Come, tell me something of this wayward girl.
Oh, she is changed--and such a woful change!
It breaks my heart to think on't. The bright eye
Has lost its fire, the red rose on her cheek
Is washed to whiteness by her frequent tears;
And with the smile has fled the ruby glow
From the twin lips, so tempting and so ripe;
That wooed to love with their ambrosial breath,
That, issuing through those dewy portals, showed
The pearly teeth within, like gems enshrined.--S.M.
What aileth thee this morning, young daughter, that thou lingerest so
long before the mirror, adjusting and re-adjusting the delicately-tinted
Provence rose-buds in thy dark flowing tresses? Art thou doubtful of thy
charms, or have the calm bright eyes of the young stranger made thee
diffident of the power of thy own surpassing loveliness? Those eyes have
caught thy young fancy, and made thee blind to all other objects around
thee. They have haunted thee through the long night; thou couldst not
sleep; those dark eyes looked into thy soul; they have kindled upon the
hidden altar of life the sad and beautiful light of love. Thou no longer
livest for thyself; another image possesses thy heart, and thou hast
wonderingly discovered a new page in the poetry of thy nature.
"Yes, love--first love--is a sad and holy thing; a pleasure born out of
pain, welcomed with smiles, nourished by tears, and worshipped by the
young and enthusiastic as the only real and abiding good in a world of
shadow. Alas! for the young heart, why should it ever awake to find the
most perfect of its creatures like the rest--a dream!"
And poor Juliet's love-dream was banished very abruptly by the harsh
voice of Aunt Dorothy.
"Miss Whitmore, the dinner waits for _you_. Quick! you have been an hour
dressing yourself to-day. Will you never have done arranging your hair?
Now, do pray take out those nasty flowers. They do not become you. They
look romantic and theatrical."
"Ah, aunt, you must not rob me of my flowers, God's most precious gift
to man."
"I hate them! They always make a room look in a litter."
"Hate flowers!" exclaimed Juliet, in unaffected surprise. "God's
beautiful flowers! I pity your want of taste, my good aunt."
"Nay, spare your commiseration for those who need it, Miss Whitmore. My
judgment is certainly not inferior to _yours_; and I never could
discover the use or beauty of flowers. What! not satisfied yet?" as
Juliet cast another hurried glance at the mirror. "The vanity of girls
in our days is quite disgusting to a woman of sense."
"I look so ill to-day, aunt, I am ashamed of being seen."
"It is matter of little consequence, I dare say; no one will notice how
you look. A few years _hence_, and there would be some excuse for
spending so much time before a looking-glass."
The ladies entered the drawing-room as dinner was announced. If Juliet
was dissatisfied with her appearance, Anthony thought that she looked
most beautiful, and was delighted to find himself seated beside her. How
gladly would he have improved this opportunity of conversing with her,
but the natural shyness of his disposition became doubly distressing
when he most wished to surmount it; and, with a thousand thoughts in his
heart and words upon his tongue, he remained silent. Juliet was the
first to speak.
"You were out fishing last night, Mr. Anthony. Were you successful?"
"I am always successful, Miss Whitmore. But, after all, it is a cruel
and treacherous sport. I feel ashamed of myself for entering into it
with such zest. Destruction appears to be a principle inherent in our
nature. Man shows his tyrannical disposition in finding so great a
pleasure in taking away from the inferior animals the life which he
cannot restore."
"You are too severe," returned Juliet. "We are apt to forget during the
excitement of the moment the cruelty we inflict. I read old Izaak Walton
when a child. He made me mistress of the whole art of angling. It is
such a quiet contemplative amusement. The clear stream, the balmy air,
the warbling of happy birds, the fragrant hedge-rows and flowery banks,
by which you are surrounded, make you alive to the most pleasing
impressions: and amidst sights and sounds of beauty, you never reflect
that you are acting the part of the destroyer. I have given up the
gentle craft; but I still think it a strangely-fascinating sport."
"I should be sorry to see you so engaged," said Anthony. "I never could
bear to witness so soft a hand employed in taking away life."
