From the _pave_ we will now step into a spacious drawing-room.
A lively Italian air, exquisitely sung by a fair young girl, falls with
delightful cadence upon the ear, while touched by the fingers of one
scarcely less fair, the piano adds its pleasing accompaniment, filling
the lofty apartment with thrilling melody. Seated in a comfortable
lolling chair, is a gentleman of middle age—the only listener, by the
by, to the charming music of his niece and daughter, yet more than
compensating by his true love of the “art divine,” and the heartiness of
his approval, for the superficial plaudits of a fashionable assembly.
This is evidently the dwelling of a man of fortune and of taste.
Elegance without ostentation mark its adornments. A choice collection of
paintings from the old masters decorate the walls, and scattered around
are various specimens of rare artistic skill and beauty.
The song ended, a lively conversation ensued.
“So I find, Margaret, you have been gadding as usual this morning,” said
Mr. Belden, “and filling your cousin’s little head with more folly and
nonsense than her good mother can eradicate in a twelve-month.”
“O, no, papa, I have done nothing of the kind, I assure you; and yet I
should not like to be answerable for all the mischief done that little
head and heart, too, to-day,” answered Margaret, looking archly at her
cousin. “See how she blushes. Now confess, Emma, the image of a certain
person, who so awkwardly beset us this morning, still haunts your
fancy.”
“Well, Margaret, I do confess,” replied Emma, while a crimson glow
mantled her cheeks, “that I think he possessed one of the finest faces I
ever saw. He was not more awkward, certainly, than we were; and I much
doubt whether, in fact, we were not the most so of the three.”
“Speak for yourself, if you please,” was the reply; “for my part, I
never enjoyed any thing more. Such sideling and bowing; such blushing,
and such bobbing about; why a dancing-master might make a fortune out of
this new _pas de trois_. And as for you, Emma, you really looked like a
little simpleton.”
“What is all this, girls—what new adventure have you met with?”
inquired Mr. Belden.
“Only one of those awkward rencounters, papa, which happen every day,
except, perhaps, that one seldom sees a handsomer young man than the
poor fellow who came so near running us down. Tall and erect, eyes like
stars, brows black as night, and, but for his awkwardness, a very—but,
mercy, Emma, look, look—there he is—yes, it certainly is,” she
suddenly exclaimed; “do come here, quick. See, he is evidently looking
for some number. Now he is at 87; there, he stops at 91—no that is not
it; see how he gazes this way. As I live, the fellow is crossing over!
Why the audacious—he _bows_. Emma, Emma, he is coming up the steps!”
and even as she spoke there was a ring at the door. The girls quickly
disappeared, and the next moment Auburn was ushered into the presence of
the astonished Mr. Belden; doubtless no less astonished himself at his
position and daring errand.
Daring, indeed—but what will not love dare!
After so suddenly losing sight of his _inamorata_, without the shadow of
a hope that he might ever again behold her, Auburn turned, and gloomily
accompanied his friend Evans to his lodgings, wishing, nevertheless,
that he had been many fathoms deep, ere he had thus inopportunely
encountered him. His unusual taciturnity drew forth the raillery of his
friend. Auburn vainly endeavored to shake off this depression; but the
very effort only caused him to talk the more wildly, then plunged him
again into the same moody silence. Evans jested the more, until finally,
already in no very amiable frame of mind, he became provoked; high words
ensued, and the two friends parted in anger.
“Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love.”
Auburn now took refuge in his studio, vainly striving to forget his
chagrin in his late all-engrossing pleasure—painting—the mistress to
whom but that morning he had sworn eternal fealty. At length throwing
down the brush in despair, he exclaimed,
“Heavens, how that face haunts me! And must I leave the city to-morrow,
and thus lose the only chance I may ever have of meeting her again. No,
I cannot do it! and yet what folly,” he added, “why should I allow such
a trifle to disturb me thus? Even should I discover who she is, what
good can result to me!” And now the poor artist paced the room
despairingly; again he soliloquized:
“Yes, I will postpone my journey. I will haunt Broadway, Trinity, the
Opera, theatres—I will neither eat nor sleep until I have found her.”
At this moment his eye rested upon the roguish face of his cousin Kate,
still upon his easel; and the conversation of the morning at once
flashed upon him.
