LIZZIE'S LOVER.
"Fond girl! no saint nor angel he
Who wooes thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassioned sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire,
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the day-god's living fire."
FIRE WORSHIPERS.
The inn of St. Mark's was an old, brown, wooden house, with huge,
unpainted shutters, and great oak doors, that in summer lay always
invitingly open. It stood in the center of the village, with the forest
stretching away behind, and the beach spreading out in front. Over the
door swung a huge signboard, on which some rustic artist had endeavored
to paint an eagle, but which, unfortunately, more closely resembled a
frightened goose.
Within the "Eagle," as it was generally called, everything was
spotlessly neat and clean; for the landlord's pretty daughter was the
tidiest of housewives. The huge, oaken door in front, directly under the
above-mentioned signboard, opened into the bar-room, behind the counter
of which the worthy host sat, in his huge leathern chair, from "early
morn till dewy eve." Another door, at the farther end, opened into the
"big parlor," the pine floor of which was scrubbed as white as human
hands could make it; and the two high, square windows at either end
absolutely glittered with cleanliness. The wooden chairs were polished
till they shone, and never blazed a fire on a cleaner swept hearth than
that which now roared up the wide fire-place of the "Eagle."
It was a gusty January night. The wind came raw and cold over the
distant hills, now rising fierce and high, and anon dying away in low,
moaning sighs among the shivering trees. On the beach the waves came
tramping inward, their dull, hollow voices booming like distant thunder
on the ear.
But within the parlor of the "Eagle" the mirth and laughter were loud
and boisterous. Gathered around the blazing fire, drinking, smoking,
swearing, arguing, were fifteen or twenty men--drovers, farmers,
fishermen, and loafers.
"This yer's what _I_ calls comfortable," said a lusty drover, as he
raised a foaming mug of ale to his lips and drained it to the last drop.
"I swan to man if it ain't a rouser of a night," said a rather
good-looking young fellow, dressed in the coarse garb of a fisherman, as
a sudden gust of wind and hail came driving against the windows.
"Better here than out on the bay to-night, eh, Jim?" said the drover,
turning to the last speaker.
"Them's my sentiments," was the reply, as Jim filled his pipe.
"I reckon Jim hain't no objection to stayin' anywhere where Cassie is,"
remarked another, dryly.
"Who's taking my name in vain here?" called a clear, ringing voice, as a
young girl, of some eighteen years of age, entered. Below the middle
size, plump and round, with merry, black eyes, a complexion decidedly
brown, full, red lips, overflowing with fun and good-nature--such was
Cassie Fox, the pretty little hostess of the "Eagle."
Before any one could reply, an unusual noise in the bar-room fell upon
their ears. The next moment, Sally, the black maid-of-all-work, came
into the "big parlor," with mouth and eyes agape.
"Laws, misses," she said, addressing Cassie, "dar's a gemman--a rale
big-bug--out'n de bar-room; a 'spectable, 'sponsible, 'greeable gemman,
powerful hansom, wid brack eyes an' har, an' a carpet-bag!"
"Sakes alive!" ejaculated Cassie, dropping the tray, and turning to the
looking-glass; "he's handsome, and--_my hair's awfully mussed_!
Gracious! what brings him here, Sally?"
"Got cotch in de storm; 'deed he did, chile--heard him tell marse so my
own blessed self."
"Goodness!" again ejaculated the little hostess. "I'm all in a
flusterfication. Handsome! dear, dear!--my hair's all out of curl! Black
eyes!--I must unpin my dress. Nice hair! Jim Loker, take your legs out
of the fire, nobody wants you to make andirons of 'em."
"Cass! Cass, I say! Come here, you Cass!" called the voice of mine host
from the bar-room.
Cassie bustled out of the room and entered the bar. Old Giles Fox stood
respectfully before the stranger, a young man wrapped in a cloak, tall
and handsome, with a sort of dashing, reckless air, that well became
him.