"You, too, have learned the art of flattery," said Juliet,
reproachfully. "When will your sex, in speaking to ours, learn to
confine themselves to simple truth?"
"When the education of woman is conducted with less art, and they rise
superior to the meanness of being pleased with falsehood. What I said
just now was but the simple truth. I admit that it was said to please,
and I should, indeed, be grieved, if I thought that I could possibly
have given offence."
He looked so serious and anxious, that Juliet burst into a merry laugh.
"A very heinous crime, indeed, and deserving a very severe punishment!
What shall it be?"
"Another lecture from those lips. Remember, I did not say, _sweet_
lips."
"Worse and worse. I will abandon the lectures for the future, for, I
perceive, that to complain to a gentleman of his using compliments, only
induces him to make a dozen more, in order to atone for his first
offence."
The young people's _tête à tête_ was interrupted by Miss Dorothea, who
hated to hear any one talk but herself, asking Mr. Anthony, "If it were
true that he was studying for the Church?" On his replying in the
affirmative, she continued: "Your father, Mr. Anthony, is determined to
let nothing go out of the family. One would have thought that you could
have afforded to have lived like an independent gentleman."
Anthony, who was unfortunately very sensitive on this subject, colored
deeply as he replied,
"My choice of a profession, madam, was not so much in accordance with my
father's wishes as with my own."
"Well, I must say that I think it a strange choice for a young man of
fortune."
"I made choice of that mode of life, in which I hoped to be of most use
to my fellow creatures. The fortune to which you allude, Miss Whitmore,
may never be mine."
"Yes, yes; I see you are determined to look out for the main chance,"
continued his ill-natured tormentor. "But, to do you justice, young man,
I think nature made you for a parson."
This speech was greatly relished by Godfrey, who burst into a loud
laugh. He secretly enjoyed poor Anthony's mortification; and, though he
detested the old maid himself, he had successfully wormed himself into
her good graces, by paying her some judicious compliments, in which the
graces of her person and her youthful appearance had been the theme of
praise.
"By the by, Tony," he said, turning suddenly to his cousin, "you have
received a letter from your father, and never told me one word about it.
Was it a kind epistle?"
"Better than I expected," returned Anthony coldly. "But I never discuss
family matters in public."
"Public! Are we not among friends?" said Godfrey, persisting in his
impertinent interrogatories.
"But you inherit a good deal of the suspicious cautious character of
your father. When you grow old, I believe that you will be just as fond
of money as he is. Did he offer to advance a sufficient sum to settle
you in life?"
"No, he did not."
"Astonishing! What excuse can he give for such unreasonable conduct?"
"The old one, I suppose," said Colonel Hurdlestone, laughing--"poverty."
"Ha! ha! ha!" reiterated Godfrey.
"Godfrey!" said Anthony, with much severity of look and tone: "how can
such a lamentable instance of human weakness (madness, I might say)
awaken your mirth?"
"Is it not enough to make one laugh, when an old fellow, rich enough to
pay the National Debt, refuses to provide for his only son, and suffers
him to live upon the _charity_ of a brother?"
This unexpected though oft-repeated insult was too much for Anthony to
bear at such a moment, and in the presence of the woman he loved. The
proud flash of his dark eye told how deeply his gentle nature was moved.
His indignation did not escape the watchful eye of Juliet; but he
mastered his passion, and answered his cousin in a calm low voice.
"Godfrey, I understand you. You need say no more on that subject. You
know how painfully alive I am to the obligations I owe to my uncle, and
it is ungenerous to take such an opportunity of reminding me of them.
The debt, I hope, will one day be repaid."
He rose to take leave. A pleading look from Juliet made him abandon his
intention. "Sit down," said Juliet, in a persuasive voice, "I am sure
your cousin meant no offence. Delicacy of mind," she added, in a very
low tone, meant only for his ear, "is not always an inherent quality; we
should pity and forgive those who are destitute of it."
"I will do any thing to please you," returned Anthony; and Godfrey, pale
with disappointed malice, saw him resume his seat.
