Chapter XVIII: Book IV: I. Explanation of the Enigma (5)

Fanny, who had been all along listening to the narration with an eager and interested countenance, now exclaimed--"Dying of a broken heart! Poor thing! But if I were she, _I_ would not break my heart--I would scorn him as something far beneath me, poor and unimportant as I am. No, I might break my heart for the loss of a true lover, but never for the loss of a false one!" As Fanny's eyes shone, and her lip curled with a lofty contempt, as her naturally clear, merry tones grew deeper and stronger with the indignation she expressed, a mist seemed suddenly to be cleared away from the eyes of Mrs. Beauchamp, and in that slight young girl she beheld the breathing image of one whom she had once intimately known and dearly loved--in those indignant accents she seemed to recognize the tones of a voice long since heard, but the echoes of which yet lingered in her heart. Why she had so loved Fanny Dalton was no mystery now--she saw in her but the gentler type of him whom she had once believed the master of her destiny--even of Philip Hayforth, long unheard of, but never forgotten. But what connection could there be between Philip Hayforth and Fanny Dalton? and whence this strange resemblance, which lay not so much in form or in feature, as in that nameless, intangible similarity of expression, gesture, manner, and voice, so frequently exhibited by members of the same family.

As soon as Mrs. Beauchamp could quit the table, she withdrew to her own room, where she remained for some time in deep meditation, the result of which was a determination to fathom the mystery, if mystery there was. It was just possible, too, that the attempt might assist her to find a key to the riddle of her own destiny.

Accordingly, on the afternoon of the same day, she took an opportunity of being alone with Miss Dalton and her son, to say to the former--"I think you told me, my dear, that your father was alive?"

"Oh yes, thank God, _he_ is alive! How I wish you knew him, Mrs. Beauchamp! I think you would like him, and I am _sure_ he would like and admire you."

"Does your father at all resemble you in appearance?"

"I am not sure. I have been told that I was like him, and I always consider it a great compliment; for papa is still a very handsome man, and was of course even handsomer when he was young, and before his hair became grey. I have a miniature likeness of him, taken before his marriage, which I have with me, and will show you, if you will so far indulge my vanity."

Mrs. Beauchamp having replied that she should like exceedingly to see it, Fanny tripped away, and returned in a few minutes, carrying in her hand a handsome, but old-fashioned, morocco case. Mrs. Beauchamp had never seen it before, but she well remembered having given directions for the making of a case of that very size, shape, and color, for a miniature which was to have been painted for her. Her heart began to beat. She seemed upon the brink of a discovery. Fanny now opened the case, and placing it before Mrs. Beauchamp, exclaimed, "Now, isn't he a handsome man?" But Mrs. Beauchamp could not answer. One glance had been sufficient. A cold mist gathered before her eyes, and she was obliged to lean for support, upon the back of a chair.

"Dear Mrs. Beauchamp, are you ill?"

"My dear mother!" cried Edmund.

"It is nothing," she answered, quickly recovering herself; "only a little faintness." And then with the self-command which long habit had made easy, she sat down and continued with her usual calm sweetness--"I could almost fancy I had seen your father; but I do not remember ever knowing any one of the name of Dalton but yourself."

"Oh, but perhaps you might have seen him before he changed his name; and yet it seems hardly likely. His name used to be Hayforth; but by the will of his former partner, who, dying without near relations, left papa all his money, he took the name of Dalton. The money is all gone now, to be sure," she continued with the faintest possible sigh; "but we all loved the dear old man, and so we still keep his name."

Fanny had seated herself beside Mrs. Beauchamp, and as she finished speaking, the latter, obeying the impulse of her heart, drew her towards her and kissed her. Fanny, whose feelings were not only easily touched, and very strong, but even unusually demonstrative, threw her arms round Mrs. Beauchamp, and cried, with tears in her eyes, "How kind you are to me, Mrs. Beauchamp! You could hardly be kinder, if you were my mother."

"Dear Fanny," she answered in a low and affectionate tone, "I wish, indeed, I were your mother!"

As she spoke, Edmund, who had been standing in a window apart, made a sudden movement towards the two ladies, but as suddenly checked himself. At this moment his eyes encountered those of his mother, and colouring violently, he abruptly quitted the room. This little scene passed quite unnoticed by Fanny, who at the instant was thinking only of Mrs. Beauchamp, and of her own gentle mother, now beneath the sod.

The daughter of Philip Hayforth became a frequent guest at Woodthorpe Hall, spending most of her Sundays with Mrs. Beauchamp, who would frequently drive over to the Sharpes's for her of a Saturday afternoon, and send her back on the Monday morning. She was invited to spend the Easter holidays at the Hall--a most welcome invitation, as she was not to return home till the midsummer vacation. A most agreeable time were these Easter holidays! Never had Fanny seemed more bright and joyous. Her presence operated as perpetual sunshine on the more pensive natures of the mother and son. It was therefore a great surprise to Mrs. Beauchamp when, one day at luncheon, about a week before the time fixed for the termination of her visit, Fanny announced her intention of leaving Woodthorpe that afternoon, if her friend could spare her the carriage.

"I can certainly spare it, Fanny; but I should like to know the reason of this sudden determination?"

