WHEN Frank and I entered the parlor of the hotel, after sending up our
cards to Lulie and the other ladies from Wilmington, we found the
room full of company. Strange faces among the ladies, and familiar
faces among the students, were grouped on every side. All were bowing,
smiling and talking in the most eager and interested manner, as they
filled their dancing cards with engagements for the ball, or brought
forward friends to be introduced. We had only to wait a few moments,
when we heard light footfalls and the rustle of dresses on the
stairway, and the next instant Lulie and her two friends came into the
room and greeted us cordially.
What a fairy vision of loveliness was Lulie! Her exquisite figure, as
_petite_ as Titania’s, perfect in the bloom of womanhood, a vine-work
of brown ringlets clustering around her shoulders, a sparkle in
her bright eyes, and a roseate hue on her dimpled cheeks! The same
beautiful being I had once adored, though more perfect now in her
bewitching loveliness; the same cherry lips I had kissed before the
nursery fire; the same roguish glance that had so often brought my
heart into my mouth, as our eyes met across Miss Hester’s school room,
and the same silvery laugh that I had thought was the sweetest music in
the world. A tinge of sadness came over me as I bowed over her hand and
thought of what might have been.
We passed a half hour very pleasantly, talking about old times and
scenes, and making engagements for the festive occasions before us; but
oh! what a yearning desire I felt to shield her from all possible harm,
as I marked her fond looks turned, so often and trustfully, towards
Frank’s bloated though still handsome features.
I was to escort her that night to the “Fresh” Declamation, and when
we walked up the brilliantly lighted aisle of the chapel, which was
thronged with the beauty of the State, I saw many a look of intense
admiration directed towards the little fairy on my arm. Next morning a
score of my friends came to ask the favor of an introduction, so that
Lulie held quite a levee down at her hotel, though each one who called
asked me in some surprise afterwards, how she came to be so intimate
with “that fellow, Paning.”
Frank carried her that night to the “Soph.” speaking, and I could
not but feel ashamed for her, as I marked the looks of surprise and
coldness on the faces of my acquaintances, who, I felt sure, to a
certain extent, classed her by her escort. After the speaking we had
a little hop in the ball room, and I noticed she remained in the room
only a short time, dancing one or two sets with Frank’s friends, men
whom Dr. Mayland would have ordered from his parlor. I felt it was my
imperative duty to advise her of it all, but I was so sure that she
would attribute all my counsel to prejudice against Frank, and despise
me for it, that I hesitated and delayed.
Next morning, while I was lying across my bed, enjoying the perfumed
breeze that floated up from the flowery campus, Harrow, a friend and
classmate, came in and sat down by me.
“Say, Smith!” he said, shading a match with his hands to keep it from
being blown out, and speaking on each side of his cigar, “is that
little beauty who was with Paning last night a friend of yours?”
“Yes,” I yawned; “why do you ask?”
“Because if she was anything to me I would either whip Paning or carry
her away from here.”
“Why? What do you mean?” I asked, rising up on one elbow.
“Well, well,” he said, tossing the match out of the window, “it’s none
of my business, perhaps; so let it be.”
“No, but you must tell me, Harrow; what have you seen or heard? The
young lady and I at one time were great friends, and I still esteem
her very highly, though she has not liked me much since that scoundrel
Paning has taken possession of her heart. But I will do everything I
can to serve her now. What do you know about them?” I rose up and sat
by him on the edge of the bed.
“Paning does not respect her much, does he?” he asked, blowing smoke
rings in the sunlight.
“No, that’s just it. She believes him to be the purest and best under
Heaven, and trusts him blindly, while he, a villain, is trifling with
her, and keeps her love only because he is proud of it. If he respected
her he would not obtrude his polluted presence on her. But tell me,
Harrow, what you know about her,” I continued; “if you wish, I will
keep secret all you confide.”
“The deuce, no,” he said quickly; “I do not care for Paning. I would
tell him about it myself, only I have no right to interfere.”
