My father is anxious about that business of his, and I am going for him."
"I thought you had declined, and that he was going to send Tom," she said.
"I've changed my mind," he replied. "In fact it is very dull here, and as Tom don't want to go, I think I shall like the trip."
"I've no doubt you will find it very pleasant," she said, cheerfully, amused at his proposing himself the very thing they had all been so anxious to have him do, and which he had negatived so decidedly some weeks back.
"Ah, Tom," said Mrs. Castleton, laughing, "that was a bright idea of yours. There's nothing like a new light for bringing out new colors. I think that party of mine finished Miss Dawson."
"You need not crow too much, Laura," replied Tom, "for, in all probability, if you had left Harry alone in the beginning, the party never would have been required. You women never learn not to thwart and oppose a man until it is too late.Then, you'll move heaven and earth to undo your own work. If you would only govern that 'unruly member' in the beginning, you would have required no 'dissolving views, in the end."