be unable to sleep to-night till I have relieved my mind from it."
"Surely," thought Robertson to himself, "young ladies now-a-days are
remarkably forward." "Well, then, Miss Mansel," speaking aloud, "proceed
at once to the point. I am all attention."
Selina still hesitated--"Really," said she, "I know not how to express
myself."
"No doubt of it," he replied; "young ladies, I suppose, are not
accustomed to being very explicit on these occasions. However, I can
understand--'A word to the wise,' you know: but the truth is, for my own
part, I have not quite made up my mind. You are sensible that our
acquaintance is of very recent date: a wife is not a bill to be accepted
at sight You know the proverb--'Marry in haste and repent at leisure.'
However, I think you may draw on me at sixty days. And now that I have
acknowledged the receipt of your addresses"----
Selina interrupted him with vehemence--"Mr. Robertson, what are you
talking about? You are certainly not in your senses. You are mistaken, I
tell you--it is no such thing."
"Come, Miss Mansel," said Robertson, "do not fly from your offer: it is
too late for what they call coquetry--actions speak louder than words.
If I must be plain, why so much embarrassment whenever we meet? To say
nothing of the flower you gave me--and that little verse, which speaks
volumes"----
"Speaks nonsense!" cried Selina: "Is it possible you can be so absurd as
to suppose"----Then bursting into tears of vexation, she exclaimed--"Oh
that I had a cent!"
"A cent!" said Robertson, much surprised. "Is it possible you are crying
for a cent?"
"Yes, I am," answered Selina; "just now, that is all I want on earth!"
"Well, then," said Robertson, taking one out of his pocket, "you shall
cry for it no longer: here's one for you."
"This won't do--this won't do!" sobbed Selina.
"Why, I am sure it is a good cent," said Robertson, "just like any
other."
"No," cried Selina, "your giving me another cent only makes things
worse."
By this time they were in sight of Mr. Mansel's door, and Selina
perceived something on the pavement glittering in the moonlight. "Ah!"
she exclaimed, taking it up, "this must be the very cent I dropped on my
way to Mrs. Vincent's. I know it by its being quite a new one. How glad
I am to find it!"
"Well," said Robertson, "I have heard of ladies taking cents to church;
but I never knew before that they had any occasion for them at
tea-parties. And, by-the-bye (as I have often told my friend Pennychink
the vestryman), that practice of handing a money-box round the church in
service-time, is one of the meanest things I know, and I wonder how any
man that is a gentleman can bring himself to do it."
"And now, Mr. Robertson," said Selina, hastily wiping her eyes, "have
you forgotten that I borrowed a cent of you the other day at Mr.
Stretchlace's store?"
"I _had_ forgotten it," answered Robertson; "but I recollect it now."
"That cent was never returned to you," said Selina.
"It was not," replied Robertson, looking surprised.
"There it is," continued our heroine, as she gave it to him. "Now that I
see it in your hand, I have courage to explain all. My father and my
aunt have taught me to dread contracting even the smallest debt.
Therefore, I could not feel at ease till I had repaid your cent. Several
untoward circumstances have since prevented my giving it to you, though
I can assure you, that whenever we met it was seldom absent from my
mind. This was the real cause of the embarrassment or confusion you talk
of. When I gave you the flower, and afterwards that foolish motto, I was
thinking so much of the unlucky cent as to be scarcely conscious of what
I was doing. Believe me when I repeat to you that this is the whole
truth of what you have so strangely misinterpreted."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Robertson: "and was there nothing in it but
a paltry bit of copper, when I thought all the time that I had at last
met with a young lady who loved me for myself, and not for my
bank-stock, and my real estate, and my railroad shares!"
"For neither, I can assure you," said Selina, gayly; "but I shall be
very glad to hear that yourself, and your bank-stock, and your real
estate, and your railroad shares, have become the property of a lady of
better taste than myself."
They had been for some time on the steps of Mr. Mansel's door, and
before he rung the bell, Robertson said to Selina: "Well, however, you
know I did not actually come to a proposal?"
"Not exactly," replied Selina, smiling.
