Summer has come with its fruits and flowers; and away from the dust and
turmoil of the city, our story takes us to a beautiful village
overlooking the bright waters of the Cayuga Lake.
It is evening. The laborers are returning from their daily toil, some
with their cradles and scythes thrown over their lusty shoulders,
others, sunk amid the fresh and fragrant new-mown hay, are driving their
teams homeward. From every branch the birds are gayly singing; cheerful
sounds greet the ear from the farm-yard, and sweet on the gentle evening
air floats the fragrance of the countless blossoms which adorn the neat
garden-plots, and climb around the windows of the villagers.
Seated in the piazza of the comfortable inn is a traveler, who but a
half hour since alighted from the stage, and made known his intention of
spending some weeks in the village; consequently, the best room in the
house is at his service, as also the best bows of Boniface and his
attendants.
One glance will suffice us to recognize in the stranger our young
artist, yet at the second we shall wonder what can have wrought so great
a change in the outward man; why that happy, joyous air is exchanged for
one so grave and even gloomy; why that fresh and blooming countenance is
now so wan and haggard!
O, this love—this love!
Either absorbed in the beauty of the scene around him, or in his own
moody thoughts, most probably the latter, the moments passed unheeded
away, nor until aroused by his host with the announcement of supper, did
he once move from his half-recumbent position. After slightly partaking
of this repast, to the evident discomfiture of the good landlady, who
attributed the dainty appetite of her guest, to nothing less than a
dislike for her excellent fare, Auburn strolled forth from the inn, and
proceeded slowly along the now almost deserted street.
The moon had by this time risen, casting her mild radiance over the
peaceful village, and silvering the bosom of the placid lake below,
while many a gambol did the shadows play upon the dewy green-sward, and
upon the house-tops, as the leaves of the large elms flittered and
danced in the soft evening breeze.
Suddenly a strain of delicious music broke the stillness. It aroused
Auburn from his revery; he paused, and found himself near a small
cottage, standing at some little distance from the street, the peculiar
beauty of which at once attracted him. An avenue of horse-chestnuts and
other ornamental trees led up to the entrance, while for some distance
the road and enclosures were lined with the tall, silvery poplar.
Clusters of beautiful flowers nodded their fragrant heads in the
moonlight, while the soothing murmur of a brook winding through a grove
of willows, shadowing one end of the cottage, fell pleasantly upon the
ear.
Still the music floated around him—now pensive, now gay. Well known
airs brought back the memory of other scenes; one voice, too, was
strangely familiar—he could almost fancy he was listening, as of old,
to the sweet notes of his cousin, Kate Kennedy.
The music ceased, yet still Auburn lingered. Two ladies, accompanied by
a gentleman, now appear in the piazza which encircles the cottage. Arm
in arm they saunter down the walk, talking and laughing gayly. When near
the gate, they pause for a moment; an affectionate good-night is
interchanged—one lady returns slowly to the house, while the other two
persons continuing their walk are in a moment close to Auburn.
“Harry!”
“Kate!” were simultaneous exclamations, and the next instant the cousins
affectionately embraced.
“My husband, Harry,” said Kate, disengaging herself; and to add to the
surprise of our hero, his friend Evans claimed that happy privilege—and
a warm, cordial greeting was exchanged.
“How singular we should have thus met! I must have had some prescience
there was pleasure in store for me!” exclaimed Auburn. “This half hour,
dear Kate, have I been listening to the songs you used to sing me, with
a strange conviction that it was your voice I heard.”
“But you surely must have known of my intended marriage, Harry?” said
Kate. “And that reminds me that you never even answered my letter
inviting you to the ceremony; and here is George, too, who also wrote,
requesting you to act upon the interesting occasion conjointly with my
dear friend—but I forget—you do not like to hear about _her_—the more
_your_ loss. Say, why did you not answer?”
“Simply because I never received your letter. The fact is, I have been a
rover since I left the city—to no place ‘constant ever.’ How long have
you been here?” continued Auburn—“I trust I have not arrived just as
you are about leaving?”
“Oh, no, we have been here but a few days, on a visit to George’s
parents. That same annoying friend of mine also dwells here, and
possibly we may remain to attend her wedding—but what brought _you_
here?”
“Partly pleasure—partly the hope of profit. You both know my ardent
desire to visit Italy, and the small means I possess to carry my wishes
into effect. Apart from my own desire to improve the superior facilities
which the old world affords, you are aware that in this country it is
rarely an artist arrives to eminence, or even a reputation above the
medium, unless he has first sunned himself beneath the vine-clad hills
of Italy—a _foreign_ stamp is needed ere he can pass current with the
multitude. To Italy, then, must I go, ere I can realize my ambitious
hopes. By leading a sort of strolling life, for a season, roaming from
village to village, in the exercise of my profession, I hope to raise a
sufficient sum for the undertaking.”
“I have no doubt of your success,” said Evans. “Indeed in this place
there are several wealthy families who would doubtless be glad of an
opportunity to transmit themselves to posterity through your fadeless
tints.”
“I should not wonder, George,” said Kate, “if Emma—”
“_Emma!_” exclaimed Auburn.
“Yes, Emma—why, what is the matter with you—one would think I had
uttered some charm. I was going to say perhaps Emma might sit for her
portrait—her lover would like it, I dare say.”
At the word _lover_, the heart of Auburn, just now in his mouth, sunk
like lead—and yet he knew not why.
“Do you think,” added Kate, “you could portray
‘That loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon Autumn’s soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek—from the cheek to the eyes;’
but excuse me again—I always forget myself when speaking of Emma
Willis.”
“_Emma Willis!_” cried Auburn. “Kate, who are you talking of—good
heavens, you don’t say that—”
“Say what!” interrupted Kate. “What ails the man? All I said was, that,
as I have told you a thousand times, Emma Willis is a charming girl; and
I hope to attend her wedding ere I leave the village—but here we are at
home—good-night, we shall see you to-morrow”—and breaking from Auburn,
who vainly endeavored to detain her, the mischievous girl ran into the
house, followed by Evans, who also seemed in an unaccountable hurry to
get away from his friend—and such a laugh as came wafted to poor
Harry’s ears and was too much for any Christian to bear.