TOM THE GROOMSMAN.
Music in the Central Park! Such music as made the flowering thicket,
covered with late May blossoms, thrill in the soft air and glow out more
richly from the sweet disturbance. It was a glorious afternoon, the
lawns were as green as an English meadow, and my observation of
beautiful things has no higher comparison. All the irregular hills,
ravines, and rocky projections were so broken up with trailing vines and
sweet masses of spring-flowers, that every corner and nook your eye
turned upon, was like a glimpse of paradise.
This was the still life of the scene, but above and beyond was
congregrated that active, cheerful bustle which springs out of a great
multitude bent on enjoyment--cheerful, luxurious, refined, or otherwise,
as humanity is always found. Carriages dashed in and out of the crowd,
the inmates listening to the music or chatting together in subdued
voices: groups of smiling pedestrians wandered through the labyrinths of
blooming thickets, or sat tranquilly on rustic seats sheltered by such
forest trees as art had spared to nature. The whole scene was one of
brilliant confusion; but out of the constantly shifting groups, forms so
lovely that you longed to gaze on them forever, were now and then given
to the beholder; and equipages vied with each other that might have
graced the royal parks of London or Paris without fear of criticism.
Just as the sun began to turn its silver gleams into gold, the music
ceased with a grand crash. The final melody was over, and the swarm of
carriages broke up, whirled off in different directions, and began to
course about the ring again, or drive through the various outlets
towards Harlem, Bloomingdale, or the city, which lay in the soft
gathering haze of the distance.
Among the stylish equipages that disentangled themselves from the crowd
was a light barouche, cushioned with a rich shade of drab which had a
pink flush running through it, and drawn by a pair of jet-black horses.
The carriage was so perfect in its proportions and so exquisitely neat
in its appointments, that it would have been an object of general
admiration during the whole concert, had not its inmates carried off
public attention before it had time to settle on the vehicle.
The eldest, a woman of thirty-two or three, elegantly dressed and
generally recognized, seemed to be the mistress, for it was her gloved
hand which gave the signal for moving, and the coachman always looked to
her for directions.
A slight gesture indicated home, the moment she saw her equipage free
from the crowd, but the lovely young creature on the front seat uttered
a merry protest and gave a laughing counter-order, threatening the elder
lady with her half-closed parasol, till the point lace which covered it
fluttered like the fringed leaves of a great white-hearted poppy.
"Only a short drive," she said; "you can't want to go into the house,
dear Mrs. Harrington, such a heavenly day as this."
"But, my love, I have forty things to do!"
"All the more reason why you should neglect every one of them, since it
is not possible for you to do them all," replied the young girl, with a
laugh and a pretty wilful air that few people could have resisted.
"Elizabeth, are you tired?"
The young lady whom she addressed had been leaning back in her seat by
Mrs. Harrington, quite regardless of this laughing contention, looking
straight before her in a smiling, dreamy way, which proved that the
brightness of the scene and the spell of the music had wiled her into
some deep and pleasant train of thought.
Her friend spoke twice before she heard, laughing gayly at her
abstraction, and Mrs. Harrington added--
"Do come out of dreamland, dear Miss Fuller; I am sure I cannot manage
this wilful little thing without your help."
The young girl shook her parasol again in a pretty, threatening way as
she said--
"You are not tired, Elizabeth?"
"Tired! Oh no; it is very pleasant," she replied, in a voice that was
low and musical with the sweetness of her broken reverie.
"See, you are in the minority, Mrs. Harrington," cried Elsie Mellen.
"You had better submit with a good grace."
"Oh, I knew Elizabeth dared not side against you; she spoils you worse
than anybody, even your brother."
"But it's so nice to be spoiled," said Elsie, gayly; "and you must help
in it, or I shall do something dreadful to you just here before
everybody's eyes."
She clenched her hand playfully, as if to carry her threat into instant
execution, and Mrs. Harrington cried out--
"I promise! I promise! James, take another turn."
The man turned his horses with a broad sweep, taking the road around the
largest lake. Here the spoiled beauty ordered him to stop. She wanted to
look at the swans, "such great, white, lovely drifting snowballs as they
were." Mrs. Harrington made no objection, but leaned back with a
resigned smile on her lips.
A person possessed of far more imagination than Elsie Mellen ever
dreamed of, might have stopped on the very road to paradise to gaze on
that pretty, Arcadian scene.
The lake was one glow of silver, broken up in long, glittering swaths by
troops of swans that sailed over it with leisurely gracefulness, now
pausing to crop the short grass from the sloping banks, or ruffling
their short white plumage, and stretching their arched necks for
payments of fruit whenever they came near a group of children, or saw a
rustic from the country, who was sure to delight in seeing the birds
feed.
The sunshine came slanting in from the west, cooling half the park with
shadows, and lighting the rest with gleams of purplish gold. The paths
around the margin of the lake, and all the sloping banks were alive with
gayly dressed people, and a single boat, over which a flock of gay
parasols hovered like tropical birds, mirrored itself in the water.
"Now see what you have gained by obeying my orders," exclaimed Elsie,
casting her merry eyes over the scene. "I declare the swans look like a
fleet of fairy boats. How I would like to sail about on one! There, that
will do James, drive on."
"Home?" inquired the man.
Before his mistress could answer, Elsie broke in--"Yes, Mrs. Harrington,
since you are properly submissive, we will go home, if you wish."
"Oh, I only proposed it because we have so much to do. I should enjoy a
longer drive. Indeed, now that you have suggested it, we will take at
least one turn."
