GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XIX. October, 1841. No. 4.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
Brother and Sister
Kate Beverly
Lame for Life, Or Leslie Pierpoint
The Rowsevillers.—No. I.
Wawhillowa
Shakspeare.—No. II.
The Roman Bride
The Vagrant
The Reefer of ’76
Sports and Pastimes.—The Fowling-Piece
Review of New Books
Secret Writing
Poetry, Music and Fashion
We Were Boys Together
The Christian’s Dream of the Future
A Forest Scene
Ballad
Niagara
The Baptism of Pocahontas
Israfel
Bye-Gone Hours
Latest Fashions, October, 1841
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Painted by Vinterhalter._, _Engraved by J. Sartain._
_Brother & Sister_
]
[Illustration: W. H. Bartlett. A. L. Dick.
THE DESCENT INTO THE VALLEY OF WYOMING
(Pennsylvania)
_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XIX. PHILADELPHIA: OCTOBER, 1841. No. 4.
* * * * *
BROTHER AND SISTER.
What is so beautiful as childhood? Where can we find such purity and
frankness, such an absence of all selfishness, as in the love of
children? And where does that love exist, deeper or sweeter or more like
that of heaven than when between a brother and a sister?
Brother and sister! what a spell in the very words! How they bring up to
our mind visions of days long past, and such, alas! as we shall never
see again; when, with that dear one who is now in heaven, singing among
the white-robed choir around the throne of God, we wandered over hill
and dale, through fields of waving corn and meadows of the freshest
grass—and all the while drinking into our souls sensations we could not
then understand, but which we now know sprung from that sympathy which
exists between us and every beautiful thing in nature, and which,
beginning at the humblest flower, links together all inanimate and
animate creation, ascending step by step from tree to breathing thing,
from breathing thing to man, from man to the angels, and so through
cherubim and seraphim and archangel, up to the highest intelligence who
veils his face before the effulgence of the great I am. We little knew
the reason then, but we felt how sweet it was to wander thus—often from
morning until night—threading the old wood, or gathering flowers on the
lea, or playing merrily beneath some shady grove, or loitering perchance
at noon-day beside the stream, to gaze at the silvery trout glancing far
down in the cool depths, or hanging like a motionless statue close under
the mossy rocky caves that skirted the banks. Oh! those were delicious
hours. Arm in arm would we sit, scarce speaking a word for hours, but
with a thousand sweet though indescribable emotions at our hearts, until
a dreamy quiet would creep over our souls like that which lapped the
poet into Elysium. The very soughing of the wind among the trees would
become lower and softer, until it died away with a tone as mellow as
that of a flute at midnight. The current would sweep noiselessly at our
feet, save when it whirled by some projecting rock, or babbled over a
pebbly bar on the bosom of the stream. Now the whirr of a woodcock might
be heard, and now the whistle of a wild pigeon broke clear and silvery
on the silence. Often the long tresses of the overhanging willows
drooped down around us until they slept upon the waters, while ever and
anon the noon-tide breeze would rustle the neighboring trees, and a
sound would go up like the whispers of a company of angels. How often
have we thought that in these low mysterious tones might exist a meaning
of which we little dream, a language as full of adoration as it is of
harmony. But be that as it may, is not all nature an instrument from
which the fingers of God are drawing perpetual music? The roar of the
surf, the whisper of the zephyr, the rustling of the forest, the
gurgling of the stream, the song of the bird, the low of the kine, the
rain gently pattering among the forest leaves, and the thunder wheeling
and rattling among the hills, are all notes in that great anthem of
praise which continually goes up from earth—an anthem which is swelled
by the music of satellites and worlds, aye! of a revolving universe,
sweeping sphere on sphere beyond the ken of man. All creation is but one
vast whole, engaged day and night in hymning Jehovah’s praise.
Brother and sister! Alas! we are alone. Manhood has left us of that
happy time only these emotions—first felt in the companionship of that
now sainted being. But never shall we forget those days. They are linked
in with our very being. How many sweet emotions, how many lasting
impressions, how many glimpses of the beautiful and true were drawn into
our souls in that joyous time of innocence and youth. And how all seem
the sweeter, and holier, and more enduring from the associations
connected with them. Oh! tell us not of other’s love, it cannot surpass
that of a sister. What can be purer than her little caresses, what can
be more heavenly than her smile? Years have passed since the days when
we thus wandered together, and the cares of the world have eaten like a
canker into our heart, but the memory of that sister’s kindness and the
consciousness of her affection, have been a balm to our hearts in every
ill. They have cheered us in sickness, and sorrow, and absence; they
have been to us beacons of hope and happiness. And they will continue
with us, thank God! until we too shall have done with the toils of life.
J. S.
* * * * *
KATE BEVERLY.
A STORY OF THE VALLEY OF WYOMING.
BY PERCIE H. SELTON.
“Do you see that landscape?” said the old man to me, as we paused on the
edge of the mountain road, and looked down into the valley of Wyoming
beneath us. “Well, that spot, calm and beautiful as it now is, was once
the scene of massacre. God help me! the agonies of that day almost wring
my heart to think of them, even after the lapse of fifty years.”
“I have heard it was a fearful time, and you have often promised to tell
me the tale of your own connection with it. Yet, if the subject be so
painful to you, I dare scarcely make the request.”
“No, boy, no,” said the old man, sadly, “I will tell it, for the promise
is of long standing, and I feel to-day as if I could narrate that
tragedy with less emotion than usual. Sit down on this rock, and give me
a moment to rest; I will then commence my story.”
