THE examination-days at Madam Truxton's were over. The long-dreaded
reviews had been passed with credit to both pupils and instructors.
The certificates of scholarship, and the "rewards of merit," had
been given to the fortunate competitors; the long-coveted diplomas
awarded to the expectant "finishing class," and that memorable term
of school life was closed forever. The hour for the event had come.
The grand old drawing-rooms above the assembly hall in the spacious
building were filled to repletion--filled with the patrons and
select guests that were honored with the fastidious Madam's
courtesy. It was an elegant assembly, one characteristic of the
Queen City in her days of unostentatious aristocracy, of gentle-bred
men and women.
Conspicuous among the famed guests were the three-score cadets,
themselves just ready to emerge from college walls and step forth
with triumphant tread upon life's broad opening field.
The "finishing class" numbered more than a score of girls--all young,
some gifted, many beautiful--whose homes were scattered far and wide
through the country; young girls who, for many months, and even
years, had lived and studied and loved together, with all the ardor
and strength of youth. Now they were to be sundered; sundered with
no prospect of future reunion.
All felt this approaching separation with more or less sorrow,
according to their varying natures; and some contemplated it with
deep regret.
The greetings, congratulations, and presentations were over, and
Madam Truxton, in all her stately elegance, had at last relaxed her
rigid vigilance, and the "finishing class" were free--free to wander
for the first time, and that first the last too, among the spacious
halls and corridors of the old school building, as young ladies.
Free to receive the smiles and addresses of the long-forbidden
cadets without fear of madam's portentous frown.
At length the sound of music rose upon the air. Knotted groups here
and there bespoke the preparation for the dance. Sets were forming
in drawing-rooms and halls, and impatient feet were moving to the
measure of the prelude.
"Miss Heartwell, may I claim your hand for the quadrille?" said
George Marshall, bowing before Lizzie at the presentation of Madam
Truxton herself.
"I thank you, I never dance, Mr. Marshall."
"Not dance! How's that?"
"Never learned, sir."
"That's stranger still. I supposed all of madam's young ladies
danced."
"In general they do," replied Lizzie, "but from peculiar
circumstances I am an exception to the general rule. If you desire a
partner in the dance, allow ne to present you to my friend, Bertha
Levy. She dances like a fay."
"Not just now, thank you, Miss Heartwell; if it is not impertinent,
I would like to know why you do not dance."
"Well, it's a simple story, quickly told; and if you will listen a
moment I'll inform you, if you desire."
"With pleasure. Go on."
"Melrose, my native home, in the State of --, is a quiet little
town, with little social life and less gayety. My mother, too, is a
widow, who has lived in great seclusion ever since my father's
death, which occurred when I was a little child. I have been her
only companion in all these years of bereavement and sorrow, and it
has never been her desire that I should indulge in any of the
pleasures and gayeties that young people are fond of. From these
causes my life has assumed a sombre tone that may seem, and indeed
is, unnatural in the young. Yet, as I have known nothing else all my
life, it is no trial for me to forego the pleasures that are so
alluring to you, perhaps, Mr. Marshall."
George Marshall made no reply, and for a time seemed absorbed in
contemplation. He had listened attentively to this simple, half-told
history of her life. And as he marked the gentle expression of her
spirituelle face, she became in his eyes a model of beauty. The
allusion to the death of her father had recalled to his mind the
time and manner of his own father's death--a time when the terrible
plague of yellow fever had swept over the Queen City with
devastating wing. Observing George Marshall's silent, absorbed
manner, Lizzie continued:
"You think me very uninteresting, I dare say. Young ladies who do
not dance are generally so considered. Allow me to present you to
some of my friends who will--"
"I beg pardon, Miss Heartwell, for my inattention. I was thinking of
the past--the past recalled by your own story. Excuse my abstraction,
I pray."
"But the young ladies?" said Lizzie.
"I do not care to dance now, if you will allow me the pleasure of a
promenade," he replied.
"Certainly I will," replied Lizzie with a graceful bend of the
shapely head; and clasping with her timid little hand the strong arm
of the manly cadet, she passed with him from the lower drawing-room
across the hall to the library.
"There's more room in the corridor than here," said Lizzie; "suppose
we go there?"
"First let me ask a question, suggested by the musical instrument I
see standing in the library. Do you sing? Do you sing with the
harp?"
"I do."
"Will you not sing for me?"
"I will, with pleasure, if you will make room in the library," she
replied with unaffected simplicity. The library was occupied by a
number of matronly ladies and elderly gentlemen--all of the guests
who were not participating in the dance. Lizzie bowed her head
slightly, and passed to the harp, now silent in one corner. Without
hesitation she seated herself before it, and the slender fingers
grasped the strings of the instrument with a masterly touch, running
through a soft, sweet prelude of tender chords. Her voice at last
trilled forth in the charming strains of the old Scotch ballad,
"Down the burn, Davy, love."
Concluding this old favorite air, she sang again, with sweetness,
the witching song, "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
Then rising from the harp, she said, with sweet accent and sweeter
smile, "Now that I have bewitched you with my music, Mr. Marshall, I
am ready for the promenade on the corridor."