"You must excuse my telling you, Mrs. Beauchamp; but I hope you will believe me when I say that it is from a sense of duty." As she spoke, she raised her head with a proud look, her eyes flashed, and she spoke in the haughty tone which always brought before Mrs. Beauchamp the image of her early lover; for it was in her proud moments that Fanny most resembled her father.

"Far be it from me, Fanny," she replied, with her wonted sweetness and benignity, "to ask any one to tamper with duty; but, my child, our faults, our _pride_ frequently mislead us. You shall go to-night, if you please; but I wish, for my sake, you could stay at least till to-morrow morning. I have not offended you, Fanny?"

"Oh, dearest Mrs. Beauchamp!" and the poor girl burst into tears. "I wish--I _wish_ I could only show you how I love you--how grateful I am for all your goodness; but you will never, never know."

Mrs. Beauchamp looked anxiously at her, and began, "Fanny"----But suddenly stopped, as if she knew not how to proceed. Immediately afterwards the young girl left the room, silently and passionately kissing Mrs. Beauchamp's hand as she passed her on her way to the door.

A few hours later in the day, as Mrs. Beauchamp sat reading in her boudoir, according to her custom at that particular hour, Edmund abruptly entered the little room in a state of agitation quite foreign to his ordinary disposition and habits.

"Mother!" he cried.

"My love! what is the matter?"

"Mother! I love Fanny Dalton--I love her with all my soul. I think her not only the loveliest and most charming of women, but the best and truest! I feel that she might make my life not only happier, but better. Oh, mother! is not love as real a thing as either wealth or station? Is it not as sufficient for all noble works? Is it not in some shape the only motive for all real improvement? It seems to me that such is the lesson I have been learning from you all my life long."

"And in that you have learned it I am deeply grateful, and far more than repaid for all my care and anxiety on your account; and now thank you for your confidence, my dear Edmund, though I think you might have bestowed it after a calmer fashion. It would have been better, I think, to have said all those violent things to Fanny than to me."

"I _have_ said more than all these to Fanny, and--she has rejected me!"

"Rejected you! my dearest Edmund! I am grieved indeed; but I do not see how I can help you."

"And yet I should not be quite hopeless if you would plead my cause. Miss Dalton says that you have loaded her with kindness which she can never repay; that she values your affection beyond all expression; and that she is determined not to prove herself unworthy of it by being the means of disappointing the expectations you may have formed for your son, for whom, she says, she is no match either in wealth or station. She would not listen to me when I attempted to speak to her but this instant in the Laurel Walk, but actually _ran_ away, positively commanding me not to follow; and yet, I do think, if she had decidedly disliked me, she would have given me to understand so at once, without mentioning you. Mother! what do _you_--what _do_ you think?"

"You shall hear presently, Edmund; but in the first place let us find Miss Dalton."

They went out together, and had not sought her long, when they discovered her pacing perturbedly up and down a broad walk of closely-shaven grass, inclosed on both sides by a tall impenetrable fence of evergreens. As soon as she saw them, she advanced quickly to meet them, her face covered with blushes, but her bearing open and proud. Ere Mrs. Beauchamp had time to speak, she exclaimed, "Mrs. Beauchamp, I do not deserve your reproaches. Never till this morning was I aware of Mr. Beauchamp's sentiments towards me. Dear, kind friend, I would have suffered any tortures rather than that this should have happened."

Fanny was violently agitated; while Mrs. Beauchamp, on the contrary, preserved a calm exterior. She took one of the young girl's hands between both of hers, and answered soothingly, "Compose yourself, my dear Fanny, I entreat you. Believe me, I do not blame you for the affection my son has conceived for you."

"Oh thank you! Indeed you only do me justice."

"But, Fanny, I blame you very much for another reason."

"For what reason, then, madam?"

"For the same reason which now causes your eye to flash, and makes you call your friend by a ceremonious title. I blame you for your _pride_, which has made you think of me harshly and unjustly. Unkind Fanny! What reason have I ever given you to think me heartless or worldly? Do you not know that those who love are equals? and that if it be a more blessed thing to give, yet to a generous heart, for that very reason, it ought to be a pleasure to receive? Are you too proud, Fanny, to take any thing from us, or is it because my son's affection is displeasing to you that you have rejected him?"

Fanny was now in tears, and even sobbing aloud. "Oh, forgive me," she cried, "forgive me! I acknowledge my fault. I see that what I believed to be a sense of duty was at least partly pride. Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp, you would forgive me if you only knew how miserable I was making myself too!"

"Were you--were you indeed making _yourself_ miserable?" cried Edmund. "Oh say so again, dearest Fanny; and say you are happy now!"

Mrs. Beauchamp smiled fondly as she answered, "I will do more than forgive you, my poor Fanny, if you will only love my son. Will you make us both so happy?"

Fanny only replied by a rapid glance at Edmund, and by throwing herself into the arms of Mrs. Beauchamp, which were extended to receive her. And as she was pressed to that fond, maternal heart, she whispered audibly, "My mother!--our mother!"

Mrs. Beauchamp then taking her hand, and placing it in that of her son, said with evident emotion, "Only make Edmund happy, Fanny, and all the gratitude between us will be due on my side; and oh, my children, as you value your future peace, believe in each other through light and darkness. And may Heaven bless you both!" She had turned towards the house, when she looked back to ask, "Shall I countermand the carriage, Fanny?" And Edmund added, half-tenderly, half-slyly, "Shall you go to-morrow?"