"Therefore, you will not tell everybody that you refused me?"
"I will not, indeed," answered Selina. "And now, then, allow me to bid
you adieu in the words of the song--'Good night--all's well!'"
She then tripped into the parlour, where she found her father just
preparing to come for her; and having made him very merry with her
account of the events of the evening, she went to bed with a light
heart.
Mr. Robertson returned sullenly to his hotel, as much chagrined as a man
of his obtuse feelings could possibly be. And he was the more vexed at
losing Selina, as he conceived that a woman who could give herself so
much uneasiness on account of a cent, would consequently make a good
wife. The more he thought of this, the better he liked her: and next
morning, when Henry Wynslade inquired of him the progress of wooing,
Robertson not having invention enough to gloss over the truth, told him
the facts as they really were, and asked his companion's opinion of the
possibility of yet obtaining Miss Mansel.
"Try again by all means," said Wynslade, who was curious to see how this
business would end. "There is no knowing what may be the effect of a
direct proposal--the ladies never like us the better for proceeding
slowly and cautiously: so now for a point-blank shot."
"It shall be conveyed in a letter, then," replied Robertson; "I have
always found it best, in matters of business, to put down everything in
black and white."
"Do it at once, then," said Wynslade: "I have some thoughts of Miss
Mansel myself, and perhaps I may cut you out."
"I doubt that," replied Robertson; "you are but commencing business, and
_my_ fortune is already made."
"I thought," observed Wynslade, "you would marry only on condition of
being loved for yourself alone."
"I have given up that hope," answered Robertson, with a sort of sigh:
"however, I was certainly a very pretty baby. I fear I must now be
content to take a wife on the usual terms."
"Be quick, then, with your proposal," said Wynslade, "for I am impatient
to make mine."
Wynslade then departed, and Robertson placed himself at his desk, and in
a short time despatched to our heroine the following epistle, taking
care to keep a copy of it:
"MISS SELINA MANSEL:--Your statement last night was duly attended
to; but further consideration may give another turn to the
business. The following terms are the best I think proper to offer:
"One Town House--1 Country House--4 Servants--2 Horses--1
Carriage--1 Chaise--1 Set of Jewels--1 New Dress per Month--4
Bonnets per Ann.--1 Tea-party on your Birthday--Ditto on mine--1
Dinner-party on each anniversary of our Wedding-day, till further
orders--2 Plays per Season--and half an Opera.
"If you are not satisfied with the T. H. and the C. H. you may take
1 trip per summer to the Springs or the Sea-shore. If the Parties
on the B.D.'s and the W. D. are not deemed sufficient, you may have
sundry others.
"On your part I only stipulate for a dish of rice always at dinner,
black tea, 6 cigars per day, to be smoked by me without remark from
you--newspapers, chess, and sundries. Your politics to be always
the same as mine. No gentlemen under fifty to be received, except
at parties. No musician to be allowed to enter the house; nor any
young doctor.
"If you conclude to close with these conditions, let me have advice
of it as soon as convenient, that I may wait upon you without loss
of time.
"Your most obt. servt.
"JOHN W. ROBERTSON.
"N.B. It may be well to mention, that with respect to furniture, I
cannot allow a piano, considering them as nuisances. Shall not
object to any reasonable number of sofas and
rocking-chairs.--Astral lamps at discretion.--Beg to call your
attention to the allowance of gowns and bonnets.--Consider it
remarkably liberal.--With respect to dress, sundries of course."
* * * * *
To this letter half an hour brought a concise answer, containing a civil
but decided refusal, which Mr. Robertson, though quite crest-fallen,
could not forbear showing to Wynslade, telling him that he now withdrew
from the market. On the following morning our hero left Somerford on a
tour to Canada.
Wynslade immediately laid siege to Selina Mansel, and being young,
handsome, intelligent, and very much in love, he found little difficulty
in obtaining her heart and hand.
After their marriage the young couple continued to live with Mr. Mansel,
who since the affair of Robertson has taken especial care that Selina
shall always be well supplied with cents, frequently procuring her from
the bank five dollars' worth at a time.
