CUPID SHOULD BE MORE CAREFUL.
"This is a matter worthy of investigation," mused Dorlan Warthell, some few
moments after his chance meeting with Morlene. His head was inclined
forward slightly, an unwonted sparkle was in his eye, and half a smile
played upon his serious face. His mind was seeking to grasp the outlines of
that beautiful face which he had just passed.
"Never," said he, "has Dorlan Warthell, the serious, allowed physical
beauty to so charm him. But is it mere physical beauty that has so suddenly
thrown itself across the pathway of my mind so that it will not move on?
Has nothing met me more than that lovely form, the head of a queen, angel
face, eyes that thrill? I may be mistaken, but methinks that nature has
given that choice dressing to a choice spirit. At any rate I hope to meet
her again."
Dorlan Warthell arrived at his boarding place within a few minutes and,
when seated at the supper table, spoke as follows to Mrs. Morgan, his
landlady: "I notice that our street has some new denizens since the time of
my sojourn here a few years ago."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Morgan, "There are Mr. Crutchfield, Mr. Yearby and Mr.
Dalton. These gentlemen have all come to this street since you were with us
last."
"Who lives in that beautiful cottage painted white, with that wonderful
assortment of prettily arranged flowers in the front yard?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Dalton live there," replied Mrs. Morgan, looking intently at
Dorlan, seeking to fathom the secret purpose which she felt inspired his
question; for she knew that Dorlan paid but little attention to the matter
of houses and neighbors.
"Have Mr. and Mrs. Dalton any children--a daughter?" asked Dorlan, giving
strict attention to the food on his plate.
"No; they are childless," said Mrs. Morgan, her interest growing.
"I saw a young woman up there as I passed this evening; I suppose she is
visiting them."
"I see the point--a young woman," said Mrs. Morgan inwardly.
Aloud she said, "Perhaps so. If you could describe her I might be able to
tell who she is."
Dorlan looked up quickly as much as to say, "Who in the world can describe
that beautiful woman." He kept that reflection to himself. He began to
describe the lady, when Mrs. Morgan interrupted him to say.
"Oh, that was Mrs. Dalton--Mrs. Harry Dalton--undoubtedly the most
beautiful Negro girl in the country."
Dorlan finished his meal in silence. He inwardly belabored himself for
having allowed his mind to be so taken up with the image of a married
woman. Repairing to his room, he was soon deeply engrossed in a book, as
thoroughly oblivious of Morlene, he thought, as if he had never seen or
heard of such a person.
On the following day at ten o'clock Morlene called at the residence of Mrs.
Morgan, it being her usual time for giving music lessons to that lady's
young daughter. The girl had gone away on an errand for her mother and had
not yet returned. Morlene entered the music room and decided to amuse
herself by playing until the child should come. Dorlan was in a room
directly over the one in which Morlene was to play. Neither of them knew of
the presence of the other in the house.
Morlene first began to play a light air upon the piano. But as she struck
the keys and brought forth harmonies, other and deeper emotions in her
bosom craved for expression. Soon she was making the piano tell her heart's
full story, to be borne away, as she thought, upon the wings of the
passing breeze. The sounds floated up to Dorlan's open window and into his
room. At first he slightly knitted his brow, fearing that he was to be
bored by some mechanical performer; but the frown relaxed and gave place to
a look of supreme contentment as the harmonies deepened. He closed the book
that he was reading, folded his arms and gazed out of his window into the
distance. He was simply enraptured and had a keen desire to know who it was
that could make lifeless matter pay such eloquent tribute to the longings
of the human soul.
At length Morlene began to play and sing:
"John Brown's body lies moulding in the clay;
John Brown's body lies moulding in the clay;
John Brown's body lies moulding in the clay,
As we go marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
As we go marching on!"
Morlene's voice was a rich soprano and her tones were so round, full and
melodious that they made one feel that they did not belong to earth. Her
voice seemed to shake loose from each word tremblingly in that part of the
song setting forth the sad fate of John Brown. But as she reached the
words, "Hallelujah," the notes swelled into a grand paen of triumph, her
voice trilling so wondrously, even upon such a high elevation. Then came
the refrain in low, reverential tones, beauty muffling itself in the
presence of higher sentiments.
Dorlan Warthell sprang to his feet, clasped his hands over his ears, saying
half aloud: "Spare me! Oh, spare me! I cannot, I cannot hear those strains
and perform the tasks before me. And yet I must! I must! I must!"
Charles Sumner, who, upon the floor of the United States Senate, in tones
that resounded throughout the world, urged our Republic to clear her skirts
of the blood of the slave; Horace Greeley, who, daily in the columns of his
great newspaper, refused sleep to the American conscience until slavery was
extirpated; Henry Ward Beecher, whose eloquence across the seas quieted the
growlings of the British Lion all but ready to aid the South; these three
men, ere they fell asleep, saw fit to abandon the political party under
whose banner they had hitherto fought.
And now Dorlan Warthell felt called upon to do likewise. On the eve of the
severing of his tender relations, some angel voice has come to serenade his
soul and conjure up the hallowed past. Ah! 'tis painful when the path of
duty must be paved with one's heart strings. It is also sometimes strewn
with one's blood.