Fanny's tears were scarcely dry, and her blushes were deeper than ever, but she answered immediately, with her usual lively promptitude, "That depends upon the sort of entertainment you may provide as an inducement to prolong my visit."

And Edmund, finding that he had no chance with Fanny where repartee or badinage was in question, had recourse again to the serious vein, and rejoined, "If my power to induce you to prolong your visit were at all equal to my will, you would remain for ever, my own dearest Fanny."

We must now pass over a few months. The early freshness and verdure of spring had passed away, and the bloom and the glory of summer had departed. The apple-trees were now laden with their rosy treasures, the peach was ripe on the sunny wall, and the summer darkness of the woods had but just begun to be varied by the appearance of a few yellow leaves. It was on a September afternoon, when the soft light of the autumn sunset was bathing in its pale golden rays the grey turrets of Woodthorpe Hall, and resting like a parting smile on the summits of the ancestral oaks and elms, while it cast deep shadows, crossed with bright gleams, on the spreading lawns, or glanced back from the antlers of the deer, as they ever and anon appeared in the hollows of the park or between the trees, that a travelling carriage passed under the old Gothic archway which formed the entrance to Woodthorpe Park, and drove rapidly towards the Hall. It contained Edmund and Fanny, the newly-married pair, who had just returned from a wedding trip to Paris. They were not, however, the only occupants of the carriage. With them was Mr. Dalton, whom we knew in former days as Philip Hayforth, and who had been specially invited by Mrs. Beauchamp to accompany the bride and bridegroom on their return to Woodthorpe Hall.

And now the carriage stops beneath the porch, and in the arched doorway stands a noble and graceful figure--the lady of the mansion. The slanting sunbeams, streaming through the stained windows at the upper end of the oak hall, played upon her dress of dark and shining silk, which was partly covered by a shawl or mantle of black lace, while her sweet pale face was lighted up with affection, and her eyes were full of a grave gladness. Her fair hair, just beginning to be streaked with silver, was parted over her serene forehead, and above it rested a simple matronly cap of finest lace. Emily Beauchamp was still a beautiful woman--beautiful even as when in the early prime of youth and love she had stood in the light of the new-born day, clad in her robes of vestal whiteness. The change in her was but the change from morning to evening--from spring to autumn; and to some hearts the waning light and the fading leaves have a charm which sunshine and spring-time cannot boast. Having fondly but hastily embraced her son and daughter, she turned to Mr. Dalton, and with cordial warmth bade him welcome to Woodthorpe Hall. He started at the sound of the gentle, earnest tones which, as if by magic, brought palpably before him scenes and images which lay far remote, down the dim vista of years, obscured, almost hidden, by later interest and more pressing cares. He looked in Mrs. Beauchamp's face, and a new wonder met him in the glance of her large brown eyes, so full of seriousness and benignity, while the smooth white hand which yet held his in its calm friendly clasp seemed strangely like one he had often pressed, but which had always trembled as he held it. What could all this mean? Was he dreaming? He was aroused from the reverie into which he had fallen by the same voice which had at first arrested his attention.

"We must try to become acquainted as quickly as possible, Mr. Dalton," said Mrs. Beauchamp, "and learn to be friends for our children's sake."

Bowing low, he replied, "I have already learned from my daughter to know and to esteem Mrs. Beauchamp."

The more Mr. Dalton saw of Mrs. Beauchamp, the more bewildered he became. He fancied what appeared to him the strangest impossibilities, and yet he found it impossible to believe that there was no ground for his vague conjectures. His life had been one of incessant toil, lately one of heavy distress and anxious cares, which had frequently sent him to a sleepless pillow; but never had he spent a more wakeful night than this, his first under the stately roof which his daughter--his darling Fanny--called that of her home. He felt that he could not endure another day of this uncertainty. He must be satisfied at all hazards, and he resolved to make an opportunity, should such not spontaneously present itself. But he was spared the necessity; for after breakfast the following morning his hostess offered to show him the grounds--an offer which, with his desired end in view, he eagerly accepted. They commenced their walk in silence, and seemed as if both were suddenly under the influence of some secret spell. At last, in a hoarse voice and a constrained manner, Mr. Dalton abruptly inquired, "Pray, madam, may I ask--though I fear the question may seem an unceremonious, perhaps a strange one--if you have any relations of the name of Sherwood?"

He saw her start, as she answered with forced composure, "Yes, Mr. Dalton, I have. It was indeed my own name before I married."

As she made this avowal, both stood still, it would seem by a sort of tacit, mutual consent, and earnestly looked at each other.

Philip Hayforth Dalton was now a man past the meridian of life; his once handsome and still striking countenance was deeply marked with lines of sorrow and care, and his dark luxuriant locks were thinned and grizzled, while his features, which had long been schooled to betray no sign of emotion of a transient or superficial nature, were now, as his eyes met those of Mrs. Beauchamp's, convulsed as by the working of a strong passion. A slight blush tinged Emily's usually pale cheek; she drew a rapid breath, and her voice faltered perceptibly as she said at last, "Yes, Philip Hayforth, I am Emily Sherwood!"

