----"She has dark violet eyes,
A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek
The blushing blood miraculous doth range
From sea-shell pink to sunset. When she speaks
Her soul is shining through her earnest face
As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud.
My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,
It cannot gild her gold with all its words."
ALEXANDER SMITH.
There was a neat, little vine-covered cottage standing a few doors
removed from the elegant mansion of Leroy Edson, and in it dwelt Mrs.
Stanhope, a widow lady and her maiden sister, Miss Martha Pinkerton,
a female of uncertain age, as authors say, and possessed of the
peculiarities common to persons of her class. They were not poor, nor
were they rich, but made a good living, as the world goes, by taking in
needlework. Young Mrs. Edson frequently dropped in to pass an hour in
social converse with Mrs. Stanhope, who was a pleasant, agreeable woman.
Miss Martha, too, always wore a smile on her sharp-featured face when
the lovely young wife appeared at the cottage. As they were simple,
unostentatious people, living in a retired and quiet way, she laid aside
all form and ceremony, and was accustomed to run in at any hour, in
whatever garb she chanced to be.
On a bright May morning, as the ladies had made all things tidy, and were
seating themselves to their daily avocation of the needle, they heard
the garden gate swing, and beheld Mrs. Edson approaching in her little
white sun-bonnet and spotted muslin dressing-gown, open from the waist
downwards, revealing a fine cambric skirt, wrought in several rows of
vines and deep scolloped edges. Mrs. Stanhope met her visitor on the
porch.
"Good-morning," said she, extending her hand; "I am happy to see
you:--how beautiful and eloquent you are looking!"
"O, this glorious, sweet-breathed morning, with its birds and flowers,
is enough to brighten the most torpid thing into animation!" exclaimed
Louise, grasping her friend's hand warmly. "You don't know how I love
everything and everybody to-day, Mrs. Stanhope," she continued, in a
tone of earnest enthusiasm, as she entered the little parlor, still
holding the good woman by one hand, while she extended the other to
Miss Pinkerton, who rose from her work to receive her, and drew an
old-fashioned, straight-backed rocking-chair, cushioned and lined with
gay copperplate, up before the window for her comfort. "I must not sit
long," said Louise, assuming the proffered seat, "for I have left my
house quite alone; the servants having gone out on errands for
themselves. I tried one thing and another to divert myself, but the
birds sang so sweetly, the sun was so bright, and everything seemed to
say, up and away. So I donned my sun-bonnet and ran over here as the
nicest, quietest little nook I could fly to; and where I should be as
welcome in my morning-gown as in full dress of ruffles and satins."
"And even more so, if possible," answered Mrs. Stanhope; "simple people
like us are always a good deal put out and embarrassed by grandeur and
display. It has something awful and unapproachable in our eyes."
"It has something servile and contemptible in mine," said Louise; "I
always shrink from a woman flaunted out in rustling silks, great,
glaring rings on her fingers, and alarming jewels swinging like
ponderous pendulums from her ears. I think what a poor, little, pinched,
narrow-contracted, poverty-stricken soul is there, that seeks to atone
for the lack within, by rigging her poor body out like a veritable queen
of harlots."
Mrs. Stanhope and Miss Martha burst into a cordial fit of laughter, as
Louise, with a good deal of spirit and sarcasm, delivered herself of the
preceding speech; and, before their merriment had subsided, a knock was
heard at the inner door, and Col. Malcome stepped in, bowing gracefully,
with a pleasant "Good-morning" to the three ladies. Mrs. Stanhope rose
and offered him a chair. Depositing a large package he held in his arms
on a corner of the sofa, he sat down.
Mrs. Edson blushed. She thought it was at being caught from home in
dishabille by a gentleman of the colonel's etiquette and high breeding.
After a few casual remarks upon the beauty of the morning, he turned his
discourse to her, and remarked:
"I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Edson; we are getting to be quite strangers
of late. Edith is lamenting that you do not honor us with more frequent
visits."
"I have often wished to call on your family, Col. Malcome," returned
Louise, in a calm, clear voice; "but since your daughter commenced
attending school, have desisted, lest I might inconvenience her."
"Edith does not go to the seminary after two o'clock," said he; "her
evenings are quite unemployed, and she would be highly gratified to
receive a call from you."
"I shall be pleased to call on her, and also to receive more frequent
visits from her. She has less to confine her at home than I; so her
visits should outnumber mine."
