THE OLD MAID.
“Miss Eliza?”
“Well, my sweet child?”
“Would you lend me your pearls for this one night?”
“My pearls, darling? _My_ pearls? Oh, Georgie! you cannot understand the
associations connected with these ornaments—the painful, the thrilling
associations!”
“Don’t! Pray, don’t! When you clasp your hands, and roll up your eyes in
that fashion, it gives me a chill—it does, indeed!” cried Georgiana
Halstead, really distressed; for when Miss Eliza went into a fit of
sentiment, it was apt to go through many variations of sighs, smiles,
and tears, till it ended in hysterics.
“A chill, Georgiana? What is a single chill, compared to the agonies of
memory that haunt this bosom?” cried Miss Eliza, pressing one large and
rather bony hand on that portion of her tall person, for which her
dress-maker deserved the greatest credit. “Oh, child, if you had but
once listened to my history!”
“Couldn’t think of it! The first ten words would break my heart into ten
thousand splinters. Besides, I never could endure mysteries,” cried the
young lady, letting down a superb mop of yellow hair, which shimmered
like sunbeams over her shoulders, and posing herself before the mirror,
as it revealed her lovely person from head to foot.
“My life,” moaned Aunt Eliza, “has both a mystery and a history, which
will be found written on my soul, when this poor body, once so tenderly
beloved, is laid in the dust.”
“Under the daisies would be prettier, I think,” replied Georgiana,
braiding her hair with breathless haste, in two gorgeous bands, while
Miss Eliza was talking. “A great deal prettier. There, now, tell me if
you like this.”
The fair girl had woven the heavy braids of hair around her queenly
head, forming a coronet of living gold above a forehead white as snow,
on which the delicate veins might be traced like blue shadows. “This is
the way I intend to wear it, with the garland of pearls in front. Won’t
it be lovely?”
“No!” said Miss Eliza, shaking her head. “There was a time——”
“Yes, yes! I understand! The skirt will be white satin, the tunic blue
velvet, with a border of ermine so deep.”
Miss Eliza came out of her own history long enough to notice that the
ermine border would be at least six inches deep; then she retired into
herself again, and sighed heavily; and, dropping her head on one hand,
fell into a mournful reverie.
“Shall I wear a chain, or a collar of gold?” said Georgiana.
“Yes, it was one chain of flowers,” murmured Miss Eliza, exploring her
life backward. “Such flowers as only grow on the banks of Eden.”
“I am afraid Rowena could have sported nothing but wild flowers—a
garland of hawthorn-blossoms, or a bouquet of primroses,” said
Georgiana, crossing some scarlet ribbons sandal-wise over her ankles,
and regarding the effect with great satisfaction.
“Rowena! Rowena! I mentioned no such name. Indeed, I never do mention
names,” cried Miss Eliza, arousing herself, and setting upright. “Heaven
forbid that I should ever be left to mention names.”
The old maid, for such I am pained to say, Miss Eliza Halstead was,
arose solemnly, as she said this, and waving her niece off with a sweep
of both hands worthy of a wind-mill in full motion, began to pace up and
down the room with long and measured steps, that gave a tragic air to
the scene.
“How about the pearls?” questioned Georgie, tying the scarlet ribbon in
a dainty little bow. “We haven’t much time. It is getting dark, now, and
one doesn’t step out of a Waverly novel, in full rig, without lots of
preparation. Mine is the fourth tableau.”
“Tableau? Ah, yes! I remember you were going to stand up as——”
“As Rowena, in Ivanhoe.”
“Rowena! My dear child, you are not tall enough by five inches, and lack
the proper dignity. Mrs. Savage must have done this—she always was my
enemy from her girlhood; that is—that is, from the first time I dawned
upon her life. Let me ask you a question, Georgiana.”
“Be quick, then, please; for I want the pearls.”
“Was Mrs. Savage aware that I was an inmate of this house when she
selected you to represent the most queenly character in Sir Walter
Scott’s novel. I particularly wish to know.”
