accompanied her husband and her uncle to the home of her early youth.
She introduced with pride the noble-looking stranger to all her true
and single-hearted friends. "But here," said she, throwing her arms
round Susan, "here is my mother and my mother's friend." Mr. Maitland
would gladly have lavished wealth upon them, in remuneration for their
cares, but they steadfastly refused his gifts, asserting they had only
done their duty, and merited no reward. "Do unto others, as we have
done towards yours," replied these followers of our Saviour's golden
rule. "When you hear us reviled by the world, and our worship scorned,
and our rites ridiculed, defend us if you can; and if one of the
disciples of our creed should be in need of succour, be unto him as a
brother, and we ask no more." "Dear Susan," said Grace, when the
parting hour arrived, as she lingered behind to bid her farewell, "am
I not the happiest of human beings?" "I bless God that you _are_
happy, my child," answered Susan, laying her hand solemnly on her
head--"and long, long may you remain so; but forget not, days of
darkness may come, that the bridal garments may be changed for
sackcloth, and ashes be scattered over the garlands of love. Remember
then, O Grace, there is a refuge from the woes and vanities of the
world, where the spirit may wait in peace for its everlasting home."
Grace wept, but she smiled through her tears, and, seated once more at
Roland's side, she felt as if darkness and sorrow could never be _her_
portion.
A RAINY EVENING.
A SKETCH.
A pleasant little group was gathered round Uncle Ned's domestic
hearth. He sat on one side of the fire-place, opposite Aunt Mary, who,
with her book in her hand, watched the children seated at the table,
some reading, others sewing, all occupied, but one, a child "of larger
growth," a young lady, who, being a guest of the family, was suffered
to indulge in the pleasure of idleness without reproof.
"Oh! I _love_ a rainy evening," said little Ann, looking up from her
book, and meeting her mother's smiling glance, "it is so nice to sit
by a good fire and hear the rain pattering against the windows. Only I
pity the poor people who have no house to cover them, to keep off the
rain and the cold."
"And I love a rainy evening, too," cried George, a boy of about
twelve. "I can study so much better. My thoughts stay at home, and
don't keep rambling out after the bright moon and stars. My heart
feels warmer, and I really believe I love everybody better than I do
when the weather is fair."
Uncle Ned smiled, and gave the boy an approving pat on the shoulder.
Every one smiled but the young lady, who with a languid, discontented
air, now played with a pair of scissors, now turned over the leaves of
a book, then, with an ill-suppressed yawn, leaned idly on her elbow,
and looked into the fire.
"And what do you think of a rainy evening, Elizabeth?" asked Uncle
Ned. "I should like to hear your opinion also."
"I think it over dull and uninteresting, indeed," answered she. "I
always feel so stupid, I can hardly keep myself awake--one cannot go
abroad, or hope to see company at home; and one gets so tired of
seeing the same faces all the time. I cannot imagine what George and
Ann see to admire so much in a disagreeable rainy evening like this."
"Supposing I tell you a story, to enliven you?" said Uncle Ned.
"Oh! yes, father, please tell us a story," exclaimed the children,
simultaneously.
Little Ann was perched upon his knee as if by magic, and even
Elizabeth moved her chair, as if excited to some degree of interest.
George still held his book in his hand, but his bright eyes, sparkling
with unusual animation, were riveted upon his uncle's face.
"I am going to tell you a story about a _rainy evening_," said Uncle
Ned.
"Oh! that will be _so_ pretty!" cried Ann, clapping her hands; but
Elizabeth's countenance fell below zero. It was an ominous
annunciation.
"Yes," continued Uncle Ned, "a rainy evening. But though clouds darker
than those which now mantle the sky were lowering abroad, and the rain
fell heavier and faster, the rainbow of my life was drawn most
beautifully on those dark clouds, and its fair colours still shine
most lovely on the sight. It is no longer, however, the bow of
promise, but the realization of my fondest dreams."
George saw his uncle cast an expressive glance towards the handsome
matron in the opposite corner, whose colour perceptibly heightened,
and he could not forbear exclaiming--
"Ah! Aunt Mary is blushing. I understand uncle's metaphor. _She_ is
his rainbow, and he thinks life one long rainy day."
"Not exactly so. I mean your last conclusion. But don't interrupt me,
my boy, and you shall hear a lesson, which, young as you are, I trust
you will never forget. When I was a young man I was thought quite
handsome--"
"Pa is as pretty as he can be, now," interrupted little Ann, passing
her hand fondly over his manly cheek.