While the old man wiped the perspiration from his brow, and sat fanning
himself with his broad-rimmed summer hat, I took the place pointed out
by him near his side, and spent the moments that elapsed before he began
his narration in gazing at the landscape before me.
Sitting on a huge boulder, at the edge of the mountain, just where the
hill began to slope down into the valley, we commanded a view of one of
the most unrivalled landscapes in the world. To our left rose up the
mountain, bold, rugged and barren, like the back of some vast monster
reared against the sky—but on the right nothing interposed to destroy
the view: whose loveliness so far exceeded even my expectations, that
for some minutes I gazed on the scene in mute admiration. Beneath me
stretched the valley, diversified with gently sloping elevations, and
sprinkled with fields of waving golden grain; while here and there a
patch of woodland, with its dark green hue, lay slumbering on the
landscape—the surface of the forest ever and anon varying to a lighter
tint as the wind swept over the tree-tops. Right through the centre of
the valley meandered the river, now rolling betwixt bluff banks, and now
stealing gently among the rich meadow lands in the distance, until at
length it turned to the left, and, skirting the foot of the far off
hills, was lost behind the profile of the mountain before us. In the
centre of the vale was the village, with its white houses and airy
church steeple, smiling over the scene. Far away on the horizon
stretched a line of hills, their dark blue summits, half hid by the
clouds, which wrapped them as in a veil of gauze. No sound came up from
the valley. Occasionally the twitter of a bird would be heard from the
surrounding trees—while the low tinkle of a tiny waterfall on our left
kept monotonously sounding in our ears. The morning rays of a summer’s
sun poured down upon the landscape, and every thing around was bright,
and gay, and beautiful. I was still lost in admiration at the loveliness
of the scene, when the old man signified his readiness to commence his
tale.
“It is now fifty years ago,” he began, “since I came to this valley a
young frontier-man, with a hardy constitution, a love of adventure, and
the reputation of being the best shot on the border: the place was, at
that time, settled principally by families from Connecticut, and even
then bore traces of its present luxuriant cultivation. Many of the
families were in good circumstances, others had seen better days—and
altogether the society was more refined than was usual on the frontier.
Among all the families, however, in the valley, none pleased me so much
as that of Mr. Beverly—and, of his fireside circle his second daughter,
Kate, was, in my eyes, the gem. How shall I describe her beauty? Lovely,
without being beautiful, with a sylph-like form, a laugh as joyous as
the carol of a bird, a step lighter than that of a young fawn in
sportive play, and a disposition so amiable as to win, irresistibly, the
love of all who met her. Kate Beverly was scarcely seventeen before she
had a host of admirers, and might have won any youth in the valley. Why
it was that she preferred me over all the rest, I cannot say: perhaps it
was the consciousness of some mysterious sympathy linking us together,
or perhaps it was that we both came from the same town in Connecticut,
and had been school-mates in childhood—so it was, however. It soon
began to be known throughout the valley that before another season
should elapse, Kate Beverly would become my wife.
“Oh! how happy were those days—too happy, indeed, to last. I will not
dwell upon them, for they fill my soul with agony. Suffice it to say,
that while dreaming of bliss such as mortal never before experienced,
the war of the revolution broke out—and, after a hard struggle between
my passion and my duty, the latter conquered, and I joined the army.
Kate did not attempt to dissuade me from the act—she rather loved me
the more for it. Though her woman nature caused her to shed tears at my
departure, her reason told her I was right, and she bid me God speed.
“‘Heaven bless you, Harry,’ she said, ‘and bring this unnatural war to a
conclusion. I cannot bid you stay, but I pray that the necessity for
your absence may soon cease.’
“Time rolled by—the American cause was still doubtful, and the war bid
fair to be protracted into years. I had risen to be a captain in the
—— regiment, when I received information that the tories and Indians
intended making a descent on the valley of the Wyoming. I knew the
unprotected situation of my adopted district, and I trembled for the
lives of those I held most dear. At first I discredited the
rumor—chance, however, threw in my way an opportunity of ascertaining
the reality of the reported descent, and I became convinced that not a
moment was to be lost if I would save the lives of those I loved at
home. My determination was at once taken—I solicited for leave of
absence—it was refused: I then resigned my commission, and set forth to
Wyoming.
“I never shall forget my emotions when I drew near that ill-fated place;
it was on the very day of the massacre—and the first intimation I had
of the calamity was the mangled body of one of the inhabitants, whom I
had known, floating down the stream. A cold shiver ran through every
vein as I gazed on the terrible sight, and a thousand fears agitated my
bosom; but my worst surmises fell far short of the truth. When, hours
after, I met some of the fugitives, and they rehearsed to me that tale
of horror, I stood for a moment thunderstruck, refusing to believe that
beings in human form could perpetrate such deeds—but it was all too
true.
“Almost my first inquiry was for Kate. No one knew, alas! what had
become of her. One of those who had escaped the fight, told me that her
father had been killed at the beginning of the conflict—and that,
deprived of a protector, she had probably fallen a victim to the
infuriate savages, while the other inhabitants were severally engaged in
protecting themselves. How I cursed them for this selfishness! And yet
could I expect aught else of human nature, than that each one should
protect those dearest to them, even to the desertion of others?
“But my mind was soon made up. I resolved, come what might, to ascertain
clearly the fate of Kate—so that if dead I might revenge her, and if,
living, I might rescue her. Bidding farewell to the flying group, I
shouldered my rifle and struck boldly into the forest, trusting in the
guidance of that God who never deserts us in our extremities.