"I have provided a little treat of strawberries and cream," continued
Juliet; "they are the first of the season, and were presented to me this
morning by that strangely-interesting girl, Mary Mathews. How I regret
that her father's injudicious method of bringing her up should so
completely have spoiled a girl whom Nature formed to be an ornament to
her humble station."
"Mary is a beautiful girl," said Anthony, "and has a mind of no ordinary
cast. Her failings are the result of the peculiar circumstances in which
she has been placed. With such a kind monitress as Miss Whitmore to
counsel her, I feel assured that she might soon be persuaded to forsake
her masculine employments, and feel a relish for more feminine
pursuits."
He spoke with much earnestness, until perceiving that Juliet regarded
him with a peculiarly searching glance, he colored, hesitated, became
embarrassed, and, finally, stopped speaking.
"When I first saw Mary Mathews, some months ago," said Juliet, "she was
very pretty, and as blithe as a bird; I used to envy the exuberance of
her animal spirits, whenever I passed her little garden, and heard her
singing. For the last few weeks, a melancholy change has taken place in
the poor girl's appearance, which gives me pain to witness. Her cheek
has lost its bloom; her step its elasticity; her dress is neglected; and
the garden in which she worked and sang so merrily, and in which she
took so much delight, is overrun with weeds. Her whole appearance
indicates the most poignant grief. When I questioned her to-day upon the
subject, she answered me with a burst of tears--tears, which seem so
unnatural for one of her disposition to shed. Perhaps, Mr. Anthony," she
continued, with an air of increasing interest, "you can tell me
something of the history of this young girl--as she is one of your
uncle's tenants--which may lead me to discover the cause of her grief?"
Before Anthony could reply to this somewhat embarrassing question, he
was called upon by his uncle, who was playing chess with the old
Captain, to decide some important problem in the game; and Godfrey, who
had been a painfully observant listener to their conversation, glided
into his vacant seat.
"I wish, Miss Whitmore, that I could satisfactorily answer all your
generous inquiries with regard to Mary Mathews. But I know and hear so
little of the gossip of the village, and with the poor girl's private
history I am totally unacquainted--nay, the girl herself is to me a
perfect stranger. No person is better able to give you the information
you require than my cousin Anthony; he knows Mary well. In spite of my
father's prohibitions, she was always a chosen playfellow of his. He
professes a great admiration for this beautiful peasant, and takes a
deep interest in all that concerns her."
Why did Juliet's cheek at that moment grow so very pale? Why did she
sigh so deeply, and suddenly drop a conversation which she had commenced
with such an apparent concern for the person who had formed the subject
of it? Love may have its joys, but oh, how painfully are they contrasted
with its doubts and fears! She had suffered the serpent of jealousy to
coil around her heart, and for the first time felt its envenomed sting.
When Anthony returned to his seat he found his fair companion unusually
cold and reserved. A few minutes after, she complained of sudden
indisposition, and left the room, and she did not return that evening.
That night, Juliet wept herself to sleep. "Is it not evident," she said
to herself, "that this poor Mary is in love with Anthony Hurdlestone,
and can I be base enough to add another pang to a heart already deeply
wounded, by endeavoring to gain his affections? No. I will from this
hour banish him from my thoughts, and never make him the subject of
these waking dreams again."
But alas! for good resolutions. She found the task more difficult than
she had imagined. She could not obliterate the image stamped by the
power of love upon her heart. Like the lion, she struggled in the net,
without the aid of the friendly mouse to set her free. She wished that
she had never seen him--had never heard the rich tones of his mellow
voice, or suffered the glance of his dark serious eyes to penetrate to
her soul. Ah! Juliet, well mayest thou toss to and fro in thy troubled
slumbers; thy lover is more miserable than thou, for he _cannot sleep_.
Indignant at the insult he had received in so unprovoked a manner from
his ungenerous cousin, and at war with himself, Anthony Hurdlestone
paced his chamber during the greater part of the night--striking his
breast against the fetters that bound him, and striving in vain to be
free. The very idea, that he was the son of the miser--that he must
blush for his father whenever his name was mentioned, was not the least
of his annoyances.
