seemed no prospect of his coming to a proposal, and though she was
sometimes assured by the youngest and prettiest of her female friends,
that they knew from authentic sources that Mr. Fitzsimmons had
magnanimously declared against marrying a woman of fortune; yet other
ladies, who were neither young nor handsome, and had no hope of Mr.
Fitzsimmons for themselves, were so kind as to convince Miss Mandeville
that he admired her even at "the very top of admiration." And these
generous and disinterested ladies were usually, after such agreeable
communications, invited by Miss Mandeville to pass the evening with her.
Also--our heroine chanced one day to overhear a conversation between
Dora, her own maid, and another mulatto girl; in which Dora averred to
her companion that she had heard from no less authority than Squire
Fitzsimmons's man Cato, "who always wore a blue coat, be the colour what
it may, that the squire was dead in love with Miss Lucinda, as might be
seen from many invisible _symptoms_, and that both Dora and Cato had a
certain _foregiving_ that it would turn out a match at last, for all
that the lady had the money on her side, which, to be sure, was rather
unnatural; and that the wedding might be looked for _momently_, any
minute."
In the course of the next quarter of an hour, Miss Lucinda called Dora
into her dressing-room, and presented her with a little Thibet shawl,
which she had worn but once. Dora grinned understandingly: and from that
time she contrived to be overheard so frequently in similar
conversations, that much of the effect was diminished.
To resume the thread of our narrative--Lucinda being one morning on a
visit to her friend Miss Delwin, the latter adverted to the failure of
the annual dancing party.
"What would the beaux say," exclaimed Lucinda, struck with a sudden
idea, "if the belles were to give a ball to _them_, by way of hinting
our sense of their extraordinary remissness? Let us convince them that,
according to the luminous and incontrovertible aphorism of the renowned
Sam Patch, 'some things may be done as well as others.'"
"Excellent," replied Miss Delwin; "the thought is well worth pursuing.
Let us try what we can make of it."
The two young ladies then proceeded to an animated discussion of the
subject, and the more they talked of it, the better they liked it. They
very soon moulded the idea into regular form: and, as there was no time
to be lost, they set out to call on several of their friends, and
mention it to them.
The idea, novel as it seemed, was seized on with avidity by all to whom
it was suggested, and a secret conclave was held on the following
morning at Miss Mandeville's house, where the ladies debated with closed
doors, while the plan was organized and the particulars arranged: our
heroine proposing much that she thought would "point the moral and adorn
the tale."
Next day, notes of invitation to a ball given by the ladies, were sent
round to the gentlemen; all of whom were surprised, and many mortified,
for they at once saw the motive, and understood the implied reproof.
Some protested that they should never have courage to go, and talked of
declining the invitation. But the majority decided on accepting it,
justly concluding that it was best to carry the thing off with a good
grace; and having, besides, much curiosity to see how the ladies would
_conduct_, if we may be pardoned a Yankeeism.
Fitzsimmons declared that the delinquent beaux were rightly punished by
this palpable hit of the belles. And he congratulated himself on having
always voted in favour of the ball being given as formerly: secretly
hoping that Miss Mandeville knew that _he_ had not been one of the
backsliders. We are tolerably sure that she _did_ know it.
Eventually the invitations were all accepted, and the preparations went
secretly but rapidly on, under the superintendence of Miss Mandeville
and Miss Delwin. In the mean time, the gentlemen, knowing that they all
looked conscious and foolish, avoided the ladies, and kept themselves as
much out of their sight as possible; with the exception of Gordon
Fitzsimmons, he being the only one that felt freedom to "wear his beaver
up."
At length the eventful evening arrived. It had been specified in the
notes that the ladies were to meet the gentlemen at the ball-room, which
was a public one engaged for the occasion. Accordingly, the beaux found
all the belles there before them: the givers of the _fête_ having gone
in their own conveyances, an hour in advance of the time appointed for
their guests.
The six ladies that officiated as managers (and were all distinguished
by a loop of blue riband drawn through their belts) met the gentlemen at
the door as they entered the ball-room, and taking their hands,
conducted them to their seats with much mock civility. The gentlemen,
though greatly ashamed, tried in vain to look grave.
