Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

’Tis sweet when the night by the moon is graced
To wander with her we love;
Or to sit with our arm around her waist,
While we coax from her hand the glove;
And to teaze in a whisper for one sweet kiss
Till we gain the darling boon!
Oh! for making love ne’er a time like this—
By the light of the August moon.

“And so on,” as Elia says, “one might proceed in this strain forever.”

Give to us, then, the moonlit nights of fragrant August and mature September. There is a body to them, a delicate aroma withal—the intoxication is heavenly, such as nectar might produce. Then it is that heaven seems descended to the earth, and fairy land restored. Then it is, that, if we find ourselves alone with one of the other sex, by the soft light, we are prone to imagine her to be our better self, our other moiety, the twin soul for which we have longed in our dreams, and—hence the propriety of a proper selection of moonlight company, judiciously made, before sunset. Then it is that we like to talk but little, and only in whispers and low tones. Then it is that our souls grow large, and we cannot believe ourselves mortal. Deep ardent longings seize us for something we know not what. Tears, neither of sadness or joy, spring to our eyes. Delicious, incomprehensible emotions agitate our hearts. Strange things seem easy of credence, and to see a troop of fairies dancing on the green lawn, or the placid ghost of a dear friend, half hidden in the shade of yonder vine, would startle us but little, and would seem all in keeping. Then we grow poetical—romantic—at peace with all the world—then chilly—then—ah! poor human nature!—then sleepy! and when, six hours after, we rise, at the third call, to a late cold breakfast, eggs, rolls and coffee seem to us of great importance, and occupy the whole attention of a soul, which, but lately, held the whole world in its embrace and felt a void the while.

Gentle reader—while we write the pale, exhausted moon is setting behind the distant ridge of Talcott mountain. The tall tower of Montevideo stands like a lonely, belated giant, in full relief against the silver-gray western sky. Our hair is damp with dew—our numb and weary fingers can hardly retain the blunt pencil with which we have indited the preceding extravagances. There is a faint, ruddy glow in the east—we hear the neigh of Aurora’s steeds. Good night then, dear, lunatic reader. May the morn find you sane—the night mad again—and long may it be ere the soft light of the full moon shall rest upon the green sod of your grave, and glow, reflected from the marble of your monument.

* * * * *

TO MISS MARTHA GRIFFITH.

BY G. D. P.

Beautiful girl, I have wandered far,
Toward the rising sun and the evening star,
I have roamed ’mid the Northern wastes of snow,
And strayed where the soft magnolias blow,
But I never gazed on a face as bright
As thine, sweet spirit of young delight.

Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fair
As an angel-shape in the moonlight air,
No shadow rests on thy brow of snow
Save that of thy tresses drooping low,
Love’s own dear light is wandering oft
O’er thy gentle lip of carmine soft,
Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow
Of the warm blood melts through the virgin snow,
Is sweetly blending in one rich dye
The woven beauties of earth and sky;
Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwells
Deep, deep in thy dark eyes’ shaded wells,
And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam,
Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream,
And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden’s bowers,
And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers.

Beautiful girl, I have seen thee move
A floating creature of joy and love,
As light as a mist on the sunrise gale,
Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil,
Till I almost looked to see thee rise
Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies,
Or melt away in the thin blue air,
Like a vision of fancy painted there.
Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around,
Seems less a sound than a dream of sound;
Softly and wildly its clear notes swell
Like the spirit-tones of a silver bell,
And the lips whence the fairy music flows
Is to fancy’s eye like a speaking rose.

Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou art
A vision of joy to the throbbing heart,
A star sent down from a world of bliss
And all undimmed by the shades of this;
A rainbow pictured by love’s own sun
On the clouds of being, beautiful one.

Beautiful girl, ’tis a weary year
Since thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear.
’Tis a long, long year of light and gloom
Since I gazed on thy young cheek’s lovely bloom—
Yet thy gentle tones of music still
Through the holiest depths of memory thrill
Like tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird,
In the long gone years of childhood heard.
And oft in my dark and lonely moods,
When a demon-wing o’er my spirit broods,
Thine image seems on my soul to break
Like the sweet young moon o’er a gloomy lake,
Filling its depths as the shadows flee,
With beauty and love and melody.

Beautiful girl, thou art far away,
And I know not where thy steps now stray;
But oh! ’tis sweet, it is very sweet,
In the fairy realms of dreams to greet
Thy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl,
And thy voice of music, beautiful girl.

* * * * *

PICTURE OF CHILDHOOD.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Forth issuing from a craggy mountain’s side,
A stream is seen. Anon, with gilded prow
And silvery oars, a bark appears to glide,
Bearing a happy infant, on whose brow,
Pictured are Joy and Wonder. Onward still
Over the widening stream’s wild waves, eke, skims
It merrily. The tiny steersman hymns
His roundelay of Joy, or at his will,
Plucks the gay flowers of early morn,
Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn—
Unmindful that such pleasures fade away,
That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay—
Life is a launch—we voyage to the grave,
We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave.

* * * * *

MINNIE DE LA CROIX:

OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

(_Concluded from page 304._)

“Lord bless us, my children! what a noise,” cried Mr. de la Croix on the morrow as he entered the store-room. “I am deaf! give me some claret and water some of you! I am thirsty enough to swallow bottle and all. I have had lamps fastened to every other tree in the avenue and every column around the piazza.”