John W. Robertson finally established himself in one of the large
Atlantic cities; and in process of time his vanity recovered from the
shock that had been given it by Miss Mansel. He has lately married a
young widow, who being dependent with her five children on the bounty of
her sister's husband, in whose house she lived with all her family, had
address enough to persuade him that she loved him for himself alone.
THE LADIES' BALL.
"Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,
And echoed light the dancer's bound,
As mirth and music cheer'd the hall."--SCOTT.
The gentlemen who were considered as the _élite_ of a certain city that
shall be nameless, had been for some years in the practice of giving,
about Christmas, a splendid ball to the ladies of the same circle. But
at the period from which we date the commencement of our story,
Christmas was fast approaching, and there had, as yet, been no
intimation of the usual practical compliment.
Conjecture was busy among the ladies as to the cause of this
extraordinary defection; but it was most generally attributed to the
palpable fact that the attention of the gentlemen had been recently
directed to a very different channel. In short, the beaux were now
taking vast strides in the march of intellect, pioneered by certain
newly popular lecturers in various departments of science. The pursuit
of knowledge, both useful and useless, had become the order of the day.
Profound were the researches into those mysteries of nature that in this
world can never be elucidated: and long and elaborate were the
dissertations on points that, when established, would not be worth a
farthing.
The "beaux turned savans," had formed themselves into an association to
which they had given a polysyllabic name of Greek etymology, and beyond
the power of female tongue to pronounce, or of female hand to write; but
a very young girl designated it as the Fee-faw-fum Society. They hired a
spare room in one of the public buildings, and assembled there "in
close divan" on stated nights when there were no evening lectures:
several of the ologists holding forth to their classes of afternoons.
One seemingly indispensable instructor brought up the rear of the host
of lecturers, and this was a professor of mnemonics: that is, a
gentleman who gave lessons in memory, pledging himself to furnish the
minds of his pupils with a regular set of springs, which as soon as
touched would instantly unlock the treasures of knowledge that were laid
up in "the storehouse of the brain:" the springs being acted upon by
certain sheets of engraved and coloured hieroglyphics, some of which
were numerical figures, others represented trees and houses, and cats
and dogs, much in the style of what children call primer pictures. Some
of our readers may, perhaps, recollect this professor, who made the
circuit of the Union a few years since.
There seemed but two objections to this system, one being that the
hieroglyphics and their key were harder to remember than the things they
were to remind you of: the other, that they were frequently to be
understood by contraries, like the Hetman in Count Benyowsky, whose
characteristic phraseology is--"When I say the garret, I mean the
cellar--when I tell you to go up, I mean you to come down."
The professor of mnemonics was very unpopular with the ladies, who
asserted, that he had done the gentlemen more harm than good, by so
puzzling their already overcharged heads, that he, in many instances,
destroyed what little memory they had once possessed. This was
particularly the case with regard to Mr. Slowman, who having, at length,
proposed in form to Miss Tremor, and the lady, in her agitation, being
unable at the moment to give him an intelligible answer, he had never
remembered to press his suit any further.
One thing was certain, that since the gentlemen had been taking lessons
in memory, they seemed totally to have forgotten the annual ball.
Yet, as the time drew near, there could be no doubt of its frequently
entering their minds, from their steadily avoiding all reference to the
subject. There was evidently a tacit understanding among them, that it
was inexpedient to mention the ball. But the ice was at last broken by
Gordon Fitzsimmons, as they were all standing round the fire, and
adjusting their cloaks and surtouts, at the close of one of their
society meetings.
"Is it not time," said he, "that we should begin to prepare for the
Christmas ball?"
There was a silence--at last, one of the young gentlemen spoke, and
replied--"that he had long since come to a conclusion that dancing was a
very foolish thing, and that there was something extremely ridiculous in
seeing a room-full of men and women jumping about to the sound of a
fiddle. In short, he regarded it as an amusement derogatory to the
dignity of human nature."
