The Varley family were very wealthy _in purse_, and it was the only
anchor with which they were able to fasten themselves on society. They
were ignorant, vulgar, and haughty, proud, unprincipled, and deceitful.
A more designing, intriguing, manœuvring woman than Mrs. Varley, can
seldom be met with, but her plans were all so superficially laid, and so
very shallow and short-sighted, they had so far unfortunately failed, at
least all the matrimonial alliances she had projected for her five
marriageable daughters—inasmuch as they all remained a heavy article in
a sated market. Charlotte was the youngest, and in person, so far as the
delicate tinting of the face and a faultless chiseling of form were
concerned, she possessed unusual loveliness. But the deformity of her
ill disciplined and misdirected mind, and the prominent weakness of her
character, were so apparent, that in the estimate of really sensible and
intelligent people, the one favorable item passed for almost nothing.
Mrs. Varley had resolved to secure the Rev. Mr. Style for her youngest
daughter, and she determined that nothing should be left undone to
accomplish so desirable an object. Charlotte was herself too weak to
play her part _well_ in a well concerted scheme—but in a miserably lame
one, she played it wretchedly. Mr. Style saw to his infinite but
necessarily concealed disgust, the snare that was spread in his sight,
and though nothing in the world was easier than to escape, it subjected
him to a mortifying espionage, and most disagreeable caution in his
pastoral intercourse with his people. What the designs of others might
be he was too high-minded even to imagine; but there was no mistaking
Miss Charlotte Varley’s intentions, with eyes only half open.
Since Mr. Style had been an inmate of Mrs. Tower’s household, Mrs.
Varley had been making perpetual attempts to place herself and her
daughters on a footing of intimacy there; but her efforts had been
unsuccessful, as Mrs. Tower was just as polite as ever, and just as
reserved as ever, leaving Mrs. Varley to guess at the reason. Of course
she put her own construction upon the matter, and never failed, when she
could find or make an opportunity, to hint at something unfavorable in
relation to Mrs. Tower. She did, as malicious people often do, foil
herself with her own weapons, for almost every body loved and admired
Mrs. Tower, and distrusted and disliked Mrs. Varley, though her wealth
and standing in society gave her a kind of influence and power, which
she and the five Misses Varley most industriously exerted.
Mrs. Tower’s clear mind fathomed at a glance the intent of her neighbor,
but the sentinels about the out-posts of her prudence, were never for
once caught slumbering on duty, or taken in a moment of unguardedness;
and she sealed her discoveries in her own breast, leaving her friend and
protégé, the Rev. Mr. Style, to his own conclusions and his own
discretion. He longed to ask her if his observations tallied with hers,
but he feared it might savor of conceit, or wear some other unworthy
aspect in her eyes, so they remained mutually silent.
Such was the condition of things when Mrs. Tower welcomed to her house
and her hospitalities the daughter of her early friend, sweet Jessie
Lincoln. An illness of a few days had delayed her arrival, but the
paleness it had left on her cheek only added a charm to her sad and
lovely face.
“Now you are mine for a long, long time—for _always_, Jessie,” said
Mrs. Tower, as she folded the gentle girl to her heart. “How long I have
urged you, and now you are really with me at length? How like the Jessie
of my childhood you are, dearest, and how like the Jessie I laid beside
her father in the grave!”
The awakening of painful remembrances brought the relief of mingled
tears to the childless widow and the orphan Jessie; but soon controlling
her emotions Mrs. Tower continued—
“I shall preach one of my favorite doctrines in your ears, my dear
Jessie, till you are my proselyte indeed. This notion of yours about
dependence is _only_ a notion. It is banishing the bloom from your
cheek, and stealing from your whole youth the treasures of joyousness
which the young should especially garner. There is bitterness enough
laid up for meridian years, Jessie, without casting so deep a shadow
over the light and the hope of your girlhood. You must henceforth make
my house your home, and be my own daughter. Say, Jessie, will you not?”
Poor Jessie could only reply with her tears.
“At least you must consider the matter,” proceeded Mrs. Tower, “and if I
succeed in making your stay with me agreeable while you are my guest, I
shall certainly hope to persuade you. But dry those tears, Jessie. I
dare say I have opened the subject prematurely—if you are not too weary
for company to-night, I must take you down stairs and introduce you to
some ladies I see coming up the avenue, to sympathize in my
gladness—Mrs. Jones and her Emilie. Mrs. Jones is one of my dearest
friends, and Emilie is a wild, crazy-headed creature, but very sensible
and affectionate, and I am sure you will love her.”
Jessie’s plain traveling-dress was exchanged for one of simple white
muslin, and the bright mass of her beautiful black hair, released from
its confinement, fell in smooth, heavy ringlets over her shoulders. Her
whole air was a harmonious combination of ladylike reserve and a native
born gentility, which education indeed may polish and improve, but can
never implant. Mrs. Tower fondly kissed the cheek of the graceful girl,
and then placing Jessie’s arm within her own, she led her with almost
maternal pride to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Jones and her daughter welcomed the young stranger with the sincere
cordiality of old friends, and Emilie, who became immediately fascinated
with the simplicity and unassuming gentleness of her manner, expressed
the earnest hope that Miss Lincoln would be happy enough to spend the
whole summer.
“If you have a country-loving taste, I am sure you cannot find a
lovelier spot than our own village, Miss Lincoln—or Jessie—as I mean
to call you when we are no longer strangers,” said Emilie, her brilliant
face sparkling with kindness, as she sat down on the sofa by Jessie’s
side. “There is every thing beautiful at Mrs. Tower’s I know,” she
continued, “but I am so wild, and so much of a rambler that I love the
forests and glens and waterfalls, and above all horseback excursions! We
have a pair of fine saddle-horses that papa has just brought
home—high-spirited creatures they are—they make me think of Zenobia’s
horses. Don’t you ride on horseback, Miss Jessie?”