"That's a darling," cried Elsie; and, without further ceremony, she
ordered the coachman to take the Bloomingdale road, laughing out
something about dying for old sheep instead of lambs. "But I want to
stop at Maillard's," protested Mrs. Harrington, "and I then must see
about--"
"Oh, never mind, we shall have time enough," exclaimed Elsie. "Drive
like the wind, James, the moment you get beyond these horrid policemen.
I wouldn't have anybody pass us for the world."
The coachman obeyed, and directly those two black horses were dashing
along the road in splendid style, leaving care and prudence far behind
them.
Elsie was in her element, wild as a bird and gay as the sunset. She
talked and laughed incessantly, saying all sorts of merry things in a
childish fashion, that kept Mrs. Harrington in explosions of laughter,
more natural than she often indulged in, while Elizabeth Fuller leaned
back in her seat, listening, absently sometimes, to their graceful
banter, glancing at the young girl with affectionate admiration of her
youthful loveliness, but oftener losing herself in the pleasant train of
thought which had absorbed her all the afternoon.
Three persons more unlike in appearance than these ladies, it would have
been difficult to find; but a casual observer would probably have been
most attracted by the buoyant loveliness of Elsie Mellen.
She was eighteen,--but seemed younger with her fair curls, her brilliant
bloom, and the childish rapidity with which smiles chased each other
across her face. She looked the very personification of happiness, with
a bewitching _naiveté_ in every word or movement, that made her very
childishness more captivating than the wisdom of older and more sensible
women.
Mrs. Harrington was a stylish, dashing widow, with a suspicion of rouge
on her somewhat faded cheeks, and an affectation of fashionable
listlessness which a look of real amiability somewhat belied. She was
one of those frivolous, good-natured women, who go through life without
ever being moved by an actual pleasure or pain, so engrossed by their
petty round of amusement, that if they originally possessed faculties
capable of development into something better, no warning of it ever
touches their souls.
Really the most noble and imposing person present was Miss Fuller. The
contrast between her grave, sweet beauty and the frivolous loveliness of
the other two, was striking indeed. Sometimes her large gray eyes seemed
dull and cold under their long black lashes, and the dark hair was
banded smoothly away from a forehead that betokened intellectual
strength; the mouth was a little compressed, giving token of the
reticence and self-repose of her nature, and a classical correctness of
profile added to the quiet gravity of her countenance.
But it was quite another face when deep feeling kindled the gray eyes
into sudden splendor, or some merry thought softened the mouth into a
smile--then she looked almost as girlish as Elsie herself.
But grave or smiling, it was not a face easy to read, nor was her
character more facile of comprehension, even to those who knew her best
and loved her most.
She looked very stately and queen-like, wrapped in her ample shawl and
leaning back in her seat with a quiet grace which Mrs. Harrington
attempted in vain to imitate. Indeed, the effort only made the ambitious
little woman appear more fussy and affected than ever.
"Here comes Tom Fuller," cried Elsie, suddenly. "Was there ever such an
ungraceful rider! Just look at him, Bessie, and laugh, if he is your
cousin. I insist upon it!"
"Oh, I think he's such a love!" cried Mrs. Harrington. "Deliciously
odd."
"I'll tell him you said that," cried Elsie; "just to see him blush."
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed the widow, clasping her hands as if she thought
Elsie was about to stop the carriage and inform him then and there.
"What would he think?"
The young man at whom Elsie was laughing quite unrestrainedly, rode
rapidly towards them, and when he saw Elsie, his face glowed with a
mingled expression of pleasure and embarrassment that made her laugh
more recklessly than ever.
He made a bow almost to the saddle, nearly lost his hat, and did not
recover his presence of mind until the carriage had dashed on, and he
was left far behind to grumble at his own stupidity.
"It is too bad of you to laugh at him," said Elizabeth Fuller, a little
reproachfully.
"Why, darling, he likes it," cried Elsie, "and it does him good."
"I am sure his devotion to you is plain enough," said Mrs. Harrington,
with a sentimental shake of the head. "Hearts are too rare in this world
to be treated so carelessly."
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Elsie. "You'll be repeating poetry next! Tom is a
nice man, just a great awkward lump of goodness; but I must laugh at
him. Dear me, what a groomsman he will make! Bessie, I know he will step
on my dress."
"I hope so," Elizabeth replied, good naturedly; "I shall consider you
served right."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Harrington, roused by a fear she was fully capable of
appreciating, "it would be such a pity to have all that beautiful
Brussels point torn--do caution him, my dear."
"No," said Elsie, with mock resignation, "Bessie insists upon having him
for groomsman, and I shall let him put his foot through my flounces with
perfect equanimity, by way of showing my affection for her. Talk of
giving your life for your friends, what is that in comparison to seeing
your flounces torn!"
Her companions both laughed, but Elizabeth said seriously, "When you
know Tom better, you cannot help respecting him; he is my one relative,
and I love him dearly."
"Of course," said Elsie, "and I mean to be his cousin, too; but it is my
cousinly privilege to laugh at him."
"Perhaps he will not be content with a cousinly regard," said Mrs.
Harrington, mysteriously.
Elizabeth glanced quickly at Elsie, with a little trouble in her face,
but the girl laughed, and replied--
"Oh yes, he will; Bessie is his ideal--he will never think of poor
little me."
"Family affection is so sweet!" added Mrs. Harrington. Elsie made a
grimace, and hastened to change the conversation, for there was nothing
she dreaded so much as the widow's attempt at romance and sentiment.