Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth, Mrs. Varley’s genteel “metropolitan friends,”
had detained themselves at Saratoga so long as the most fashionable
company remained. But they at length wrote a hasty note to the “dear
Varleys” stating definitely when they should be at the depôt in N.,
expecting to see the carriage in waiting. And they did come, “bag and
baggage,” to stay till November—it was only _August_ then, and they
flattered themselves, so they announced, that even in so short a stay,
very much happiness might be reciprocated.
The prime advantage of Mrs. Tyler’s acquaintance to the Varley family,
consisted in the circumstance that that lady and her daughter boarded at
what they called one of the most fashionable houses in the city. Mrs.
Tyler despised housekeeping; it confined one so to the mercy of
servants, besides _company_ made it so troublesome and expensive. The
Miss Varleys could go and board at the same place in the winter, and
Mrs. Tyler would be so very kind and condescending as to “take all the
trouble of _chaperoning_ them into the society of the ‘upper ten
thousand,’ and nobody could with any certainty predict what advantages
might accrue; perhaps a splendid settlement, perhaps”—I know not how
many inducements she possessed, all of which sounded golden enough in
the ears of the Miss Varleys when they made her acquaintance at ——
Beach the season before, and insured for her what she intended, an
invitation to the country when it was genteel to go into the country
without such a bill of expense. The sphere in which Mrs. Tyler actually
moved was only in the same pseudo-genteel orbit with the Mrs. Washington
Potts’s, Mrs. De Perouk’s and a similar galaxy of inferior magnitude, to
whose acquaintance and real claims to respect our shrewd and gifted
countrywoman, has introduced so many delighted and instructed readers.
Blessings on her simplicity, and on her two-edged satire; blessings on
her mind and her pen, for holding up a mirror before the face of
society, in which it may see not only its lineaments of loveliness, but
also its deformities.
Mrs. Tyler was a very small, _dried-up_ woman, if I may be tolerated for
the expression, though a row of beautiful porcelain teeth displayed
themselves whenever she parted her parched and skinny lips; her cheeks
were most unnaturally rosy—I should have said _rougey_! A profusion of
smooth and glossy ringlets adorned her head, and her whole dress was so
in the extreme of fashion, there could have been, indeed, but a paltry
difference between her “polar and equatorial diameter.” Brilliants
sparkled in her gay caps, among the ribbons and roses; gems flashed on
her withered hands; “tinkling ornaments, cauls, round tires like the
moon, chains, and bracelets, and mufflers, bonnets and head-bands, and
tablets, earrings and rings, changeable suits of apparel, mantles, and
wimples, and crisping-pins, glasses, fine linen, hoods and veils,”
figuratively speaking, the Prophet’s whole catalogue of a Judean
toilette, was in requisition, with many modern inventions, at which a
Judean maiden would have stood aghast, to make a vain old woman young
again! O, miserable ambition!
Miss Elizabeth was large and masculine in all her proportions, with an
ungraceful stoop in her shoulders, coarse and prominent features,
staring blue eyes, a brilliant and exquisite complexion, and most
unusually beautiful hair. Her manners were intended to be easy and
nonchalant, while in truth, to the eyes of true refinement, they were
unpardonably bold and rude. Miss Tyler had persuaded herself she was a
_wit_, her sayings had sometimes occasioned so much laughter, and she
delighted to use her fancied power everywhere, and on all occasions,
shooting the shafts of her sarcasm and irony hither and thither without
delicacy, civility, or mercy. She dressed gaudily and expensively, while
her father drudged behind the counter of his “hardware and leather
establishment,” early and late to support such enormous and unnecessary
expenditures. She read novels “all night,” and was familiar with the
fate of every hero and heroine, from those of Bulwer, Eugene Sue, and
George Sand, down to the prettiest specimen of “yellow-covered
literature” for sale in small retail beer-shops, or peddled in railroad
cars by newsboys. She gloried in the unfeminine and unprincipled habit
of laughing at and ridiculing people in their very presence, if their
backs were turned, and especially _country people_; was strangely
familiar with strangers; laughed and talked very loud in the streets,
shops, and public conveyances, _et cetera_. Dear reader, I need not fill
my outline more definitely; with a blush for the honor of my sex, I am
compelled to admit there is more than _one_ Elizabeth Tyler in “these
degenerate days!”