Was it possible that a girl of Juliet Whitmore's poetic temperament
could love the son of such a man? and as he pressed his hands against
his aching brow, and asked himself the question, he wished that he had
been the son of the poorest peasant upon the rich man's vast estates.
Anthony did not appear at the breakfast-table, and when he did leave his
chamber and joined the family party at dinner, he met Godfrey, who had
just returned from Captain Whitmore's, his handsome countenance glowing
with health and pleasure.
"Why, Godfrey, my boy!" cried the Colonel, regarding him with parental
pride, "What have you been doing with yourself all the morning?"
"Gardening with the jolly old tar, Captain Whitmore; quizzing the old
witch, his sister; and making love to his charming daughter. Upon my
word, sir, she is a delightful creature, and sings and plays divinely!
Her personal charms I might have withstood, but her voice has taken me
by surprise. You know that I was always a worshipper of sweet sounds;
and this little girl kept her divine gift so entirely to herself, that
it was by mere chance that I found out that she could sing. She was a
little annoyed too by the discovery. I came in upon her unawares, and
surprised her in the very act. She gave herself no affected airs, but
when I requested it, not only concluded the song she was singing, but
sang many others, in which I was able to accompany her. The old Captain
has insisted upon my bringing my flute over, that I may accompany his
Juliet upon the piano. He could not have done me a greater kindness, and
I have no doubt that we shall get on delightfully together."
"This is hardly right, Godfrey," said his father, "you promised Anthony
to start fair in attempting to win the good opinion of Miss Whitmore,
and now you are trying to throw him altogether into the back-ground."
"Ah, my dear sir, that was all very well in theory, but I found myself
unable to reduce it to practice. I tell you, Anthony, that I am over
head and ears in love with Miss Whitmore, and if you wish to die a
natural death, you must not attempt to rival me with the lady."
"And poor Mary--what will become of her?"
Godfrey flashed an angry glance at his cousin.
"How can you name that _peasant_ in the same breath with Miss Whitmore?"
"A few days ago, Godfrey, you preferred the simple graces of the country
girl to the refined lady."
"My taste is improving, you see," said Godfrey, filling his glass to the
brim. "And here--in the sparkling juice of the grape, let all
remembrance of my boyish love be drowned."
Anthony sighed, and sank into a fit of abstraction, while Colonel
Hurdlestone joined his son in a bumper to the health of the lady.
In spite of Godfrey's avowal, Anthony could not bring himself to regard
Juliet Whitmore with indifference; nor did he consider it any breach of
honor endeavoring to make himself agreeable in her eyes. His attentions,
though less marked than his cousin's, were of a more delicate and tender
nature, appealing less to female vanity, and more directly to her heart
and understanding; and there were moments when the young lover fancied
that he was not an object of indifference. The more he saw of the
enthusiastic girl, with all her romantic propensities, the more strongly
he became attached to her. Her sins of authorship were undictated by
ambition or the mere love of fame; but were the joyous outpourings of an
artless mind delighted in having discovered a method of conveying her
thoughts to paper, and retaining in a tangible form those delightful
visions that so often engrossed her fancy.
She laid no claim to the title of a _Blue_--she had not the most remote
idea of being considered a literary lady. She sang as the birds do in
the bushes, for the mere pleasure of singing, and she was perfectly
unconscious that others listened and admired her songs.
Independent of her love of music and poetry, she had many valuable
mental and moral qualities. Not among the least of these was a deep
sympathy in the wants and sufferings of the poor, which she always
endeavored to alleviate to the utmost of her power. The selfish fear of
infection never deterred her from visiting the abodes of her poor
neighbors--administering to their comfort when sick, and not
unfrequently watching beside the pillow of the dying. In the performance
of these acts of charity, she was greatly encouraged and assisted by her
worthy father.
When aunt Dorothy, in her cold egotism, raved about her niece
endangering her life, and the lives of those around her, by going to
infected houses, the Captain's general answer was--"Let the child alone,
Dorothy; a good angel watches over her--God will take care of his own."