Minnie brought him the iced wine and ran off to work again. She was beating eggs for a mayonnaise, and directing the servant behind her in chopping celery and chicken for salad.

Lisa was standing on a table pouring from an immense bowl a stream of icing over a pyramid of cake that stood in a salver on the floor. Rose was frothing eggs for something else, Kate was churning syllabub, and Blanche was pounding almonds.

Mr. de la Croix stopped his ears and called out as loudly as he could, “Halt! order! I want to talk. Where are those great china bowls to be placed, and the pride of Rose’s existence, the diamond-cut wonder—the crystal one? No one can carry them among you here, and I must tell Sampson to do it.”

“The two first on the piazza, the glass one in the middle of the table,” answered Lisa, looking up from her task. “I only hope Sampson will not serve them like Philistines, with the exertion.”

“Do you think there is too much strength under those woolly locks of his, Lisa, or do you fear a superfluity of grace in his ‘fantastic toe?’” said Kate.

“I know that his ‘fantastic toe,’ as you are pleased to dignify it, kicked over a pan of milk an hour ago, when I sent him to the dairy, and these tricks have not certainly power to make angels smile.”

“Samp want to white hisself for to-night,” said his wife, showing her ivory as she looked at him. “Miss Lisa never scold him for it, but you may know I did, Miss Kate. What he do such ladicalous things for?”

“He could not help it, Aunt Winny,” said Minnie as she turned her dish of well frothed eggs to prove her skill. “Now here is a magnificent float for your ‘island.’ You know I always said that you should make your favorite dish for my wedding-supper, and this is an occasion quite as important. Here is the sugar, sand and every thing you want.”

“Thank’ee, Miss Minnie. I’ll make it splendid, you may know that. But dis an’t no wedding-supper, my child, and it musn’t be so grand a floatin’ island as the bride’s. Ah! didn’t I make two for Miss Kate and Miss Blanche if dey wos married in de mornin’. I nussed you all—fine gals you is! Dey an’t such young ladies for miles round, and please God! I may live to see you all happy and lovin’ your pardners as _them_ do. My old mistress herself would love to see ’em so.”

And Winny left the room majestically—a pan on her head and one in each hand, six little nigs at her heels, each dismissed with a lump of sugar as they went along in a straight line to the kitchen.

“Winny grows eloquent, as she gets older,” said Lisa. “If every body believed her, we would all be like Miranda with every creature’s best. I wonder what she will say when she sees us all dressed to-night.”

Winny was not the only one delighted with her young mistresses as they made their appearance in the hall, one after another, and surveyed the beautifully decorated walls of the several apartments opened for the occasion. Festoons of cedar were hung around and above, and beneath each were large bouquets of fresh flowers, arranged in perfect taste. The orchestra hung in scarlet cloth, was wreathed in roses and evergreens, and surrounded by lamps placed so as to illuminate these fairy bowers independent of the glittering row of lights for the musicians. Stands of exotics occupied one side of the hall, the fair and tender buds throwing out a thousand perfumes on the air, yet even these were not more fragrant than the flowers of the season that hung around, the delicate maiden’s-blush and the pale tea-rose. Long after the chilly autumn winds have made us close our casements and doors, these sweet sisters are blooming in the gardens without, and from Mr. de la Croix’s thick and extended hedges he had found a harvest for his daughter’s ball.

Nothing could be more brilliant than the _tout ensemble_ of garden, house and avenue. Every nook and corner had its light, every room its comfort, and before the guests began to assemble Lisa had satisfied herself that the arrangements for their enjoyment were indeed complete. Her queenly form well became the blue tarlatan with its moss-roses in bunches of half opened buds. Her hair was simply twisted, and in satin-like bands over her ears.

Blanche and Kate floated about in their pure white, their elegance conspicuous from their simplicity, while Rose and Minnie, like twin roses, were radiant with beauty. The excitement had deepened the color on their cheeks and brightened their eyes into stars. Who wonders then at the father’s pride as he looked at his crown of jewels this night? Who wonders that the guests loved their pleasant smiles, and treasured their gentle welcomes? No one was neglected by them, not one in the whole crowd felt forgotten or slighted, and the hours flew by as though Time had laid his hour-glass in the green bowers and slept at its side.

“Minnie, Minnie!” whispered Blanche, “you talk too heedlessly. Be more quiet, my dear girl.”

“Ah, do not scold me to-night,” cried she, as she leant half panting for breath upon her partner’s arm. “Is it not a shame to scold me now?” And she raised her bright eyes to his with a look that dazzled him.

“It is a shame ever to do so,” replied he earnestly. “Surely Mrs. Stuart you are not so cruel?”

“Only prudent, Mr. Milton, that is all; remember this is my little sister’s ‘first appearance.’”

“You mean that she is one of the unsophisticated,” said he laughing. “And by far more bewitching in consequence,” was added in a whisper.

Blanche smiled and shook her head at him, but they whirled off in a waltz before she could reply, so she returned to her station by Kate, who was talking in a very old-fashioned kind of way to—her husband.