“I—I should think it very likely,” answered Georgiana, driving a laugh
from her lips which broke from her eyes in a gush of mischief. “It is
now six months since you came here.”
“She knew it, and yet invited another. This is life—this is ingratitude!
Has she no remembrance of the time when we two—— But why should I dwell
on that painful epoch of my life? Georgiana, you shall have the pearls.
Let me complete this soul’s martyrdom. Where is my trunk?”
“In the store-room, I think.”
“There again! Relics of the past huddled together in a common
store-room—and such relics!”
“Nothing ever was more beautiful!” said the young lady, proceeding with
her toilet; “only do bring them along!”
Miss Eliza stalked out of the room with a key grasped in her hands,
measuring off her steps like Juno in a fit of heathenish indignation.
She returned directly, bearing in her hand a faded red-morocco case, the
size of a soup-plate, and considerably battered at the edges. Seating
herself in an arm-chair, she opened the case, and began to shake her
head lugubriously over the snow-white pearls that gleamed upon her from
their neat purple satin. Georgiana looked eagerly over her shoulder.
“Oh, Miss Eliza, I didn’t begin to know how beautiful they were: so
large, so full of milky light! No wonder you prize them!”
“Alas! it is not their beauty,” sighed Miss Eliza. “Here, take them,
child; they were intended for a more queenly brow, but I yield to
destiny.”
Miss Eliza rendered up the case as if it had contained flowers for a
coffin, shrouded her features in a corner of the lace anti-macassar
which covered the maroon cushions of her easy-chair, and allowed a
touching little sob to break from her lips.
“Oh! the associations that are connected with those ornaments!” she
moaned.
“Now I will render them doubly dear,” laughed the young girl, laying the
white spray on the golden braids of her hair, and moving her head about
like a bird pluming itself.
“Destiny! destiny!” murmured Aunt Eliza.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” responded Georgia; and, running into a
neighboring dressing-closet, she came forth a lady of the olden times,
that might have danced with the lion-hearted Richard.
Aunt Eliza gave one glance at the radiant young creature, rose from her
chair, and left the room, wringing her hands like a tragedy queen.
Georgiana took no heed, but framed her pretty image in the glass, where
she looked like a picture to which Titian had given the draperies, and
Rubens the flesh-tints. As she stood admiring herself, as any pretty
woman might, the door opened, and a stately old woman entered, rustling
across the floor in a heavy black silk, and with quantities of white
tulle softening her face and bosom.
“Oh, Madam Halstead! I am so glad you’ve come! Tell me if this is not
perfect?”
“I never think you otherwise than perfect, child—who could?” replied the
sweet, low voice of the old lady. “The very sight of you makes me young
again.”
“How handsome you must have been,” cried Georgie, throwing one arm
around the old lady, and patting the soft cheek, which had a touch of
bloom on it, with her dimpled hand. “How handsome you are now!”
The old lady shook her head, and a faint blush stole over her face, and
lost itself under the shadows of her silver-white hair.
“Yes, dear, some few who loved me used to think so,” said the old lady.
“Here comes Miss Eliza,” cried Georgiana, seizing upon a large cloak of
black velvet, in which she enveloped her dress, and twisting a
fleece-like nubia over her head, cried, “Good-night! Good-night! Just
one kiss! Good-night!”
Away the bright young creature went, sweeping out of the room, and down
the stair case, like a tropical bird with all its plumage in motion.
“Good-night!” she repeated to Miss Eliza, who loomed upon her from the
extremity of the upper hall.
“Don’t be too late; I’ll send the carriage back!”
With a toss of her lofty head, and a wave of her hand, Miss Eliza seemed
to sweep the young creature out of her presence; then she entered the
room where old Mrs. Halstead was sitting in the easy-chair which her
daughter had so lately abandoned, and paused inside the door, gazing
upon that calm face with a look of mournful reproach.
“Thus, ever thus, do I find the place I have left filled,” she said;
“but my own mother, this is too much!”
“Is it that you want the seat, Eliza,” said the old lady, gently lifting
herself from the chair; “take it, I have rested long enough.”