"Here, Cass," said her father, "this gentleman's going to stay all
night. Show him into the best room, and get supper ready. Be spry, now."
"Yes, sir," said Cassie, demurely, courtesying before the handsome
stranger, who glanced half carelessly, half admiringly, at her pretty
face. "This way, sir, if you please."
The stranger followed her into the parlor, and encountered the battery
of a score of eyes fixed full upon him. He paused in the doorway and
glanced around.
"Beg pardon," he said, in the refined tone of a gentleman, "but I
thought this room was unoccupied. Can I not have a private apartment?"
he added, turning to Cassie.
"Oh, yes, to be sure," replied the little hostess; "step this way, sir,"
and Cassie ran up-stairs, followed by the new-comer, whose dark eyes had
already made a deep impression in the susceptible heart of Cassie.
He threw himself into a chair before the fire and fixed his eyes
thoughtfully on the glowing coals. Cassie, having placed his dripping
cloak before the fire to dry, ran down stairs, where he could distinctly
hear her shrill voice giving hasty orders to the servants.
Supper was at length brought in by Cassie, and the stranger fell to with
the readiness of one to whom a long journey has given an appetite.
"There," he said at last, pushing back his chair. "I think I have done
justice to your cookery, my dear--Cassie--isn't that what they call
you?"
"Yes, sir; after Cassiopia, who was queen in furrin parts long ago.
Efiofia, I think, was the name of the place," said Cassie, complacently.
"What?" said the stranger, repressing a laugh. "What do you say was the
name of the place?"
"Efiofia!" repeated Cassie, with emphasis.
"Ethiopia! Oh, I understand! And who named you after that fair queen,
who now resides among the stars?"
"Mother, of course, before she died," replied the namesake of that
Ethiopian queen. "She read about her in some book, and named me
accordingly."
The stranger smiled, and fixed his eyes steadily on the complacent face
of Cassie, with an expression of mingled amusement and curiosity. There
was a moment's pause, and then he asked:
"And what sort of place is St. Mark's--I mean, what sort of people are
there in it?"
"Oh, pretty nice," replied Cassie; "most all like those you saw down
stairs in the parlor."
"But, I mean the gentry."
"Oh, the big-bugs. Well, yes, there is some of 'em here. First, there's
the squire----"
"Squire who?" interrupted the stranger, with a look of interest.
"Squire Erliston, of course; he lives up there in a place called Mount
Sunset."
"Yes?" said the young man, inquiringly.
"Yes," repeated Cassiopia, "with his daughter, Miss Lizzie."
"Has he only one daughter?"
"That's all, now. He had two; but Miss Esther ran off with a wild young
fellow, an' I've hearn tell as how they were both dead, poor things! So
powerful handsome as they were too--'specially him."
"And Miss Lizzie?"
"Oh, yes. Well, you see she ain't married--she's more sense. She's awful
pretty, too, though she ain't a mite like Miss Esther was. Laws, she
might have bin married dozens of times, I'm sure, if she'd have all the
gents who want her. She's only been home for two or three months; she
was off somewhere to boardin'-school to larn to play the pianner and
make picters and sich."
"And the papa of these interesting damsels, what is he like?" inquired
the young man.
"He?--sakes alive! Why, he's the ugliest-tempered, crossest,
hatefullest, disagreeablest old snapping-turtle ever you saw. He's as
cross as two sticks, and as savage as a bear with a sore head. My stars
and garters! I'd sooner run a mile out of my way than meet him in the
street."
"Whew! pleasant, upon my word! Are all your country magnates as amiable
as Squire Erliston?"
"There ain't many more, 'cepting Doctor Nick Wiseman, and that queer old
witch, Miss Hagar."
"Has he any grown-up daughters?" inquired the stranger, carelessly.
Cassie paused, and regarded him with a peculiar look for an instant.
"Ahem!" she said, after a pause. "No; he's a widderer, with only one
child, a daughter, 'bout nine months old, and a nevvy a year or so
older. No, there ain't no young ladies--I mean real ladies--in the
village, 'cept Miss Lizzie Erliston."
