Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
_No. 81_
_NEW SOUTHWORTH LIBRARY_
LOVE’S LABOR WON
[Illustration]
_by Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth_
* * * * *
Love’s Labor Won
BY
MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH
AUTHOR OF
“Retribution,” “Ishmael,” “Self-Raised,” “India,” “The Missing
Bride,” “The Curse of Clifton,” “Vivia,” “The Discarded
Daughter,” “The Lost Heiress,” “The Mother-in-Law,”
“The Deserted Wife.”
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
* * * * *
(Printed In the United States of America)
* * * * *
LOVE’S LABOR WON.
CHAPTER I. THE IMPROVVISATRICE.
“Hers was the spell o’er hearts
That only genius gives;
The mother of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty lives.”
--VARIED FROM CAMPBELL.
“Beautiful.”
“Glorious.”
“Celestial!”
Such were the exclamations murmured through the room, in low but
earnest tones.
“So fair and dark a creature I have never seen,” said the French
ambassador.
“The rarest and finest features of the blonde and the brunette
combined; look at her hair and brow! It is as if the purple lustre of
Italia’s vines lay upon the snow of Switzerland’s Alps,” said a young
English gentleman, of some twenty years of age, and from whom the air
of the university had scarcely fallen.
“You are too enthusiastic, Lord William,” gravely observed an elderly
man, in the dress of a clergyman of the Church of England.
“Too enthusiastic, sir! Ah, now! do but see for yourself, if it be not
profane to gaze at her. Is she not now--what is she? Queenly? Pshaw! I
was, when a boy, at Versailles with my father; I saw Marie Antoinette
and the beautiful princesses of her train; but never, no, never, have
I seen beauty and dignity and grace like this. You have the honor of
knowing the lady, sir?” he concluded, turning abruptly to a member of
the French legation, standing near him.
“Oh, yes, monsieur, I have that distinction,” said the affable
Parisian, with a bow and smile.
“And her name is----”
“Ah, pardon me, monsieur--Mademoiselle Marguerite De Lancie.”
“Oh! a countrywoman of your own?”
“Excuse, monsieur--a Virginie.”
“Ah, ha! Miss De Lancie, of Virginia,” said the young Englishman, who,
having thus ascertained all that he wished to know for the present,
now, with the characteristic and irresponsible bluntness of his nature,
turned his back upon the small Frenchman, and gave himself up to the
contemplation of the lady seated at the harp.
This conversation occurred in a scene and upon an occasion long to be
remembered. The scene was the saloon of the old Presidential mansion
at Philadelphia. The occasion was that of Mrs. Washington’s last
reception, previous to the final retirement of General Washington from
office. The beauty, talent, fashion and celebrity of the “Republican
Court” were present--heroes of the Revolutionary struggle--warriors,
whose mighty swords had cleft asunder the yoke of foreign despotism;
sages, whose gigantic minds had framed the Constitution of the young
Republic; men whose names were then, as now, of world-wide glory
and time-enduring fame; foreign ministers and ambassadors, with
their suites, all enthusiastic admirers, or politic flatterers of
the glorious New Power that had arisen among the nations; wealthy,
aristocratic or otherwise distinguished tourists, whom the fame of the
young Commonwealth and the glory of her Father had attracted to her
shores; women, also, whose beauty, grace and genius so dazzled the
perceptions of even these late _habitues_ of European courts that they
avowed themselves unable to decide whether were the sons of Columbia
the braver or her daughters the fairer!
And through them all, but greater than all, moved the Chief, arrayed
simply, as a private gentleman, but wearing on his noble brow that
royalty no crown could give.
But who is she, that even in this company of splendid magnificence,
upon this occasion of supreme interest, can for an hour become the
magnet of all eyes and ears!