“I will not tire you with a protracted narrative; I will only say that,
after numerous inquiries from the fugitives I met, I learned that Kate
had been last seen in the hands of a party of savages,—this was
sufficient for a clue,—I once more began to hope. I waited until
night-fall, when I sought the spot which had been described to me as the
one where Kate had been last seen—and, never shall I forget my feelings
of almost rapturous pleasure, when I found in the neighboring forest a
fragment of her dress sticking on a bush, by which it had, doubtless,
been torn from her in passing. I was now satisfied that Kate had been
carried off captive. Fortunately I had met, in the group of fugitives, a
hunter who had been under some obligations to her family, and he was
easily persuaded to join me in my search. Together we now began a
pursuit of the savages. He was an adept in forest warfare—could follow
a trail as a hound the chase—knew the course which would be most likely
to be chosen by a flying party of Indians, and withal, was one of the
keenest shots who had carried a rifle on the border.
“‘It’s my opinion,’ said he, ‘that these varmint did not belong to the
regular body of Indians who followed Butler, though even they were bad
enough. I think, however, he wouldn’t suffer a deed like this. These
villains seem to have acted on their own behalf—and, if so, they would
fly to the back country as soon as possible. You may depend upon it we
shall overtake them if we pursue that way.’
“I felt the truth of these remarks, and assented to them at once. In
less than a quarter of an hour after first discovering the trail, we
were threading the forest in pursuit of the savages.
“Let me hasten to the close. Hour after hour, all through the livelong
day, we pursued the flying Indians—crossing swamps, clambering over
rocks, fording streams, and picking our way through the labyrinthine
woods, until, towards night-fall, we reached the edge of an open
space—or, as it were, a meadow, shut in by gently sloping hills.
“‘Hist,’ said my companion, ‘we are upon them. Do you not see that thin
thread of smoke curling upward over the top of yonder aged hemlock?’
“‘Ay—it must be them—let us on.’
“‘Softly, or we lose all. We know not, certainly, that this is the party
we seek; let us reconnoitre.’
“Slowly and stealthily, trembling lest even a twig should crackle under
our feet, we crept up towards the edge of the meadow—and peeping
cautiously through the underwood, beheld the objects of our search in
six tall swarthy savages, sitting smoking around the remains of a fire.
At a little distance knelt, with her hands bound, but her eyes upraised
to heaven, my own Kate. Oh! how my heart leaped at the sight. I raised
my rifle convulsively, and was about to fire, when my companion caught
my hand, and said:
“‘Softly, or you spoil all. Let us get the varmint in range, and then we
shall fire with some effect. Hist!’
“This last exclamation was occasioned by the sudden rising of one of the
savages. He gazed a moment cautiously around, and then advanced towards
the thicket where we lay concealed. I drew my breath in, and trembled at
the beating of my own heart. The savage still approached. My companion
laid his hand on my arm, and pointed from my rifle to one of the
Indians. I understood him. At this juncture the advancing savage, warned
of our presence by the crackling of an unlucky twig beneath my
companion’s foot, sprang back, with a loud yell, towards the fire.
“‘Now,’ said my companion, sternly.
“Quick as lightning I raised my piece and fired. My companion did the
same. The retreating savage and one of his companions fell dead on the
ground: each of us then sprang to a tree, loading as we ran. It was well
we did it, for in an instant the enemy was on us. Shall I describe that
dreadful fight? My emotion forbids it. A few minutes decided it.
Fighting from tree to tree—dodging, loading, and endeavoring to get
sight on a foe, we kept up the conflict for nearly five minutes—at the
end of which time I found myself wounded, while four out of the six
savages lay prostrate on the ground. The other two, finding their
companions dead, and despairing of being able to carry off their
prisoner, suddenly rushed on her, and before we could interpose, had
seized their hapless victim. I had only been prevented, hitherto, from
rescuing Kate by the knowledge that an attempt of the kind, while the
savages were still numerically superior to us, would end in the certain
ruin of us both,—but now, worlds could not have restrained me, and,
clubbing my rifle, for the piece was unloaded, I dashed out from my
covert, shouting to my companion—
“‘On—on, in God’s name, on.’
“‘Take care of the taller varmint,’ thundered my companion.
“The warning was too late. In the tumult of my feelings I had not
observed that the savage furthest from me had his piece loaded, and
before I could avail myself of my companion’s cooler observation, I
received the ball in my right arm, and my rifle dropped powerless by my
side; had I not sprung involuntarily aside at my companion’s cry, I
should have been shot through the heart.
“‘On—on,’ I groaned in agony, as I seized my tomahawk in my almost
useless left hand.
“‘Stoop,’ said my companion, ‘stoop lower;’ and as I did so, his rifle
cracked on the still air, and the Indian fell dead.
“All this had not occupied an instant. I was now within a few feet of
her I loved, who was struggling in the grasp of the other Indian. He had
already entwined his hands in her long hair—his tomahawk was already
gleaming in the setting sun. Never shall I forget the look of demoniac
fury with which the wretch glared on his victim. A second only was left
for hope. My companion was far behind, with his rifle unloaded. I made a
desperate spring forward, and hurled my tomahawk at the savage’s head.