Uncle Ned was not displeased with the compliment, for he pressed her
closer to him, while he continued--
"Well, when I was young I was of a gay spirit, and a great favourite
in society. The young ladies liked me for a partner in the dance, at
the chess-board, or the evening walk, and I had reason to think
several of them would have made no objection to take me as a partner
for life. Among all my young acquaintances, there was no one whose
companionship was so pleasing as that of a maiden whose name was Mary.
Now, there are a great many Marys in the world, so you must not take
it for granted I mean your mother or aunt. At any rate, you must not
look so significant till I have finished my story. Mary was a sweet
and lovely girl--with a current of cheerfulness running through her
disposition that made music as it flowed. It was an under current,
however, always gentle, and kept within its legitimate channel; never
overflowing into boisterous mirth or unmeaning levity. She was the
only daughter of her mother, _and she a widow_. Mrs. Carlton, such was
her mother's name, was in lowly circumstances, and Mary had none of
the appliances of wealth and fashion to decorate her person, or gild
her home. A very modest competency was all her portion, and she wished
for nothing more. I have seen her, in a simple white dress, without a
single ornament, unless it was a natural rose, transcend all the gaudy
belles, who sought by the attractions of dress to win the admiration
of the multitude. But, alas! for poor human nature. One of these
dashing belles so fascinated my attention, that the gentle Mary was
for a while forgotten. Theresa Vane was, indeed, a rare piece of
mortal mechanism. Her figure was the perfection of beauty, and she
moved as if strung upon wires, so elastic and springing were her
gestures. I never saw such lustrous hair--it was perfectly black, and
shone like burnished steel; and then such ringlets! How they waved and
rippled down her beautiful neck! She dressed with the most exquisite
taste, delicacy, and neatness, and whatever she wore assumed a
peculiar grace and fitness, as if art loved to adorn what nature made
so fair. But what charmed me most was, the sunshiny smile that was
always waiting to light up her countenance. To be sure, she sometimes
laughed a little too loud, but then her laugh was so musical, and her
teeth so white, it was impossible to believe her guilty of rudeness,
or want of grace. Often, when I saw her in the social circle, so
brilliant and smiling, the life and charm of everything around her, I
thought how happy the constant companionship of such a being would
make me--what brightness she would impart to the fireside of
home--what light, what joy, to the darkest scenes of existence!"
"Oh! uncle," interrupted George, laughing, "if I were Aunt Mary, I
would not let you praise any other lady so warmly. You are so taken up
with her beauty, you have forgotten all about the rainy evening."
Aunt Mary smiled, but it is more than probable that George really
touched one of the hidden springs of her woman's heart, for she looked
down, and said nothing.
"Don't be impatient," said Uncle Ned, "and you shall not be cheated
out of your story. I began it for Elizabeth's sake, rather than yours,
and I see she is wide awake. She thinks I was by this time more than
half in love with Theresa Vane, and she thinks more than half right.
There had been a great many parties of pleasure, riding parties,
sailing parties, and talking parties; and summer slipped by, almost
unconsciously. At length the autumnal equinox approached, and
gathering clouds, north-eastern gales, and drizzling rains, succeeded
to the soft breezes, mellow skies, and glowing sunsets, peculiar to
that beautiful season. For two or three days I was confined within
doors by the continuous rains, and I am sorry to confess it, but the
blue devils actually got complete possession of me--one strided upon
my nose, another danced on the top of my head, one pinched my ear, and
another turned somersets on my chin. You laugh, little Nanny; but they
are terrible creatures, these blue gentlemen, and I could not endure
them any longer. So the third rainy evening, I put on my overcoat,
buttoned it up to my chin, and taking my umbrella in my hand, set out
in the direction of Mrs. Vane's. 'Here,' thought I, as my fingers
pressed the latch, 'I shall find the moonlight smile, that will
illumine the darkness of my night--the dull vapours will disperse
before her radiant glance, and this interminable equinoctial storm be
transformed into a mere vernal shower, melting away in sunbeams in her
presence.' My gentle knock not being apparently heard, I stepped into
the ante-room, set down my umbrella, took off my drenched overcoat,
arranged my hair in the most graceful manner, and, claiming a
privilege to which, perhaps, I had no legitimate right, opened the
door of the family sitting-room, and found myself in the presence of
the beautiful Theresa--"
Here Uncle Ned made a provoking pause.