Well, the next day after Mrs. Tyler and her daughter arrived Mrs. Varley
gave a very extensive invitation to the _ton_ of the village, to
assemble at her house in the evening, to pay their respects and make the
acquaintance of her most distinguished visiters. The invitation, of
course, included Mr. Style, Mrs. Tower, and Jessie Lincoln, concerning
whom they had unaccountably neglected to make any inquiries, strange as
it may seem, when she was the object of such nervous anxiety.
From eight till nine, poor Charlotte sat on the sofa by the side of Miss
Tyler, terribly dispirited, and eagerly watching for the announcement of
the Rev. Mr. Style. Elizabeth rallied her in vain; she scarcely
remembered to introduce her friend, and tried fruitlessly to be amused
by Elizabeth’s coarse and unladylike satires on the really elegant
company as they entered. By and by Charlotte and Elizabeth
simultaneously started; Charlotte rose from her seat, and Miss Tyler
suddenly seized her arm, as if to detain her till some surprise was
explained, and leveled her quizzing-glass deliberately at a group who
were that moment exchanging salutations with Mrs. Varley near the door.
“There is Mr. Style! that’s him! that splendid figure!” whispered
Charlotte, who had neither eyes nor ears for any one else.
“Gracious, Charlotte Varley! what kind of company do you entertain, for
mercy’s sake!” very audibly ejaculated Miss Tyler. “Upon my word, if
there isn’t my _mantuamaker_, Jessie Lincoln, invited to a party to
honor _us_, mamma! Isn’t that a pretty piece of impudence! Well, I did
think you were genteel people, and decently aristocratic before—you
Varleys!”
“Laud!” chimed the mamma, displaying her elegant row of porcelain, and
fanning herself vigorously, “Who is the people that’s distinguished by
such elustrious visiters as _sewing-women_, and takes ’em out into
company? Don’t introduce _us_, Miss Varley!”
“Havn’t you got some tailoress girls, and school ma’ams stowed away
somewhere, Lottie, that you are going to bring out, to give distinction
to this _mélange_?” sneered Elizabeth, in a lower tone, with a most
contemptuous smile, before Charlotte had time to recover from her
confusion enough to apologize that the company was no more exclusively
patrician.
“She is Mrs. Tower’s visiter,” stammered Charlotte, in a whisper, as
Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth rose from the sofa, and majestically walked a
little aside, lest the despised mantuamaker should approach near enough
to make an introduction inevitable.
“A _towering_ specimen she must be!” punned Elizabeth to Miss Emilie
Jones, who had stood near the sofa, leaning on the arm of her brother.
The blood mounted to Emilie’s forehead, in an angry flood, and the
bitterest retort rushed with the speed of lightning to her lip.
“Hush, Emilie,” softly whispered her more prudent brother, as he saw the
resentment of the insult to her friends, flashing in luminous sparkles
from her black and brilliant eyes. “Silence is the ‘better part of
valor’ just now, sister!”
Emilie darted from his side, and in a few minutes she had clustered a
charming circle of ladies and gentlemen about Miss Lincoln, and by the
most graceful and assiduous attentions, she sought to banish the cruel
embarrassment and mortification Miss Tyler’s vulgar rudeness had
occasioned, for Jessie had instantly recognized her, and guessed at the
import of her contemptuous remarks, by the inquiring eyes that were
immediately bent upon her, from the vicinity in which Miss Tyler had
made her communications. She did not blush for the truth that she was
poor, and had heretofore gained her livelihood by the labor of her
hands, but the curious and somewhat disdainful glances which she felt
were directed toward her, chafed her sensitiveness to its tenderest
vitality. She did, indeed, shrink from the charge of intrusion and
presumption, which she had no doubt many hearts were preferring against
her, however politeness might for the moment peek to conceal it. Poor
Jessie tried to appear composed as if nothing had happened to pain her,
but she found her self-possession deserting her in her utmost need. The
hand that rested on Emilie’s arm trembled—the great tears struggled
into Jessie’s eyes—her cheeks glowed one moment with the heat of a
fever, and the next her face was almost as colorless as the white dress
she wore.