God of my fathers! the weapon whizzed harmlessly by the wretch, and
buried itself, quivering, in the trunk of a neighboring tree. I groaned
aloud in agony,—there was a yell of triumph on the air—a sudden
flashing in the sun, like a glancing knife, and—but I cannot go on. She
I loved as my own life; she who was the purest and loveliest of her sex;
she with whom I had promised myself a long life of happiness—oh! must I
say it—_she_ lay a mangled corpse at my feet! But her murderer,
aye!—_he_ was cloven to the breast by a blow from his own tomahawk,
which I had wrenched from him with the strength of a dozen men.”
The old man ceased,—big tears rolled down his furrowed face, and his
frame shook with emotion. I saw the remembrance of the past was too much
for him, and I sat by his side in silence.
I subsequently heard his sad tale from others, and then learned the
manner in which Kate had been carried off. The old man’s companion was
right—she had been made a prisoner by a predatory band of Indians, who
had followed Butler, and deserted him directly after the massacre.
Beautiful as the Valley of the Wyoming is, I never have seen it, from
that day to this, without thinking of the sad fate of Kate Beverly.
* * * * *
WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
We were boys together,
And never can forget,
The school-house on the heather,
In childhood where we met:
Nor the green home to memory dear,
Its sorrows or its joys,
Which called the transient smile or tear,
When you and I were boys.
We were youths together,
And castles built in air!
Your heart was like a feather,
While mine was dash’d with care!
To you came wealth with manhood’s prime,
To me it brought alloys
Ne’er dreamed of in the primrose time
When you and I were boys.
We’re old men together—
The friends we loved of yore,
Like leaves of autumn weather,
Are gone for evermore!—
How blest to age the impulse given,
The hope time ne’er destroys,
Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven,
When you and I were boys.
* * * * *
LAME FOR LIFE, OR LESLIE PIERPOINT.
A TALE, IN TWO PARTS.
BY PROFESSOR J. H. INGRAHAM, AUTHOR OF “LAFITTE,” “KYD,” “THE QUADROONE,”
ETC.
PART II.
“Love knows no rank—beauty
Is aristocracy—birth, lineage and blood.”
“Love ne’er broke a heart, love ne’er could mend.”
It was on a cold, bleak evening in autumn, that Leslie Pierpoint, as
described in Part First of our tale, sat in his arm-chair in his
comfortable library, with his feet buried in a thick rug of Angola
fleece; a cheerful fire glowing in the grate; a round stand with the
tea-tray at his left elbow; and a large table covered with magazines,
papers, books, &c. &c., on his right hand. He was alone. The rich,
crimson curtains drawn closely across the deep windows with the
comfortable air of the whole room, gave indication that the occupant
loved his ease, and was that evening disposed to enjoy it.
Twenty years had passed since Leslie’s _affaire du cœur_ with Clara
Clayton. With her treachery expired his confidence in the sex. In vain
had the lovely, gay and fashionable women thrown their gilded nets. In
every one of the fair fishers he but saw a cousin german to Clara, and
warily shunned the danger. Thus had he reached forty-one years of age
with the full consent of all his friends, male and female, that he
should remain a bachelor for life. And to all appearances such seemed to
be the settled destiny of Leslie Pierpoint. He himself had no more
thoughts of committing matrimony than suicide. He never spake to any
woman save his washerwoman and linen sempstress. His mother had been
several years dead, and he lived alone—a bachelor! the victim of a
heartless woman’s treachery.
He now sat gazing into the fire with a cup of tea in his hand, and which
he seemed to have forgotten that he held. The state house clock tolled
seven and he started, laid down his cup and saucer, and rang the bell.
It was immediately answered by a very gentlemanly African servant in
grey clothes with bright steel buttons, red cravat, and shoes with old
fashioned paste buckles in them.
“Cato.”
“Sar, massa?”
“Have my new linens come home yet?”
“No, massa, not yit.”
“They were to be here at six. Go and see that they are sent in time to
pack into my trunks to-night, for we must start for New York early.”
“Yes, massa,” said Cato, with a graceful bow, and was in the act of
leaving the room to obey his master’s orders, when a ringing at the
street door bell arrested him.
“I guess dem is de sharts now, massa.”
“Go and see, and show the woman up.”
Cato left the room, while Leslie took up the evening paper. Directly the
servant reappeared, ushering in a very modest young girl, coarse in her
dress, but of extraordinary beauty. She was scarcely seventeen, yet the
womanly outline and youthful roundness of her sylph-like figure were
perfect. Her complexion was very brilliant; her cheeks blushed with
diffidence and beauty; her eyes were large, blue, and melting in their
own cerulean heaven; her lips ripe and full, and her chin voluptuously
rounded, yet most exquisitely turned. Native grace was in every movement
she made. Her dress was of very plain calico, and she wore a common
straw hat with a long green veil. In her hands she carried two bundles,
very neatly done up in white paper.
“De sharts come,” said Cato, making a low bow to Leslie’s back. “Here de
young woman wid ’em.”
“Very well, Cato; remove the tea-tray. I will ring for you to show the
woman out soon as I have settled with her.”
“Yes, massa;” and the black, taking the tray in his hands, cast a
glance, first at the beautiful face of the young girl, then over his
shoulder at his master, and, gravely shaking his grey pate, left the
library. Leslie completed the paragraph he was reading, and then,
lifting his face and looking into the fire, but without turning round,
said in the low, pleasant tone natural to him:
“So, my good woman, you have brought the shirts. They have come an hour
later than you promised them, but I suppose you are very much hurried
with work. They are in plenty time, however. Be so kind as to undo the
package and let me see one of them.”