"Pray, go on." "How was she dressed?" "And was she glad to see you?"
assailed him on every side.
"How was she dressed?" repeated he. "I am not very well skilled in the
technicalities of a lady's wardrobe, but I can give you the general
impression of her personal appearance. In the first place, there was
a jumping up and an off-hand sliding step towards an opposite door, as
I entered; but a disobliging chair was in the way, and I was making my
lowest bow, before she found an opportunity of disappearing. Confused
and mortified, she scarcely returned my salutation, while Mrs. Vane
offered me a chair, and expressed, in somewhat dubious terms, their
gratification at such an unexpected pleasure. I have no doubt Theresa
wished me at the bottom of the Frozen Ocean, if I might judge by the
freezing glances she shot at me through her long lashes. She sat
uneasily in her chair, trying to conceal her slipshod shoes, and
furtively arranging her dress about the shoulders and waist. It was a
most rebellious subject, for the body and skirt were at open warfare,
refusing to have any communion with each other. Where was the graceful
shape I had so much admired? In vain I sought its exquisite outlines
in the folds of that loose, slovenly robe. Where were those glistening
ringlets and burnished locks that had so lately rivalled the tresses
of Medusa? Her hair was put in tangled bunches behind her ears, and
tucked up behind in a kind of Gordian knot, which would have required
the sword of an Alexander to untie. Her frock was a soiled and dingy
silk, with trimmings of sallow blonde, and a faded fancy handkerchief
was thrown over one shoulder.
"'You have caught me completely _en déshabille_,' said she, recovering
partially from her embarrassment; 'but the evening was so rainy, and
no one but mother and myself, I never dreamed of such an exhibition of
gallantry as this.'
"She could not disguise her vexation, with all her efforts to conceal
it, and Mrs. Vane evidently shared her daughter's chagrin. I was
wicked enough to enjoy their confusion, and never appeared more at my
ease, or played the agreeable with more signal success. I was
disenchanted at once, and my mind revelled in its recovered freedom.
My goddess had fallen from the pedestal on which my imagination had
enthroned her, despoiled of the beautiful drapery which had imparted
to her such ideal loveliness. I knew that I was a favourite in the
family, for I was wealthy and independent, and perhaps of all
Theresa's admirers what the world would call the best match. I
maliciously asked her to play on the piano, but she made a thousand
excuses, studiously keeping back the true reason, her disordered
attire. I asked her to play a game of chess, but 'she had a headache;
she was too stupid; she never _could_ do anything on a _rainy
evening_.'
"At length I took my leave, inwardly blessing the moving spirit which
had led me abroad that night, that the spell which had so long
enthralled my senses might be broken. Theresa called up one of her
lambent smiles as I bade her adieu.
"'Never call again on a rainy evening,' said she, sportively; 'I am
always so wretchedly dull. I believe I was born to live among the
sunbeams, the moonlight, and the stars. Clouds will never do for me.'
"'Amen,' I silently responded, as I closed the door. While I was
putting on my coat, I overheard, without the smallest intention of
listening, a passionate exclamation from Theresa.
"'Good heavens, mother! was there ever anything so unlucky? I never
thought of seeing my neighbour's _dog_ to-night. If I have not been
completely caught!'
"'I hope you will mind my advice next time,' replied her mother, in a
grieved tone. 'I told you not to sit down in that slovenly dress. I
have no doubt you have lost him for ever.'
"Here I made good my retreat, not wishing to enter the _penetralia_ of
family secrets.
"The rain still continued unabated, but my social feelings were very
far from being damped. I had the curiosity to make another experiment.
The evening was not very far advanced, and as I turned from Mrs.
Vane's fashionable mansion, I saw a modest light glimmering in the
distance, and I hailed it as the shipwrecked mariner hails the star
that guides him o'er ocean's foam to the home he has left behind.