Marguerite De Lancie was the only child of a Provençal gentleman and a
Virginia lady, and combined in her person and in her character all the
strongest attributes of the Northern and the Southern races; blending
the passions, genius and enthusiasm of the one with the intellectual
power, pride and independence of the other; and contrasting in her
person the luxuriant purplish-black hair and glorious eyes of the
Romaic nations, with the fair, clear complexion and roseate bloom of
the Saxon. Gifted above most women by nature, she was also favored
beyond most ladies by fortune. Having lost her mother in the tender
age of childhood, she was reared and educated by her father, a
gentleman of the most accomplished cultivation. He imbued the mind of
Marguerite with all the purest and loftiest sentiments of liberty and
humanity, that in his country somewhat redeemed the wickedness of the
French Revolution. Monsieur De Lancie, dying when his daughter was
but eighteen years of age, made her his sole heiress, and also, in
accordance with his own liberal and independent principles, and his
confidence in Marguerite’s character and strength of mind, he left her
the irresponsible mistress of her own property and person. Marguerite
was not free from grave faults. A beautiful, gifted and idolized girl,
left with the unrestrained disposal of her time and her ample fortune,
it was impossible but that she must have become somewhat spoiled. Her
defects exhibited themselves in excessive personal pride and extreme
freedom of thought and speech, and some irradicable prejudices which
she took no trouble to conceal. The worshiped of many suitors, she had
remained, up to the age of twenty-two, with her hand unengaged and her
heart untouched. Several American women had about this time married
foreign noblemen; and those who envied this superb woman averred that
the splendid Marguerite only waited for a coronet.
When at home, Miss De Lancie resided either at her elegant town house
in the old city of Winchester, or upon one of her two plantations,
situate, the upper among the wildest and most beautiful hills of the
Blue Ridge, and the lower upon the banks of the broad Potomac, where
she reigned mistress of her land and people, “queen o’er herself.”
Marguerite was at present in Philadelphia, on a visit to her friend,
Miss Compton, whose father occupied a “high official station” in
the Administration. This was Miss De Lancie’s first appearance in
Philadelphia society. And now that she was there, Marguerite, with the
constitutional enthusiasm of her nature, forgot herself in the deep
interest of this assembly, where the father of his country met for the
last time, socially, her sons and daughters.
In accordance with the elegant ease that characterized Mrs.
Washington’s drawing-rooms, several ladies of distinguished musical
taste and talent had varied the entertainment of the evening by
singing, to the accompaniment of the harp, or piano, the national odes
and popular songs of that day.
Then ensued a short interval, at the close of which Miss De Lancie
permitted herself to be led to the harp by Colonel Compton. She was
a stranger to most persons in that saloon, and it was simply her
appearance as she passed and took her place at the harp that had
elicited that restrained burst of admiration with which this chapter
opens.
She was, indeed, a woman of superb beauty, which never shone with
richer lustre than upon this occasion that I present her to the reader.
Her figure was rather above the medium height, but elegantly
proportioned. The stately head arose from a smoothly-rounded neck,
whose every curve and bend was the very perfection of grace and
dignity; lustrous black hair, with brilliant purple lights like the
sheen on the wing of some Oriental bird, was rolled back from a
queenly forehead, and turned over a jeweled comb in a luxuriant fall
of ringlets at the back of her head; black eyebrows distinctly drawn,
and delicately tapering toward the points, were arched above rich, deep
eyes of purplish black, that languished or glowed, rocked or flashed,
from beneath their long lashes with every change of mood; and all
harmonized beautifully with a pure, rich complexion, where the clear
crimson of the cheeks blended softly into the pearly whiteness of the
blue-veined temples and broad forehead, while the full, curved lips
glowed with the deepest, brightest flush of the ruby. She was arrayed
in a royal purple velvet robe, open over a richly-embroidered white
satin skirt; her neck and arms were veiled with fine point lace; and a
single diamond star lighted up the midnight of her hair.
Having seated herself at the harp and essayed its strings, she paused,
and seemingly unconscious of the many eyes riveted upon her, she
raised her head, and gazing into the far-off distance, threw her
white arm across the instrument, and swept its chords in a deep,
soul-thrilling prelude--not to a national ode or popular song, but
to a spirit-stirring, glorious improvisation! This prelude seemed a
musical paraphrase of the great national struggle and victory. She
struck a few deep, solitary notes, and then swept the harp in a low,
mournful strain, like the first strokes of tyranny, followed by the
earliest murmurs of discontent; then the music, with intervals of
monotone, arose in fitful gusts like the occasional skirmishes that
heralded the Revolution; then the calm was lost in general storm and
devastation--the report of musketry, the tramp of steeds, the clashing
of swords, the thunder of artillery, the fall of walls, the cries
of the wounded, the groans of the dying, and the shouts of victory,
were not only heard, but seen and felt in that magnificent tempest of
harmony.