For a few moments there was no sound in the room but the snapping of
strings, as they were untied by the busy fingers of the linen-draper’s
maid, and the rattling of the strong paper covering the linens. At
length a shirt, white as the drifted snow and beautifully done up, was
hesitatingly advanced over his shoulder, so as to intercept his vision.
He took it, and after carefully examining it (old bachelors are very
particular in this matter) with an appearance of satisfaction, admiring
the stitching of the wristbands, the French style of the sleeves, and
the neatness of the bosom folds, he laid it down beside him where the
tea tray had stood.
“Well, my good woman, I am very much pleased with them. They are very
neatly made. Please let me see your bill.” And he turned his head
slightly back to receive it.
The young girl, embarrassed by his mode of addressing her, and abashed
at his presence, timidly stretched forth her hand containing the bill.
“Nearer, woman, nearer. I cannot reach it.”
Agitated by his voice, she thrust her arm forward so quickly that he
received in his grasp her hand as well as her bill. The sight and touch
of the soft, white member, thrilled through him. He started, blushed,
rose from his chair, and to his surprise discovered that he had been all
the while talking to one of the loveliest girls of seventeen he had ever
seen, instead of an old woman, whom he supposed was the bearer of his
linens.
“Pardon me, miss—I beg pardon,” said the Major embarrassed, “I thought
you were your mother.”
“I have no mother, sir,” answered the pretty maiden, with a drooping
eyelid.
“I beg pardon! Sit down! No, you may stand! Upon my word you are very
beautiful.” The Major hardly knew what he said.
“Sir, the bill if you please,” said the maiden confused, her bright
intelligent face suffused with crimson.
“Oh, ah! sit down if you please! no—stand up; no, no, no! _sit down!_”
Poor Major Pierpoint!
“No, I thank you, sir.”
“What a sweet voice,” soliloquized the Major to himself. “No mother?”
“No, sir,” with a musical sadness in her voice, touching as it was
natural.
“No father?” asked the Major with as much delicacy as he could put the
question.
“No, sir.”
“No brothers, neither, I dare say.”
“No, sir.”
“Nor sisters, either?”
“No, sir.”
“Ho! hah, hem!”
And the Major, having finished catechising her, put his hands behind his
back and looked steadily in the grate for full a minute, his lips
compressed, his brow set and thoughtful.
“If you please, sir, the bill is waiting.”
The Major started at the sound of the sweet voice as if he had been
clapped on the shoulder.
“Oh, ah! I beg your pardon. Let me see—six linen shirts—five dollars
each—thirty dollars—all right.” And the Major looked up from the bill
into her face. He felt a delight he could not account for in gazing upon
its sweet beauty. She was confused by his ardent look, and became still
more beautiful from her sweet confusion. With instinctive delicacy he
withdrew his gaze, and a sigh, the first he had felt for twenty years,
escaped him. A gentle sadness at the same time overspread his fine
features. Again he looked into her face, but with an expression that she
did not shrink from, and said kindly, touchingly,
“So then, sweet child, you are an orphan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your name?”
“Mary Lee.”
“A pretty name.”
“Sir, I have another errand to go—if you will please pay the bill for
my mistress.”
“Oh, ah! yes, the bill. Thirty dollars. Here is a check for the amount.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Mary, curtseying with a grace that charmed him,
and turning to leave.
“Stay, Mary—that is, Miss Lee,” said Leslie, following her a step and
speaking with amusing hesitation. The linen-draper maiden had, however,
reached the door and placed her hand upon the lock. She was evidently
alarmed and surprised, and seemed uncertain whether to take the
gentleman’s manner as rudeness or as an uncommon degree of civility. She
appeared to be a sensible, good natured girl, however, with all her
charms, and probably with woman’s ready tact divined the true cause of
his singular conduct. Yet with all a woman’s tact she pretended to be
blind to the impression her beauty had made upon him. She could not help
thinking that he was a very handsome man, if he was an old bachelor, and
she felt pleased rather than offended at this evidence of the triumph of
beauty. For Mary Lee well knew she had beauty, and what pretty miss of
seventeen is ignorant of this possession?
“Stay, if you please, one moment, Miss Lee,” said Leslie.
“Indeed, sir, it is late.”
“But one moment. Are you an apprentice with Miss Phelps, the
linen-draper?”
“Yes, sir;” and Mary turned the lock of the door.
The Major laid his hand lightly upon her wrist.
“Excuse me, Miss Lee! One more question!” But the maiden, with a
pleasant laugh, threw off his hand and bounded through the open door
into the hall. Cato was in waiting.
“Ah, Cato,” said the Major, with as much coolness as he could summon at
this crisis, “you save me the trouble of ringing. Show this young woman
out.”
“Yes, sar,” said Cato.
Major Pierpoint lingered an instant in his door to follow with his eye
the receding form of the maiden, as with a light, graceful trip she
followed the dignified Cato to the street door. He then re-entered his
library, and after pacing his room two or three times as if his thoughts
were in a tumult, he suddenly stopped before his mirror and looked at
himself. After a brief and satisfied survey of his fine face and person
he walked to the fire, folded his hands behind his back, and stood and
looked into the grate with a very thoughtful brow.
“Well, Leslie Pierpoint, after remaining bachelor twenty years, thou art
made captive by a linen-draper’s ’prentice! ’Tis true, and pity ’tis,
’tis true! Leslie Pierpoint, thou art false to thyself! But what a soft,
sweet hand! How could I help taking it if she would thrust it into mine?