Jessie had never practiced at all.
“O well! I can learn you in a very little time, and I’ll undertake to be
your tutor in horsemanship, for I am far more notable in it, than in
some _more_ feminine accomplishments. Do you hear my boast Mrs. Tower? I
have engaged to learn Miss Lincoln to ride on horseback, in which art I
have informed her _I excel_!” and Emilie laughed heartily at her own
nonsense.
“No very unreasonable boast, Miss Emilie,” said Mr. Style; “and I think
Miss Lincoln would have no difficulty in believing every word, if she
had seen you practicing your Arabs this morning. I was confident your
neck would be broken! But have you found names for the horses yet? You
were in a grave study about that last evening!”
“O yes, Mr. Style, I am happily relieved of that anxiety. I could not
think of christening them with those Quixotic names which you suggested,
for I knew I could never remember them—and I was so troubled to suit
myself, that I referred the whole matter to papa and George, and after a
protracted and laborious discussion, they declared for the illustrious
names of Romulus and Remus! I hope they may not quarrel for precedence,
as those old worthies did! Indeed I shall be wrathful enough if Romulus
practices any imposition or violence on Remus, for he is decidedly my
favorite, and not entirely a _non resistant_ I discover. But I shall
give Miss Lincoln her introductory lessons on my docile old Betty, who
has run so many delightful races for my pleasure. After that I purpose
to settle a pension on Betty, and leave her to enjoy a calm old age. O I
long to be about it! Will you be too tired to take your first ride
to-morrow morning, Miss Lincoln? Betty is quiet as a kitten, and will
kneel to take you on her back. Mrs. Tower’s avenue behind the garden is
just the place too. Mrs. Tower may we ride there?”
“Certainly you may, Emilie,” replied Mrs Tower. “I give you the range of
my house and grounds, together with the command of my carriage and
coachman, till you shall get Jessie acclimated!”
“That is noble, Mrs. Tower! All I want. Your avenue is longer and wider
than ours. I am sure I shall have roses as red as my own on Jessie’s
cheek in a very little while. And you, Mr. Style, may prepare yourself
for a challenge to a horse-race, when Miss Lincoln can ride my Romulus!”
Jessie expressed unbounded delight at the prospect of amusement that was
before her, and offered a thousand thanks to Emilie for her willingness
to instruct her.
“O pray don’t say a word about that,” replied Emilie. “Perhaps I shall
not prove so competent as I promise. But if I fail, Mr. Style here shall
finish your education!”
“Now, Mr. Style,” said Mrs. Tower, when the ladies had made their
adieux, “you must take charge of Jessie’s entertainment, while I attend
to a little business. I am sure she will be pleased with the
conservatory?”
The young clergyman very readily undertook the commission, and throwing
open a door from the drawing-room, he led the delighted girl into a
sweet wilderness of flowers and fragrance.
Three weeks glided by almost imperceptibly, for Jessie Lincoln had never
experienced such a full tide of happiness. The cool, fresh country
zephyr kissed her cheeks, and there crept over them a delicious tinting,
delicate as the blush of a rose-bud. Vigorous exercise, rural walks, and
every kind of simple pleasure banished the sickly and languid expression
from her face, and with returning health came vigor, vivacity, and
joyousness. George and Emilie Jones were unwearied in their devotion to
Jessie’s happiness; the Varleys had outdone everybody in promises of
attention and politeness, especially Miss Charlotte, who found very
frequent occasion to watch for any indications of Mr. Style’s preference
of Jessie before herself. Poor Charlotte! she longed to read his heart;
the indifference, nay, positive aversion she would have discovered
there, would have been “the gall of bitterness” to her own, for she was
deeply and desperately in love, if ever a silly young woman was, and a
breath could have fanned her electrical jealousy into an uncontrollable
flame. She would have given the last farthing of her fortune for an
assurance of affection from the young minister. Alas! he never gave her
any; yet at this juncture, without the slightest reason to believe he
regarded her with any other sentiment than the commonest acquaintance,
she confidently did believe she had taken him in her toils, and he would
soon declare himself her admirer, unless Jessie stood in the way.
It was impossible not to see with one’s eyes open that Mr. Style was
becoming deeply and vitally interested in Jessie, though in her
simplicity and humility she was wholly unconscious of it; and if she had
conceived the possibility of such a thing, she would bitterly have
rebuked her own presumption, for she regarded herself altogether too
humble to aspire to such a position in the world as to become the wife
of such a gifted man. It is true that the lustre of his mind, the high
tone of his moral endowments, and the faultlessness of his exterior
moulding, _charmed_ her—and what young heart would they _not_ charm, I
pray you tell me, dear lady reader? But the idea of loving Mr. Style
with any other love than that which is inspired and sanctioned by
respect and friendship merely never entered her mind. Jessie was,
however, the beau ideal of all his visions—the pure, pious, refined,
and high-souled woman he had always hoped to meet before he surrendered
his heart with its rich treasury of manly and generous love. He knew her
history—you shall know more of it anon, reader—and he admired and
revered the strength and unconquerable resolution with which she had
combated and triumphed in the midst of the most depressing
discouragements. Respect, admiration, love, combined to make him—no,
not a willing slave at her feet—he felt her moral nobility would revolt
at that; but they made him ready to plant his strength by the side of
her weakness, to be its defence and protection till the death-angel
should come, commissioned to guide her from earth to heaven.