He paid no attention to the meaning tone in which this was spoken, and
after lingering a few moments longer, Cassie took her leave, inwardly
wondering who the handsome and inquisitive stranger could be.
"Praps this'll tell," said Cassie, as she lifted the stranger's
portmanteau, and examined it carefully for name and initials. "Here it
is, I declare!" she exclaimed, as her eyes fell on the letters "B. O.,"
inscribed on the steel clasp. "B. O. I wonder what them stands for! 'B
O' _bo_. Shouldn't wonder if he was a beau. Sakes alive! what can his
name be and what can he want? Well, I ain't likely to tell anybody,
'cause I don't know myself. 'Has he got any grown-up darters?'" she
muttered, as the young man's question came again to her mind. "Maybe
he's a fortin' hunter. I've hern tell o' sich. Well, I hope Miss Lizzie
won't have anything to do with him if he is, and go throw herself away
on a graceless scamp like Miss Esther did. Well, I guess, if he goes
courtin' there, old Thunderclap will be in his wool, and--O, massy on
us!--if that Sally hain't let the fire go dead out, while I was talkin'
up-stairs with 'B. O.' Little black imp! won't I give it to her?"
The morning after the storm dawned clear and cold. All traces of the
preceding night's tempest had passed away, and the sun shone forth
brightly in a sky of clear, cloudless blue.
The handsome young stranger stood in the bar-room of the "Eagle," gazing
from the open door at the bay, sparkling and flashing in the sun's
light, and dotted all over with fishing-boats. Behind the counter sat
worthy Giles Fox, smoking his pipe placidly. From the interior of the
building came at intervals the voice of Cassie, scolding right and left
at "You Sally" and "little black imp."
Suddenly the stranger beheld, emerging from a forest path on the right
of the inn, a gentleman on horseback. He rode slowly, and the stranger
observed that all the villagers he encountered saluted him respectfully,
the men pulling off their hats, the women dropping profound courtesies,
and the children, on their way to school, by scampering in evident alarm
across meadows and fields.
As he drew rein before the inn-door, the stranger drew back. The old
gentleman entered and approached the bar.
"Good-morning, Giles," he said, addressing the proprietor of the "Eagle"
in a patronizing tone.
"Good-morning, squire--good-morning, sir. Fine day after the storm last
night," said the host, rising.
"Great deal of damage done last night--great deal," said the old man,
speaking rapidly, as was his custom: "one or two of the fishermen's huts
down by the shore washed completely away. Yes, _sir--r_! Careless fools!
Served 'em right. Always said it would happen--_I_ knew it. 'Coming
events cast their shadows afore,' as Solomon says."
The young stranger stepped forward and stood before him.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, with a slight bow; "have I the honor of
addressing Squire Erliston?"
"Yes, yes--to be sure you have; that's me. Yes, _sir_. Who're you,
eh?--who're you?" said the squire, staring at him with his round, bullet
eyes.
"If Squire Erliston will glance over this, it will answer his question,"
said the young man, presenting a letter.
The squire held the letter in his hand, and stared at him a moment
longer; then wiped his spectacles and adjusted them upon his nose,
opened the letter, and began to read.
The stranger stood, in his usual careless manner, leaning against the
counter, and watched him during its perusal.
"Lord bless me!" exclaimed the squire, as he finished the letter. "So
you're the son of my old friend, Oranmore? Who'd think it? You weren't
the size of a well-grown pup when I saw you last. And you're his son?
Well, well! Give us your hand. 'Who knows what a day may bring forth?'
as Solomon says. I'd as soon have thought of seeing the Khan of Tartary
here as you. Oranmore's son! Well, well, well! You're his very image--a
trifle better-looking. And you're Barry Oranmore? When did you come,
eh?--when did you come?"
"Last night, sir."
"Last night, in all the storm? Bless my soul! Why didn't you come up to
Mount Sunset? Eh, sir? Why didn't you come?"