But, poor child, I suppose I had frightened her by calling her an old
woman, and she scarcely knew what she was about! Old woman? A youthful
divinity! What heavenly blue eyes! What a sweet round bust! What an
exquisite waist, the charms of which even her coarse dress could not
conceal! And her foot, so petite and delicately turned! How rich were
the tones of her voice! How enchanting her smile! Ah, Leslie Pierpoint,
thou art in love with a ’prentice maiden! At forty years thou art become
a fool! Yes, I am a fool! What have I to do with the sex? Have I not a
lasting feud with it? Ah, let me not forget Clara Clayton! Remember her,
and so forget this pretty maiden, for she belongs to the same false
hearted sex!”
Thus soliloquized Major Pierpoint, and, turning from the fire, he walked
his room some time with a thoughtful brow. All at once he stopped and
pulled his bell with an emphasis. Cato made his instant appearance.
“Sar, massa.”
“Bring me my boots.”
“What massa say?”
“Bring me my boots,” repeated Leslie, more decidedly.
The black left the room with an inquiring look, as much as to ask what
could take his master out in such an evening.
“Yes, I will do it. I will learn all about her! Such beautiful teeth!
Such a bright, intelligent, sensible face! Such innate high breeding!”
Cato brought the boots, and in a few minutes afterwards the Major had
exchanged his evening home costume for boots, overcoat and hat.
“My stick, Cato.”
“Yes, sar,” answered the black with dilating eyes, as he handed the gold
headed Indian cane.
“I shall return in an hour, Cato,” he said, as his wondering servant
showed him out of the street door.
“Yes, sar,” and Cato closed the door on his master.
“Now, if massa Peerpount hant a loss his sebenteen senses, den heabenly
marcy nebber gave Cato any. De firs’ time I ebber know him go out after
him once take his boot off! Someting ’ticklar be goin’ to happ’n for
sartain! No disordinary circumcasion take massa Peerpoun’ out dis col’
ebening. I mus’ feel werry pertickler distress if as how any ting
surreptitious occur.”
Thus commented honest Cato upon this unusual step of his master’s, whose
general habits were so regular that each day he went through the same
routine of eating, sleeping, smoking, reading, and walking or riding. He
had never gone out in an evening before. Cato had cause, therefore, for
marvel; and leaving him to his conjectures on the motive for this
strange movement on the part of his master, we will follow him on his
expedition. The evening was clear but cold and windy, and he wrapped his
coat closer about his person as he entered Chesnut street from Sixth,
and took his way past the hotel and theatre which were brilliant with
lamps, and gay and lively with the moving things about their doors.
Heedless of these, he kept on until he came to Third street, which he
followed north for a few doors, where he stopped beneath a lamp and
turned back the cape of his surtout, arranged his slightly awry cravat,
and made such other little toilet reparations as young gentlemen are
accustomed to do before going into a house to pay a visit to ladies.
Having _fixed_ himself to his satisfaction, though without a mirror,
(men of taste are a glass to themselves!) he walked more deliberately
onward and entered a door over which hung a sign reading “Mrs. Phelps’
Gentlemen’s Linen Store.”
A very pleasant looking widow-like person presided in the brilliantly
lighted shop behind the counter, while there were glimpses of two or
three girls at their work in the rear room, and a little old woman in
spectacles tying up bundles—doubtless the identical “old woman” whom
the Major had imagined he was talking to as the bearer of his package.
“Good evening, Mrs. Phelps,” said the Major politely.
“Ah, Major Pierpoint, good evening, sir,” said Mrs. Phelps with very
great respect, for the Major was a monied customer and never disputed
bills! “Lord me! I hope you haven’t come after the shirts!” she said
with apologetic volubility; “they have been gone this half hour! I was
so hurried, Major, I couldn’t get them done at the precise hour you
ordered them, though I know you are so very particular. But soon as they
came into the shop, lest you should get impatient, as your black man
said you were going out of town early in the morning, I despatched one
of my apprentices right off with ’em, knowing she would go quicker than
aunt Dolly here, who is always mighty slow in cold weather. If you come
right from home you ought to had ’em there! If Mary has taken that
bundle of hemmed handkerchiefs to Miss Clayton’s first, I shall give her
a good scolding; for I told her, Major, pertickerlaly, to go and leave
your package first.”
“Never mind all this, my good woman,” exclaimed the Major as soon as he
could find an opening in her speech; “I have received the shirts, and am
very well satisfied with them! They do you credit.”
“Oh, I am glad to hear it. I thought the child wouldn’t disobey me, for
she is always so correct! Here she comes in now! Ah, Mary,” said Mrs.
Phelps with a good natured smile, “you like to have had a scolding. So
you took Major Pierpoint’s linens home safe?”
“Yes, aunt,” answered Mary, blushing and stammering at seeing Major
Pierpoint in the shop, while the Major himself, taken by surprise at her
sudden appearance, colored like a school-boy; and scarce conscious of
what he did, respectfully lifted his hat, as with downcast eyes she
tripped past him to the rear of the shop. She had let her bonnet fall
carelessly back from her head as she entered the shop, and the bright
light of the gas-burners flashing upon her forehead, revealed more
clearly the radiant beauty of her complexion, and the exquisite
loveliness of her features. Her hair, which was the richest shade of
dark brown, was parted upon her smooth forehead and lay on either cheek,
after the fashion of young maidens of her age; behind, it was gathered
by her tasteful fingers into a neat braid, the number of whose silken
folds showed the opulence and great length of this glorious ornament of
woman.