"Ay, yes; you speak sensibly, Mrs. Edson," returned he; "you have more
calls on your time than Edith. Strange I can never remember you are a
married woman."
"It would be well for you to remember it," said Louise, with a dignified
curve of her graceful neck, and slight addition of color, which very much
heightened her beauty.
"Mrs. Edson is so youthful in appearance," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, "I
think she might excuse one for forgetting she is a matron."
"I'll excuse you, Mrs. Stanhope," said Louise, rising; "I don't want to
be anything to you, but your little girl, and to run in here just when I
have a mind to, and to have you chide me when I do wrong, and love me
always, whether right or wrong. So good-morning," and, curtseying
gracefully, she glided from the room and retraced her steps to her own
mansion.
There was a silence of several minutes after she left, during which Col.
Malcome recollected his package, and, placing it on the table, politely
inquired if the ladies could oblige him by sewing a quantity of linen, of
which he should be in need in course of a few weeks, as he meditated
going a journey. They would be very willing to do it for him, could they
get it in readiness by the time he would want it; but they had a great
deal of unfinished work on their hands. Miss Pinkerton was confident they
could accomplish the colonel's, however.
"I am doubtful, Martha," said Mrs. Stanhope; "you know the large bundle
Mrs. Howard's waiting-woman brought in, last night."
"O, that can easily be put by," returned Martha.
"But Hannah said the major wanted it in a month at longest."
"Pshaw! that's a phrase of her own making. It sounds just like Hannah
Doliver's impertinent manner of expressing herself."
Col. Malcome gave a sudden start as Miss Pinkerton carelessly uttered
these words.
"What did you say was the name of Mrs. Howard's woman?" he demanded, with
an eagerness that astonished his hearers.
"Hannah Doliver," repeated Miss Martha; "do you know her?"
"No," said he, suddenly assuming an appearance of composure; "that is, I
think not; but I have frequently heard the name of Doliver before. How
long has she lived with Major Howard?"
"A great many years, I believe," answered Martha. "People hereabouts
wonder at their keeping the ill-tempered, arbitrary hussy. They say she
rules the whole house save Miss Florence."
"Ay; the young lady must have a spirit, then, I should judge, if she
defies such a virago as you describe this woman to be."
"No more spirit than she should have," returned Miss Pinkerton. "A sweet,
beautiful girl is Florence Howard as ever the sun shone upon."
"Ay, yes, indeed," interposed Mrs. Stanhope; "she used to call on us last
summer, when her embroidery teacher was away, to get Martha to assist her
in her tambour work; and I declare, I thought her the most lovable
creature I ever saw."
"I am told these Howards do not mingle much in society," remarked the
colonel carelessly.
"No," returned Mrs. S., "Mrs. Howard never goes out. She is a confirmed
invalid, and her disease inclines her to quiet and solitude. I don't
believe there's a woman in the village who has seen her in all the
seasons the family have passed at Summer Home."
"O, yes!" said Miss Martha. "Dilly Danforth, the washerwoman, saw her
once. When she was there a year ago this spring, putting the house to
rights, she cleaned the paint and windows of Mrs. Howard's room, and thus
got a sight at the invalid. She told me she was a pale, thin woman, with
a distressed expression of countenance. Her hair was nearly white, and
she looked much older than her husband."
Col. Malcome stood before a window with his back toward the ladies,
listening intently to their words.
"I have understood that Miss Florence is attending school at the seminary
this term," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, at length; "do you know if it is so,
Col. Malcome?"
"I think I heard Edith and Rufus say something to that effect," answered
he.
"I hope she will drop in and see us some day," said Miss Pinkerton. "She
and Mrs. Edson are great favorites of mine, and I doubt not your pretty
daughter would become one also, if I should get acquainted with her. We
are but humble people, but should be very happy to receive a call from
Miss Edith."
"Thank you," said the colonel; "'tis very possible she may some time
visit you, though she is rather timid and inclined to shrink from
strangers. Well, ladies, shall I leave my work?" he added, laying his
white hand on the package as he stepped toward the door.
"Yes," answered Miss Martha; "I will engage to have it ready in season
for you."
He bowed and withdrew. Miss Pinkerton peeped through the curtain, as he
walked down the garden path, and thought she had never beheld so handsome
and elegant a specimen of the genus homo.