MRS. DENNISON'S JOURNAL.
How many years will this last? I did not expect that this dull
stagnation of life would oppress me so. I knew that he was seventy years
of age, and thought it would be no great hardship to be petted as an old
man's darling, for the few years that might follow. Indeed, he is a
gentleman, and loves me, I am sure, more devotedly than ever a young man
loved his bride. At first I really thought myself almost happy. It was
so pleasant to get away from my old home, after it had been torn to
pieces by hungry creditors, and all the old servants driven into new
places, that protection and kindness made everything seem like a
blessed new life. Mr. Dennison told me that he has loved me ever since I
was a little girl, and always intended to make me his wife. He has been
a firm, firm friend to my father, I know that well enough, and never
would have permitted the old home to be torn up had poor papa lived. As
it is, he let all the rest go, and rescuing Cora and myself from the
wreck, made me his wife and gave her the liberty she would not take.
"He was kind in showing us something of the world, before he brought us
here for good, yet I am not sure that it was wise to throw me suddenly
into the society from which I was to be withdrawn so soon. I learned one
thing there which sometimes stirs the wish in my heart that I had
waited. This thing I have become assured of: I am beautiful, and beauty
is a great power. No matter, it has done something for me in winning
this fine old gentleman; but when I think what it might have
accomplished, I feel defrauded out of half my life. No, no, I do not
often feel this. My life was pleasant enough at first, when our wedding
brought so many gay and clever people around us. But now that we have
retreated to the plantation, everything is dull as the grave.
Cotton-fields here, blossoming all over, as with snow by the handful,
corn there, tall and thrifty, great live-oaks bearded with moss, and
half strangled under the everlasting clasp of mistletoe, make the
landscape beautiful, and these things interested me greatly for a time.
But I am getting weary of them, and of the grand old house, with its
endless verandas and clinging roses, its delicate India matting, and the
snowy whiteness of its draperies. I long for change--pine for society,
while he seems to think that his presence alone should make this place a
heaven. What is it to me, that even in mid-winter I can stoop from my
window and gather oranges from the green boughs that bend across it? The
novelty has worn away, and this profusion of roses satiates me. You
find them everywhere, hiding the fences in ridges and slopes of glossy
foliage, studded thickly with great stars of whiteness, that would be
exquisite but for the commonness, the negroes bringing them to me by the
basketful, until I sicken with the fragrance,--yellow, white, crimson,
and damask, all heaped together in gorgeous masses that delight you at
first, and then become tiresome, are every day brought to me from the
grounds.
"Yesterday one of the negroes came in with a whole armful of magnolias
in full bloom. The marvellous white blossoms, with their great chalices
running over with fragrance, filled the air with such richness as I have
never dreamed of before. I sat down upon a low stool on the front
veranda, and with the quivering shadows from a great catalpa-tree
falling around me, had these noble blossoms heaped at my feet, yielding
myself to the exquisite perfume, till the atmosphere made me faint with
delight. It was a delicious, sensuous enjoyment which I shall never
forget, but one cannot repeat such things, and 'not even love can live
on flowers.' Where love is not and never can be, such things sicken one.
"While I sat there, with the great white blossoms breathing at my feet,
and a mocking-bird up in the catalpa-tree thrilling the air with music,
a horseman came riding up the avenue, now in the sunshine, now in the
shadow of the great live-oaks, leisurely, as if he found pleasure in
lingering on a road so beautiful and tranquil. He was a young man, tall
and well-formed, who rode his horse with an easy military air full of
command. Even at the distance I could see that his bearing was noble and
his face a grand one.
"The sight of this man aroused me from the dreamy languor which had been
so delightful, and I watched his approach with interest. Directly I was
sensible that he had discovered me sitting there in the shadows; for his
horse quickened its pace, and in a moment he drew up, and, leaning from
his saddle, addressed me,--
"'Excuse me, madam; but I have been unable to discover any servant on
the ground, and may have intruded. Does this place belong to Mr.
Dennison?'
"I answered that it did, and arising from my seat, desired him to
dismount. Mr. Dennison, I said, would be at home in a short time, and
would doubtless be happy to see him.
"The stranger sprang from his horse, and flung the bridle to one of the
men who came lazily from the house to receive it. I made a movement
toward the door, but he gave a glance around at the beautiful view--the
flowery thickets and rich slopes of grass--as if reluctant to leave
them. Then his eyes fell upon me, and I saw them light up with sudden
admiration. I did not intend it, but at the moment I must have taken
some attitude of grace to bring such light into a stranger's
countenance. He stood for a whole minute gazing on me as if I had been a
picture. I felt myself blushing, and drew the flowing muslin of my
sleeve over the arm on which his glance fell as it left my face. Then he
turned away, and as I sunk to my seat again, placed himself in a
garden-chair, drawing a deep breath.
"'Ah, forgive me,' he said, 'what awkwardness. I have trodden upon one
of your beautiful flowers.'
"'But there still remain more than enough to make the air oppressive,' I
answered.
"'For my part,' he said, smiling pleasantly, 'I could breathe it
forever. Indeed, lady, you have a paradise here.'