“Speak on, Harrow; what is it?”
“Well, for one thing, the very fact that she receives attention from
such fellows as Paning and Donnery has lowered her in the estimation of
your acquaintances; and then, even during the short time she has been
here, those low fellows have originated enough scandal about her to
damn a dozen women at the social bar.”
“No! Harrow, you cannot mean that; I have not heard one word against
her.”
“Of course not,” he said, smoking vigorously; “nobody speaks of it
before you.”
“She’s as pure as an angel,” I said, indignantly.
“I believe she is,” he replied, lolling back on the pillow; “but if she
allows Paning to carry her into the company he does, she will not be
thought so by others. Last night I had no lady with me, and, getting
tired of dancing, I went up into the library, which you know was lit
up for promenading couples. When it was pretty late, and everybody had
gone down, I took down a book, and, reclining on a sofa in one of the
alcoves, began to read. I had not read far before Donnery and another
low fellow came into the library, each with a lady, or I had better
say woman on his arm. They made some show of looking at the books and
paintings, and while thus engaged Paning and Miss Mayland came in. She
was leaning on his arm with an air of devotion and confidence I have
never seen equalled, and they were speaking in soft, loving tones.
Donnery met them, and, in his coarse way, introduced his companions.
After some noisy conversation, full of slang and rude jest, they agreed
that the hop was a bore, and Donnery said he would go down to Muggs’
and get some wine if they would wait and drink it in the library. They
all assented except Miss Mayland, and I distinctly heard her ask Paning
to see her home; but he vowed she must not leave yet, and she remained,
though I knew from her silence that she felt out of place and ill at
ease. When Donnery returned they took the librarian’s table and made
a gay party around it. Though I could not see them, I knew that Miss
Mayland was blushing at the songs and toasts that passed around; and I
inferred, by Paning’s calling out in a loud tone, ‘No, not yet, Lulie,’
that she was again begging him to leave.”
“Harrow, did all this really occur as you have described it?” I asked,
in indignant astonishment.
“It did, upon my honor,” he replied. “Several ladies and gentlemen, on
coming to the library door and seeing who were in there, turned back
down stairs, and soon after I left myself.”
“I’ll tell her of it to-day,” I said, throwing off my slippers and
drawing on my boots. “Paning must be the veriest villain alive to take
the woman he loves, or pretends to love, into such company.”
“He certainly did so,” said Harrow; “and, as I said before, I heard
much comment this morning from those who saw Miss Mayland with such a
set.”
When he rose to go I thanked him for coming to me with the information,
and begged that he would explain and apologize for her presence in the
library with Donnery and company to those whose opinion I valued, and
whom he might hear allude to it.
During the day I was engaged so that I could not procure an interview
with Lulie, and, much to my regret and annoyance, I saw her walk in the
Chapel in the afternoon on Donnery’s arm, while his coarse face was lit
up with an expression of triumph as he took his seat “among the high up
ones,” as he said in a loud whisper to one of his friends leaning in
the window.
That night the ball was to come off; and, as I buttoned my kids, and
gave the last adjusting pull to the waist of my “spike,” I resolved
that, as soon as I had paid the required courtesies to the lady I was
going with, I would seek Lulie, and, whether it offended her or not,
give her my last warning against Frank.
It was with difficulty I found her amid the throng that swayed and
surged through the ball room. She was in rather a retired corner,
receiving very little attention from any one. She had few engagements
or none for the dance, and her usually bright face wore an expression
of weariness and mental pain as I approached. She welcomed me gladly,
and accepted my proposal to stroll in the campus with eagerness. The
avenues were lit up, as there was no moon, and strolling down one of
these, we turned aside to a rustic seat beneath a large oak. It was a
quiet and secluded place; even the music in the ball room sounded soft
and indistinct across the maze of shrubbery.