Not immediately did he reply either by word or look--not till she had asked somewhat eagerly, "We are friends, Mr. Dalton--are we not?"

Pride wrestled for a minute with the better nature of Philip Hayforth; but whether it were that his self-command was now greater than in the fiery and impassioned season of youth, or that it was difficult to maintain anger and resentment in the gentle, soothing, and dignified presence in which he now found himself, I undertake not to tell; but certain it is that this time at least he crushed the old demon down, and forced himself to answer, though with a formal manner and somewhat harsh tone, "Friends, Mrs. Beauchamp! Certainly, we are friends, if _you_ wish it. Your goodness to my poor motherless Fanny has completely cancelled all wrongs ever done to Fanny's father. Let the past be forgotten!"

"Not so, if you please," she answered gently, "rather let it be explained. Mr. Dalton, we are neither of us young now, and have both, I trust, outlived the rashness of youth. Never till our mutual truth is made mutually clear, can we be the friends we ought to be--the friends I wish we were for Edmund's and Fanny's sake. Let us both speak plainly and boldly, and without fear of offence on either side. I promise, on mine, to take none at the truth, whatever it may be."

Mr. Dalton, as she spoke, regarded her earnestly and wonderingly, saying, as she finished, half in reverie, half addressing her, it would seem, "The same clear good sense, the same sweet good temper, which I had persuaded myself was but the effect of a delusive imagination! But I entreat your pardon, madam, and I promise as you have done."

"Tell me then, truly, Mr. Dalton, why you never answered the last letter I wrote to you, or acknowledged the receipt of the purse I sent?"

He started, as if he had received a pistol-shot; the formal, distant Mr. Dalton had disappeared, and the eager, vehement Philip Hayforth stood before her once more. "I did answer it, Emily. Out of the fulness of my heart--and how full it was I cannot tell you now--I answered your letter; but you, Emily, you never answered mine."

"Indeed I never received it."

It was some minutes after this announcement ere either was able to speak, but at last Mr. Dalton exclaimed, "Oh how I have wronged you? Emily, at this instant I catch, as it were, at the bottom of a dark gulf a glimpse of the evil of my nature. I begin to believe that I have cherished a devil in my bosom, and called it by the name of a good angel. Emily, if I am not too old to improve, you will have been the instrument of my improvement. I do not ask you to forgive me, generous woman, because I feel that you have already done so."

Mrs. Beauchamp felt what it must have cost the proud man to make this acknowledgment, and she honored him for the effort. "We have both been to blame," she said, "and therefore stand in need of mutual forgiveness. But it would be idle now to lament the past; rather let us rejoice that our friendship, re-established on the firm basis of perfect confidence, is cemented by the union of our dear children."

Mr. Dalton only answered by offering her his arm, with the kind and familiar politeness of an old friend, as she looked a little fatigued, and they walked together some distance in silence. At last Mrs. Beauchamp inquired, "Was Fanny's mother like herself?"

"No, Emily. My poor dead Fanny," and his voice trembled slightly, "was very sweet and amiable, but not at all like my living one."

"Your marriage was happy then? I am glad of that."

"I should have been the most ungrateful of men had it not been so; and yours too, Emily I hope"----

He stopt, he hardly knew why, while, with her eyes fixed on the ground, she answered slowly, "I am happy, very happy now!"

A feeling of profound respect and admiration held Mr. Dalton silent for a few seconds, and then he said, in the tone of one who expresses an earnest conviction, "You are the most noble minded woman I ever knew."

Mrs. Beauchamp made no answer, and it was not till they stood together in the hall, that she said in her natural tone of kind and calm cheerfulness, "And now, Mr. Dalton, let us look for Edmund and Fanny; and if you please, in order that they may learn of our mistakes that trust is the nobler part of love, we shall tell them this story of THE LOST LETTER."

LIFE AT A WATERING-PLACE.

THE LIONNE.

By Charles Astor Bristed.

From Frazer's Magazine.