"Was it indeed so lovely? A moment before my soul had wearied of its
very beauties; now a feeling of pride that they were mine stole into my
thoughts. It certainly was something to be mistress of a place like
that. While our visitor seemed to give himself up to enjoyment of the
scene, I saw that his eyes were constantly returning to me. I had been
sitting in the open air a long time, and felt that my hair and dress
must be in some disorder. This idea made me anxious. I arose, and asking
him to excuse me, ran up to my room to make sure that I was not
altogether hideous. One glance in the great swinging mirror reassured
me. No cloud was ever more pure than the muslin of my white dress; a
cluster of red and white roses held back the thick ringlets of my hair,
and a single half-open bud fastened the white folds on my bosom. My maid
Cora had followed me out on the veranda that morning, and thus arranged
the finest flowers she could gather. Had I studied at my glass an hour,
nothing more becoming could have been invented. That girl is a treasure;
she loves and serves me as no other creature ever did or ever will. She
was my dower, my inheritance. The only possession I had in the world was
this one girl, when Mr. Dennison married me. I sometimes wonder if he
knows why I love and prize her so much. I heard her voice through the
window. The stranger was asking her some question which she answered
modestly, and was going away. I wonder if he thinks her beautiful. To me
the pure olive of her complexion, which just admits of a tinge of
carnation in the cheek, is wonderfully effective. She is a brunette
intensified, but oh, how the poor thing hates the blood that separates
her from us by that one dark shade. No wonder! no wonder!
"Why should I think of this, while looking in the glass to assure myself
that I was presentable? I cannot tell, except that this unhappy girl is
an object of such profound compassion with me at all times. The
education which she has received, I sometimes think, renders her life
more bitter than it might have been; but my father would have it so, and
perhaps he was right.
"I went down to the veranda again, and found the stranger talking to
Cora, who stood with her back against one of the pillars, answering his
questions with downcast eyes. She moved away as I appeared, and went
into the house. I saw the stranger follow her lithe movements with his
eyes, and felt myself coloring with anger. Was he searching her
features from admiration or curiosity? I wish it were possible to
discover.
"I had been reading, and left a book on one of the little marble tables
that stood in the veranda. Some richly colored embroidery lay in my
work-basket close by it, and in taking it up, the volume fell.
"The stranger stooped to replace it on the table, but his eye caught the
title; a flash of crimson shot across his forehead, and he cast a quick
glance at me, as if the question in my eyes disturbed him.
"'A new book, I see; have you read it?'
"He was turning over the leaves, as he asked the question.
"'Yes,' I replied, 'I have read it more than once.'
"'More than once?'
"'Yes, it is a book that requires some thought. Full of ideas and
original suggestions. The story itself is a painful one. Indeed, I have
my doubts--'
"'Well, you have your doubts?'
"His face flushed, his eyes searched mine with a look almost of defiance
in them.
"'Yes,' I continued, coloring painfully, for I am young and afraid to
express adverse opinions, 'I sometimes doubt if it is not a little
wicked.'
"He laughed, 'Oh, you are young, and a woman.'
"'Well,' I answered, 'this is what I mean, when I finished reading that
book, it made me restless, unhappy--discontented with everything around
me.'
"'That is, perhaps, because you did not understand it.'
"'But goodness is so simple, I can understand that always.'
"'I grant you, but human life is not all perfection; unfortunately, good
and evil are pretty nearly balanced on this earth, and there is nothing
picturesque enough in a dead-level of goodness to interest the reader
through an entire story. To attempt that, would be like painting a
picture without shadows. Your real author understands the force of
contrasts.'
"'But a book which has so little of the virtuous and pure in it, yields
up this power of contrast, by letting no sunshine into its pages,' I
said. 'The fault of this work is, that it dwells too entirely on the
dark passions.'
"'Then you condemn it?'
"'No, indeed, the pictures are too grand, the passions too strongly
portrayed for that. The author, whoever he is, must be a man of powerful
genius. I only wish he had softened his pictures and let in a few of the
gentler sentiments.'
"'And so do I.'
"He spoke with emphasis, closing the book. Then I noticed that a flush
was on his face, and he cast the volume from him with a gesture of
dislike.
"'You know the author of that book?' I said on the impulse.
"'Yes, lady, I know him well--some day he shall be made the wiser, by
learning your opinion.'
"'Oh, I hope not. It was rash, perhaps altogether wrong. I am no critic,
and only spoke as the book impressed me.'
"'That is criticism,' he answered, 'and I dare say correct, but the
volume is hardly worthy of so much consideration. The author is too much
honored, that you have read it at all.'
"I was about to answer, when Mr. Dennison rode up in his carriage, and
seeing my companion, waved his hand with that cordial welcome so
universal in the South. The moment he appeared, I felt chilled, and took
up my embroidery, knowing well that no more conversation that I could
join in, would be offered that day.
"Certainly, Mr. Dennison is a handsome old gentleman. As a father, one
might be very proud of him, but now a strange feeling comes over me at
his approach. I turn from his elaborate elegance of speech and manner
with a wish for something fresher. Cora is not more my slave than I
could make him, but the task of perpetual fondness is too much. Oh, if
he had only adopted me!"