"Really, sir, I feared----"
"Pooh!--pshaw!--nonsense!--no, you did not. 'Innocence is bold; but the
guilty flee-eth when no one pursues,' as Solomon says. What were you
afraid of? S'pose everybody told you I was a demon incarnate--confound
their impudence! But I ain't; no, _sir_! 'The devil's not as black as
he's painted,' as Solomon says--or if he didn't say it, he ought to."
"Indeed, sir, I should be sorry to think of my father's old friend in
any such way, I beg to assure you."
"No, you won't--haven't time. Come up to Mount Sunset--come, right off!
Must, sir--no excuse; Liz'll be delighted to see you. Come--come--come
along!"
"Since you insist upon it, squire, I shall do myself the pleasure of
accepting your invitation."
"Yes, yes--to be sure you will!" again interrupted the impatient squire.
"Bless my heart!--and you're little Barry. Well, well!"
"I am Barry, certainly," said the young man, smiling; "but whether the
adjective 'little' is well applied or not, I feel somewhat doubtful. I
have a dim recollection of measuring some six feet odd inches when I
left home."
"Ha, ha, ha!--to be sure! to be sure!" laughed the lusty old squire.
"Little!--by Jove! you're a head and shoulders taller than I am myself.
Yes, sir--true as gospel. 'Bad weeds grow fast,' as Solomon says. Lord!
_won't_ my Liz be astonished, though?"
"I hope your daughter is quite well, squire."
"Well!--you'd better believe it. My daughter is _never_ sick. No, sir;
got too much sense--specially Liz. Esther always _was_ a simpleton--ran
away, and all that, before she was out of her bibs and tuckers. Both
died--knew they would. 'The days of the transgressors shall be short on
the earth,' as Solomon says. But Liz has got her eye-teeth cut. Smart
girl, my Liz."
"I anticipate great pleasure in making the acquaintance of Miss
Erliston," said Oranmore, carelessly; "her beauty and accomplishments
have made her name familiar to me long ago."
"Yes, yes, Liz is good-looking--deucedly good-looking; very like what I
was at her age. Ah, you're laughing, you rascal! Well, I dare say I'm no
beauty _now_; but never mind that at present. 'Handsome is as handsome
does,' as Solomon says. Come, get your traps and come along. Giles, fly
round--we're in a hurry."
Thus adjured, Giles kindly consented to "fly round." All was soon ready;
and, after giving orders to have his portmanteau sent after him, young
Oranmore mounted his horse, and, accompanied by the squire, rode off
toward Mount Sunset Hall, the squire enlivening the way by numerous
quotations from Solomon.
On reaching the Hall, his host ushered him into the parlor, where,
seated at the piano, was the squire's daughter, Lizzie, singing, by some
singular coincidence:
"There's somebody coming to marry me--
There's somebody coming to woo."
Whether Miss Lizzie had seen that _somebody_ coming through the window,
I cannot say.
She rose abruptly from her seat as they entered, exclaiming:
"Oh, papa! I'm so glad you have come."
Then, seeing the stranger, she drew back with the prettiest affectation
of embarrassment in the world.
Lizzie Erliston was pretty--decidedly pretty--with a little round,
graceful figure, snowy complexion, rosebud lips, and sparkling,
vivacious blue eyes. Graceful, thoughtless, airy, dressy, and a most
finished flirt was little Lizzie.
"Mr. Oranmore, my daughter Liz; Liz, Mr. Oranmore, son of my old friend.
Fact! Hurry up breakfast now--I'm starving."
"I am delighted to welcome the son of papa's friend." said Lizzie,
courtesying to the handsome stranger, who returned the salutation with
easy gallantry.
Breakfast was brought in, and the trio, together with worthy Mrs.
Gower, were soon seated around the table.
"I am afraid, Mr. Oranmore, you will find it very dull here, after being
accustomed to the gayety of city life. Our village is the quietest place
in the world."
