“Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,
And men below, and gods above.”
The month of May saw the Somers family once more settled at Somerton;
and twice a week did Mr. Stanley’s curricle make its appearance there
also, until the month of September; when suddenly his visits doubled,
not only in number, but in length; and as Miss Somers never complained
of the same, it is to be presumed that he had made all the improvement
she could desire in politeness, and all the progress he could have
wished in her esteem.
Early in October, on a day as bright as herself, came Catharine—the
wild, merry, but affectionate Catharine. She kissed Ada o’er and o’er,
vowed she was prettier than ever, though she had never written her a
line for the last two months, and was just about to ask what had become
of Mr. Stanley, when her attention was called off by the sight of a
diamond ring which glittered like a star on Ada’s third finger. In her
admiration of its brilliancy, she quite forgot Mr. Stanley.
“What a beautiful solitaire!” exclaimed she; “what a pure water!—where
did you get this, Ada?”
Ada’s cheeks were crimsoned in a moment. She fastened her eyes upon the
ring, as if to gain courage from the sight, and in a low voice she
replied:
“It was a gift.”
“And the giver,” quickly replied Catharine.
The color deepened—the eyes were raised with an expression which
Catharine had never seen before, and she guessed rather than heard, the
scarcely audible name of “Mr. Stanley.”
She gave a cry of delight, threw her arms around Ada’s neck, and gave
vent to her joy in broken sentences:
“Oh, I am so happy!—I knew it would be so!—my dear Ada, did I not
predict it, and am I not indeed Cassandra? To think of every thing
ending so charmingly when the beginning was so inauspicious. And I—oh,
Ada, do forgive me my heedless impertinences; I have often thought of
them with contrition. Why is not Charles here to have a hornpipe with me
for joy?—But never mind—now I remember, he went to see Stanley, and
perhaps he is hearing it all from him! _You_ in love, Ada! Ah! confess
that the word is a sweet one! And now come and tell me all about it! But
stay,” said she, relapsing into her own saucy vein, “what have you to
say for your high-flown opinions of last winter, on celibacy?”
“They remain unchanged,” replied Ada.
“But your feelings. Defend them if you dare from inconsistency.”
“I will not attempt it,” said Ada, smiling. “Like Rousseau, ‘Je serais
bien fâché d’être du nombre de ceux qui savent répondre à tout.’”
“Ah! there is nothing like wit to silence just accusation,” began
Catharine, but just then she felt the little hand which she still held,
tremble, and her ear soon after, caught the sound of carriage-wheels.
“Ah, that must be he!” cried she. “Commend me to the acuteness of
lovers’ ears! Why, Ada, your heart has almost the gift of prescience!”
and away bounded Catharine to greet her favorite.
“And so, Stanley, the sun has at last risen on Memnon’s statue,” were
almost the first words she uttered.
“Yes,” answered Charles Ingleby, emerging from the carriage, “and very
much elated he seems to be with his new achievement.”
“Why, Charles, are you there too?” said his wife. “See,” exclaimed she
to Stanley, “how marriage blunts the sensibilities. There was Ada who
had an electric presentiment of _your_ coming; while I, though I have
been a wife but seven months, stood as dumb as an effigy, while Charles
was near.”
“Encouraging for you, Stanley,” observed Ingleby, and he passed into the
parlor where Ada was sitting. Stanley looked wistfully after him, and
having caught the first sound of Ada’s sweet voice, he took Catharine’s
arm within his, and they walked to the opposite end of the piazza, where
they talked together for some time, in a low voice.
Catharine was the first to break out into an audible tone. “Arrived
to-day,” exclaimed she, with evident delight, “when will she be here?”
“In an hour, I think,” replied he, “and I must now go and prepare Ada to
receive her. I really begin to tremble as the time draws nigh; and I owe
it all to you, for scaring me with the spectre of my own name.”
“Then pray, modest youth, let me do it for you. I long to take this
_dénouement_ in my own hands. I have always had a talent for comedy, and
this is probably the only opportunity I shall ever have of making my
appearance on any stage.”
“Now, Catharine! none of your plots. I have a shuddering recollection of
your talents for comedy, last winter, and I beg that you will not lay
your wicked little hand upon the web of my destiny.”
Catharine held up a hand as white as snow. “Does this look like a thing
having power to harm your great clumsy destiny? I scorn to meddle with
any thing so weighty. I am intent upon pleasure only—a scene—a
surprise—dramatic effect—tears—joy, &c., and when that is over, the
curtain may fall on you and your ladye love, while I shall go home, like
a good Griselda, and mend Charles’ clothes.”
Who could help laughing when Catharine chose it? Not Mr. Stanley, so he
yielded the point; and she had soon arranged her scene, and taken to
herself the lion’s share of prominence therein.