"So you said of her mother, Captain Whitmore, yet she lost her life by
obstinately persisting in what she was pleased to call _her duty_."
"If the good ship sunk while endeavoring to save the drowning crew of
another," said the poor Captain, wiping the dew from his spectacles,
"she went down in a good cause, and a blessing has descended from above
upon her child."
One day, when Anthony had been remonstrating with Juliet for incurring
so much danger while visiting the poor during a period of epidemic
sickness, she replied, with her usual frankness,
"This from you, Mr. Anthony, who have devoted yourself to be an
instructor of the poor, a friend of the friendless, a minister of
Christ!--how can I better employ my time than in striving to alleviate
the sorrows that I cannot cure? To tell you the truth, I cannot yield
more to pleasure without spoiling my heart. It is not that I am averse
to innocent amusements, for no person enjoys them more. But were I
constantly to gratify my own selfish inclinations, I should soon lose my
peace of mind, that dew of the soul, which is so soon absorbed in the
heated atmosphere of the world."
"If such devotion is what the worldly term enthusiasm, may its blessed
inspiration ever continue to influence your actions!"
"Enthusiasm!" repeated the girl. "Oh that I could convey to you in words
what I feel to be the true definition of that much abused term.
Enthusiasm is the eternal struggling of our immortal against our mortal
nature, which expands the wings of the soul towards its native heaven.
Enthusiasm! Can anything great or good be achieved without it? Can a man
become a poet, painter, orator, patriot, warrior, or lover, without
enthusiasm? Can he become a Christian without it? In man's struggles to
obtain fame, enthusiasm is a virtue. In a holy cause it is termed
madness. Oh, thou divine Author of the human soul, evermore grant me the
inspiration of this immortal spirit!"
They were standing together in the balcony. The beams of the summer moon
rested upon the upturned brow of the young enthusiast, and filled her
eyes with a holy fire, and the words of love that had trembled upon
Anthony's lips were dismissed from his thoughts as light and vain. She
looked too pure to address to her, at such a moment, the wild
outpourings of human passion.
Godfrey's flute sounded beneath the balcony. He played one of Juliet's
favorite songs. She turned to her lover and said, with a lively air, "Is
not the musician an enthusiast--is not the language in which he breathes
his soul the poetry of sound?"
"Then what is love?" and Anthony tried to detain the small, white hand
she had placed upon his arm.
"I dare not attempt to analyse it;" and Juliet blushed deeply as she
spoke. "Beautiful when worshipped at a distance, it becomes too much the
necessity of our nature when brought too near. Oh, if it would never
bend its wings to earth, and ever speak in the language of music and
poetry, this world would be too dark for so heavenly a visitant, and we
should long for death to unclose the portals of the skies."
"Still, dearest Juliet, much quiet happiness may be realized on earth."
"But think of its duration--how short--what sorrows are crowded into the
shortest life! To love, and to lose the beloved--how dreadful! My
mother--my angel mother--at her death, my heart became a funeral urn, in
which all sad and holy memories were enshrined. Oh, 'tis a fearful thing
to love and lose! Better far to keep the heart fancy-free, than to find
it the grave of hope."
"And will you never consent to love, Juliet?"
"Can you teach me how to resist its power?" said Juliet, with
simplicity. "We love against our own will; we call reason to our aid,
and reason laughs at us. We strive to forget; but memory, like hope,
though it cheats us, will not in turn be cheated; one holds the keys of
the future, the other unlocks the treasures of the past. When we cease
to hope, memory may cease to recall what were once the offsprings of
hope. Both accompany us through life, and will, I believe, survive the
grave."
"And will you allow me, Juliet, to entertain the blessed hope--?"
At this moment the lovers were interrupted by the eternal old pest, as
Godfrey very unceremoniously called Miss Dorothy.
"Really, Miss Whitmore, I wonder at your standing out here, in the damp
night air, without your shawl and bonnet, and the dew falling so fast. I
wish you would learn a little more prudence; it would save me a great
deal of trouble."