The room was illuminated with astral lamps, whose silver rays shone out
from clusters of blue and purple flowers, and with crystal chandeliers,
whose pendent drops sparkled amid festoons of roses. The walls were
painted of a pale and beautiful cream colour. Curtains of the richest
crimson, relieved by their masses of shadow the brilliant lightness of
the other decorations: their deep silken fringes reflected in the
mirrors, whose polished surfaces were partially hidden by folds of their
graceful drapery. The orchestra represented a splendid oriental tent;
and the musicians were habited in uniform Turkish dresses, their white
turbans strikingly contrasting their black faces.
At the opposite end of the room was an excellent transparency, executed
by an artist from a sketch by Miss Mandeville. It depicted a medley of
scenery and figures, but so skilfully and tastefully arranged as to have
a very fine effect when viewed as a whole. There was a Virginian lady
assisting her cavalier to mount his horse--a Spanish damsel under the
lattice of her lover, serenading him with a guitar--a Swiss _paysanne_
supporting the steps of a chamois hunter as he timidly clambered up a
rock--four Hindoo women carrying a Bramin in a palanquin--an English
girl rowing a sailor in a boat--and many other anomalies of a similar
description. Beneath the picture was a scroll fancifully ornamented, and
containing the words "_Le monde renversé_."
That nothing might be wanting to the effect of the ball, the ladies had
made a point of appearing this evening in dresses unusually splendid and
_recherché_. The elegant form of Lucinda Mandeville was attired in a
rich purple satin, bordered with gold embroidery, and trimmed round the
neck with blond lace. Long full sleeves of the same material threw
their transparent shade over her beautiful arms, and were confined at
intervals with bands of pearls clasped with amethysts. A chain of pearls
was arranged above the curls of her dark and glossy hair, crossing at
the back of her head, and meeting in front, where it terminated in a
splendid amethyst aigrette. Three short white feathers, tastefully
disposed at intervals, completed the coiffure, which was peculiarly
becoming to the noble and resplendent style of beauty that distinguished
our heroine; though to a little slight woman with light hair and eyes,
it would have been exactly the contrary.
"Did you ever see so princess-like a figure as Miss Mandeville?" said
young Rainsford to Gordon Fitzsimmons, "or features more finely
chiselled?"
"I have never seen a princess," replied Fitzsimmons, "but from what I
have heard, few of them look in reality as a princess should. Neither, I
think, does the word _chiselled_ apply exactly to features, formed by a
hand beside whose noble and beautiful creations the finest _chef
d'oeuvres_ of sculpture are as nothing. I like not to hear of the
human face being _well cut_ or _finely chiselled_: though these
expressions have long been sanctioned by the currency of fashion. Why
borrow from art a term, or terms, that so imperfectly defines the beauty
of nature? When we look at a living face, with features more lovely than
the imagination of an artist has ever conceived, or at a complexion
blooming with health, and eyes sparkling with intelligence, why should
our delight and our admiration be disturbed, by admitting any idea
connected with a block of marble and the instruments that form it into
shape?"
"But you must allow," said Rainsford, "that Miss Mandeville has a fine
classic head."
"I acknowledge," said Fitzsimmons, "the graceful contour of the heads
called classic. On this side of the Atlantic we have few opportunities
of judging of antique sculpture, except from casts and engravings. But
as to the faces of the nymphs and goddesses of Grecian art, I must
venture to confess that they do not exactly comport with my ideas of
female loveliness. Not to speak of their almost unvarying sameness (an
evidence, I think, that they are not modelled from life, for nature
never repeats herself), their chief characteristics are a cold
regularity of outline, and an insipid straightness of nose and forehead,
such as in a living countenance would be found detrimental to all
expression. I know I am talking heresy: but I cannot divest myself of
the persuasion, that a face with precisely the features that we are
accustomed to admire in antique statuary, would, if clothed in flesh and
blood, be scarcely considered beautiful."
"Perhaps so," said Rainsford; "but you surely consider Miss Mandeville
beautiful?"
"The beauty of Lucinda Mandeville," replied Fitzsimmons, "is not that of
a Grecian statue. It is the beauty of an elegant American lady, uniting
all the best points of her countrywomen. Her figure is symmetry itself,
and there is an ease, a grace, a dignity in her movements, which I have
never seen surpassed. Her features are lovely in their form and charming
in their expression, particularly her fine black eyes: and her
complexion is unrivalled both in its bloom and its delicacy."
"What a pity that Lucinda does not hear all this!" remarked Miss Delwin,
who happened to be near Fitzsimmons and his friend.