Then the voice of the _improvvisatrice_ arose. Her subject was the
retiring chief. I cannot hope to give any idea of the splendor of that
improvisation--as easily might I catch and fix with pen, or pencil,
the magnificent life of an equinoctial storm, the reverberation of its
thunder, the conflagration of its lightning! Possessed of Apollo, the
light glowed upon her cheeks, irradiated her brow, and streamed, as it
were, in visible, living rays from her glorious eyes! The whole power
of the god was upon the woman, and the whole soul of the woman in her
theme. There was not a word spoken, there was scarcely a breath drawn
in that room. She finished amid a charmed silence that lasted until
Colonel Compton appeared and broke the spell by leading her from the
harp.
Then arose low murmurs of enthusiastic admiration, restrained only by
the deep respect due to the chief personage in that assembly.
“_La Marguerite des Marguerites!_” said the gallant French _attaché_.
“A Corinne! I must know her, sir. Will you do me the honor to present
me?” inquired the English student, turning again to the Frenchman.
“Lord William!” interrupted the clerical companion, with an air of
caution and admonition.
“Well, Mr. Murray! well! did not my father desire that I should make
the acquaintance of all distinguished Americans?--and surely this lady
must be one of their number.”
“Humph,” said the clergyman, stroking his chin, “the marquis did not,
probably, include distinguished actresses, Lord William.”
“Actresses! have you judgment, Mr. Murray? Do but look with what
majesty she speaks and moves!”
“So I have heard does Mrs. Siddons. Let us withdraw, Lord William.”
“Not yet, if you please, sir! I must first pay my respects to this
lady. Will you favor me, monsieur?”
“Pardon! I will make you known to Colonel Compton, who will present
you to the lady under his charge,” said the Frenchman, bowing, and
leading the way, while the clergyman left behind only vented his
dissatisfaction in a few emphatic grunts.
“Miss De Lancie, permit me to present to you Lord William Daw, of
England,” said Colonel Compton, leading the youthful foreigner before
the lady.
Miss De Lancie bowed and half arose. She received the young gentleman
coldly, or rather absently, and to all that he advanced she replied
abstractedly; for she had not yet freed herself from the trance that
had lately bound her.
Nevertheless, Lord William found “grace and favor” in everything the
enchantress said or did. He lingered near her until at last, with a
_congé_ of dismissal to her boyish admirer, she arose and signified her
wish to retire from the saloon.
The next day but one was a memorable day in Philadelphia. It was the
occasion of the public and final farewell of George Washington and the
inauguration of his successor. From an early hour the city was thronged
with visitors, who came, not so much to witness the installment of the
new, as to take a tearful last look at the deeply-venerated, retiring
President.
The profound public interest, however, did not prevent Lord William Daw
from pursuing a quite private one. At an hour as early as the laxest
etiquette would permit, he paid his respects to Miss De Lancie at the
house of Colonel Compton, and procured himself to be invited by his
host to join their party in witnessing the interesting ceremonies at
the Hall of Representation.
The family, consisting of the colonel and Mrs. Compton and their
daughter Cornelia, went in a handsome landeau, or open carriage.
Miss De Lancie rode a magnificent black charger, that she managed with
the ease of a cavalry officer, and with a grace that was only her own.
Lord William, on a horse placed at his service by Colonel Compton,
rode ever at her bridle rein; and if he admired her as a gifted
_improvvisatrice_, he adored her as an accomplished _equestrienne_, an
excellence that of the two his young lordship was the best fitted to
appreciate.
Afterward, in the Hall of Representation, he was ever at her side;
nor could the august ceremonies and the supreme interest of the scene
passing before them, where the first President of the United States
offered his valedictory, and the second President took his oath of
office, win him for a moment from the contemplation of the queenly form
and resplendent face of Marguerite De Lancie.