“Paul and I were thinking the same,” said Kate, as she placed her arm within hers. “Minnie is _tant soit peu_ inclined to flirtation, and we must warn her before it becomes a passion.”

“A passion, Kate!” said her husband smiling.

“Yes; a passion for admiration—for change, and a sickly love of flattery that is beneath a girl like our Minnie. How I do hope she will preserve that perfect freedom from all affectation that is one of her greatest charms.”

Paul made no answer, but as the quadrille broke up, went forward to the object of this enconium as she accepted her partner’s offer of a quiet promenade after her dance.

“Minnie,” said he, “you have not danced with me this evening.”

“Because you have not asked me,” replied she, putting her arm through his with an affectionate smile. “I have felt myself quite neglected by you and Kenneth, I assure you.”

“I was just coming to claim you, Minnie,” said Mr. Stuart, who had heard her last remark. “But since I am supplanted this time, we are engaged for the next.”

She nodded to him and passed on to a group of young girls who were talking gayly, and joined them. One, a fair-haired blonde with a pair of melting blue orbs, accosted her with a congratulatory remark upon the entire success of her fête.

“We are all delighted with every thing—with you and with ourselves, par parentheses. But why does not your father dance, Minnie?”

“Go and ask him,” said she laughing. “I have not seen him dance since I was a little girl.”

“Well, he shall dance with me then,” exclaimed the pretty questioner, “and I am going to invite him for the very next quadrille.” And off she tripped to find Mr. de la Croix.

“Dance with you, my sweet young lady,” cried he. “And what will all these gay and handsome fellows say to my usurping their place?”

“That I show very good taste in my selection of a cavalier,” was the reply. “You _must_ dance with me Mr. de la Croix because—I have said that you must.”

“The little maid would have her will,” quoted he, much amused. “So come, my little conqueror, I could not refuse, even if an old man’s bygone steps are shocking to polka lovers and sliding graces.”

“I have gained a victory,” said Miss Ashton, as he led her to a place among the dancers. “See, Minnie! I have chosen my own partner, in spite of ceremony and etiquette.”

“Age has its privileges,” observed Mr. de la Croix, with a courtly bow, “and this is one of its most pleasant advantages. I had never been so honored but for my silver-streaked head.”

“Ah, Mr. de la Croix!” said his young companion archly, “your youth has only to return to put us to the test. I’m sure you could tell us of bright eyes that followed you wistfully in days of yore.”

“Little flatterer!” exclaimed he, as the music struck up. “My age again has helped me to this.”

But the gay girl bounded forward, and he watched her graceful movements with so much pleasure that he almost forgot his own part.

Minnie was opposite too, and seemed so delighted at seeing her father dance, that he quite enjoyed an amusement that had been for so many years discarded, as one too frivolous for a _père de famille_.

Mr. Selby had to follow his example, as Minnie declared it his duty to do so, and thus her “first party” was a perfect triumph, as not only the younger but the older heads were giddy with their exertions to amuse and be amused. It was nearly daylight before Sampson had finished his task of putting out the lights, and the hall, like all other banquet halls, deserted. There were no heavy hearts carried away, though many perhaps were lost to merciful finders, and Minnie laid her young head on her pillow with a feeling of consciousness that her debut had been one of unusual and brilliant success.

And so it proved, for during the season that followed, no party of pleasure—no crowded ball was complete without her presence. She was a perpetual sunbeam, shedding light by her winning smile and sweet temper. Her sisters accompanied her by turns, and watched her flying steps with affectionate pride; but Kate’s fears were partly verified, and her young sister too fond of admiration to escape that love of sway over the hearts of the many that seemed to live but in her glances. In vain they warned—in vain they lectured, Minnie had been too long careless of advice to heed it now in this whirlpool of constant gayety. Still artless, still unaffected, she dispensed her smiles too lavishly, and fanned the flame her varied charms had kindled, where she might have spared her victims many a pang, had she heeded the voice of reason.

“Would you have me cross to people?” said she to Kate.

“No, Minnie; but seemingly less pleased with their attentions. Did not Mr. Douglas have reason to complain that you had encouraged him, when you refused his offer last week?”

“Who told you that?” asked Minnie, crimsoning to the temples. “Who told you that, Kate?”

“Himself, and I could not but feel for his disappointment,” said Kate earnestly. “I have seen you look pleased at his assiduities—so pleased, that I could not wonder at the reproach he made you.”

“I granted him no more than I did to others,” said the girl tearfully.

“But you have a way, Minnie, of accepting homage that is flattering to those who offer it.”

“_I_ am flattered, and return only what I receive.”

“But you do not, my dear sister. What they offer is too often sincere; they, then, according to your mode of reasoning, have a right to expect the same. Harry Lamfear left here in consequence of your refusal, for, as he said, he could not bear to meet you wherever he went, and I own that I thought you were partial to him from a promise I heard you make, to wear no bouquets but his for one month.”

“You are making mountains of mole-hills,” said Minnie, blushing again. “I never dreamed that such a promise was equivalent to ‘Certainly, sir! go and order the furniture.’ I did like Harry Lamfear exceedingly, but love was no part of the liking. I told him more than once—more than twice, since I must defend myself, that it was useless for him to expect any thing more than friendship from me. I could not refuse to speak to him—it will not do to insult a man because he wants to marry you, will it?”