Fitzsimmons coloured, fearing that he had spoken with too much warmth:
and, bowing to Miss Delwin, he took the arm of Rainsford, and went to
another part of the room.
Miss Delwin, however, lost no time in finding Lucinda, and repeated the
whole, verbatim, to her highly gratified friend, who tried to look
indifferent, but blushed and smiled all the time she was listening: and
who, from this moment, felt a sensible accession to her usual excellent
spirits.
"Ladies," said Miss Delwin, "choose your partners for a cotillion."
For a few moments the ladies hesitated, and held back at the idea of so
novel a beginning to the ball: and Fitzsimmons, much amused, made a sign
to his friends not to advance. Miss Mandeville came forward with a smile
on her lips, and a blush on her cheeks. The heart of Fitzsimmons beat
quick; but she passed him, and curtsying to young Colesberry, who was
just from college, and extremely diffident, she requested the honour of
his hand, and led him, with as much composure as she could assume, to a
cotillion that was forming in the centre of the room; he shrinking and
apologizing all the while. And Miss Delwin engaged Fitzsimmons.
In a short time, all the ladies had provided themselves with partners.
At first, from the singularity of their mutual situation, both beaux and
belles felt themselves under considerable embarrassment, but gradually
this awkwardness wore away, and an example being set by the master
spirits of the assembly, there was much pleasantry on either side; all
being determined to humour the jest, and sustain it throughout with as
good a grace as possible.
When the cotillions were forming for the second set, nearly a dozen
young ladies found themselves simultaneously approaching Gordon
Fitzsimmons, each with the design of engaging him as a partner. And this
_empressement_ was not surprising, as he was decidedly the handsomest
and most elegant man in the room.
"Well, ladies," said Fitzsimmons, as they almost surrounded him, "you
must decide among yourselves which of you is to take me out. All I can
do is to stand still and be passive. But I positively interdict any
quarrelling about me."
"We have heard," said Miss Atherley, "of men dying of love, dying of
grief, and dying from fear of death. We are now trying if it is not
possible to make them die of vanity."
"True," replied Fitzsimmons, "we may say with Harry the Fifth at
Agincourt--'He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,'"--"'Will
stand a-tiptoe when this day is named,'"--added Miss Atherley, finishing
the quotation.
Fitzsimmons did not reply; for his attention was at that moment engaged
by seeing Miss Manderville leading out Apesley Sappington, and
apparently much diverted with his absurdities.
"Ladies," said Miss Atherley, looking round to her companions, "let us
try a fair chance of Mr. Fitzsimmons--suppose we draw lots for him."
"Do--by all means," exclaimed Fitzsimmons. "Set me up at a raffle."
"No," replied Miss Atherley, "we cannot conveniently raffle for you, as
we have no dice at hand. Another way will do as well."
She then plucked from her bouquet some green rose-leaves, and half
concealing them between her fingers, she offered the stems to each of
her companions in turn, saying--"Whoever draws the largest rose-leaf may
claim the honour of Mr. Fitzsimmons's hand for the next set."
The lots were drawn, and the largest rose-leaf remained with Miss
Atherley (who was a young lady of much beauty and vivacity), and whom
her friends laughingly accused of foul play in contriving to hold it
back, in which opinion Fitzsimmons assured them that he perfectly
coincided. But Miss Atherley, however, led him triumphantly to the
cotillion which, fortunately for his partner, did not happen to be the
one in which Lucinda Mandeville was engaged.
At the conclusion of each set, the ladies conducted the gentlemen to
their seats, assisted them to the refreshments that were handed round,
and stood by and fanned them. Most of the gentlemen took all this very
well, but others were much disconcerted: particularly a grave
knight-errant-looking Spaniard, who (having but lately arrived, and
understanding the language but imperfectly) conceived that it was the
custom in America for ladies to give balls to gentlemen, and to wait on
them during the evening. In this error he was mischievously allowed to
continue: but so much was his gallantry shocked, that he could not
forbear dropping on his knees to receive the attentions that were
assiduously proffered to him: bowing gratefully on the fair hands that
presented him with a glass of orgeat or a plate of ice-cream.--And he
was so overcome with the honour, and so deeply penetrated with a sense
of his own unworthiness, when Lucinda Mandeville invited him to dance
with her, that she almost expected to see him perform kotou, and knock
his head nine times against the floor.