“Do take me to some less conspicuous place, Emilie,” she whispered,
“this cruel scrutiny kills me.”
Emilie did as she was requested, and apparently without design,
extricated her from the group around her, led her to a seat by an open
window, and sat down by her, with so much sympathy and distress in her
usually joyous face, that poor Jessie was quite overcome, and was
obliged to screen herself with the curtain to conceal her irrepressible
tears. As she took hold of the folds of the curtain, the massive drapery
fell, and so rich and dark was the velvet, that it entirely concealed
those within from those without, who were gayly promenading the piazza,
or lingering listlessly in the moonlight.
Some movement diverted almost all the company from the room, and also
from the piazza near the window where Jessie and Emilie were sitting,
and the same movement gave Mr. Style an unobserved opportunity to join
them. Emilie looked in his face—there was a sternness and resentment in
its expression that puzzled her for a moment, it was so unlike him, but
his first remark solved her difficulty at once.
“Don’t be so distressed, Miss Lincoln—it is not difficult to put the
right interpretation—” and then he bit his lips to stay the wrathful
thoughts that were clamoring for utterance. A gleam of delight
illuminated Emilie’s eyes, and she involuntarily extended her hand to
him, in token of her sympathy with all he had refrained from uttering.
“Ah!” she said, and the bitterest scorn was in her glance and tone, “you
are a prudent man, I know, but I am a fearless and reckless being, and I
shall take the liberty to read out the interpretation, you no doubt
wisely repress.”
“No, no, dear Emilie,” expostulated Jessie, “I will beg Mrs. Tower to
release me from my promise, and I will go where I shall not involve my
generous friends in such painful and humiliating circumstances.”
“Never! Jessie Lincoln, never!” warmly remonstrated Emilie, “you
shall—”
She was interrupted by the sound of footfalls and smothered voices on
the piazza without.
“I would not be an impertinent listener,” she said, “but I recognize
Charlotte’s voice. Something of interest to you, Mr. Style, I presume,
for I hear your name.”
The footsteps drew nearer, and the voices grew more clear and audible.
“Now we are alone, Elizabeth,” said Charlotte, “I must tell you my
troubles. I had every reason to believe Mr. Style was in love with
me—mamma says I had—and I have no doubt he was on the eve of a
declaration, which would have made me the proudest and happiest creature
in the world, when Mrs. Tower brought about the advent of that minx of a
low-bred Jessie Lincoln, whose true place in the world you have been
good enough to disclose. How I do despise her! I know Mrs. Tower got her
here on purpose to _foil_ me. They say she manages admirably to keep
them together, and that Mistress Jessie is ready to dog him everywhere,
and throw herself eternally in his way. And then that saucy Emilie
Jones, my worst enemy, sustains her in it all, and helps it forward. I
don’t know what ridiculous things that bewitched mantuamaker wont do to
raise herself into genteel society, and save any more mantuamaking. But
I declare, Elizabeth, I shall _die_ without him! What shall I do? How
shall I manage it? Come, you know?” Charlotte’s voice began to tremble
as if she were in tears.
A crimson blush—but it was the blush of indignant innocence—burnt
Jessie’s face, neck and arms. She rose to go, but Mr. Style, with
contempt and disgust, and utter indignation battling with discretion for
the mastery in every lineament of his face, gently drew her to a seat
again.