"Dull!" repeated Oranmore. "Did angels ever condescend to dwell on this
earth. I should say they had taken up their abode in St. Mark's."
He fixed his large dark eyes on her face, and bowed with a look of such
ardent yet respectful admiration as he spoke, that Lizzie blushed
"celestial, rosy red," and thought it the prettiest speech she had ever
heard.
"Fudge!" grunted the squire.
"Ah, Mr. Oranmore, I see you are a sad flatterer," said the little lady,
smilingly, buttering another roll.
"Not so, Miss Erliston. Dare I speak what I think, I should indeed be
deemed a flatterer," replied Oranmore, gallantly.
"Bah!" muttered the squire, with a look of intense disgust.
At this moment a child's shrill screams resounded in one of the rooms
above, growing louder and louder each moment.
"There--that's Aurora! Just listen to the little wretch!" exclaimed
Lizzie. "That child will be the death of us yet, with her horrid yells.
Her lungs must be made of cast-iron, or something harder, for she is
incessantly screaming."
The Squire darted an angry look at Mrs. Gower, who faltered out: She was
very sorry--that she had told Totty to be sure and keep her quiet--that
she didn't know what was the matter, she was sure----
"Ring the bell!" said the squire, savagely cutting her short. The
summons was answered by the little darkey, Totty.
"Well, Totty, what's the matter?" said Lizzie. "Don't you hear the baby
squalling there like a little tempest? Why don't you attend to her?"
"Lor! Miss Lizzie, 'twan't none o' my fault--'deed 'twan't," said the
little darkey. "Miss Roarer's a-roarin' 'cause she can't put her feet in
de sugar-bowl. 'Deed I can't 'vent her, to save my precious life. Nobody
can't do nothing wid dat 'ar little limb."
"I'll do something to _you_ you won't like if you don't make her stop!"
said the angry squire. "Be off with you now; and, if I hear another
word, I'll--I'll twist your neck for you!"
"Marse, I declare I can't stop her," said Totty, dodging in alarm toward
the door.
"Be off!" thundered the squire, in a rage, hurling a hot roll at the
black head of Totty, who adroitly dodged and vanished instanter.
"Of all diabolical inventions, young ones are the worst!" snappishly
exclaimed Squire Erliston, bringing down his fist on the table. "Pests!
plagues! abominations! Mrs. Gower, ma'am, if you don't give it a
sleeping draught when it takes to yelling, I'll--I'll--I'll----"
"By the way, Mr. Oranmore, as you are from the city," broke in Lizzie,
"perhaps you may have heard of some one there who has lost a child?"
"What--what did you say?--a child?" exclaimed Oranmore, starting so
suddenly and looking so wild, that all looked at him in surprise.
"Yes. But, dear me, how pale you look! Are you ill?"
"Ill! Oh, no; pray go on," said Oranmore, recovering himself by an
effort.
"Well; last Christmas eve, Mrs. Gower was returning from the city,
where she had been to make purchases, and taking the shore road, picked
up an infant on the beach, and brought it home. It is a wonder no
inquiries were made about it."
Barry Oranmore breathed freely again. It could not be _his_ child, for
he had seen the nurse before leaving the city; and she, fearing to lose
her annuity, had told him the child was alive and well: therefore it
must be another.
A week passed rapidly away at Sunset Hall. There were sails on the bay,
and rides over the hills, and shady forest walks, and drives through the
village, and long romantic rambles in the moonlight. And Lizzie Erliston
was in love. Was _he_? She thought so sometimes when his deep, dark eyes
would rest on her, and fill with softest languor as they wandered side
by side. But, then, had she not discovered his restlessness, his evident
longing to be away, though he still remained? Something in his conduct
saddened and troubled her; for she loved him as devotedly as it was in
the power of a nature essentially shallow and selfish to love. But the
dangerous spell of his voice and smile threw a glamour over her senses.
She could almost have loved his very faults, had she known them. And,
yielding herself to that witching spell, Lizzie Erliston, who had often
caught others, at last found herself caught.