Chapter IX: Part II (3)

Twelve or thirteen years after, a solitary equestrian was seen to enter the tangled avenue leading to Beverly Park.

He was fine-looking, very. There was a calm, almost subdued look about him; yet the great blue eyes that looked out upon the world through their long, dark lashes, told of passions deep and strong. The brow above them was clear, open, and broad. A mass of chestnut curls clustered around his brow, glancing out from under the thick folds of his traveling cap. Such was the master of Beverly Park. All around the Hall looked overgrown and neglected, as though the place had long stood sadly in want of a master. . . . . .

“Do you know, Mr. Bev—”

“Call me Frank. You always did when you were a child, sweet Nina.”

“Frank,” repeated the soft voice of Nina.

“What were you going to say?”

“Oh, I have forgotten.”

“Nina, when I went away you begged some of my hair—have you it yet?”

“Why, Mr. Bev—, Frank, I mean, how _do_ you think I could keep a little lock of hair thirteen long years?”

“Then you have lost it, or thrown it by; yet I remember, you _said_ you would keep it forever.”

“I did not say I had thrown it away, or lost it, for I have done neither. I had it imprisoned right away in this little locket, and have worn it around my neck ever since, for fear of breaking the promise I made.”

“That was the only reason of your wearing it?”

“Certainly, if I except a strong childish liking I had for ‘Frank.’”

“Your hair has grown darker, dear Nina. See! I have worn this bright tress upon my heart ever since you gave it to me. I would, dearest Nina, its owner would make _her_ home there. Nina—”

Just then the door opened and Agnes entered. Thirteen years had trodden lightly over her head. She was scarce altered from the bright Agnes of his first love-dream.

The inmates of the cottage had warmly welcomed Frank, after his long absence. Since his return he had gradually gone more and more often to the cottage, until he had almost become its inmate. The charm _now_ was not Agnes, or rather it _was_ Agnes—a _second_ Agnes. Francis could hardly persuade himself that the gentle, playful Nina, was not the Agnes he once loved so madly. The wild, unsettled years that had passed; the thirteen restless years of wandering through foreign lands in search of happiness—of oblivion, seemed like a troubled dream to him. He lived again in the present—in the sunshine of Nina’s warm, brown eyes. He was happy in the present, with the sunny-hearted Nina beside him, playing for him, singing for him, laughing for him. Frank told her he was going to have her laugh set to music by the fairies, and have it sung by the brightest birds of Eden.

The afternoon was warm and dreamy; a soft haze shrouded the air; the softest breeze floated through the thick summer foliage.

Nina was mounted upon her coal-black Zephyr—a most _zepherial_ little piece of horse-flesh, fleet as the wind. Frank was by her side.

“Which way to-day, dear Nina?”

“Which ever way Zephyr takes.”

Zephyr took the road to Beverly Park. The Hall had been refitted, and looked itself again. The two rode through the park and grounds, viewing the improvements that had been made, alighting at length before the great door of the Hall.

“Stay, sweet Nina; there is one spot I wish to show you, you never have seen it. It was not completed till yesterday.”

Frank led her through the garden to the most poetic little arbor ever Eastern dame sighed in. Recal to your mind the most beautiful poetry you ever read or dreamed of—your beau-ideal of poetry—whether it be Byron’s, Shelley’s, Shakspeare’s, your own, or Mother Goose’s, and the little poem of an arbor stands in its beauty before you.

Nina’s delight was rapturous. After exhausting all the known adjectives in its praise, Nina sat quietly down within it, Francis by her side, and talked with him about music, and flowers, and poetry, and all the bright things in nature. She was playful and enthusiastic by turns. Every thing by fits, and nothing long.

Frank took her hand at last—her little, soft, warm hand—and calling up a serious, tender look—

“Nina,” said he, “I have traveled the world over, ay, more than once; I have seen many, very many beautiful beings; but never one like thee, sweet Nina. I will not _say_ thou art the most beautiful, but I _will_ say, thou art the most necessary to my existence, to my whole nature, of all earth contains. I love thee. _Dearest_ Nina, may I call thee mine?”

“Whew! The girl and her fleet Zephyr were gone.”

“Gone!—well—”

“Well what, good Sprite?”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, my very good Sprite. What then?”

“I may be allowed to criticise?”

“Certainly.”

“I do not like your story. It is not—”

“No!”

“It is neither well expressed, nor well arranged, nor at all satisfactory. The _sequel_! Were they, Frank and Nina, married? What’s a story without a wedding?”

“The sequel thou shalt have; the wedding too. They _were_ married, just three weeks after the arbor scene—Frank and Nina.”

“What became of Edward and Clara?”

“They became one, shortly after Frank started on his thirteen years pilgrimage.”

“Frank’s mother?”

“Went to live with Edward and Clara. She died at a happy old age, blessed with good children, and good grand—”

“Kate and George?”

“Were united in the holy bands of wedlock.”

“The Miss Linwoods?”

“_Miss_ Linwood, never having made up her mind on ‘the all-important subject,’ remained in _statu quo_. Miss Laura Linwood eloped with a younger son’s younger son.”

“Was Edward a Beverly?”

“Yes.”

“What was Nina’s name? Nina _what_, before she became a Beverly?”

“Nina—I have forgotten what.”

“Strange.”

“Any thing more, good Sprite?”

“Much more; you seem to forget the great importance of a moral.”

“Not in the least, good natured Sprite. The moral is, doing right is its own exceeding great reward.”

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
Travelers must be content. As You Like It.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”
“MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court
of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 228._)