He was interrupted in the midst of his philippic by Fitzsimmons, who
advised him to "consider it not so deeply." Now, Fitzsimmons was himself
an excellent dancer, very popular as a partner, conscious of looking
well in a ball-room, and therefore a warm advocate for "the poetry of
motion."
Another of the young philosophers observed, "that he saw neither good
nor harm in dancing, considered merely as an exercise: but that he was
now busily engaged in writing a treatise on the Milky Way, the precise
nature of which he had undoubtedly discovered, and therefore he had no
leisure to attend to the ball or the ladies."
A second, who was originally from Norridgewock, in the state of Maine,
protested that almost every moment of his time was now occupied in
lithographing his drawings for the Flora Norridgewockiana, a work that
would constitute an important accession to the science of botany, and
which he was shortly going to publish.
A third declared frankly, that instead of subscribing to the ball, he
should devote all his spare cash to a much more rational purpose, that
of purchasing a set of geological specimens from the Himalaya Mountains.
A fifth, with equal candour, announced a similar intention with regard
to a box of beetles lately arrived from Van Diemen's Land.
A sixth was deeply and unremittingly employed in composing a history of
the Muskogee Indians, in which work he would prove to demonstration that
they were of Russian origin, as their name denotes: Muskogee being
evidently a corruption of Muscovite; just as the Tuscaroras are
undoubtedly of Italian descent, the founders of their tribe having, of
course, come over from Tuscany.
And a seventh (who did things on a large scale) could not possibly give
his attention to a ball or anything else, till he had finished a work
which would convince the world that the whole Atlantic Ocean was once
land, and that the whole American continent was once water.
To be brief, the number of young men who were in favour of the ball was
so very limited, that it seemed impossible to get one up in a manner
approaching to the style of former years. And the gentlemen, feeling a
sort of consciousness that they were not exactly in their duty, became
more remiss than ever in visiting the ladies.
It was now the week before Christmas: the ladies, being in hourly
expectation of receiving their cards, had already begun to prepare; and
flowers, feathers, ribands, and laces were in great activity. Still no
invitations came. It was now conjectured that the ball was, for some
extraordinary reason, to be deferred till New Year's. But what this
reason was, the ladies (being all in a state of pique) had too much
pride to inquire.
The gentlemen begun to feel a little ashamed; and Gordon Fitzsimmons had
nearly prevailed on them to agree to a New Year's ball, when Apesley
Sappington (who had recently returned from England in a coat by Stultz,
and boots by Hoby) threw a damp on the whole business, by averring that,
with the exception of Miss Lucinda Mandeville, who was certainly a
splendid woman with a splendid fortune, there was not a lady in the
whole circle worth favouring with a ball ticket. At least so they
appeared to him, after seeing Lady Caroline Percy, and Lady Augusta
Howard, and Lady Georgiana Beauclerck. Mr. Sappington did not explain
that his only view of these fair blossoms of nobility had been
circumscribed to such glimpses as he could catch of them while he stood
in the street among a crowd assembled in front of Devonshire House, to
gaze on the company through the windows, which in London are always open
on gala nights. He assured his friends that all the ladies of the
American aristocracy had a sort of _parvenue_ air, and looked as if they
had passed their lives east of Temple Bar; and that he knew not a single
one of them that would be presentable at Almack's: always excepting Miss
Lucinda Mandeville.
The gentlemen _savans_ knew Apesley Sappington to be a coxcomb, and in
their own minds did not believe him; but still they thought it scarcely
worth while to allow their favourite pursuits to be interrupted for the
sake of giving a ball to ladies that _might_ be unpresentable at
Almack's, and that _possibly_ looked like _parvenues_ from the east side
of Temple Bar.
The belles, though much disappointed at the failure of the expected
fête, proudly determined not to advert to the subject by the remotest
hint in presence of the beaux; carefully avoiding even to mention the
word cotillion when a gentleman was by. One young lady left off wishing
that Taglioni would come to America, the name of that celebrated
_artiste_ being synonymous with dancing; and another checked herself
when about to inquire of her sister if she had seen a missing ball of
silk, because the word ball was not to be uttered before one of the male
sex.