One day at Oldport Springs went off pretty much like another. There was the same continual whirl, and flurry, and toiling after pleasure--never an hour of repose--scarcely enough cessation for the two or three indispensable meals. When they had walked, and flirted, and played ten-pins, and driven, and danced all day, and all night till two in the morning, the women retired to their rooms, and the men retired to the gambling-house (which being an illegal establishment had, on that account, a greater charm in their eyes), and kept it up there till broad daylight; notwithstanding which, they always contrived to appear at breakfast a few hours after as fresh as ever, and ready to begin the same round of dissipation. Indeed it was said that Tom Edwards and his most ardent followers among the boys never went to bed at all, but on their return from "fighting the tiger," bathed, changed their linen, and came down to the breakfast-room, taking the night's sleep for granted. It was a perpetual scene of excitement, relieved only by the heavy and calm figure of Sumner, who, silent and unimpassioned, largely capacious of meat and drink, a recipient of every diversion, without being excited by any, went through all the bowling, and riding, and polking, and gambling, with the gravity of a _commis_ performing the national French dance at the Mabille. There was much rivalry in equipages, especially between Ludlow, Benson, and Loewenberg, who drove the three four-in-hands of the place, and emulated one another in horses, harness, and vehicles--even setting up attempts at liveries, in which they found some imitators (for you can't do any thing in America, however unpopular, without being imitated): and every horse, wagon, man-servant, and livery, belonging to every one, was duly chronicled in the Oldport correspondence of the _Sewer_ and the _Jacobin_, which journals were wont one day to Billingsgate the "mushroom aristocracy of wealth," and the next to play Jenkins for their glorification. Le Roi, who owned no horses, and had given up dancing as soon as he found that there were many of the natives who could out-dance him, and that the late hours were bad for his complexion, attached himself to any or every married lady who was at all distinguished for beauty or fortune; and then went about asking, with an ostentatious air of mystery,--_"Est-ce qu' on parle beaucoup de moi et Madame Chose?"_ Sometimes he deigned to turn aside for an heiress; and as he was a very amusing and rather ornamental man, the girls were always glad to have his company; but the good speculations took care not to fall in love with him, or to give him sufficient encouragement (although a Frenchman does not require a great deal) to justify a declaration on his part. Perhaps the legend about the mutual-benefit subscription club hurt his prospects, or it may have been his limited success in dancing. The same reason--as much, at least, as the assumed one of their vulgarity--kept Mr. Simpson, and other "birds" of his set, out of the exclusive society. For dancing was the one great article in the code of the fashionables to which all other amusements or occupations were subordinate. There was a grand dress-ball once a week at one or other of the hotels, and two undress-balls--_hops_ they were called: but most of the exclusives went to these also in full dress, and both balls and hops usually lasted till three or four in the morning. Then on the off-nights "our set" got up their own little extempore balls in the large public parlor, to the music of some volunteer pianist, and when the weather was bad they danced in the same place all day; when it was good these informal _matinees_ did not generally last more than two or three hours. Then there were serenades given about day-break, by young men who were tired of "the tiger"--nominally to some particular ladies, but virtually, of course, to the whole hotel, or nearly so--and the only music they could devise for these occasions were waltzes or polkas. Ashburner made a calculation that, counting in the serenades, the inhabitants of Oldport were edified by waltz, polka, and redowa music (in those days the _Schottisch_ was not), eleven hours out of the twenty-four, daily. And at last, when Mr. Monson, the Cellarius of New-York, came down with various dancing-girls, native and imported, to give lessons to such aspiring young men as might desire it, first Mrs. Harrison and other women, who, though wealthy and well-known, were not exactly "of us," used to drop in to look at the fun; and, finally, all the exclusives, irresistibly attracted by the sound of fiddles and revolving feet, thronged the little room up-stairs, where the dancing class was assembled, and from looking on, proceeded to join in the exercises. Ladies, beaux, and dancing-girls, were all mingled together, whirling and capering about in an apartment fifteen feet square, which hardly gave them room to pass one another. Benson was the only person who entered his protest against the proceeding. He declared it was a shame that his countrywomen should degrade themselves so before foreigners; but his expostulations were only laughed at: nor could he even persuade his wife and sister-in-law to quit the place, though he stalked off himself in high dudgeon, and wrote a letter to the _Episcopal Banner_, inveighing against the shameless dissipation of the watering-places. For Harry was on very good terms with the religious people in New-York, and was professedly a religious man, and had some sort of idea that he mixed with the fashionables to do them good; which was much like what we sometimes hear of a parson who follows the hounds to keep the sportsmen from swearing, and about as successful. Trying with all his might to serve God, and to live with the exclusives, he was in a fair way to get a terrible fall between two stools.

Talking of religion brings us naturally to Sunday, which at Oldport was really required as a day of rest. But whether it would have been so or not is doubtful, only that the Puritan habits of the country made dancing on that day impossible. It was a violation of public opinion, and of the actual law of the land, which no one cared to attempt. The fashionables were thus left almost without resource. The young men went off to dine somewhere in the vicinity, not unfrequently taking with them some of Mr. Monson's dancing-girls; the wearied men, and the women generally, were in a sad state of listlessness. Some of them literally went to bed and slept for the rest of the week; others, in very despair of something to do, went to church and fell asleep there. Ashburner took advantage of the lull to fill up his journal, and put down his observations on the society about him, in which he had remarked some striking peculiarities, apart from the dancing mania and other outward and open characteristics.