She bent her head and blushed between pleasure and shame at this
distinguished notice from Major Pierpoint, while Mrs. Phelps looked from
one to the other, with a face on which wonder, curiosity and suspicion
were as plainly written as they ever were on the face of woman. Leslie
saw instantly the position in which he had placed himself, and with
great presence of mind said, as if to excuse himself, while he pursued
at the same time the main object he had in view—
“She is, I am told, an orphan, Mrs. Phelps. I feel deep sympathy for
orphans, particularly for young unprotected females.”
Mrs. Phelps’ face immediately parted with its combined expression, which
was replaced by that peculiar one which talkative women always put on
when they have an opportunity of indulging their propensity. “Ah, yes,”
she sighed, “ah, dear yes, Major Pierpoint, she is indeed an orphan. She
is a good child, and has a face that will be either the making or the
breaking of her. I feel towards her just as if she was my own flesh and
blood; though, between you and I, Major, I am neither kith nor kin to
her or hers, though I lets her call me aunt for affection-like.”
“Who were her parents?” asked Major Pierpoint, becoming deeply
interested.
“Ah, me, it is a sad story! I never tell it but it makes me cry like a
child;” and here Mrs. Phelps, in anticipation, applied the corner of her
apron to her dry eyes.
“Be so kind as to relate it, madam, if you please. I shall listen to it
with great interest.”
“Well, you must know when I was younger than I am now, and before dear
Fritz, my husband, died, we were living in Boston, in quite respectable
society, Fritz keeping a thriving store, and I living a lady, as it
were, at home. But times is changed since then; ah, me! Major Pierpoint.
Well, don’t you think, as I was waiting tea one winter’s night for
Fritz, the bell rung, and, instead of my husband, a man left a basket of
champaigne, as he said, telling the girl it was a present for our
wedding day, which was to be on Saturday of the next week, sure enough,
Major; we having then been married seven years. Well, I told her to set
the champaigne basket down in the tea room, and soon afterwards Fritz
came in. He was delighted when I showed him the present, and we both
puzzled our heads to guess what friend it came from; but we sat down to
the table intending to open it after we had finished tea. Mr. Phelps was
taking his second cup when we both thought we heard a child cry right in
the room. We started, and both asked ‘what is that?’ ‘It must be the
cat,’ said Fritz, and so we sat down again. We had not taken two bites
of toast before we were startled by the loud shrill scream of an infant.
‘The champaigne basket,’ exclaimed Fritz: ‘it is in the champaigne
basket,’ I cried. ‘It is a baby in the champaigne basket,’ yelled the
girl, letting fall the tea-kettle.
“Fritz sprung to the basket and cut the cord with the table-knife, and
sure enough, Major Pierpoint, there lay in the bottom the beautifullest
little female baby eyes ever looked upon—the very same Mary Lee you
just now took off your hat to! Well, to cut the story short, Fritz and I
concluded, after making all inquiries, and advertising it in vain, to
adopt it, seeing as how Providence had never blessed us with any
children, neither before nor since. So we took the dear infant as our
own, and to this day I have been as its own mother to it, and she has
been as an own child to me. Ah me! the cruel parents that could desert
such a sweet cherub. I have never been sorry to this hour we took the
dear child. Oh, she has been a blessing to me!”
“She would be a blessing to any body,” said the Major warmly, his heart
overrunning with emotion at her narration; and his eyes unconsciously
wandered to the rear of the shop, where Mary sat quietly sewing. He
sighed, and then turning to Mrs. Phelps, thanked her for her trouble in
narrating Mary’s story.
“Not the least, Major, not the least! I could tell it fifty times a day
if I had such a listener as you.”
“You may send me half a dozen pairs of gloves, handkerchiefs,
and—and—” Leslie hesitated, and then hastily added, “any thing else in
your shop you think I would like.”
“Oh, you are such a good customer, Major Pierpoint,” said the pleased
landlady; “I have just got in some new style India cravats which I think
will suit you. Shall I send them to-night?”
“No, to-morrow at twelve.”
“But you leave town to-morrow.”
“Oh, true—true, I had forgotten. But never mind, madam, send them up, I
think I shall be at home—yes, I am sure, quite sure I shall be at home!
I have postponed my departure till the next day.”
“I will certainly send them.”
The Major lingered an instant over the glass case, and then buttoning up
his overcoat, prepared to go.
“Good evening, Mrs. Phelps.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“You will be sure and send them?”
“You shall not be disappointed, Major.”
“Very well.”
Major Pierpoint took three decided steps towards the door and then
turned.
“Twelve o’clock, Mrs. Phelps.”
“Yes sir, they shall be there precisely.”
The Major still did not move. There was evidently something he wished to
say more, but was at a loss how to say it. All at once he turned back to
the counter.
“By-the-bye, Mrs. Phelps, you may, if you please, let the same young
person bring them that took the linens. That old woman, the last time
she came, like to have broke her neck by catching her foot in the brass
stair band. Besides, she is deaf as a post.”
“I will send Mary, then,” said Mrs. Phelps, smiling.
“You are very obliging, my dear madam. Good evening.” And Major
Pierpoint walked out of the shop with a free, light step, and a bland
smile illumining his handsome features.
Mrs. Phelps followed him with her eyes, and then put on a very
thoughtful look, and for a few moments seemed to be communing with her
own mind. Suddenly she laid one fore-finger down upon the other with
emphasis.