Things were in this uncomfortable state, when Miss Lucinda Mandeville,
the belle _par excellence_, gave a turn to them which we shall relate,
after presenting our readers with a sketch of the lady herself.
Miss Mandeville was very beautiful, very accomplished, and very rich,
and had just completed her twenty-second year. Her parents being dead,
she presided over an elegant mansion in the most fashionable part of the
city, having invited an excellent old lady, a distant relation of the
family, to reside with her. Mrs. Danforth, however, was but nominally
the companion of Miss Mandeville, being so entirely absorbed in books
that it was difficult to get her out of the library.
The hand of Miss Mandeville had been sought openly by one-half the
gentlemen that boasted the honour of her acquaintance, and it had been
hinted at by the other half, with the exception of Gordon Fitzsimmons, a
young attorney of highly promising talents, whose ambition would have
led him to look forward to the probability of arriving at the summit of
his profession, but whose rise was, as yet, somewhat impeded by several
very singular notions: such, for instance, as that a lawyer should never
plead against his conscience, and never undertake what he knows to be
the wrong side of a cause.
Another of his peculiarities was a strange idea that no gentleman should
ever condescend to be under pecuniary obligations to his
wife--ergo--that a man who has nothing himself, should never marry a
woman that has anything. This last consideration had induced Mr.
Fitzsimmons to undertake the Herculean task of steeling his heart, and
setting his face against the attractions of Miss Mandeville, with all
her advantages of mind and person. Notwithstanding, therefore, that her
conversation was always delightful to him, he rarely visited her, except
when invited with other company.
Lucinda Mandeville, who, since the age of sixteen, had been surrounded
by admirers, and accustomed to all the adulation that is generally
lavished on a beauty and an heiress, was surprised at the apparent
coldness of Gordon Fitzsimmons, than whom she had never met with a young
man more congenial to her taste. His manifest indifference continually
attracted her attention, and, after awhile, she began to suspect that it
was no indifference at all, and that something else lurked beneath it.
What that was, the sagacity of her sex soon enabled her to discover.
Fitzsimmons never urged Lucinda to play, never handed her to the piano,
never placed her harp for her, never turned over the leaves of her music
book; but she always perceived that though he affected to mingle with
the groups that stood round as listeners, he uniformly took a position
from whence he could see her to advantage all the time. When she
happened to glance towards him, which, it must be confessed, she did
much oftener than she intended (particularly when she came to the finest
passage of her song), she never failed to find his eyes fixed on her
face with a gaze of involuntary admiration, that, when they met, was
instantly changed to an averted look of indifference.
Though he was scrupulous in dancing with her once only in the course of
the evening, she could not but perceive that, during this set, his
countenance, in spite of himself, lighted up with even more than its
usual animation. And if she accidentally turned her head, she saw that
his eyes were following her every motion: as well indeed they might, for
she danced with the lightness of a sylph, and the elegance of a lady.
Notwithstanding his own acknowledged taste for everything connected with
the fine arts, Fitzsimmons never asked to see Miss Mandeville's
drawings. But she observed that after she had been showing them to
others, and he supposed her attention to be elsewhere engaged, he failed
not to take them up, and gaze on them as if he found it difficult to lay
them down again.
In conversation, he never risked a compliment to Miss Mandeville, but
often dissented with her opinion, and frequently rallied her.--Yet when
she was talking to any one else, he always contrived to be within
hearing; and frequently, when engaged himself in conversing with others,
he involuntarily stopped short to listen to what Lucinda was saying.
Miss Mandeville had read much, and seen much, and had had much love
made to her: but her heart had never, till now, been touched even
slightly. That Fitzsimmons admired her, she could not possibly doubt:
and that he loved her, she would have been equally certain, only that he
continued all the time in excellent health and spirits; that, so far
from sitting "like patience on a monument," he seldom sat anywhere; that
when he smiled (which he did very often) it was evidently not at grief;
and that the concealment he affected, was assuredly not feeding on his
cheek, which, so far from turning "green and yellow," had lost nothing
of its "natural ruby."