The first thing that surprised him was the great number of misunderstandings and quarrels existing among the not very large number of people who composed the fashionable set. They seemed to quarrel with their relatives in preference, as a matter of course; and to admit strangers very readily to the privilege of relatives. The Robinsons were at feud with all their cousins: Benson with most of his, except Ludlow. Ludlow, White, Sumner, every man he knew, had his set of private enemies, with whom he was not on speaking or bowing terms. Mrs. Harrison, who was very friendly to most of the men, scarcely spoke to a single woman in the place; but this was, perhaps, only carrying the war into Africa, as the ladies of "our set" generally had intended not to recognize her as one of them. These numberless feuds made it very difficult to arrange an excursion, or to get up a dinner at the _restaurant_ of a "colored gentleman," whose timely settlement in Oldport had enabled Mr. Grabster's guests to escape in some measure the pangs of hunger. On studying the cause of these disagreeable hostilities, he found that, among relatives, they were often caused by disputes upon money matters; that between persons not related they frequently sprung from the most trivial sources--frivolous points of etiquette, petty squabbles at cards, imaginary jealousies--but that in both cases the majority of them could be traced to the all-pervading spirit of scandal. His purely intellectual education, if it had not made him somewhat of a misogynist, had at least prevented him from gaining any accurate knowledge or appreciation of women: he set them down _en masse_ as addicted to gossip, and was not surprised to find in the American ladies what he assumed as a characteristic of the whole sex. But he was surprised to find the same quality so prevalent among the men. Not that they were in the habit of killing reputations to give themselves _bonnes fortunes_, as Frenchmen might have done under similar circumstances; their defamatory gossip was more about men than about women, and seemed to arise partly from a general disbelief in virtue, and partly from inability to maintain an interesting conversation on other than personal topics. And though much of this evil speaking was evidently prompted by personal enmities, much also of it seemed to originate in no hostile feeling at all; and it was this that particularly astonished Ashburner, to find men speaking disparagingly of their friends--those who were so in the real sense of that much-abused term. Thus there could be no reasonable doubt that the cousins, Benson and Ludlow, were much attached to each other, and fond of each other's society; that either would have been ready to take up the other's quarrel, or endorse his notes, had circumstances required it. Yet Harry could never refrain from laughing before third parties at Gerard's ignorance of books, and making him the hero of all the Mrs. Malaprop-isms he could pick up or invent; or, as we have seen, speaking very disrespectfully of the motives which had led him to commit matrimony; and Gerard was not slow to make corresponding comments on various foibles of Harry. But the spirit of detraction was most fully developed in men who were not professionally idle, but had, or professed to have, some little business on hand. Of this class was Arthur Sedley, an old acquaintance and groomsman of Benson, and a barrister--(they are beginning to talk about barristers now in New-York, though it is a division of labor not generally recognized in the country)--of some small practice. Really well educated, well read, and naturally clever, his cleverness and knowledge were vastly more disagreeable than almost any amount of ignorance or stupidity could have been. When he cut up right and left every man or woman who came on the _tapis_, his sarcasms were so neatly pointed that it was impossible to help laughing with him; but it was equally impossible to escape feeling that, as soon as your back was turned, he would be laughing at you. Riches and rich people were the commonest subject of his sneers, yet he lost no opportunity of toadying a profitable connection, and was always supposed to be on the look-out for some heiress.

The next thing which made Ashburner marvel was the extreme youth of the fashionable set, particularly the male portion of it; or, to speak more critically, the way in which the younger members of the set had suppressed their elders, and constituted themselves _the_ society. A middle-aged man, particularly if, like Loewenberg, he happened to be rich, might be admitted to terms of equality, but the papas and mammas were absolutely set aside, and became mere formulas and appendages. The old people were nowhere; no one looked after their comfort in a crowd, or consulted them about any arrangement till after the arrangement was made. They had no influence and no authority. When Miss Friskin rode a wild colt bareheaded through the streets of Oldport, or danced the Redowa with little Robinson in so very _chateau-rouge_ a style that even Mrs. Harrison turned away, poor Mrs. Friskin could interpose no impediment to the young lady's amusement; and even her father, the respected senior of the wealthy firm, Friskin & Co., who must have heard from afar of his daughter's vagaries (for all these things were written in the note-book of the _Sewer_), seemed never to have dreamed of the propriety or possibility of coming up to Oldport to put a stop to them. When Tom Edwards was squandering his fortune night after night at the faro-table, and his health day after day in ceaseless dissipation, there was no old friend of his family who dared to give him advice or warning, for there was none to whose advice or warning he would have listened. Once when Ashburner was conversing with Benson on some subject which brought on a reference to this inverse order of things, the latter gave his explanation of it, which was to this effect:--

"The number of foreigners among us, either travelling for pleasure or settled for purposes of business, is so great that they become an appreciable element in our society. It is, therefore, requisite that a fashionable should be able to associate easily with foreigners; and for this it is necessary that he or she should have some knowledge of foreign customs and languages, and, in the first place, of the French language. Now, if we go back a generation, we shall find that the men of that day were not educated to speak French. Go into the Senate Chamber at Washington, for instance, and you will not meet with many of the honorable senators who can converse in the recognized language of courts. Many of our most distinguished statesmen and _diplomats_ can speak no tongue but their own. And to descend to private life, with which we have more particularly to do, when a foreigner presents himself with his letters at the dwelling of an old city merchant or professional man, it is generally the younger branches of the family who are called on to amuse him and play interpreters for the rest. This gives the young people a very decided advantage over their elders, and it is not surprising that they have become a little vain of it. And similarly with regard to foreign dresses, dances, cookery, and habits generally. The young men, having been the latest abroad, are the freshest and best informed in these things. It does not require any great experience or wisdom to master them, only some personal grace and aptitude for imitation to start with, and an _a plomb_ to which ignorance is more conducive than knowledge. Hence the standard of excellence has become one of superficial accomplishment, and the man of matured mind who enters into competition with these handsome, showy, and illiterate boys, puts himself at a discount. Look at Loewenberg. All his literary acquirements and artistic tastes (and he really has a great deal of both) go for nothing. The little beaux can speak nearly as many languages as he can, and dance and dress better. The only thing they can appreciate about him is his money, and the horses and dinners consequent thereon. If little Robinson, there, with his _ne plus ultra_ tie and varnished shoes, were to have the same fortune left him to-morrow, he would be the better man of the two, because he can polk better, and because, being neither a married man nor the agent of a respectable house, he can gamble and do other things which Loewenberg's position does not allow him to do."