“Decidedly no; but then you should have refused to dance with him more than once in the evening—you should have denied yourself on more occasions than one, when he called. I saw you one morning get up from the sofa, where you were suffering actually with a headache, and dress your hair as becomingly as you knew how, with a morning-cap that was really a charming set-off to your piquante style, and go in the parlor to receive him. You told him of your indisposition of course, and his inference was, that there must have been something _more_ than friendship to rouse you in the midst of pain, to the exertion of entertaining him. Did it look like indifference?”

“I was wrong there, sister,” said Minnie, rising and seating herself beside her. “Tell me what I must do.”

“Be kind and courteous to all, my little pink-cheek, and do not listen with such a ready ear to the honied words that make you giddy. Do not every week or month select one on whom to bestow your favors, but treat all alike indifferently until you really find your own feelings enlisted. Then I need not advise, your own delicacy, your own natural modesty will make you every thing you ought to be. But for heaven’s sake do not give people the idea, that you are caught like a candle-fly by every glare, and wear a battered down heart after your first winter is over.”

“Oh, Kate, how matter-of-fact you are! Why didn’t you say ‘pretty moth,’ and ‘withered heart?’ You shock me with your every day-isms.”

“You have very fastidious ears, Minnie, and I am not jesting. There is one thing more to be said and I have done. Beware of trifling with young Freeman. He will not suffer himself to be led like his predecessors if he is serious. And if he is, as I think, merely playing your game of _flirting_, he will make you regret ever having seen him. I do not like him—I cannot look at him without a feeling of uneasiness.”

“How foolish!” cried Minnie, laughing, “and how ungrateful! he is always praising my charming sister Mrs. Linden.”

“Yes, so as to tell you immediately afterward how much you resemble her,” said Kate gravely. “I am not old, Minnie, but I am sorrowed, and feel no longer young. Let what I have said this morning be of some benefit to you, for your own sake, if not for mine. I must watch and warn you, heedless as you are to all counsel, and in so doing I make a sacrifice that costs me something, for I might be conversing pleasantly on other subjects, and feel secure that my sister Minnie does not think me harsh and disagreeable,” and her eyes filled with tears.

“How unjust!” cried Minnie, throwing her arms around Kate’s neck, and kissing her affectionately. “How very unjust! Do I not know how to value your advice, Kate—am I so heartless in your eyes? Heedless I am indeed, but not heartless, and I will try and remember what you have said, that I may act upon it.”

And so she did until it was forgotten, and young Freeman’s devotion became once more a triumph to the unreflecting Minnie. Her sisters rejoiced as the end of the season drew nigh, as the entire summer would be undisturbed by these constant amusements. They would once more live in quiet after the gay and to them tiresome winter, passed in following their young charge from place to place, and in the meantime a change might come over the “spirit of her dream.”

It was at the opera that Minnie sat once more, while Mme. —— enchanted and fascinated her audience. Her bright eyes were fixed upon the sweet singer, and she did not perceive the door of her box opened to admit a gentleman, who took his seat and gazed in silence at the lovely form before him. Ever and anon he turned to Mr. Stuart, who stood behind with a smile of pleasurable surprise upon his fine open countenance, and watched with some impatience the close of the second act of “Jerusalem,” in spite of his love of music and the beauty of this particular opera.

But the curtain fell, and Minnie turned to speak her delight to her brother. She started as she recognized Harry Selby!

He could not but be flattered at the expression of pleasure upon that speaking countenance, and the fluttering of the little hand, which, for a moment, rested in his; while Minnie read in those dark eloquent eyes a story that sent the tell-tale blush to her cheek, and forced her into a silence that provoked and embarrassed her.

But Rose came to her aid, and poured inquiries into his _not_ over attentive ear. When did he arrive—when did he sail? Where was his uncle?

“I arrived this morning—I sailed three weeks ago from Liverpool to New York, and lost not a minute in coming south, and left my uncle at home.”

“You are a perfect telegraph,” said Minnie, recovering her speech. “Your friends must feel highly flattered at your haste to reach them.”

“Ah!” exclaimed he, fixing his eyes upon her, “I felt that I could not trust myself to remain absent any longer! I had so much to learn! so much to lose!”

Minnie turned to the stage and lifted her opera-glass, while Rose smiled in spite of herself. Here was a lover _comme il y’en a peu_. And as she contemplated his handsome countenance expressive of high and noble qualities, his attractive manner and pleasant flow of words, she felt that Minnie was a conqueror indeed.

“Come and dine with us to-morrow, Harry,” whispered she, as he handed her in the carriage. “And bring your uncle with you. Tell him I have a japonica in full bloom and he must see it.”

“Ah, Rose!” was the reply, “you are an angel! You do not mock the ear with promises—you mean to keep them.”

And they drove off at a rapid pace, leaving him to rejoice over the beauty and fascination of his youthful love, while she leaned back and wondered at the beating of that hitherto quiet heart—the strange but pleasurable emotion that seemed gushing from its depths.

“How remarkably he has improved!” exclaimed she, turning to her sister. “How proud his uncle must be.”