“Yes, ’tis clear as that gas-light! I can see as deep as some folks can.
He is not above forty, rich, respectable, and kind and pleasant-hearted
as a child, and Mary’s beauty has evidently made an impression upon him.
He is a bachelor, and old bachelors often fall in love with young girls!
I do believe, now I think it all over, he is in love with her. But then,
he is so rich and respectable! But Mary isn’t my daughter; how does he
or any body know but she is respectable as he is himself? Plainly, there
is something at the bottom of all this. Major Pierpoint is too honorable
and moral for me to apprehend any evil coming out of it. Mary shall go
up to-morrow, looking her best. Who knows what may happen? The poor
child is not mine, but then I wish her to do as well as she can. I
wonder what he said to her this evening. Mary, dear, come here child.”
Mary came forward with a half finished linen collar in her hands.
“Well, dear, what did Miss Clayton say to the handkerchiefs you took to
her?”
“She said they were very neatly done, but that the price was too
high—and told me she could not pay the bill unless you took off the
‘nineteen cents!’”
“How close some people are, especially rich old maids that have once
been beauties! They have no children or husband to pick or peck at, and
so they must pick and peck on those that have to do work for um. She
don’t care about the nineteen cents—its only to have something to find
fault with. To-morrow, at half past eleven, you call there for the
seventeen dollars, and let her have the nineteen cents, if it will do
her temper any good. Did Major Pierpoint appear displeased because I
didn’t get the shirts there by six o’clock?”
Mary blushed, she knew not why, at this common-place question, and
looking up and seeing her ‘aunt’s’ eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face,
she became too confused to speak in reply—and, after one or two
attempts to answer, dropped her head over the collar in her hand, as if
sewing it.
“What is the matter with the child? What did Major Pierpoint say to
you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes, m’m, here is the check he gave me.” Mrs. Phelps glanced at it.
“It’s all right! Prompt pay—no nineteen cents to be cut off. But didn’t
he say any thing to you?”
Mary appeared still more confused. Her adopted mother looked at her
steadily though without displeasure for a few seconds, then shook her
head affirmatively, with a slight smile of self-satisfaction. “Humph,”
she said to herself, “I see how it is! It has gone further than I
thought. He came here to-night for nothing else in the world! Well,
Mary, to-morrow, at twelve precisely, you must be at Major Pierpoint’s
with them gloves, and handkerchiefs, and silk stockings. You must start
at half past eleven, so as to call on the way on Miss Clayton for the
money for her bill. Why do you blush so—are you afraid of Miss
Clayton?”
“No, aunt.”
“Are you afraid of Major Pierpoint?”
“No, aunt.”
“Very well, child, go to your sewing.”
Mary bounded away lightly, and Mrs. Phelps looked after her with a
prideful glance; “yes, if she is not foolish she has her fortune made. I
will say nothing to her of my suspicions, but let her have her own way.
To talk to young girls on such a subject and try to guide and advise
them, only makes puppets of them, and destroys the natural character.
Leave Mary to her own native good sense and unbiassed feelings and she
will be more likely to please such a man as Major Pierpoint than if she
practised the most consummate artifices.”
With these sensible reflections, Mrs. Phelps dropped the subject for
that night.
At a few minutes before half past eleven, Mary Lee made her appearance
in the shop from her little chamber over it, arrayed in a neat black
silk dress, with a pretty straw cottage, trimmed with delicate blue
ribbon, and her beautiful brown hair arranged with elegant simplicity.
It had not been ten minutes since she left the shop to make this change
in her appearance. Yet it was as complete as if five hours had been
wasted before her little mirror. Can any female reader tell me _why_
Mary paid such attention to her appearance? Mrs. Phelps on seeing her,
lifted up both hands, and an exclamation of surprise and displeasure was
on the tip of her tongue! But some sudden reflection checked it on the
verge of utterance, and dropping her hands, she said quietly and as if
not noticing it—
“So, Mary, you are ready. Take the bundle and stop on the way at Miss
Clayton’s. Be sure you are at Major Pierpoint’s when the clock strikes
twelve.”
“Yes, aunt,” said Mary, hastening from the shop on her two-fold errand.
As she passed up Chesnut street with her little bundle, the sparkling
beauty of her face, her buoyant step and graceful motion, drew after her
many admiring eyes. It so chanced that Leslie was returning from the
Exchange reading-room, whither he walked every morning, and was standing
on the corner of Sixth and Chesnut, conversing with several bachelor
gentlemen, when Mary passed. She looked up, and seeing him, coloured and
dropped her head. Leslie did the same.
“A lovely creature,” said one of the gentlemen; “I seldom have seen a
sweeter face or figure. You know her, Major, by your mutual blushes,”
added he, smiling.
“I, gentlemen? oh, no,” said the Major, confused.
“She is certainly extremely beautiful. See how free and light her step
is!”
“Some pretty milliner, I dare say,” said the Major, laughing. “Good
morning, gentlemen;” and Leslie took his way home more than ever
enchanted, deeper than ever in love! The quick, bright, eloquent, yet
unintended glance he had received from her as she passed, kindled an
imperishable flame in his bosom. He hastened homeward with anticipations
of the delightful visit he was to receive at twelve o’clock.
Was Leslie Pierpoint really in love? did he resolve to pay his addresses
to this beautiful girl? did he intend to ask her hand in marriage? did
she fill the place in his heart which Clara Clayton had left void?
Yes.