It was one of the most sultry days of an intensely hot summer, the
thermometer stood at eighty-five in the shade, every thing was parched
with fervent heat, and, as if to show their powers of endurance, half
the world, leaving the quiet comfort of luxurious homes, were inhaling
the close and unhealthful atmosphere of a crowded watering-place. Cecil
Forrester had mingled with the throng, and, bidding adieu to his
father’s beautiful country-seat, where the murmur of a rushing stream
mingled its cool refreshing sound with the whisper of the summer breeze,
had obtained, for a certain consideration, the privilege of occupying an
apartment, some eight feet by ten, in the great hotel which stretches
its huge length along the sands at ——. But Cecil had other motives
than simple obedience to the dictates of fashion. He was in love, deeply
and earnestly in love, and the lady on whom he had bestowed his
affections seemed to him one of those exquisite creatures, equally well
fitted to be the gem of a ball-room or the ornament of domestic life. He
had met her in the sequestered village of Norwood, whither he repaired
every summer to visit a favorite sister, and where the lovely Miss Oriel
had come to repair the ravages which a winter’s dissipation had made in
her fresh complexion. They had enjoyed a flirtation of the most
delightful kind, because it had been purely sentimental, and such is,
after all, the most agreeable variety of that very common species of
amusement. Laura Oriel had laid aside all her usual gaiety of apparel,
her dress was the very perfection of elegant simplicity; her raven hair
was braided, without a single ringlet, around her well turned head, and,
in short, nothing could be more attractive than the city belle so
suddenly transformed into _la jolie paysanne_ of a country village. Many
a moonlit walk had Cecil Forrester enjoyed with her, many a beautiful
fancy had been pictured out during their rambles in the summer woods,
many a noble sentiment had been uttered beneath the deep shadow of the
rocky cliff, many a delicate thought had been evolved amid the beauty
and sublimity of nature. The time passed like a dream. The genial
breezes of flowery June had been exchanged for the fervent heats of
July, and these had again been forgotten in the more oppressive
sultriness of August before their happiness was disturbed by a single
thought of the future. But Miss Oriel was then obliged to accompany her
mother to ——. It was a most disagreeable necessity, for she did not
love a crowd, and though her fortune and station in society compelled
her to appear among the multitude, yet she was only happy in the
seclusion of domestic life. But duty to her only parent was the ruling
principle of her existence. Her mother’s wishes had forced her into
society during the past winter, and now the same irresistible power drew
her to the turbulent scenes of a fashionable watering-place. Poor thing!
she was certainly to be pitied, and so thought Cecil Forrester. He was
upon the point of expressing his ardent admiration, and offering his
heart and hand to her whose tender friendship had made him bankrupt in
all that was worthy of her acceptance. But, somehow or other, no
opportunity occurred for any such explanation. The lady rather avoided
those delicious walks which, though favorable to the growth of
affection, might afford chances for an unseasonable declaration. So
Cecil was only able to inform her of his intention to meet her at ——,
and contented himself, for the present, with offering her a splendid
copy of Rogers’ Poems, in which he had inscribed her name in the most
delicate of Italian writing, and where she found, on further
examination, the words “To her who will understand me,” written over the
pretty pastoral poem entitled “The Wish.”
“Mine be a cot beside a hill;
A beehive’s hum shall soothe mine ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
To share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church, amid the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point, with taper spire, to Heaven.”
It was certainly a most appropriate and delicately expressed choice for
such a lover of natural beauty and quiet happiness as Miss Laura Oriel.
But to return to ——. Mr. Forrester knew that Miss Oriel was expected
to arrive there on a certain morning, and, as he had gone down several
days previous, he was, of course, on the watch for her. Most impassioned
admirers would have rushed out to welcome the object of their thoughts
at the very first glimpse of her green veil. But Cecil was no vulgar
lover, his taste was excessively refined, and for his own sake, no less
than out of regard to the lady’s feelings, he did not choose to behold
her in travelling dishabille after a long and dusty ride. He therefore
contented himself with watching from an upper window her descent from
the stage coach, and then retired to his apartment until the preparatory
dinner-bell should summon the _élite_ to the saloon. As I have said
before, the day was excessively warm, and all the ventilators (which had
been mercifully placed over each door to prevent suffocation) stood wide
open, as if the rooms, like their heated occupants, were gasping for
breath. Cecil, who had a tolerably correct notion of comfort, had loosed
his boot-straps, unbraced his stays, and flung himself upon the bed to
indulge a pleasant reverie before he commenced his toilet, when he was
suddenly recalled to the scenes of actual life by the sound of a
well-known voice.
The apartments to which Miss Oriel and her mother had been conducted
(the privilege of selection would be a most unheard-of innovation of the
rights of hotel-keepers at such a season) happened to be immediately
opposite to the one already occupied by Mr. Forrester. The ventilators
of both were open, and, as he heard her voice, he felt a sweet
satisfaction in the thought, that the soft southern breeze which was
cooling his brow also fanned the ringlets of his beautiful mistress. But
really there was no excuse for his listening to her conversation; it was
most ungentlemanlike, but at the same time, I am sorry to say, most
natural; and though heartily ashamed of him for so doing, I am obliged
to confess that he paid the closest attention to every word of their
discourse.