These words so lightly spoken by the girl, were but the utterance of
a truth of which she had no suspicion. George Marshall was indeed
bewitched, and bowing a silent assent, he offered his arm to the
enchantress, and soon Lizzie found herself among the dancers, who
were seeking temporary relaxation from the exercise, scattered in
groups here, there, and everywhere about the spacious building.
Out into the long balcony, where the silvery moonlight lay softly as
dew upon the flowers, George Marshall led the way, with the young
girl clinging timidly to the brave strong arm, that for months had
known no tenderer touch than the cold, cruel steel of the musket,
the constant companion of the cadet in the military course just
closing.
They passed in silence through the corridor, and at last stood at
the eastern end that overlooked the sea, stretching her arms around
the child of her bosom, the devoted Queen City.
George Marshall, always taciturn, was now painfully silent. His
brain, always quick and clear to comprehend a problem in Legendre,
now seemed beclouded and sluggish. At length, embarrassed by the
oppressive silence, Lizzie endeavored to arouse her companion by
remarking,
"Are you fond of the sea, Mr. Marshall?"
Still gazing eastward over the deep, he replied abstractedly:
"Do you mean, am I fond of sea-life? If so, I answer most
emphatically, No. There's but one life in this world that attracts
me"--and here his manner grew constrained as he continued--"but one,
and that's the life of a soldier. I love military life and service,
and when my course is finished--which time is near at hand--if I am
successful, as I hope to be, I shall offer myself to my country, and
await impatiently her refusal or acceptance of my humble services.
But I beg your pardon, if my enthusiasm has led me away from your
inquiry. I only like to look upon the sea; its grandeur in a storm,
and the peaceful repose that follows, excite my admiration, but
that's all. It's something too treacherous to love."
"You fear the water, then," asked Lizzie smiling.
"Look to-night, if you please," was the answer, "at the soft silver
sheen that covers its beautiful blue bosom, and imagine, if you can,
such peaceful water engulfing a hapless bark within its silent
depths! Oh no; I only admire the sea as a part of God's wonderful
creation. But, Miss Heartwell, there's something just visible in the
hazy distance that I do love; it's old Defiance. You see the lights
of the old fort twinkling far off on the water? They stir within me
the martial spirit, and seem to beckon me on to an unknown, but
longed-for destiny. It may be fancy, yet there has been a peculiar
feeling toward that old fort ever since I first became a cadet at
the Citadel. Why do you frown? Do you object to my enthusiasm?"
"By no means," replied Lizzie quickly; "but, strangely as it seems
to fascinate you, it has always repelled, and even terrified me.
It's the only object of the beautiful harbor that has ever cast a
shadow across the loveliness of the sea. I hate it; and I have often
wished the sea would draw it silently into its hungry depths, and
leave no trace of it behind."
George laughed.
"Your fancy amuses me," he said. "It would never do to obliterate
old Defiance, for then the enemy, should they ever come, would find
easy access to the Queen City, and ruin and destruction might
follow."
"Well, I guess my wishes will be unavailing in the future, as they
have been in the past; and as I leave the Queen City to-morrow, old
Defiance will fade from my sight though not from my memory, for a
long, long time. So for the present I wish it no ill."
"Indeed," replied George Marshall in surprise, "do you leave the
Queen City to-morrow--so soon?"
"Yes, I go by steamer--by the Firefly, that leaves to-morrow for the
port of --, in my native State, and from there to Melrose, where I
live."
"At what hour does the steamer leave?" inquired the young man
thoughtfully.
"At six P.M., uncle tells me."
"And you leave so soon--six P.M. to-morrow?" he asked. "Maybe I am
selfish in monopolizing you so long, Miss Heartwell. I have two
friends you must know before the evening closes--Edwin Calhoun and
Emile Le Grande. Have you met them? The dancing has ceased again,
and we'll look them up."
"Thank you."
"Before we leave this moonlit spot, however, Miss Heartwell, I beg
that you make friends with old Defiance, for my sake, and recall
that cruel wish concerning him," he said playfully, and with an arch
smile.
Lizzie replied, "For your sake, I will, and for yours only;" and
throwing a kiss across the silvery sea, she said, "Take that, old
fort, as a peace-offering."
The winds sighed and the sea murmured as they turned to rejoin the
revellers, and that sportive kiss was borne away on the wandering
breeze.
The revelry must end. Madam's love-bound pupils must be separated.
The adieus must be spoken, but there must be no tears; that were a
weak and indecorous manifestation of feeling, in madam's estimation.
Blandly bowing her stately head, and kindly congratulating each upon
having "finished," and finished well, madam gracefully waved them
out of her presence, into the future, with a gentle motion of her
jewelled hand.
"I shall see you to morrow, Lizzie," whispered Leah Mordecai, as she
passed from the seminary escorted by Emile Le Grande.
"Certainly, at any hour, and do not disappoint me. Remember it's the
last day."
All were gone. The stars twinkled faintly in the sky. Every light in
madam's great house was extinguished, and all sound of that
evening's revel hushed forever.