“And now,” said she, “go and tell Ada, for the thousandth time, that she
is ‘dearer to you than the ruddy drops that visit your sad,’—Oh, no!
not sad, I must alter Shakspeare a little—‘your _joyful_ heart;’ send
Charles to me, and—Oh! there comes Mrs. Somers, and I must speak with
her directly,” and away darted Catharine through the shrubbery to meet
Mrs. Somers, who had just returned from a walk. As she bounded lightly
down the walk, Stanley could not help confessing that she was graceful
as a nymph, but there was one still more graceful in his eyes, whom he
had not yet seen; and with a quick step he entered the house. His first
act was, faithfully to deliver Catharine’s message, and send Ingleby
away. He then took a seat by Ada, and paraphrased the words “I love,”
with commendable ingenuity, for nearly half an hour. He then suddenly
remembered that he had another mission to perform, and after a pause,
during which he wondered how he should begin:
“Ada,” said he, “you have not yet asked me any questions relative to my
family. Have you no curiosity to know who I am?”
“On all subjects connected with you,” replied Ada, “I feel an interest
too strong to be called curiosity; but in matters relating to your
family, your communications, to give me pleasure, must be voluntary. I
expect to be told _without_ the asking,” added she, smiling, “who you
are.”
“So you shall, my Ada, and you are about to receive the astounding
information.”
“Must it be astounding?” laughed Ada, “for if so, I am bound to conclude
that I have been over hasty in my acceptance of your attentions. I hope
you are not Jupiter Tonnans, for I have no ambition to be dazzled to
death. But perhaps you are only an earthly prince in disguise, or,
perchance, The Wandering Jew. If the last of these, I must be permitted
to decline the honor of becoming ‘The Wandering Jewess.’”
Stanley laughed, and shook his head. “I am the son of one of those
princes, who govern in America under the name of ‘The sovereign people,’
but for further particulars I refer you to your friend, Mrs. Ingleby,
for—”
“_Parlez du diable_,” said a voice at the door, and in walked Catharine
herself, followed by Ingleby, who having been forbidden to say a word,
crossed the room, and meekly seated himself in a corner. “May I be
allowed,” continued Catharine, “to ask what use was being made of my
name, as I entered this room?”
“Certainly,” replied Stanley. “Miss Somers has been affecting to doubt
the respectability of my parentage—”
“I!” exclaimed Ada, who scarcely knew whether he was in jest or earnest.
“Can you deny it! when you began by accusing me of being a heathen, and
ended by kindly suggesting that I might possibly be The Wandering Jew?”
“To the point, Mr. Stanley, if you please,” said Catharine, with mock
dignity.
Stanley bowed submissively. “I was about to say then, that however well
I may be known to your husband, _your_ knowledge of my name and station
is, I believe, anterior even to his; I beg that you will now declare the
same to this young lady, together with any incidents of my life which it
may please you to reveal; and in the presence of her who is to be my
judge, I fearlessly request that of my past deeds you will ‘nothing
extenuate.’”
Here was a beginning after Catharine’s own heart, but its effect was
somewhat spoiled by Charles Ingleby, who called out familiarly from his
corner: “Faith, Stanley, you run far more risk in Kate’s hands of having
‘much set down in malice.’”
“Silence in the court, Mr. Ingleby!” cried his wife, trying very hard
not to smile.
“Oh! I am the court, am I?” persisted Charles, “then I can almost say
with Louis the Fourteenth, ‘_L’état c’est moi._’”
“Oh, Charles! I wish you would not interrupt me to show off your
learning,” cried Catharine, who began to feel her comedy fast
degenerating into farce; but determined to make a certain speech which
she had prepared for the occasion, she quickly composed her
features—compressed her lips, and thus began:
“James Stanley! I do accuse you, in presence of these witnesses here
assembled,” (here Charles muttered something about its being quite true
that he was a host within himself, but Catharine went steadily on,) “I
do accuse you of having basely insinuated yourself into the affections
of this damsel, (Ada, be quiet) insomuch that she hath eyes for no one
else—and this you have done under false colors and a false name.
Therefore, I here pronounce you traitor and impostor, and denounce you
to the said damsel by the name you blush to bear—the infamous name of
James Darrington!”
“James Darrington!” exclaimed Ada, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
“Yes, yes,” murmured she, “my heart spoke truly—from its depths I heard
his name, even before—before—” she paused and timidly raised her eyes
to her lover’s countenance. That smile! she had seen it in her
dreams—those eyes, so tenderly riveted upon her! how often had their
glance awakened in her soul vague recollections of something loved and
forgotten. Her heart beat violently, and pressing her hands to her eyes,
her over-wrought feelings found relief in tears.
But they were tears of joy, and while they flow undisturbed, we must
defend James Darrington from the serious charges preferred against him
by Mrs. Ingleby.