Though I was gay and young, and a passionate admirer of beauty, I had
very exalted ideas of domestic felicity. I knew that there was many a
rainy day in life, and I thought the companion who was born alone for
sunbeams and moonlight, would not aid me to dissipate their gloom. I
had, moreover, a shrewd suspicion that the daughter who thought it a
sufficient excuse for shameful personal neglect, that there was no one
present but her _mother_, would, as a wife, be equally regardless of a
_husband's_ presence. While I pursued these reflections, my feet
involuntarily drew nearer and more near to the light, which had been
the lodestone of my opening manhood. I had continued to meet Mary in
the gay circles I frequented, but I had lately become almost a
stranger to her home. 'Shall I be a welcome guest?' said I to myself,
as I crossed the threshold. 'Shall I find her _en déshabille_,
likewise, and discover that feminine beauty and grace are incompatible
with a rainy evening?' I heard a sweet voice reading aloud as I
opened the door, and I knew it was the voice which was once music to
my ears. Mary rose at my entrance, laying her book quietly on the
table, and greeted me with a modest grace and self-possession peculiar
to herself. She looked surprised, a little embarrassed, but very far
from being displeased. She made no allusion to my estrangement or
neglect; expressed no astonishment at my untimely visit, nor once
hinted that, being alone with her mother, and not anticipating
visiters, she thought it unnecessary to wear the habiliments of a
_lady_. Never, in my life, had I seen her look so lovely. Her dress
was perfectly plain, but every fold was arranged by the hand of the
Graces. Her dark-brown hair, which had a natural wave in it, now
uncurled by the dampness, was put back in smooth ringlets from her
brow, revealing a face which did not consider its beauty wasted
because a mother's eye alone rested on its bloom. A beautiful cluster
of autumnal roses, placed in a glass vase on the table, perfumed the
apartment, and a bright blaze on the hearth diffused a spirit of
cheerfulness around, while it relieved the atmosphere of its excessive
moisture. Mrs. Carlton was an invalid, and suffered also from an
inflammation of the eyes. Mary had been reading aloud to her from her
favourite book. What do you think it was? It was a very old-fashioned
one, indeed. No other than the Bible. And Mary was not ashamed to have
such a fashionable young gentleman as I then was to see what her
occupation had been. What a contrast to the scene I had just quitted!
How I loathed myself for the infatuation which had led me to prefer
the artificial graces of a belle to this pure child of nature! I drew
my chair to the table, and entreated that they would not look upon me
as a stranger, but as a friend, anxious to be restored to the
forfeited privileges of an old acquaintance. I was understood in a
moment, and, without a single reproach, was admitted again to
confidence and familiarity. The hours I had wasted with Theresa seemed
a kind of mesmeric slumber, a blank in my existence, or, at least, a
feverish dream. 'What do you think of a rainy evening, Mary?' asked I,
before I left her.
"'I love it of all things,' replied she, with animation. 'There is
something so home-drawing, so heart-knitting, in its influence. The
dependencies which bind us to the world seem withdrawn; and, retiring
within ourselves, we learn more of the deep mysteries of our own
being.'
"Mary's soul beamed from her eye as it turned, with a transient
obliquity, towards heaven. She paused, as if fearful of unsealing the
fountains of her heart. I said that Mrs. Carlton was an invalid, and
consequently retired early to her chamber; but I lingered till a late
hour, nor did I go till I had made a full confession of my folly,
repentance, and awakened love; and, as Mary did not shut the door in
my face, you may imagine she was not sorely displeased."
"Ah! I know who Mary was. I knew all the time," exclaimed George,
looking archly at Aunt Mary. A bright tear, which at that moment fell
into her lap, showed that though a silent, she was no uninterested
auditor.
"You haven't done, father?" said little Ann, in a disappointed tone;
"I thought you were going to tell a story. You have been talking about
yourself all the time."
"I have been something of an egotist, to be sure, my little girl, but
I wanted to show my dear young friend here how much might depend upon
a rainy evening. Life is not made all of sunshine. The happiest and
most prosperous must have their seasons of gloom and darkness, and woe
be to those from whose souls no rays of brightness emanate to gild
those darkened hours. I bless the God of the rain as well as the
sunshine. I can read His mercy and His love as well in the tempest,
whose wings obscure the visible glories of His creation, as in the
splendour of the rising sun, or the soft dews that descend after his
setting radiance. I began with a metaphor. I said a rainbow was drawn
on the clouds that lowered on that eventful day, and that it still
continued to shine with undiminished beauty. Woman, my children, was
sent by God to be the rainbow of man's darker destiny. From the
glowing red, emblematic of that love which warms and gladdens his
existence, to the violet melting into the blue of heaven, symbolical
of the faith which links him to a purer world, her blending virtues,
mingling with each other in beautiful harmony, are a token of God's
mercy here, and an earnest of future blessings in those regions where
no _rainy evenings_ ever come to obscure the brightness of eternal
day."
THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE.