Among others of the company was Colonel Kingswood, a very agreeable
bachelor, long past the meridian of life, but not quite old enough to
marry a young girl, his mind, as yet, showing no symptoms of dotage. His
fortune was not sufficient to make him an object of speculation, and
though courteous to all, his attentions were addressed exclusively to
none. He was much liked by his young friends of both sexes, all of them
feeling perfectly at ease in his society. Though he rarely danced, he
was very fond of balls, and had participated in the vexation of Gordon
Fitzsimmons when the beaux had declined giving their Christmas fête to
the belles.
In an interval between the sets, Lucinda suggested to a group of her
fair companions, the propriety of asking Colonel Kingswood to dance; a
compliment that he had not as yet received during the evening. "You
know," said she, "the Colonel sometimes dances, and now that the ladies
have assumed the privilege of choosing their partners, courtesy requires
that none of the gentlemen should be neglected."
But each declined asking Colonel Kingswood, on the plea that they had
other partners in view.
"For my part," said Miss Ormond, frankly, "I am just going to ask Mr.
Wyndham. This is, perhaps, the only chance I shall ever have of dancing
with him, as I am quite certain he will never ask _me_."
"But, my dear Lucinda," said Miss Elgrove, "why not invite Colonel
Kingswood yourself? There he is, talking to Mr. Fitzsimmons, near the
central window. It is not magnanimous to propose to others what you are
unwilling to do in _propriâ personâ_."
Lucinda had, in reality, but one objection to proposing herself as a
partner to Colonel Kingswood, and that was, his being just then engaged
in conversation with Gordon Fitzsimmons, whom she felt a sort of
conscious reluctance to approach. However, she paused a moment, and then
summoned courage to join the two gentlemen and proffer her request to
the Colonel, even though Fitzsimmons was close at hand.
"My dear Miss Mandeville," said Colonel Kingswood, "I confess that I
have not courage to avail myself of your very tempting proposal. As my
fighting days are now over, I cannot stand the shot of the jealous eyes
that will be directed at me from every part of the ball-room."
"I have seen you dance," remarked Lucinda, evading the application of
his compliment.
"True," replied the Colonel, "but you might have observed that I never
take out the _young_ ladies--always being so considerate as to leave
them to the young gentlemen. I carry my disinterestedness so far as
invariably to select partners that are _ni jeune, ni jolie_:
notwithstanding the remarks I frequently hear about well-matched pairs,
&c."
"I am to understand, then," said Lucinda, "that you are mortifying me by
a refusal."
"Come, now, be honest," returned Colonel Kingswood, "and change the word
'mortify' into _gratify_. But do not turn away. It is customary, you
know, when a man is drawn for the militia and is unwilling to serve, to
allow him to choose a substitute. Here then is mine. Advance, Mr.
Fitzsimmons, and with such a partner I shall expect to see you 'rise
from the ground like feather'd Mercury.'"
Fitzsimmons came forward with sparkling eyes and a heightened colour,
and offered his hand to Lucinda, whose face was suffused even to the
temples. There were a few moments of mutual confusion, and neither party
uttered a word till they had reached the cotillion. The music commenced
as soon as they had taken their places, and Lucinda being desired by her
opposite lady to lead, there was no immediate conversation.
Our heroine called up all her pride, all her self-command, and all her
native buoyancy of spirits; Fitzsimmons did the same, and they managed
in the intervals of the dance to talk with so much vivacity, that each
was convinced that their secret was still preserved from the other.
When the set was over, they returned to the place in which they had left
Colonel Kingswood, who received them with a smile.
"Well, Miss Mandeville," said he, "what pretty things have you been
saying to your partner?"
"Ask Mr. Fitzsimmons," replied Lucinda.
"Not a single compliment could I extract from her," said Fitzsimmons;
"she had not even the grace to imply her gratitude for doing me the
honour of dancing with me, or rather, for my doing her the honour. Ah!
that is it--is it not? I forgot the present mode of expression. It is so
difficult for one night only to get out of the old phraseology. But she
certainly expressed no gratitude."
"I owed you none," replied Lucinda; "for, like Malvolio, you have had
greatness thrust upon you. You know you are only Colonel Kingswood's
substitute."
"Well," resumed Fitzsimmons, "have I not done my best to make 'the
substitute shine brightly as the king?'"