“Proud indeed!” replied Rose. “And Harry’s worth does not consist in his good looks, he has a well-regulated, intelligent mind, a noble heart, and that rare pride that scorns an unworthy thought. I saw him constantly when I was in Paris, and I am certain that he will fully justify the opinion I formed of him.”

The carriage stopped at Mrs. Bliss’s door for Kenneth and Blanche, and Mr. Selby came out to meet his favorite. Minnie parried his questions as well as she could, but Rose’s congratulations upon his nephew’s arrival and appearance satisfied him, and he accepted her invitation to dinner with unmistakeable pleasure. He had intended to take them by storm, but now Lisa would have warning, and be able to fuss over them as they deserved, and he bade them “good night” with a hearty shake of the hand.

Down the pleasant avenue wandered two graceful forms a few weeks after this, the gentle tones of a young girl’s voice mingling with the deeper, more tender ones of a youth, who was gazing earnestly on her deepening cheek.

“I need not have told you, Minnie, for you knew it that night at the opera,” said he pleadingly. “You could not but see that I loved you as few love—that in spite of time and space your image had remained within my heart, its fondest remembrance. Tell me, Minnie,” and he paused as they reached a vine-covered bower, and led her to a seat beneath its shade, “tell me honestly, did you not read all this ere now?”

She trembled—her lot now was to be cast, her fate determined, and there seemed a spell upon her, for she could not speak; but there was no shade upon that fair smooth brow, no anger in those softened looks, and Harry, like many a one before him, dared to interpret for himself what her own lips at length were able to affirm.

And now to them the world seemed a paradise indeed, and life one long summer day, o’er which no cloud could ever come, to shadow their sunny hopes. The blue sky seemed clearer above their heads—the flowers were brighter, and the fair earth fairer still. Happiness was theirs, for they were all to one another, and as the hours passed unheeded, and the gleaming stars burst forth into the quiet heavens, they raised their eyes and likened their love to the quenchless beauty of its countless lamps.

Alas, poor dreamers! ye are granted this one momentary perfection of bliss! Ye can linger for once over this dawn of promised light—for once ye are convinced of its duration. But the sky must darken, the lamps must go out—the flowers must perish—the hopes must wither! There is but one hope—one home of happiness—the home that is not to be won without its pains, its fierce and mighty struggles, its chastenings, that purify and fit the soul for the presence of Him who promised it to the pure of heart.

Poor Minnie had to wake from her dream of love, but not yet—not until she was once more in the giddy round of engagements for the spring. It was at Mrs. Bliss’s last soirée that she was seen flying about like a vision of light, while Harry Selby watched her every glance. He had a right to be proud of her, for she was his own—his promised one, and proud he was. But a shade passed over his face as he beheld her extending to another the same smiles she gave to him; exerting for another the same fascinations that bound him captive from the hour he first beheld her. He did not intend, dear reader, that Minnie should give up all for him; he did not expect her to be less gay or less fond of dancing, but he could see no difference now between her conduct to those around her, and to him alone. He had a right to more than they, but although Minnie’s engagement was generally known, she allowed her lover to be pitied or jested with upon the danger of marrying a flirt, who cared more for admiration than for the love he bore her.

I am no advocate for the exactions or fastidiousness of the stronger sex, exactions that in all cases become that conjugal tyranny that drives us with broken hearts to an early and welcome tomb. I cannot uphold that constant recurrence to the difference of duties and deportment that marked the single and the married woman. The ceremony that binds in a few moments, cannot change the disposition of eighteen or twenty years—cannot blanch the dark braids of the bride into a matron’s sober locks; and yet there are few husband’s in the world who do not frown and wonder, if before the honey-moon is half over, he sees in his young wife the same ways and manners of the unfettered creature he had sworn so perfect, that her faults, _if_ faults she could have, were virtues. He had vowed that his life was a curse without her, that he asked only her love in return for his passionate devotion. But no sooner is she won, no sooner is she the wife who has bound herself to him “for better, for worse,” than he expects, God help her! the sacrifice of every thought she has to his prejudices, and never dreams how often she has been shocked at faults and habits that tore from her eyes the veil her own youth and inexperience had helped to weave.

But Harry Selby was not as a lover more exacting than was natural and proper, and he had imbibed some of Kate’s opinions concerning young Freeman, knowing too, more than she did, to justify his aversion. His devotion to Minnie de la Croix was not at first sincere, for his object was merely to triumph over others, and win a wager he had already made to do so. But her indifference to all his protestations enraged him, and her subsequent betrothal had made him jealous, and proved how madly he had learned to love her. He swore that he would force her to dismiss his rival, and Minnie’s acceptance of his attentions allowed him to dream of success in spite of her coldness to his suit, and laughing answers to his serious questions. He was well aware of his powers; he was one of the most attractive of his sex, witty, entertaining, and having that peculiar expression of high respect in his manner, that is particularly pleasing to women. Many would have given up, with more success than he could boast of, but he had vowed to revenge himself on Harry Selby, and his friends had heard him; so around poor Minnie a web was forming which her own thoughtlessness but helped to strengthen. She was convinced that Mr. Freeman fully comprehended her sentiments, and thus excused herself for carrying him in her train, unwilling to give up one who added so much to her amusement, and the splendor of her triumphs. In the midst of a merry argument upon the rights of two waltzers that stood before her, Harry approached.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, and offering his arm to her. “I have waited patiently until now, you were so surrounded!”