There was a rushing to and fro in the chamber of Ellen Loring, a tread
of hurrying feet, a mingled hum of voices, an opening and shutting of
doors, as if some event of overwhelming importance agitated the
feelings, and moved the frames of every individual in the house. A
stranger, in the apartment below, might have imagined an individual
was dying, and that all were gathering round to offer the appliances
of love and sympathy. But Ellen Loring, the object of all this
commotion, was in all the bloom and beauty of health. She sat in a low
chair and in front of a large mirror, half-arrayed in the habiliments
of the ball-room, her head glowing with flowers, and streaming with
ringlets, her feet encased in silk cobweb and white satin, her face
flushed with excitement, her waist compressed into the smallest
possible compass, while the strongest fingers the household could
supply, were drawing together the last reluctant hook and eye, which
fastened the rich and airy mixture of satin blonde, that fell in
redundant folds round her slender person. "I am afraid, Ellen, your
dress is _rather_ too tight," said Mrs. Loring, who was superintending
the process with a keen and experienced eye; "you had better not wear
it, it may give you a consumption." "Ridiculous!" exclaimed Ellen, "it
feels perfectly loose and comfortable; I am sure it fits delightfully.
Look, Agnes," addressing a weary-looking girl who had been standing
more than half an hour over her, arranging her hair in the most
fashionable style. "Look, Agnes, is it not beautiful?"
"Very beautiful," answered Agnes; "but I think it would look much
better if it were not so very low, and the night is so cold, I am sure
you will suffer without something thrown over your shoulders. These
pearl beads are very ornamental, but they will not give warmth,"
lifting them up as she spoke, from a neck that "rivalled their
whiteness." Ellen burst into a scornful laugh, and declared she would
rather catch her death-cold, than look so old-fashioned and
old-womanish. Mrs. Loring here interposed, and insisted that Ellen
should wear a shawl into the ball-room, and to be sure to put it
around her when she was not dancing, "for you must remember," added
she, "the dreadful cough you had last winter; when you caught cold, I
was really apprehensive of a consumption."
"I do think, mother, you must be haunted by the ghost of consumption.
Everything you say begins and ends with _consumption_--_I_ am not
afraid of the ghost, or the reality, while such roses as these bloom
on my cheeks, and such elastic limbs as these bear me through the
dance."
Mrs. Loring looked with admiring fondness on her daughter, as she
danced gayly before the looking-glass, called her a "wild, thoughtless
thing," and thought it would be indeed a pity to muffle such a
beautiful neck in a clumsy 'kerchief. The carriage was announced, and
Agnes was despatched in a hundred directions for the embroidered
handkerchief, the scented gloves, and all the _et ceteras_, which
crowd on the memory at the last moment. Agnes followed the retreating
form of Ellen with a long and wistful gaze, then turned with a sigh to
collect the scattered articles of finery that strewed the room. "Happy
Ellen!" said she to herself, "happy, beautiful Ellen! favoured by
nature and fortune. Every desire of her heart is gratified. She moves
but to be admired, flattered, and caressed. While I, a poor, dependent
relative, am compelled to administer to her vanity and wait upon her
caprices--oh! if I were only rich and beautiful like Ellen! I would
willingly walk over burning ploughshares to obtain the happiness that
is in store for her to-night."
While the repining Agnes followed Ellen, in imagination, to scenes
which appeared to her fancy like the dazzling pictures described in
the Arabian Nights, let us enter the ball-room and follow the
footsteps of her, whose favoured lot led her through the enchanted
land. The hall was brilliantly lighted, the music was of the most
animating kind, airy forms floated on the gaze, most elaborately and
elegantly adorned, and in the midst of these Ellen shone transcendent.
For a while, her enjoyment realized even the dreams of Agnes.
Conscious of being admired, she glided through the dance, gracefully
holding her flowing drapery, smiling, blushing, coquetting and
flirting. Compliments were breathed continually into her ears. She was
compared to the sylphs, the graces, the muses, the houris, and even to
the angels that inhabit the celestial city. Yes; this daughter of
fashion, this devotee of pleasure, this vain and thoughtless being,
who lived without God in the world, was told by flattering lips, that
she resembled those pure and glorified spirits which surround the
throne of the Most High, and sing the everlasting song of Moses and
the Lamb--and she believed it. Perhaps some may assert that the
daughters of fashion are not always forgetful of their God, for they
are often heard to call upon his great and holy name, in a moment of
sudden astonishment or passion, and were a saint to witness their
uplifted eyes and clasped hands, he might deem them wrapt in an
ecstasy of devotion.