This was a great confession for Benson to make against the country; nevertheless, it was not perfectly satisfactory to Ashburner, who thought that it did not explain all the phenomena of the case. It seemed to him that there was at work a radical spirit of insubordination, and a principle of overturning the formerly recognized order of domestic rule. The little children ate and drank what they liked, went to bed when they liked, and altogether were very independent of their natural rulers. Benson's boy rode rough-shod over his nurse, bullied his mother, and only deigned to mind his father occasionally. The wives ruled their husbands despotically, and acted as if they had taken out a patent for avenging the inferiority of their sex in other parts of the world. Benson did not like dancing: he only danced at all because he thought it his business to know a little of every thing, and because society thought it the duty of every young man who was not lame to understand the polka. But his wife kept him going at every ball for six hours, during five of which he was bored to death. Ludlow, whose luxurious living made violent exercise necessary for his health, and who, therefore, delighted in fencing, boxing, and "constitutionals" that would have tired a Cantab, was made to drive about Mrs. Ludlow all day till he hated the sight of his own horses. As to Mrs. Harrison, she treated her husband, when he made his appearance at Oldport (which was not very often) as unceremoniously as one would an old trunk, or any other piece of baggage which is never alluded to or taken notice of except when wanted for immediate use.

Ashburner first met this lady a very few days after his arrival at Oldport; indeed, she was so conspicuous a figure in the place that one could not be there long without taking notice of her. About mid-day there was usually a brief interval between the ten-pin bowling and the informal dance; and during one of these pauses he perceived on the smoking-piazza where ladies seldom ventured, a well-dressed and rather handsome woman smoking a cigarette, and surrounded by a group of beaux of all sizes, from men like White and Sumner to the little huge-cravated boys in their teens. She numbered in her train at least half-a-dozen of these cavaliers, and was playing them off against one another and managing them all at once, as a circus-rider does his four horses, or a juggler his four balls. In a country where beauty is the rule rather than the exception, she was not a remarkable beauty--at least, she did not appear such to Ashburner, from that distance; nor was her dress, though sufficiently elegant and becoming, quite so artistically put on as that of Mrs. Benson and the other belles of the set; still there was clearly something very attractive and striking about her, and he was immediately induced to inquire her name, and, on learning that she was a real lady (though not of "our set" of ladies), to request an introduction to her. But Benson, to whom he first applied, instead of jumping at the opportunity with his usual readiness to execute or anticipate his friend's wishes, boggled exceedingly, and put off the introduction under frivolous and evidently feigned pretences. It was so uncommon for Benson to show any diffidence in such matters, and his whole air said so plainly, "I will do this out of friendship for you if you wish it, but for my own part I would rather not," that Ashburner saw there was something in the wind, and let the subject drop. Ludlow, to whom he next had recourse, told him, with the utmost politeness but in very decided terms, that "his family" (he was careful not to insist on his own personality in the affair) "had not the honor of Mrs. Harrison's acquaintance." The next man who happened to come along was Mr. Simpson, and to him Ashburner made application, thinking that, perhaps, the fair smoker might more properly belong to the "second set," though so surrounded by the beaux of the first. But even Simpson, though the last man in the world to be guilty of any superfluous delicacy, hesitated very much, and made some allusion to Mrs. Simpson; and then Ashburner began to comprehend the real state of the case,--that most of the married women had declared war against Mrs. Harrison, that she had retaliated upon them all, and that the husbands were drawn into their wives' quarrels, and obliged to fight shy of her before strangers. It was clear, then, that he must apply to a bachelor; and accordingly he waylaid Sumner, who "was too happy" to introduce him at once in due form.

As Ashburner came up to Mrs. Harrison she began to play off her eyes at him, and he then perceived that they constituted her chief beauty. They were of that deep blue which, in certain lights, passes for black,--large, expressive, and pleasing; the sort of eyes that go right through a man and look him down to nothing. Indeed, they had such effect on him that he lost all distinctive idea of her other features. Her manner, too, had something very attractive, though he could not have defined wherein it consisted. She did not exhibit the _empressement_ with which most of her countrywomen seek to put a stranger at his ease at once; or the _exigence_ of a spoiled lady waiting to be amused; or the haughtiness of a great lady, who does not care if she is amused herself and deigns no effort to amuse others. Neither did she attack him with raillery and irony, as Mrs. Benson had done on their first meeting. But she behaved as if she were used to seeing men like Ashburner every day of her life, and was willing to meet them half-way and be agreeable to them, if they were so to her, without taking any particular trouble, for there was no appearance of effort to please, or even of any strong desire to please, in her words and gestures; yet she _did_ please and attract very decidedly.

"So I saw you in Mrs. Harrison's train!" said Benson, when they next met.

"Yes, and I fancy I know why you hesitated to introduce me."

As Ashburner spoke he glanced towards the parlor, where "our set"--Mrs. Benson, of course, conspicuous among them--were engaged in their ordinary occupation of dancing.