“Why, do you not see these two importunate creatures teasing my life out? They want me to waltz, when I am tired to death and want to rest,” replied she, with a toss of the head that became her amazingly.

“But I ask you to dance,” said Harry, earnestly. “It is not so fatiguing, and I am but too happy to remain here until the quadrilles recommence.”

At this moment the band began a waltz, a sweet, bird-like clarionet pouring out its enchanting sounds, and the young girl bounded from her seat.

“Come, Mr. Freeman, I cannot resist that!” cried she laughing. “I must surely have been bitten by a tarantula.”

Harry drew back, and an expression of pain and anger crossed his face as he watched Minnie and her partner, who glanced at him with a look of haughty triumph.

A hand was laid upon his arm, and Kate Linden stood beside him. “As much as I dislike _him_, Harry, I must put Minnie in the wrong. For God’s sake, let there be no quarrels between men—I will speak to Minnie. She loves you dearly, but—”

“She loves adulation more,” said he bitterly. “Would to God I were not so madly fond!”

But the dance ended and Minnie returned to her place, with brightened eyes and flushed cheeks. Sending her companion for an ice, she turned to Harry.

“Now I will dance with you, patient creature, if you will wait a little longer.”

“You are very kind,” said he, more bitterly than before.

She started and looked at him, but laughed lightly as she said—

“You are very particular in commending my goodness, but you do not seem pleased.”

“No, Minnie; for I am too unhappy to conceal it,” was his reply. “I had thought you loved me better.”

“And since I did confess that love,” said she haughtily, and coloring deeply, “by what right do you doubt it?”

“Ask others beside myself, Minnie; ask all the world here, if this very hour you have not given me cause to think myself weighed in the balance with another?”

“You are jealous then. I had not deemed your breast capable of harboring so base a passion,” said she scornfully. “My actions are yet uncontrolled, and I must beg leave to decline any dictation of terms from your lips.”

He turned pale with suffering, but remembered her youth, and calmly met her eye.

“You do me injustice, Minnie; I had no such intention I assure you.”

At this moment Mr. Freeman handed her a plate of frozen strawberries, and a smile flitted over his features as he remarked their own. It was evident to him—there had been a dispute and he chose the opportunity. Quietly approaching the musicians, he gave them an order, and they began a mazourka then much in vogue. Harry’s head was turned away, and Minnie gave him a hurried glance as a most melodious voice was entreating her to dance.

“Ah!” said Mr. Freeman, smiling and gazing at her, “is it forbidden already?”

“I do not understand,” replied she in some confusion; but when Harry looked up she was gliding over the floor again, after reminding him of his own invitation. He rushed from the room, and making his adieus to Mrs. Bliss, drove rapidly home. It was not easy to imagine his state of mind, but Kate followed her sister until the mazourka ended, to warn her of a coming storm. Taking her arm, she bowed coldly to Mr. Freeman, who bit his lip and fell back among a group of gentlemen, some of whom had heard his wager and now laughed at his defeat.

“Defeat,” echoed he. “I have driven _il caro_ off in despair, and a few words more will settle all between the charming Minnie and myself. Not that I care particularly for her, but rejoice in the downfall of Mr. Harry Selby.”

“_Nous verrons_,” said a young man, who surveyed him with a look of disgust. “Miss de la Croix may like to flirt, but she loves Mr. Selby more. And I for one doubt your success.”

“Had I but one quarter of an hour alone with her, she would no longer dream of him. She loves me now, and I will prove it yet.”

Some one touched him as he walked away, and Paul Linden beckoned him to another room.

“My sister’s name is not to be sullied by such lips as yours, Mr. Freeman. I hold you accountable for what I have heard to-night, and trust you to prepare yourself to be made so.”

They passed into the street, and angry words rose between them, but when once more Minnie’s name was pronounced, Paul passed his hand across the face of the speaker and left him.

Poor Kate! little knew she the “business” that detained him the next day, and when at length Blanche came to her with a white face and trembling lips to prepare her for the dreadful news, she seemed unable to understand until it had been repeated—that her own husband was dangerously, though not mortally wounded, in a duel with Mr. Freeman.

With a loud shriek she became insensible, and thus they lifted her into the carriage, while the rest followed. Paul had been conveyed to her aunt’s, and there lay weak and fainting from pain and loss of blood. The ball had been extracted, and his poor Kate was told to be calm! lest her agony prove fatal to the one she loved beyond all earthly things. Calm! when her heart was torn and bleeding, when there was perhaps no chance of his recovery! But woman-like, she strove against her misery and bent down to kiss him, half fainting as she gazed at his pale face. He turned to her with such a look of love!

“Do not blame me, Kate, I would have died to spare you a moment’s unhappiness, as careless as this may seem of your feelings,” murmured he.

“Hush, Paul! for God’s sake hush!” cried she clasping his hand. “Do I not know your love for me? Do not speak my own husband—be assured that I would never blame you. But for my own happiness be careful and follow the doctor’s advice—be quiet.”