"Recollect that the king is now by," said Colonel Kingswood. "But, Miss
Mandeville, you must go through your part. Consider that to-night is the
only opportunity the gentlemen may ever have of hearing how adroitly the
ladies can flatter them."
"It is not in the bond," replied Lucinda.
"What is not?"
"That the ladies should flatter the gentlemen."
"Excuse me," said Colonel Kingswood; "the ladies having voluntarily
taken the responsibility, the gentlemen must insist on their going
regularly through the whole ball with all its accompaniments, including
compliments, flattery, and flirtation, and a seasoning of genuine
courtship, of which last article there is always more or less at every
large party. And as it appears that Miss Mandeville has not faithfully
done her part during the dance, she must make amends by doing it now."
"On the latter subject," said Fitzsimmons, "Miss Mandeville can need no
prompting. Her own experience must have made her familiar with courtship
in all its varieties."
"Of course,"--resumed the Colonel.--"So, Miss Mandeville, you can be at
no loss in what manner to begin."
"And am I to stand here and be courted?" said Fitzsimmons.
"Now do not be frightened," observed the Colonel, "and do not look round
as if you were meditating an escape. I will stand by and see how you
acquit yourself in this new and delightful situation. Come, Miss
Mandeville, begin."
"What sort of courtship will you have?" said Lucinda, who could not
avoid laughing. "The sentimental, the prudential, or the downright?"
"The downright, by all means," cried the Colonel. "No, no," said
Fitzsimmons; "let me hear the others first. The downright would be too
overwhelming without a previous preparation."
Lucinda affected to hide her face with a feather that had fallen from
her head during the dance, and which she still held in her hand, and she
uttered hesitatingly and with downcast eyes--
"If I could hope to be pardoned for my temerity in thus presuming to
address one whose manifest perfections so preponderate in the scale,
when weighed against my own demerits--"
"Oh! stop, stop!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons; "this will never do!"
"Why, it is just the way a poor young fellow courted me last summer,"
replied Lucinda. "Come, let me go on. Conscious as I am that I might as
well 'love a bright and particular star, and think to wed it--'"
"You will never succeed in that strain," said Fitzsimmons, laughing.
"You must try another."
"Well, then," continued Lucinda, changing her tone, "here is the
prudential mode. Mr. Gordon Fitzsimmons, thinking it probable (though I
speak advisedly) that you may have no objection to change your
condition, and believing (though perhaps I may be mistaken) that we are
tolerably well suited to each other--I being my own mistress, and you
being your own master--perceiving no great disparity of age, or
incompatibility of temper--"
"I like not this mode either," interrupted Fitzsimmons; "it is worse
than the other."
"Do you think so?" resumed Lucinda. "It is just the way a rich old
fellow courted me last winter."
"Nothing is more likely," said Fitzsimmons. "But neither of these modes
will succeed with me."
"Then," observed the Colonel, "there is nothing left but the plain
downright."
"Mr. Fitzsimmons, will you marry me?" said Lucinda.
"With all my heart and soul," replied Fitzsimmons, taking her hand.
"Oh! you forget yourself," exclaimed Lucinda, struggling to withdraw it.
"You are not half so good a comedian as I am. You should look down, and
play with your guard-chain; and then look up, and tell me you are
perfectly happy in your single state--that marriage is a lottery--that
our acquaintance has been too slight for either of us to form a correct
opinion of the other. In short, you should say _no_."
"By heavens!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons, kissing her beautiful hand; "I
cannot say no--even in jest."
Lucinda's first sensation was involuntary delight. But in a moment she
was startled by the conviction that she had unthinkingly gone too far.
The native delicacy of woman thrilled every nerve in her frame, and her
cheeks varied alternately from red to pale. Shocked at the length to
which she had inadvertently carried a dialogue begun in _badinage_, and
confused, mortified, and distressed at its result, she forcibly
disengaged her hand from that of Fitzsimmons, and turning to a lady and
gentleman that she saw passing, she said she would accompany them to the
other end of the room. Arrived there, she seated herself in the midst of
a group that were warmly engaged in discussing the comparative merits of
Spanish dances and Polish dances: and she endeavoured to collect her
scattered thoughts, and compose the flutter of her spirits. But it was
in vain--the more she reflected on the little scene that had just taken
place, the more she regretted it.