"Alas," whispered Juliet, as Anthony led her back into the drawing-room,
"how quickly the vulgarity of common-place banishes the beauty of the
ideal!"
The intimacy of the two families now became a matter of daily
occurrence. Captain Whitmore who had always coveted a son of his own,
was delighted with the society of the handsome intelligent young men.
They were fine lads! very fine lads! He really did not know which to
prefer. Juliet's choice would decide his, for the old man soon
discovered that his daughter was the great attraction that drew the
young men to the Lodge. Perhaps, had he been questioned closely on the
subject, the old veteran would have acknowledged that he preferred
Godfrey. He possessed more life and spirit than his quiet cousin; had
more wit; was more lively and amusing. He loved hunting and fishing;
played well at chess and draughts; and sang a good song. His face was
always smiling and joyous; his brow never wore the cloud of care, the
pensive earnest expression of refined thought which was so apparent in
his cousin. Godfrey made the room glad with his gay hearty laugh. He was
the life and soul of the convivial board, and prince of good fellows. A
woman must be happy with such a handsome good-natured husband, and the
Captain hoped that his dear Julee would be the wife of his favorite.
Hearts understood hearts better. Godfrey Hurdlestone was not the man who
could make Juliet Whitmore happy. There existed no sympathy between
them. The one was all soul, the other a mere animal in the fullest sense
of the word; living but for animal enjoyment, and unable to comprehend
the refined taste and exquisite sensibilities that belong to higher
natures. Yet he loved music, had a fine ear and a fine voice, and
exercised both with considerable skill. Here Juliet met him on equal
terms; they played and sang together, and whilst so employed, and only
drinking in sweet sounds, rendered doubly delicious when accompanied by
harmonious words, Juliet forgot the something, she could not tell what,
that made her feel such a deep aversion to the handsome musician.
"If my flute could but speak the language of my heart, how quickly, Miss
Whitmore, would it breathe into your ear the tender tale which the
musician wants courage to declare!"
"Ah," returned Juliet quickly, "such notes would only produce discord.
Perfect harmony must exist before we can form a union of sweet sounds.
Similarity of mind can alone produce reciprocity of affection. Godfrey
Hurdlestone, there is no real sympathy between us--nature never formed
us for each other."
"These are cruel words. I will not destroy hope by believing them true.
We both love music passionately; here is at least one sympathy in
common. To love you has become so essential to my happiness that I
cannot think that you can be wholly insensible to my passion."
"You deceive yourself, Godfrey Hurdlestone. The moth is attracted to the
candle, but the union produces misery and death to the unfortunate
insect. Mere admiration is not love. The novelty wears off; the soul is
sated with the idol it worshipped, and its former homage sinks into
contempt. You seek the outward and palpable. I seek that which is unseen
and true. But let us go to my father, he is fishing, and the evening is
growing cold. If he stays out much longer in the damp meadow, he will be
raving with the rheumatism."
"Your worthy father would not frown upon my suit."
"Perhaps not. But he would never urge me to encourage a suitor whom I
could not love. I am very young, Mr. Godfrey, too young to enter into
any serious engagements. I esteem you and your cousin, but if you
persist in talking to me in this strain, it will destroy our friendship.
If you really feel any regard for me, never wound my feelings by
speaking to me on this subject again."
As Juliet ran forward to meet her father, she felt like a bird escaped
out of the snare of the fowler, while Godfrey, humbled and mortified,
muttered to himself, "The deuce take these very clever girls; they
lecture us like parsons, and talk like books."
"Why, Julee, love, how you have painted your cheeks," cried the
delighted old man, catching her in his arms, and imprinting a very
audible kiss upon her white forehead. "What has Mr. Godfrey been saying
to you?"
"Miss Juliet will not listen to anything that I can say to her," said
Godfrey gloomily.
"Pshaw!" returned the old man. "A lover must look out for squalls; his
bark is seldom destined to sail upon a smooth sea. If she will not go
ahead against wind and tide, you must try her upon another tack."
He turned to Juliet, and found her in tears.