“_Pshaw!_” he exclaimed, “it can’t be—I can’t be such a simpleton as to
have fallen in _love_! Pooh! no, no—it can’t be. _Love!_ ha! ha! ha!
ridiculous!—in _love_! No, Miss Kate, all right yet. Let me shake off
this idle mood. Love!—nonsense!” and seizing his pallet, he first,
somewhat spitefully, removed the provoking portrait from its position,
and then commenced copying a beautiful head of Titian. But in vain he
toiled. It was soon evident he had forgotten his subject; his head
drooped upon his breast; his brush motionless, and for many moments he
remained buried in deep thought. Suddenly starting up with such
vehemence as nearly to overturn the easel, he seized his hat and rushed
from the room, plunged down stairs, and into the street. Up Broadway he
once more pushed along, nor paused until C—— street was attained.
Here, for a moment, he halted, irresolute, then turning the corner,
commenced a deliberate survey of every house, and gazing most
pertinaciously at the windows in particular, careless of the attention
which his peculiar manner attracted. When, then, he really caught a
glimpse of the object of his search peeping through the rich hangings at
the window of Mr. Belden, it is no wonder his senses forsook him, and
that without a moment’s consideration, he impulsively rushed up the
steps, rang the bell, and found himself, as has already been shown, in
the presence of that gentleman.
One rapid glance around the room betrayed the fair object of his search
had disappeared. Then the awkwardness of his position dawned faintly
through the maze in which his wits were wandering. But it was too late
to retreat, so summoning courage to address Mr. Belden, he inquired,
“Can I have the pleasure of speaking with Miss—Miss—your daughter,
sir?”
A frown gathered dark on the brow of Mr. Belden, as he replied,
“Who are you, sir?—and what is your business with Miss Belden, may I
ask?”
“Here is my card,” answered Auburn. “I am aware my presence here may
appear somewhat singular, yet as I leave town early to-morrow, I must
urge a few moments conversation with that young lady.”
“Your boldness, sir, is unsurpassed. Miss Belden cannot have the honor
of seeing you.”
The reply of Auburn was interrupted by the sudden appearance of that
young lady, whom, we must frankly confess, had, with Emma, been playing
the part of eaves-dropper, and fearing her father would really drive the
rash youth away without an interview, which her love of mischief tempted
her to grant. She broke from the entreaties of her cousin, and stepped
quietly into the room.
“Ah, here is my daughter,” added Mr. Belden. “Now, sir, your
business—what have you to say?”
But poor Auburn had nothing to say. That Miss Belden was not the one he
sought, a glance sufficed to assure him; and Margaret, too, most
provokingly assumed a stately never-saw-you-before-sir air, which
rendered his embarrassment tenfold.
“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, Miss Belden,” said he at length,
“for which I can offer no excuse, except that I have been laboring under
a delusion,” and bowing, he was about to leave the apartment, when, by
chance, his eye fell upon a music-book, on which the name of “Emma
Willis” was inscribed. A drowning man will catch at a straw—so will a
desperate lover. Turning abruptly he now hazarded the inquiry,
“Is Miss Willis at home?”
“Miss Willis is at home,” coldly answered Mr. Belden.
Auburn’s heart throbbed tumultuously.
“Can I see her for a moment?” he eagerly demanded.
“_No, sir, you cannot!_” exclaimed Mr. Belden now rising, and angrily
confronting his visiter; “and by what right, sir, do you longer intrude
upon my family? Your conduct at least warrants suspicion. You first
inquire for Miss Belden—you equivocate—you acknowledge yourself
mistaken, and then demand an interview with my niece. Pray, what
authority have you for such proceedings—you are not acquainted with the
young lady, I believe?”
“No, sir, I am not,” replied Auburn, now fully restored to his senses,
“and until to-day I acknowledge I never saw either this lady (bowing to
Miss Belden,) or Miss Willis. Again I ask pardon for my intrusion. I
know appearances are much against me; but the interest awakened in my
bosom for your lovely niece, even in those few brief moments when it was
my happiness to see her, and the fact that I am forced to leave the city
to-morrow, is all I can urge in favor of my rashness; it was this alone
which inspired me with boldness to call here.”
“Boldness, indeed! If this is all you have to say in extenuation, I,
young sir, shall have the boldness to show you the door, and request a
speedy retreat therefrom,” cried Mr. Belden.
Forgetting in his anger that Mr. Belden had any grounds for such
uncourteous treatment, mortified, and disappointed, Auburn turned
indignantly upon his heel and left the house—a merry laugh from the
drawing-room ringing discordantly in his ear as he passed out.