He fell asleep with his hand in hers, and she sat beside him motionless as a statue, the big tears falling over her face the while. She knew how much she had at stake, she knew by what a mere thread that precious life was hung, but she nerved herself to restrain her wretchedness, to keep silent her torturing fears, and tried to hope. Poor Minnie! throwing herself upon her knees she entreated her forgiveness for the pain she had caused—the tempest of grief her fault had raised. Kate gently put her head against her breast.

“My poor Minnie! my darling! who could refuse your forgiveness? God knows you are suffering sufficiently now—but oh! if _he_ should die!” Her composure gave way out of her husband’s presence, and her convulsive sobs seemed too much for her strength. They gathered around her frightened and weeping, beseeching her to cease, lest her cries reached Paul himself. A composing draught at length relieved her, and this was her last indulgence of her sorrow while a prey to such anguish as in vain assailed her. From that day her fortitude never forsook her, and neither loss of sleep or appetite were able to affect her. Minnie shared her vigils—both were mere shadows of their former selves, both watching with pale faces and sunken eyes the patient sufferer. Minnie left the room only when Harry Selby’s watch came round. She had not seen him since the fatal evening, nor mentioned his name after writing him when the meeting took place. It was a touching letter, and Harry bowed his head over it with a burst of manly grief. It ran thus:

“I write to say that you are free—you cannot but wish it, after
what has passed. You cannot but hate one so apparently void of
all feeling—so wickedly frivolous. Forgive me for the pain I
cause you, God knows I am in need of pity! Should the worst
happen, I will be guilty of my brother’s blood, a thought that
maddens me. Farewell, I will always pray for your happiness.

“MINNIE DE LA CROIX.”

And she drooped day by day, with a weight of iron on her soul. Her sister’s sorrow—Paul’s suffering, and the separation from her young heart’s treasure were cankers, to eat away its hopes, and wither its freshness. Her father, too—how much he had changed, how gray he had become! How sad her sisters were, how gravely Kenneth spoke! The thought of their now deserted home, of its once happy aspect. She thought of its cheerful, merry-hearted inmates, and the light voices that were now so low and sad. She remembered her mother and the last blessing, the prayer that they might be forever united—she remembered the dead infant and Kate’s return—poor Kate! that she should be the only sufferer! Gladly would she have laid down her now darkened life for her sister—gladly would she have sunk into the tomb, to hide her bursting, breaking heart!

One night she sat at the head of Paul Linden’s bed after entreating Kate to go once around her aunt’s garden and breathe the sweet spring air. Her face was buried in her hands, and by the deep sighs that shook her frame a portion of that young creature’s misery might be conceived. On the opposite side of the bed sat another, watching her, by the darkened light of the sick room, with a look of deep compassion. He had entered unperceived, and there was a start of surprise as his eyes fell upon the drooped figure. He could never mistake it—he knew the outline of that once loved form—he knew the little hands that were clasped across her knees, and he held his breath least even that should rouse her. Involuntarily he held out his arms, but at a movement from the invalid she sprung to his side, and her companion bent down to raise him as he asked for some water. Minnie held the glass to his lips, and replaced it on the table without raising her eyes to his face, for she thought it was Kenneth; when she turned to seat herself her eyes fell upon the figure of him she loved! The blood forsook her cheeks, and with a low smothered cry she covered her face once more. When she looked again he was still there, and his hand was held out beseechingly toward her. Slowly she gave him hers, it was no bond of renewed faith, she thought merely that he offered her forgiveness, and he seemed now further from her than ever, as she remembered this and looked at the wounded man upon the bed. Sick at heart she sunk back upon her chair and buried her head in the clothes. The silence around them was painful now in the extreme, and Paul’s heavy breathing fell like a reproach upon her tortured heart. Years seemed to pass, and when Blanche came in to take her place, she breathed a prayer of thankfulness for the relief a change afforded.

She hurried from the room out into the garden to give vent to her wretchedness. She had then seen him again—seen him, she resolved for the last time. She had suffered too much for the last half hour to dare it again, and she dwelt upon the remembrance of his loved features as if to impress them more deeply yet upon her heart. Alas! how wildly she clung to him, now that she had bid him a last farewell! how intense grew the love she had lavished upon him with a woman’s bounty! She returned no more that night to her brother’s chamber, for she knew who watched beside him, but the lowly vigil she kept within her own was an eternity of grief.

Toward daylight Lisa entered with a face of joy. Clasping Minnie in her arms, she burst into tears as she spoke.

“Minnie, my poor child! he is saved! saved at last!”

She sunk upon the floor in a swoon, and during Paul’s convalescence, another of the household lay at death’s door. Day after day her fearful ravings smote their heavy hearts, and a gloom seemed hanging like a vast pall over them. Father, brothers and sisters, grew pale and thin; but there sat one beside that bed who seemed to grow old as he looked upon the distorted countenance of his Minnie. His poor blighted flower!

The physicians did not despair, but they did not bid them hope, and so a week passed—a week that dragged by like a lengthened chain that overpowered them. Then there came a gleam of light—

And Minnie opened her eyes once more to life. Who can tell their joy—their prayers of thankfulness as at length she knew them all? At the door now, sat her lover, not daring to enter lest his presence prove fatal, but as the tones of her sweet feeble voice reached him, he leaned against the wall for support. Rose wept silently at his side, and pressed his hand as he called on Minnie’s name——they might yet be happy!