“Oh! my beloved parent, that you should make this sacrifice for me!”
sighed Miss Eliza, dropping into the chair. “I know that your noble
heart would be pained if I did not accept it. I do—I do!”
That fine old lady had lived with her daughter too long for any surprise
at this wonderful outgush of gratitude; she only moved to a couch on the
other side of the room, and sat down, with a low sigh.
Miss Eliza began to mutter and moan in her chair.
“Are you ill? Is any thing the matter?” inquired the old lady.
“Did you see that child go out? Did you comprehend the conspiracy which
that wicked woman has organized to keep me out of these tableaux? Did
you observe the impertinence of that flippant girl? Oh! mother, these
terrible shocks will break your child’s heart!”
“Eliza! Eliza! this is all fancy,” answered the old lady.
“Fancy! fancy! What is fancy, pray?”
“That you have enemies; that persons wish to annoy you. Why should
they?”
Miss Eliza sprang up from her chair, and turned upon her mother.
“No enemies! no enemies! What keeps me here, then? Why is that silly
child set up in the tableau nature and cultivation intended me to fill?
Madam! madam! are you also joining in the conspiracy against me?” Miss
Eliza shook her long, white forefinger almost in the grand old face of
her mother, as she spoke. “Is it by your connivance that all gentlemen
are excluded from my presence?”
“No one has ever been excluded, Eliza.”
“Indeed!”
The word was prolonged into a sneer, which brought a faint color into
Mrs. Halstead’s face.
“To think,” added Miss Eliza, wrathful in the face, “to think of the
pincushions, penwipers, and lamp-mats, to say nothing of wax-dolls and
little babies, that I have made and dressed for this very fair—it’s
enough to break one’s heart. Not a stall left for me to attend; every
corner in the tableaux filled up with silly, pert creatures that I
wouldn’t walk over. This is justice—this is patriotism. I might be
direct from Richmond, for any attention they give me.”
“I am sure, Eliza, the committee were very thankful for your help,” said
old Mrs. Halstead, soothingly.
“Thankful, indeed! Oh, yes! it is easy enough to simper, and shake
hands, and speak of obligations. But why didn’t they treat all us young
girls alike? Why am I left out of every thing?”
Before Mrs. Halstead could answer, a servant entered the room and
informed Miss Eliza that the carriage had returned.
“But I will assert my rights,” cried the lady, gathering a rose-colored
opera-cloak about her, and pluming herself before the mirror. “You can
go, Thomas; I will be down in one moment.”
A little deficiency of the toilet had struck Miss Eliza; and searching
in some pocket hid away in her voluminous skirts, she drew forth a
little pasteboard box, turned her back squarely on the old lady, and
occupied herself, after a mysterious fashion, for some moments close to
the mirror.
“Do not defend these women, mamma,” she said, with angry emphasis. “I
blush for them.”
There certainly did seem to be some truth in this assertion, for Miss
Eliza’s cheeks had flushed suddenly to a vivid red; but then her
forehead and around her mouth had grown white in proportion, showing
great intensity of shame.
“Now I am going, mamma; but first give me your blessing.” Miss Eliza
dropped one knee to her mother’s foot-stool, bent her tall form before
the grand old lady, and seemed waiting for a solemn benediction; but the
sensible old lady put back the mass of false curls that fell swooping
over her daughter’s waterfall, and fastened them in place with a
hair-pin from her own silver-white hair.
“That will do, my dear. I see nothing else out of the way.”
Miss Eliza arose with a slight creak of the joints, and a look of
mournful reproach.
“Thus it is,” she said, “that one’s most sensitive feelings are thrown
back upon the heart. My own mother refuses me her blessing; but I can
define the reason—the hidden, mysterious reason.”
This intensified female gathered the opera-cloak around her as if it had
been a Roman toga, and sailed out of the room with the sweep of a
wind-mill. Mrs. Halstead shook her handsome old head, and sighed faintly
when Eliza disappeared.
“Will she never comprehend our position?” she murmured. “Never remember
that the bloom of girlhood does not run through mid-age? How good they
are to overlook all this.”