“What a genial, delicious air it is, to-night,” said Mrs. Gregory to
herself, as she sat alone in her chamber one evening, “so light, too!
How beautiful!” she exclaimed, as she opened the window and stepped out
on the balcony. As she did so, the sound of voices arrested her
attention.
She looked down into the garden, and saw Brentford and Clara slowly
pacing along the garden walk, in the light of “the young May moon.” His
arm girdled the light shawl that floated about her waist; his cap was
placed coquetishly over her dark curls; his musical voice filled her
ear.
“Poor, poor child!” murmured her step-mother, as she turned away; “how I
wish this stranger had never come here! How continually he is in her
society--how much he fascinates her, and how destitute he really is of
every thing worthy of her regard. What shall I do? What would my husband
have me do? Shall I leave her to her own discretion?--‘I am happy in
intrusting them to you!’--Oh! if she only had a _mother_!”
At that moment, the soft sound of music stole up through the sleeping
air. How deep and rich, yet how delicately modulated, was the voice that
sung,
In parlors of splendor, though beauty be glancing,
Bright mirrors reflecting the fairy forms dancing,
In banqueting halls, by the lily cheek glowing,
With flush of the wine, in the silver cup flowing,
Fair fingers disporting with musical sprite,
And stealthily clipping the wings of the night;
I’d hie to the home where the roses are dreaming,
And Hope, from those eyes, on my spirit is beaming;
I’d choose the still moonlight, thro’ vine-lattice stealing,
The face that I love, in its beauty revealing.
I’d list to the voice that is sweeter by far
Than the tones of the lute or the heartless guitar.
The accents of love all my spirit are filling
With rapture subduing, yet blissful and thrilling.
Alas! the kind minutes, unkindly are speeding,
For joy or for sorrow, unstaying, unheeding,
Oh! dearest, mine own one, wherever may be
This _presence_, my spirit ne’er parteth from thee.
The last words melted away in the most liquid melody. “Ah! he will sing
her heart away!” thought Catharine, as the magical tone died, echo-like.
“How ravishingly-sweet that was! and how adoringly Clara loves music!”
She sat down and leaned her head upon her hand, thinking anxiously; then
suddenly taking her pencil, wrote these words:
“Dear Clara,--Listen kindly, I entreat you, to a few words,
which nothing but the most anxious solicitude for your interest
could induce me to intrude upon you.
“Are you sure that your father, that your _mother_ would approve
so great an intimacy with one so much a stranger as Mr.
Brentford? Be chary of your heart, I implore you. He may be all
his very prepossessing appearance seems to claim, but remember,
you do not know him.
“Forgive these suggestions, at once so unwelcome and so
reluctant, and believe that you have no sincerer friend than
Catharine Gregory.”
She folded the little note, and stepping across the hall, laid it on
Clara’s table.
As she sat at the window, reading, the next morning, the trampling of
horses in the court-yard attracted her notice. There sat Clara on her
horse, Brentford encouraging her graceful timidity, and caressing the
fiery animal on which she was mounted. Another moment and he, too,
vaulted into the saddle, and away! Nobody knew better than Brentford
that he looked no where so well as on a horse, and understood nothing so
well as horsemanship. Mrs. Gregory admired them all, riders and horses,
as they passed, looking so elegant, so excited, and so happy.
“Perhaps she did not observe my note,” thought she.
“Do they not look beautiful!” cried Alice, entering at that moment;
“Clara’s riding-dress is so becoming to her perfect form. She sits like
a queen. And then Brentford--I hardly know which to admire most, him or
his horse--and that is saying a great deal.”
“Your comparison is very apt, Alice,” said her mother, laughing: “for
Mr. Brentford’s beauty is very much of the same character as that of the
noble brute he bestrides. They certainly are both extremely handsome.”
“Well, I wouldn’t care if he were as ugly as Caliban, if I could only
ride his magnificent gray. Oh! if I were only old enough to be invited!
But I must to my quadratic equations! Oh, I had forgotten--this note
Clara left for you.”
Mrs. Gregory hastily opened it, and read thus,
“Clara’s father is not in the habit of troubling himself with
the inspection of her affairs; and Mrs. Gregory is entreated not
to burden her mind with any undue solicitude.
C. L. Gregory.””
The tears sprang to the step-mother’s eyes as she read these lines; but
she brushed them away, for she heard footsteps at her door. It opened,
and there stood Dr. Gregory himself. A right joyous meeting was there.
“And where are the children?” he asked.
“Alice left me but a moment ago, Neddie is in the garden, at play, I
believe, and Clara has gone to ride.”
“To ride?--With whom?”
“With Mr. Brentford, a young man who came to town about the time you
left, and has become somewhat intimate here. I should like to have you
make his acquaintance.”
“Why, what is he?”
“You will see for yourself,” answered his wife, with a smile. “But you
have told me nothing about your poor sister yet.”
It was not long before Dr. Gregory had an opportunity of meeting the
stranger, and holding quite a long conversation with him in his own
house.
“That is the man you spoke of?” said he abruptly to his wife, as the
door closed on the visitor.
She assented.
“A _man_, indeed, if hair and cloth can make one. It is a pity he hadn’t
a brain inside his comely cranium.”
Clara flashed a vengeful glance on her step-mother, as the doctor thus
characteristically uttered himself, and sailed majestically out of the
room.