It will be remembered that at the time of Mr. Darrington’s death, he
resided in Paris. Partly by the expenses entailed upon him by his
position as American minister, partly by the failure of banks at home,
he became so involved, that at his death, a mere pittance remained for
the support of his widow and son. Mrs. Darrington decided upon an
immediate return to America, but her plans were changed by the reception
of a letter from a near relative, then residing in England. The letter
was not simply one of condolence—Mr. Stanley offered a home to his
impoverished niece, and before she had time to accept or refuse his
proposal, it was followed by himself in person.
The parties were mutually pleased. Mrs. Darrington was prepossessed in
favor of her uncle, by his resemblance to her father, and he, without
ties, seemed anxious to find an object for his tenderness in the person
of his brother’s only child.
Thenceforward Julia, and Julia’s son, became the first objects in his
heart. To minister to the happiness of the mother, and to shower every
advantage of education that wealth can confer upon the child, seemed the
aims of his existence.
James so richly repaid these benefits, that in time he became the idol
of his uncle, and the old gentlemen often sighed when he remembered that
his nephew was not a Stanley. After reaping, in the devotion of his
niece and the respectful affection of his nephew, the rich reward of his
generous conduct toward them, Mr. Stanley died, and, without condition
of any kind, bequeathed his large fortune to Mrs. Darrington and her
son. Attached to the will was a letter, in which he made it his last
request that James should add to his own the name of Stanley. The old
gentleman knew James too well to make it a stipulation; he was aware
that his fortune would be rejected on such terms, and he gave it to his
adopted son, bore he the name of Stanley or Darrington. But this
request—couched in terms of so much tenderness—made in such an
unassuming way, seemed binding to the grateful James; and what he might
have refused to his uncle’s pride he granted to his affection. Moreover,
Stanley was his mother’s name, and James had always loved it for her
sake.
Their hearts now yearned for home; but a year’s delay ensued, from some
tedious formalities of the law, and that year they passed in roaming
over the Continent. In Italy they were joined by Charles Ingleby, and
after spending some months in that beautiful land—beautiful, though but
the whitened sepulchre of departed greatness—they decided upon passing
the summer at Baden-Baden. There they met with the Ashtons.
James soon found that the pretty American girl, whose lively manners
made her the toast of the “_hoch-begoine_” visiters of Baden, was his
old friend Kate. Except that she was older and prettier, she had not
much changed since the days when they had gone berrying together; and
James, whose republican heart had withstood not only the heraldic charms
of the De Longuevilles and De Montmorencies, but had refused to
surrender itself to “all the blood of all the Howards,” hung with
breathless interest upon Catharine’s words, as by turns she dwelt upon
the beauty, the talent or the thousand virtues of his once cherished
Ada. His old passion awoke from its long slumber, and he was now as much
in love with the ideal as he had once been with the reality. Catharine
was ready to worship him for his romantic fidelity, but his conviction
that he would know Ada again, after ten years’ separation, she laughed
to scorn.
Meanwhile, Charles Ingleby’s heart had strayed, or been stolen, and
after some months’ endurance of the loss, he announced the same to Miss
Ashton, accused her of the theft, and modestly professed himself willing
to compromise the matter, by accepting hers in exchange. Catharine had
no alternative but to submit, and the matter went no further.
James became now so restless to return home that his mother offered to
wind up his affairs for him, and proposed that he should sail with the
Ashton family. James knew that his mother was quite as capable of
managing business as she was of managing servants, and he accepted her
offer with many thanks. It was then arranged that he should act as
groomsman to Ingleby, while Ada should be bridemaid to Catharine, and it
was on that occasion that Catharine imagined a plan for testing their
remembrance of one another.
If neither recognized the other, James was to be punished for his
audacity, by keeping his secret till his mother’s arrival; all of which,
in the height of his presumption, he promised, with no more expectation
of being called upon to fulfill his bond than had the Merchant of
Venice.
He met Ada, and the impression she made was such as to occasion certain
doubts in his mind of his boasted constancy. This unknown _looked_ as he
would have had Ada look; and he felt that if her mind at all resembled
her person, he was in danger. When he discovered who she was, he was so
transported with joy that he forgot to be humiliated for not knowing her
at once. But we have seen how severely he was punished in the sequel by
Ada’s cold reception of his advances, and his own inability to claim her
regard by the slightest appeal to the past.
“And now,” said he, “I ask you, Charles, whether I have not been
unjustly bound to secrecy? I contend that I _did_ recognize her, for my
heart knew her and loved her at once.”
“So you did,” replied Charles. “‘What’s in a name?’ Ada Somers or la
belle Inconnue, James Stanley or James Darrington, were one and the same
person, and both were constant to the object; how that object was called
is of no importance.”
“Mere sophistry,” said Catharine disdainfully, but James appealed to
Ada, and she reversed the decision.
Whilst they were still debating the matter, a carriage drew up before
the door, and Catharine darted out of the room with the speed of an
arrow. In a moment she returned, followed by Mrs. Somers, and a lady
whom Ada recognized in an instant, and starting from her seat, she found
herself in the arms of Mrs. Darrington.