Minnie’s first coherent inquiry was for Paul Linden, and the news of his recovery was the first and surest step to her own. He came to see her as soon as he heard it, and tenderly kissing that pale thin cheek, remained sitting by her with his hand in hers.

“Will you forgive me, Paul?” she asked, her eyes filling with tears.

“Dear child,” replied he tenderly, “did you imagine all this time that I could ever do aught but love you? So do not speak of forgiveness again, we are all too happy at your recovery to think of any thing but joy.”

How gratefully Minnie listened to all this, and how much she prized the affection each in their turn was striving to prove! She had awakened from a dream of horror to a new existence. She had grown wiser—the trial had purified her, and if at times her thoughts would turn to the _happy hours_ of the past—to the blessing _his_ love had seemed, she struggled against the regret that stung so sharply, and bowed her head to the justice of her punishment. It never occurred to her, poor penitent! that Harry could love her still, she thought her own conduct fully justified his accepting the freedom she had offered him, and heavy as the stroke came—deeply as it was felt, Minnie looked upon it as her due, and bound herself to suffer in silence—to battle with her troubles.

One morning her father carried her out into the garden, and seated her under a climbing jessamine that covered a bower at the side of the house. Few would have recognized the once gay and blooming girl in the delicate creature that leaned back exhausted in the chair—few could have realized the active little sprite, the idol of the ball-room, in this languid, helpless figure; but to her father and sisters there was something sweeter than ever in their suffering Minnie. A placid smile overspread her features at the sight of the sweet flowers that bloomed around her, and she held out her hand toward a cluster of fragrant Lady Banks that grew near.

“I can tell you a secret of the loveliest bouquet you ever saw, Minnie,” said Rose, gathering the bunch of tiny roses for her sister. “A bouquet that was sent an hour ago by a friend of yours and mine. It is the eighth received to-day, and I reserved this one as a _bonne bouche_, after all the rest. Now I am going to get it while you sit here, and papa will watch you until I get back.”

Her father looked tenderly at his poor bird, and stooped to kiss her. She smiled so gratefully in return, that the tears sprung to his eyes.

“We will go home soon, father,” said she, holding his hand; “we will go back to the old homestead. I pine for my native air like a caged bird, and long to be there again.”

He assented with a look of joy, for it was the first time she had mentioned her home, and he fancied she was stronger as she spoke.

Rose came running back with the bouquet, and the sick girl bent forward to receive it. Rare exotics and simple flowers lay lovingly together, and round the edge were rows of double violets—sweet flowers of spring that gladdened her heart. How many times she had sought them in the thickly bordered beds at home! How often she had kissed them with childish delight, when the fresh perfume had come like a message to tell her the spring had breathed upon them. And now they whispered of the old place and its past joys—of the time that had elapsed since she had been there, and the warm tears fell upon the leaves like shining drops of dew.

“And who sent this bouquet, Rose?” asked she, as her father walked toward the house. “Who sent it?”

“One who loves you dearly, Minnie, and who longs to see you,” replied she. “Will you let me bring him here, dear sister?”

“Him!” murmured the girl, as the color stole slowly over her cheek. “_Him_, Rose!”

A rustling among the leaves was heard—Rose fled, and once more Harry Selby and Minnie were alone! She gazed at him for a moment, and burst into tears.

“Harry! why are you here, for God’s sake!” she cried, as he knelt beside her and wound his arm around the fragile form he had so longed to see.

“Why am I here, Minnie?” said he reproachfully. “Can you ask me? Is it not to tell you once more how dear you are to me—how wretched I have been?”

“You love me still, then?” she said feebly, and fixing her eyes upon him. “I am not worthy of your love, Harry; I have deserved to lose it.”

“Minnie! Minnie! say not so! Whom could I ever love as I love you? Whose memory has followed me through long years but yours—what torture have I not endured since last we met?”

A look of gladness beamed from those beautiful eyes, and she clasped her hands together. “My God!” she whispered, “he loves me then in spite of all!” and she bowed her head upon her knees. “Loves me! after all that I have caused him and others to suffer.”

“And have you not suffered likewise, my own Minnie? How little you knew me, if you supposed for an instant that I could ever be happy without you!”

She learned to know him, reader; she learned to feel how deeply he loved her, how noble and just he could be, and the next day he bore her into the carriage that was to take them to Oakwood, and took his seat opposite to her, that he too might watch her through the drive.

It was a gala day that—father and sisters, husbands and the lover, his happy uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Bliss followed Minnie to instal her with new honors in her old home. Winny and Sampson headed the procession that came to meet them, and mingled their tears with the rest. Paul had become a hero to them, Minnie a greater pet than ever, and they both accepted the ovation as kindly as it was meant. After dinner, as Minnie sat playing with her beautiful fan, Harry took it gently from her hand.

“There is a secret in this fan, Minnie, unknown to any but myself. Shall I unfold it for you?”

She assented, and touching a spring in the little mirror at the side of the fan, he held it up to her. It disclosed a small, but perfect miniature of himself!

She gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why, Harry! your own dear self! Now I know who gave me this fan—now I guess the sender of this exquisite gift. To think how often I have used it, too, without knowing its real value.”