“How long do you want to stay here, Laura?” said the mother, in that
wheezing sort of voice which belongs to fat, pursy old ladies when
over-fatigued.
“That will depend upon circumstances,” was the short and rather crusty
reply.
“Do you know they charge twelve dollars a week, and every bath is an
extra expense?”
“What of that? We must risk something in all speculations, and mine is a
pretty safe venture.”
“I wish we had left Ellen Grey at home.”
“I don’t agree with you; we owe her some return for staying nearly three
months with her at Norwood, and I cannot bear to be under an obligation
to such mighty good sort of people, for they never forget it.”
“But her board will be expensive, and I do not see why it would not have
been as well to invite her to our house in the winter.”
“You don’t seem to understand my plans, Mamma. Ellen Grey is pretty, and
modest, and sentimental, and all that; she is just the kind of person to
be very attractive to gentlemen when seen in domestic life, but she is
too timid to appear well in a place like this. She will scarcely dare to
raise her eyes in such a crowd, and therefore there can be no rivalry
between us. Besides, she has a great deal of taste, and her assistance
at my toilet enables me to dispense with a dressing maid.”
“I cannot see much force in your argument.”
“Perhaps not; what would you say if I tell you I want her as a foil?”
“She is too pretty to serve such a purpose.”
“You are greatly mistaken; any body would look well beside an ugly girl,
but one must be exceedingly beautiful to bear a comparison with as
pretty a creature as Ellen Grey. Her delicate complexion, which is
continually suffused with blushes, her fair hair and blue eyes would
appear lovelier any where else than they will beside me.”
“Such beauty as yours requires no foil, Laura.”
“I choose to employ one, notwithstanding; I have come here for the
express purpose of attracting Fitzroy Beauchamp, and I mean to neglect
nothing, however trifling, to compass my schemes.”
“What will Cecil Forrester say?”
“If I succeed, he may say what he pleases. I mean to play off my present
lover against the future one; and Cecil will be of use to me by exciting
the jealousy of Beauchamp.”
“I declare you are too bad, Laura.”
“I only mean to study your interest and my own, Mamma. Cecil Forrester
was a delightful companion in the country, his enthusiasm was so well
adapted to the time and place, that it seemed to give charms to the dull
and stupid village, which it could not otherwise have possessed. I
certainly played my part to perfection, indeed, I almost began to fancy
that there was really some feeling in my acting; at any rate he has the
most implicit faith in my sensibility. How often I have laughed over the
love-sick youth’s rural wish! I think I see myself as
‘Lucy at her spinning-wheel,
In russet gown and apron blue.’”
“I wonder how you kept up the farce so long, Laura; even Ellen thinks
you a most exemplary sentimentalist.”
“Oh, it was a pleasant mode of getting rid of time; nothing sharpens
one’s wits like a flirtation with a real lover—I have learned twenty
new stratagems from my ‘_country practice_.’”
“Are you sure Mr. Beauchamp is rich?”
“He drives blood-horses, sports a tiger in livery, lives at the Astor,
drinks wine at $8 a bottle, and, what is more, pays his bills.”
“How did you learn this?”
“From very good authority; he is said to have $200,000 in bank stocks
besides a sugar plantation worth $12,000 per annum, and slaves enough to
stock a colony; so you see he is a prize worth winning. As for Cecil
Forrester, I am sorry he is here, but I must manage to turn him over to
the unsophisticated little rustic for the present. I do not wish to give
him a downright dismissal, because if I should fail to secure the
millionaire it would be as well to fall back upon Forrester’s $30,000.
The game will be a difficult one, but the glory of success will be the
greater.”
“I hope you will reap some of the spoils of victory, Laura, for our
legacy is rapidly diminishing, and when it is gone you know there will
be no further chance.”
“Never fear, Mamma; my stock in trade is very good—beauty, tact, and
five thousand dollars form a very excellent capital, and I think I can
afford to speculate rather largely.”
“But more than half of the most essential part of your capital is
already gone, and you have not as yet succeeded.”
“You forget that I have gained a footing in society by its expenditure;
leave every thing to me, and if I am not married before next season,
then write me down a fool.”
Cecil Forrester heard every word of this dialogue. At its commencement
he had started to his feet, and if any one could have witnessed his
gestures and contortions he would have been deemed a madman. His face
flushed and paled, his eyes dilated with anger and flashed with
contempt, his lip curled in bitter scorn, and narrowly escaped being
bitten through as he gnashed his teeth in impotent rage; he clenched his
hands, he tore off the turquoise ring which he had hitherto worn on his
little finger as a _gage d’amitié_ from the false beauty, and finally,
after exhausting his angry emotions, he flung himself into a seat, with
a calm and determined expression of countenance which augured ill for
some of the schemes of Miss Laura Oriel.