Men will woo the tempest,
And wed it, to their cost.--_Passion Flowers_.
Then fly betimes, for only they
Conquer love that run away.--_Carew_.
Morton had been for some time of opinion that he had better leave New
Baden; yet still the philosophic youth staid on,--a week longer,--a
fortnight longer,--and still he lingered. It would be too much to say
that he was in love with his handsome, dare-devil cousin; but his mind
was greatly troubled in regard to her--shaken and tossed with a
variety of conflicting emotions. The multiplied and constantly
changing phases of her character, its strong but utterly ungoverned
resources, its frankness, enthusiasm, detestation of all deceit or
pretension, and, in spite of her wildness, a deep vein of womanly
tenderness which now and then betrayed itself, all conspired to keep
his interest somewhat painfully excited.
One evening he left the crowded piazza of the hotel, and, intending to
flirt with solitude and a cigar, walked towards a rustic arbor,
overgrown with a wild grape vine, and standing among a cluster of
young elms at the foot of the garden. As he drew near, he saw the
gleam of ladies' dresses, and found the seats already occupied by Miss
Fanny Euston and two companions. Morton knew them well, and joined the
party. As neither the affected graces of the one companion nor the
voluble emptiness of the other had much interest in his eyes, he
directed his conversation chiefly to Fanny. In a few minutes the two
girls exchanged glances, rose, and alleging some pretended engagement,
returned to the hotel, bent on making this casual interview assume the
air of a flirtation.
Morton and his companion sat for a moment in silence.
"We are cousins--are we not?" said the former, at length.
"At least they would call us so in the Highlands."
"Then give me a cousin's privilege, and allow me to be personal. Are
you not out of spirits to-night?"
"Why do you think me so?"
"From your look and manner."
"Are you not tired to death of New Baden?"
"Not yet."
"I am. What is it all worth?--weary, and vapid, and flat, and stale,
and unprofitable! I have had enough of it."
"Then why not change it?"
"To find the same thing in a new shape!"
"Pardon me if I call that a freak of the moment. You are the gayest of
the gay."
"No, I am not."
"You are a belle here; a centre light. The moths flutter about you,
though you do, now and then, singe their wings. You frighten them, and
they repay you with fine speeches."
"I am weary of them. For Heaven's sake, abuse me a little. I know you
have it often in your heart."
"Abuse is sometimes nothing but flattery in disguise."
"Why do you smile? That smile was at my expense."
"Why should you imagine so?"
"I insist on your telling me its meaning."
"I was only thinking that when tribute in an old shape has become
wearisome, one may like to have it paid in a new one."
"That certainly is not flattery. Do you know I am beginning to be
afraid of you?"
"I could not have thought you afraid of any one."
"Yes, I am afraid of you."
"Why?"
"Because you are always observing me. Because you penetrate my
thoughts and understand me thoroughly."
"I am less deep than you suppose."
"At least you know all my faults. You are always, in a quiet way,
making gibes and sarcasms at my expense, and touching upon my weakest
points."
"Does it make you angry?"
"No; I rather like it; but I wish to repay you. I wish to find your
weaknesses, but cannot. Have you any?"
"Yes, an abundance."
"And will you tell me what they are?"
"What, that you may use them against me! The moment you know them, you
will attack me without mercy; and if you see me wince, it is all over
with me."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you cease to like one as soon as you find that you can
gain the least advantage over him. If I could really make you a little
afraid of me, you would like me all the better for it. No, I will show
you none of my weaknesses; and perhaps, if I did, you would not find
them of a kind that you could use against me. I can strike at you, but
you cannot hurt me. I am armed in proof. I defy you."
In saying this, at least, Morton showed some knowledge of his
companion's character. To defy her successfully was a great step
towards gaining her good graces; for with all her wildness she was
very sensitive to the good or ill opinion of those who could compel
her to respect them. She became very anxious to know what Morton
thought of her.
"You say that you do not understand me thoroughly. What is there in me
that you do not understand?"
"You may say that I do not understand you at all."
"That is mere evasion."
"Who can understand the language of Babel?"
"Do you mean that I speak the language of Babel?"
"Who can understand chaos?"
"And am I chaos? You are beginning your peculiar style of compliment
again."
"Do not be displeased at it. All the power and beauty of the universe
rose out of chaos."
"Now you are flattering in earnest."
"You are difficult to satisfy. What may I call you? A wild Arab racer
without a rider?"
"That will answer better."
"Or a rocket without a stick?"
"I have seen rockets; but I do not know what the stick is. What is it?
What is it for?"
"To give balance and aim to the rocket--make it, as the
transcendentalists say, mount skyward, and end in stars and 'golden
rain.'"
"Very fine! And how if it has no stick?"
"Then it sparkles, and blazes, and hisses on the ground; flies up and
down, this way and that, plays the deuse with every thing and every
body, and at last blows itself up to no purpose."
"Ah, I see that the stick is very necessary. I will try to get one."
"You speak in a bantering tone," said Morton, "but you are in
earnest."
"I am in earnest!" exclaimed Fanny Euston, with a sudden change of
voice and manner. "Every word that you have spoken is true. I am
driven hither and thither by feelings and impulses,--some bad, some
good,--chasing every new fancy like so many butterflies or
will-o'-the-wisps,--without thinking of
results--restless--dissatisfied--finding no life but in the excitement
of the moment. Sometimes I have hints of better things. Glimpses of
light break in upon me; but they come, and they go again. I have no
rule of life, no guiding star."
Morton looked at his companion not without a certain sense of victory.
He saw that he had gained, for the moment at least, an influence over
her, and roused her to the expression of feelings to which, perhaps,
she had never given utterance before. Yet his own mind was any thing
but tranquil. Something more than admiration was stirring within him.
He felt impelled to explore farther the proud spirit which had already
yielded up to him some of its secrets. But he felt that, with her eyes
upon him, he could not speak without committing himself farther than
he was prepared to do. In this dilemma he determined to retreat--a
resolution for which he was entitled to no little credit, if its merit
is to be measured by the effort it cost him. He rose from his seat.
"Find your star, Fanny, and you may challenge the world. But I see
people coming down the garden towards us. We shall be invaded if we
stay here. Let us walk back towards the house."
When he found himself alone again, he paced his room in no very
enviable frame of mind.
"What devil impelled me to speak as I did? It was no part of mine to
be telling her of her faults. Am I turning philanthropist and
busybody? If I wished to gain her heart, I suspect I have been taking
the right course. What with any other lady would have been intolerable
presumption and arrogance, is the most effectual way to win her
esteem. And why should I not wish to gain her heart? There is good
there in abundance, if one could but depend on it. No; I am not
blinded yet. This last outburst was a momentary impulse, like all the
rest; and to-morrow she will be reckless as ever. She delights in
lawlessness, and rejoices in the zest of breaking established bounds.
Her wayward will is like a cataract, and may carry her, God knows
whither. No; I will not walk in this path; I will not try to marry
her. Her heart is untouched--that is clear as the day. I wish she
could say as much of mine. I will leave this place to-morrow, cost
what it will."
A letter from Boston gave him a pretext; and bidding farewell to his
cousin and her mother, he took the early train homewards. The newsboy
brought him a paper, and his eyes rested on the columns; but his
thoughts centred on Fanny Euston and his last evening's conversation
with her at the foot of the garden.