When the rites were all over, and their party had extricated themselves
from the outrushing crowd, who were crushing each other nearly to
death in their eagerness to behold the last of the retiring chief;
when they had seen Washington enter his carriage and drive homeward;
in fine, when at last they reached their own door, Lord William Daw
manifested so little inclination to take leave, and even betrayed so
great a desire to remain, that nothing was left Colonel Compton but
to invite the enamored boy to stay and dine, an invitation that was
unhesitatingly accepted.
Dinner over, and lights brought into the drawing-room, and Lord William
Daw still lingering.
“Unquestionably, this young man, though a scion of nobility, is
ignorant or regardless of the usages of good society,” said Colonel
Compton to himself. Then addressing the visitor, he said: “The ladies,
sir, are going, this evening, to the new theatre, to see Fennel and
Mrs. Whitlock in Romeo and Juliet. Will it please you to accompany us?”
“Most happy to do so,” replied the youth, with an ingenuous blush and
smile at what he must have considered a slight departure from the
formal manners of the day, even while unable to resist the temptation
and tear himself away.
In a few moments, the carriage was at the door, and the ladies ready.
Miss Compton and Miss De Lancie, Colonel Compton and Lord William Daw,
filled the carriage, as well as they afterward filled the box at the
theatre.
The play had already commenced when they entered, and the scene in
progress was that of the ball at old Capulet’s house. It seemed to
confine the attention of the audience, but as for Lord William Daw, the
mimic life upon the stage had no more power than had had the real drama
of the morning to draw his attention from the magnificent Marguerite.
He spoke but little; spellbound, his eyes never left her, except when,
in turning her regal head, her eyes encountered his--when, blushing
like a detected schoolboy, he would avert his face. So, for him; the
play passed like a dream; nor did he know it was over until the general
rising of the company informed him.
Every one was enthusiastic. Colonel Compton, who had been in London
in an official capacity, and had seen Mrs. Siddons, averred it as his
opinion that her sister, Mrs. Whitlock, was in every respect the equal
of the great _tragedienne_. All seemed delighted with the performance
they had just witnessed, excepting only Lord William Daw, who had
seen nothing of it, and Marguerite De Lancie, who seemed perfectly
indifferent.
“What is your opinion, Miss De Lancie?” inquired the youth, by way of
relieving the awkwardness of his own silence.
“About what?” asked Marguerite, abstractedly.
“Ahem!--about--Shakespeare and--this performance.”
“Oh! Can I be interested in anything of this kind, after what we have
witnessed in the State House to-day? Least of all in this thing?”
“This thing?--what, Marguerite, do you not worship Shakespeare and Mrs.
Whitlock, then?” exclaimed Cornelia Compton.
“Mrs. Whitlock? I do not know yet; let me see her in some other
character. Shakespeare? Yes! but not traditionally, imitatively,
blindly, wholly, as most of you worship, or profess to worship him; I
admire his tragedies of Lear, Richard the Third, Macbeth, and perhaps
one or two others; but this Romeo and Juliet, this lovesick boy and
puling girl--bah! bah! let’s go home.”
“That’s the way with Marguerite! Now I should not have dared to risk my
reputation for intelligence by uttering that sentiment,” said Cornelia
Compton.
“Never fear, child; naught is never in danger,” observed Colonel
Compton, with good-humored, though severe raillery.
While Lord William Daw, with the morbid and sensitive egotism of a
lover, inquired of himself: Does she intend that remark for me? Does
she look upon me only in the light of a lovesick boy? Do I only disgust
her, then? Thus tormenting himself until their party had entered the
carriage, and driven back once more to Colonel Compton’s hospitable
mansion, and where his host, inwardly laughing, pressed him to come in
and take a bed and breakfast.
But the youth, doubtful of the colonel’s seriousness, piqued at his
inamorata’s scornfulness, and ashamed of his own devotedness, declined
the invitation, bowed his adieus, and was about to retire, when Colonel
Compton placed his carriage and servants at Lord William’s disposal,
and besought him to permit them to set him down at his own hotel, a
service that the young gentleman, with some hesitation, accepted.
In a few days from this, General Washington left Philadelphia for Mount
Vernon. And Colonel Compton, who went out of office with his chief,
broke up his establishment in Philadelphia, and, with his family, set
out for his home in Virginia.