“Do?” responded the heartless and unprincipled Elizabeth, “why, let me
think. He does somehow seem to be a prize worth capturing, he is so
stately and handsome. I am not sure, Lottie, but I shall come into the
ranks to contend for him myself, ha! ha! ha! At least you could afford
me the pleasure of a flirtation, just while I stay! I would not snap my
finger, however, for a little obscure country parson for a _husband_!
Well, I guess you must manage to get some story into currency, that will
give her an impulse back to her patterns and fashion-plates, and make
him a chance to forget such a very meek and meaching face, and
sanctimonious demeanor; but mind you, don’t mention your _authority_. I
shall be terribly angry if you do, for these sewing-girls get possession
of a great many things they might circulate to one’s disadvantage you
know—and they are so touchy and jealous, they are really a very
mischievous class of persons. But let me tell you a fact. I lost a
splendid bracelet that cost me forty dollars at one dress-maker’s! I
will not mention her name, but you can make _your own inferences_!” And
Elizabeth Tyler and Charlotte Varley maliciously giggled.
“I may draw _mine_ too, may I not?” said Emilie Jones, as she sprang to
her feet, with dashing eyes and indignation burning in every feature.
Thrusting aside the drapery, she presented herself on the piazza, with
an air as imperial as a second Zenobia defending the honor of her
Palmyra. But the offending parties had hastily retreated, and mingled
with the other guests who were returning from a stroll in the beautiful
garden, which was gayly enough illuminated to be the trysting-place of
Houries.
“Be calm, Jessie—Miss Lincoln,” said Mr. Style, as he drew her
unresisting arm within his own. “Such malice always works ruin to those
who cherish it.”
Jessie’s wounded heart fluttered strangely. The cruel and unprovoked
injustice she suffered, awoke her pride, and made her stronger in body
and spirit, while the mingling of the champion and the lover in Mr.
Style’s tone and manner reassured her, and restored her self-possession.
He placed her by the side of Mrs. Tower, who was chatting agreeably,
wholly ignorant that any thing had occurred to disturb or distress
Jessie, then attached himself to one and another circle, as he saw their
entertainment flagging, and at length he found himself by the side of
Miss Charlotte and her friend.
“Really, Mr. Style,” said Charlotte, as she laid her small, fair hand on
his arm, and looked up languidly in his face; “you have been so choice
of yourself or so democratic to-night, I have hardly seen you at all.
Now it is your duty as a knight-errant, to make yourself agreeable to my
dearest friend, Miss Tyler.”
Mr. Style was disgusted almost to loathing, and in his soul he shrunk
from the false and deceitful woman, whose deliberate wickedness and
folly his own senses had so unwillingly attested. But he gallantly bowed
in obedience to Charlotte’s familiar challenge, and addressed something
very common-place to Miss Tyler. She was transformed in a moment, and
became all vivacity, and wit, and life. She joked and frolicked, and
laughed till the attention of the company was attracted, and poor
Charlotte began to be most cruelly jealous. Indeed, so entirely did Miss
Tyler attach herself to Mr. Style, that emancipation was hopeless for
the remainder of the evening. At a late hour the guests departed; and
painful, indeed, were the disclosures Jessie made to Mrs. Tower, of the
misery and mortification she had endured so innocently.
“Do let me go to-morrow, dear Mrs. Tower, my mother; I can never endure
that the humbleness of my station should expose you to reproach like
this.”
“No, Jessie,” replied Mrs. Tower, as she drew the weeping girl to her
bosom. “You are my own daughter now, and by an instrument legally
attested, no longer dependent on your own exertions, but my chosen and
acknowledged heiress. It is no reproach to you, my dearest child, among
those whose true elevation of mind and character places them above the
necessity of those artificial props, which are always called to sustain
assumption—that you were reared under the clouds of misfortune, or that
your own hands supported an invalid father and mother. Jessie, I honor
you for it, and the gift of a fortune is but a trifling reward. Say no
more about leaving me—you cannot and you must not do it. Leave this
matter all to my ‘elder wisdom,’ and forget it in the repose your mind
and body need.”