"Oh, I assure you, _madame_ is not disposed to be jealous, nor am I a man to take part in women's quarrels. I don't like the lady myself, to begin with; and were I a bachelor, should have as little to say to her as I have now. In the first place she is too old----"

"Too old! she cannot be thirty."

"Of course a lady never _is_ thirty, until she is fifty, at least; but at any rate I may say, without sacrilege, that Mrs. H. is pretty high up in the twenties. Now, at that age a woman ought--not to give up society, that would be an absurdity in the other extreme, but--to leave the romping dances and the young men to the girls, who want them more and whom they become better. Then I don't like her face. You must have taken notice that all the upper part of it is fine and intellectual, and she has glorious eyes----"

"Yes," said Ashburner.

"But all the lower part is heavy and over-sensuous. Now, not only does this, in my opinion, entirely disfigure a woman's looks, but it suggests unpleasant ideas of her character. A man may have that ponderous chin and voluptuous mouth, without their disturbing the harmony of an otherwise handsome face. I do not think a woman can; and as in the physical so in the moral. A man can stand a much greater amount of sensuousness in his composition than a woman. I do not mean to allude to the different standards of morality for the two sexes admitted by society; for I don't admit it, and think it very unjust; and I am proud to say that our people generally entertain more virtuous as well as more equitable views on this point than the Europeans. I mean literally that a man having so many opportunities for leading an active life, and being able to reason himself into or out of a great many things to or from which a woman's only guide is her feelings, may be very sensuous without its doing any positive harm to himself or others; but with a woman, who is compelled to lead a comparatively idle life, such an element predominating in her character is sure to bring her into mischief."

"Do you mean to say, then, that----" and Ashburner stopped short, but his look implied the remainder of his interrupted question.

"Do you ask me from a personal motive?"

Ashburner colored, and was proceeding to disclaim any such motive with an air of injured innocence.

"No, I don't mean any thing of the sort," said Benson, who felt that he had gone rather too far, and might unintentionally have slandered his countrywoman. "I believe the lady is as pure as--as my wife, or any one else. The number of her beaux, and the equality with which she treats them, prove conclusively to my mind that her flirting never runs into any thing worse. I don't think a woman runs any danger of that kind when she has such a lot of cavaliers; they keep watch on her and on one another. I remember when my brother lived in town, he once was away from home for two or three weeks, and when he came back an old maid who lived in his street, and used to keep religious watch over the goings-out and comings-in of every one in the vicinity, said to him, "How very gay your wife is, Mr. Benson! she has been walking with a different gentleman every day since you were gone.' 'Dear me!' says Carl; 'a different man every day! How glad I am! If you had told me she was walking with the _same_ man every day I might have been a little scared.' But a woman may be perfectly chaste herself, and yet cause a great deal of unchasteness in other people. Here is this Mrs. Harrison, smoking cigarettes--and cigars, too, sometimes, in the open air; drinking grog at night, and sometimes in the morning; letting Tom Edwards and the foolish boys who imitate him talk slang to her without putting them down; always ready for a walk or drive with the last handsome young man who has arrived; and utterly ignoring her husband, except when she makes some slighting mention of him for not sending her money enough: what is the effect of all this upon the men? The foreigners; there are plenty of them here every season; I wonder there are so few this time: instead of one decent Frenchman like Le Roi, you usually find half-a-dozen disreputable ones; Englishmen many, not always of the best sort; Germans, Russians, and Spaniards, occasionally: they all are inclined to look upon her--especially considering her belligerent attitude towards the rest of the female population--as something _tres legere_, and to attempt to go a little too far with her. Then she puts them down fast enough, and they in spite say things about her, the discredit of which extends to our ladies generally--in short, she exposes the country before foreigners. Then for the natives, she catches some poor boy just loose upon the world, dances with, flatters him--for she has a knack of flattering people without seeming to do so, especially by always appearing to take an interest in what is said to her,--keeps him dangling about her for a while; then some day he says or does something to make a fool of himself, and she extinguishes him. The man gets a check of this sort at his entry into society that is enough to make him a misogynist for life. And the little scenes that she used to get up last summer with married men, just to make their wives jealous!"

"Which, I suppose, is the reason none of your wives will let you speak to her?" said Ashburner, who began to feel, he hardly knew why, a sentiment of partisanship for Mrs. Harrison. "But granting that her face, as you describe it, is an index of her character, I should draw from that exactly the opposite inference. I believe that the women who make mischief in the way you mention are your unsensuous and passionless ones--that the perfect flirt, single or married, must be a perfectly cold woman, because it is only one of such a temperament who can thus trifle with others without danger to herself. I speak hesitatingly, for all women are a mystery, and my experience is as yet very limited; but such opportunities of observation as have fallen to my lot confirm me in the theory."

Somewhat to Ashburner's surprise his friend made no attempt to controvert his argument. He only turned it aside, saying,----

"Well, I don't like her, at any rate. If I had no other reason, the way she talks of her husband would be enough to make me."

"Oh, there _is_ a Mr. Harrison, then? One hears so little of him----"

"And sees so nothing of him, you may say."

"Exactly--that I took him for a mythological personage--a cousin of our Mrs. Harris."