The opportunity was now mine, but I shrank from my duty. She would
not appreciate my motives, I was sure, and would repel my counsel
with scorn and indignation. Yet could I suffer Frank to betray her
into imprudences that would tinge the purity of her character? Could
I permit his villainous designs, palpable to all eyes but hers, to
go unexposed? Could I see her threatened with evil she would not
suspect till it was too late to avert it, and not warn her? No, however
thankless my task might prove, for the sake of her dead mother I would
tell her of her danger.
“Lulie!” I said, after some moments of silence and reflection on my
part.
“What is it, Sir Solemnity?” she replied, looking into my face by the
dim light of the distant lamps.
“I wish to speak to you on a very important and delicate subject,
and I want you to promise me that you will believe my motives pure
and disinterested in so doing. Do not fear that I am going to renew
the fishing scene of our childhood; I know too well that my love is
hopeless. Let memory sleep; ‘tis of the present now I wish to speak;
and I want you to take off your glove and put your hand in mine, and if
in what I am going to say you believe there is one single word prompted
by aught save the most sacred friendship, instantly withdraw it, and I
will say no more.”
She undid the lace-edged kid with a slight tremor in her fingers, and,
dropping it heedlessly on the ground, laid her little hand confidingly
in mine.
“There is my hand, John,” she said, “but you really frighten me with
your solemn preface.”
“Well, then,” I replied, with an effort at a smile, unheeded, perhaps,
in the darkness, “to come directly to the point, do you love Frank?”
I felt a quiver in her fingers as she said:
“Dear John, do not be offended, but we must not talk on that subject. I
know what you would say, but ‘tis useless; I cannot believe you.”
“But, Lulie, perhaps you do not know how important it is that we should
speak on this subject. Will you answer another question, then? Do you
believe that Frank loves you?”
She drew her head back with the merest touch of pride, and said, with a
tinge of steel in her tone:
“Yes, I do believe he loves me, because he has proved it in a thousand
ways; and I do not fear to answer your first question. I do love him
with all my heart. There! that confession is unladylike, but I make it
to you alone.”
I bowed in acknowledgment and continued:
“Pardon me again, Lulie dear, for pursuing my catechism. You were in
the library last night?”
“Yes!”
“Do you know the character of those to whom Frank introduced you, and
with whom he forced you to spend an hour?”
She made no reply, but I could feel her hand growing cold as the blood
left it for her burning cheeks.
“Do you know the social and moral position of those men he has
permitted to wait on you since your stay here? Do you know how he
speaks of you to others? Dearest little friend, though you hate me for
it, I _must_ warn you. Frank does not love, does not even respect you.
He only retains your love as a trophy of his power. As God knows my
heart, I have no motive but to save you. Will you heed me, Lulie?”
She drew her hand quickly from mine, and, covering her face, remained
silent a long while; then putting it back in mine, she said, with a sad
earnestness I can never forget:
“I do not doubt the sincerity of your motives, John; but your words are
wasted. Frank has loved me too long and too fondly for me to desert him
now at your bidding. ‘Twas naughty of him, I know, to carry me into bad
company, but he did it thoughtlessly, and I forgive him for it.”
“But, Lulie”—— I interposed.
“No; let’s not speak of it any further. You cannot know how strangely
sad I feel. A great gloom has fallen on my heart, which, indeed, has
been hanging over it since I came here; and oh—I do so want to lean on
mother’s breast and cry. Dear John, I shall ever love you dearly for
your kind interest in me,” and before I could prevent it she lifted my
hand to her lips and kissed it; “but you are mistaken about Frank. _I_
know that he loves me, and God knows that I love him, and will trust
him even to death.”
We rose from our seats, but instead of returning to the ball room, she
asked me to see her to the hotel, where I bade her good night and came
back up the campus. As I passed by the seat we occupied, something
white in the darkness caught my eye, and on picking it up I found that
it was her glove, which she had dropped while we were talking. On
taking it to the light I found that some one, in passing, had trodden
upon it, and ground it into the damp earth, soiling it hopelessly.
“Heaven grant it may not be a type of her life!” I said fervently, as I
laid it in my bosom.