Chapter XXXI

"Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats
From yonder lily like an angel's breath,
Is lavished on such men! God gives them all
For some high end; and thus the seeming waste
Of her rich soul--its starlight purity,
Its every feeling delicate as a flower,
Its tender trust, its generous confidence,
Its wondering disdain of littleness,--
These, by the coarser sense of those around her
Uncomprehended, may not all be vain."

A jubilant party were assembled in Mrs. Leroy Edson's elegant parlors to witness the marriage ceremony of Jenny Andrews and Richard Giblet.

Even Mrs. Salsify, as one of the groom's former acquaintances, received an invite to the bridal feast, and appeared in red morocco shoes and a cap whose ruffles were the astonishment of the entire assembly. Mary Madeline's squealing baby detained her at home, and perhaps, also, she did not care to see her former lover, recreant and unfaithful though he had been to her, take the solemn vow of eternal constancy to another.

The party was more lively than wedding parties usually are. Mrs. Edson was everywhere, gliding, like the spirit of grace and beauty, among her guests, enlivening them by her humor, and spreading a rich glow of geniality through the apartments. If she ever outshone herself, and surpassed her own surpassing powers, it was to-night. Col. Malcome's eyes followed her wherever she moved, with an undisguisable expression of admiration. He seemed rather cast in the shade by her unwonted brilliancy, and held himself aloof from her side for almost the entire evening.

Miss Martha Pinkerton noticed him sitting alone and abstracted on a sofa, and her kind soul was moved with pity for his companionless situation, so she resolved to cheer his solitude as well as she was able. Approaching, she assumed a seat on the opposite side of the sofa. She looked at him, hemmed, and coughed, but he did not seem to heed her proximity. At length she resolved to speak.

"Col. Malcome," she said, in her softest tone, "do you know you have never called to take away the shirts you left for me to make more than two years ago? I have often thought I would take them to you; but sister Stanhope said I had better wait, as you would call when you wanted them. I starched and ironed them all up nice for you; but I am sure the stiffening is all out, and they are as yellow as saffron by this time."

"Ay, Miss Pinkerton, you were very kind," answered he, bowing politely. "I had forgot my call on your services entirely. I recollect now that I contemplated a journey at that time, which circumstances prevented me from undertaking, and that occasioned my forgetfulness of the package probably. I will call soon and relieve you of it."

"O, 'tis no burden," she answered; "I only thought I would speak to you about it to let you know 'twas ready any time you might choose to call. Don't you think the bride looks very beautiful?" she added, turning the discourse to more elegant subjects now she had gained his ear.

"Ay, quite interesting and pretty," answered he, turning his attention for a moment toward the young couple who formed the centre of a mirthful group.

"Mrs. Edson seems to feel wonderful smart to-night," pursued Miss Martha; "pleased with her success in match-making, I suppose."

"Ah!" said the colonel, "does Mrs. Edson make matches? I wish she would form one for me."

The modest maiden blushed scarlet at these words, and remained silent. A group was just passing, and the colonel effected his escape from his fair companion and joined them. Several voices called for him at the piano, and, seating himself before the instrument, he commenced a brilliant performance. In a few moments he became conscious of the form of Louise standing in the embrasure of a window near by, her whole soul apparently absorbed in the music. When he arose she had disappeared. He sauntered slowly to the hall door, and stepped forth upon the piazza. As he paced slowly down its marble length he came suddenly upon her, leaning languidly against a vine-covered column.

"Why do you fly your guests?" asked he; "they will soon grow dim without your presence."

"Because I am weary and dispirited," answered Louise, "and want quiet and fresh air."

"Dispirited!" exclaimed he; "I have never seen you so startlingly brilliant as to-night."

She shook her bright head mournfully. The hilarious voices from the merry groups within came full upon their ears.

"Walk with me a few moments in the cool quiet of the garden," said he; "here the air comes heavy and tainted from the crowded apartments within."

She placed her arm passively in his, and they passed down the steps and entered the shady paths.

"I marvel to find you so moody and glum," he remarked, after they had proceeded some distance in perfect silence, "when you have been so unusually gay through the evening."

She made no answer.

"Let us return to the house," said he at length.

"What for?" she asked, turning her clear eyes quickly on his face.

"Because you do not enjoy your company," he answered.

"No, that is not the reason," said she; "'tis because you are weary of my presence."

"Weary of your presence!" repeated he. "Louise, you don't believe your own words. May I stay here at your side till I wish to go away?"

"Certainly," answered she.

"Then let me put my arm around you," said he, encircling her waist, "and lay your dear head here, and you are mine henceforth, for I shall never leave you."

For a moment her tearful face was hidden on his bosom.

A low wailing wind swept through the shrubbery that surrounded them, and one single word, thrilling and awful, as if it fell from the lips of an accusing spirit, smote on their ears--'_Beware_!'

Louise started from the arm that encircled her and fled toward the lighted mansion. The party were still occupied in the merry dance, and no one seemed to have marked her brief absence.