gallantry as a gentleman prompted his reply, but still how sadly I must
have sunk in his opinion! That I should have allowed myself to be drawn
into such a conversation! That I should have carried a foolish jest so
far! But I will punish myself severely. I will expiate my folly by
avoiding all farther intercourse with Gordon Fitzsimmons; and from this
night we must become strangers to each other."
The change in Lucinda's countenance and manner was now so obvious that
several of her friends asked her if she was ill. To these questions she
answered in the negative: but her cheeks grew paler, and the tears
sprang to her eyes.
Miss Delwin now approached, and said to her in a low voice--"My dear
Lucinda, I perceive that you are suffering under some _contre-tems_; but
such things, you know, are always incidental to balls, and all other
assemblages where every one expects unqualified delight. We should be
prepared for these contingencies, and when they do occur, the only
alternative is to try to pass them over as well as we can, by making an
effort to rally our spirits so as to get through the remainder of the
evening with apparent composure, or else to plead indisposition and go
home. Which course will you take?"
"Oh! how gladly would I retire!" exclaimed Lucinda, scarcely able to
restrain her tears. "But were I to do so, there are persons who might
put strange constructions--or rather the company might be induced to
make invidious remarks--"
"By no means," interrupted Miss Delwin. "A lady may at any time be
overcome with the heat and fatigue of a ball-room--nothing is more
common."
"But," said Lucinda, "were I to leave the company--were I to appear as
if unable to stay--were I to evince so much emotion--he would, indeed,
suppose me in earnest."
"He!" cried Miss Delwin, looking surprised. "Of whom are you speaking,
dear Lucinda? Who is it that would suppose you in earnest?"
"No matter," replied Lucinda, "I spoke inadvertently; I forgot myself; I
knew not what I was saying."
"Dearest Lucinda," exclaimed Miss Delwin, "I am extremely sorry to find
you so discomposed. What can have happened? At a more convenient time,
may I hope that you will tell me?"
"Oh! no, no," replied Lucinda, "it is impossible. I cannot speak of it
even to you. Ask me no further. I am distressed, humiliated, shocked at
myself (and she covered her face with her hands). But I cannot talk
about it, now or ever."
"Lucinda, my dear Lucinda," said Miss Delwin, "your agitation will be
observed."
"Then I must endeavour to suppress it," replied Lucinda, starting up. "I
_must_ stay till this unfortunate ball is over; my going home would seem
too pointed."
"Let me then intreat you, my dear girl," said Miss Delwin, "to exert
yourself to appear as usual. Come, take my arm, and we will go and talk
nonsense to Apesley Sappington."
Lucinda did make an effort to resume her usual vivacity. But it was
evidently forced. She relapsed continually: and she resembled an actress
that is one moment playing with her wonted spirit, and the next moment
forgetting her part.
"So," said Colonel Kingswood to Fitzsimmons, after Lucinda had left them
together, "I am to infer that you are are really in love with Miss
Mandeville?"
"Ardently--passionately--and I long to tell her so in earnest," replied
Fitzsimmons; and he took up the feather that Lucinda in her agitation
had dropped from her hand.
"Of course, then, you will make your proposal to-morrow morning," said
the colonel.
"No," replied Fitzsimmons, concealing the feather within the breast of
his coat. "I cannot so wound her delicacy. I see that she is
disconcerted at the little scene into which we inadvertently drew her,
and alarmed at the idea that perhaps she allowed herself to go too far.
I respect her feelings, and I will spare them. But to me she has long
been the most charming woman in existence."
"What, then," inquired the colonel, "has retarded the disclosure of your
secret, if secret it may be called?"
"Her superiority in point of fortune," replied Fitzsimmons. "You know
the small amount of property left me by my father, and that in my
profession I am as yet but a beginner; though I must own that my
prospects of success are highly encouraging. To say nothing of my
repugnance to reversing the usual order of the married state, and
drawing the chief part of our expenditure from the money of my wife, how
could I expect to convince her that my motives in seeking her hand were
otherwise than mercenary?"
"Are they?" said Colonel Kingswood, with a half smile.
"No, on my soul they are not," replied Fitzsimmons, earnestly. "Were our
situations reversed, I would, without a moment's hesitation, lay all
that I possessed at her feet, and think myself the most honoured, the
most fortunate of men if I could obtain a gem whose intrinsic value
requires not the aid of a gold setting."
"Do you suppose, then," said Colonel Kingswood, "that a lovely and
elegant woman like Miss Lucinda Mandeville can have so humble an opinion
of herself as to suppose that she owes all her admirers to her wealth,
and that there is nothing attractive about her but her bank-stock and
her houses?"
"Since I first knew Miss Mandeville," replied Fitzsimmons, "I have
secretly cherished the hope of being one day worthy of her acceptance.
And this hope has incited me to be doubly assiduous in my profession,
with the view of ultimately acquiring both wealth and distinction. And
when I have made a name, as well as a fortune, I shall have no scruples
in offering myself to her acceptance."
"And before all this is accomplished," observed the colonel, "some lucky
fellow, with a ready-made fortune, and a ready-made name, or, more
probably, some bold adventurer with neither, may fearlessly step in and
carry off the prize."
"There is madness in the thought!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons, putting his
hand to his forehead.
"Did it never strike you before?" inquired the colonel.
"It has, it has," cried Fitzsimmons; "a thousand times has it passed
like a dark cloud over the sunshine of my hopes."
"Take my advice," said the colonel, "and address Miss Mandeville at
once."
"Fool that I was!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons, "how could I be so utterly
absurd--so devoid of all tact, as to reply to her unguarded _badinage_
in a tone of reality! No wonder she looked so disconcerted, so shocked.
At this moment, how she must hate me!"
"I am not so sure of that," observed the colonel; "but take my advice,
and let the _etourderie_ of this evening be repaired by the opening it
affords you of disclosing your real feelings to the object of your
love."
"I cannot," replied Fitzsimmons, "I cannot, after what has passed, run
the risk of giving farther offence to her delicacy."
"Her delicacy," remarked the colonel, "may be more deeply offended by
your delaying the disclosure. But we must separate for the present. If
Miss Mandeville sees us talking together so earnestly, she may justly
suppose herself the object of discussion."
The two gentlemen parted; and Fitzsimmons, feeling it impossible to
speak to Lucinda again that evening, and having no inclination to talk
to any one else, withdrew from the ball, and passed two hours in
traversing his own room.
After the departure of her lover, Lucinda felt more at her ease;
particularly as Colonel Kingswood was so considerate as to avoid
approaching her. During the remainder of the evening, she exerted
herself with such success as to recall a portion of her natural
sprightliness, and of the habitual self-command that she had acquired
from living in the world of fashion.
Supper was announced. The ladies, persisting in their assumed
characters, conducted the gentlemen to the table, where the profusion
and variety of the delicacies that composed the feast, could only be
equalled by the taste and elegance with which they were decorated and
arranged. The belles filled the plates of the beaux, and poured out the
wine for them; and many pretty things were said about ambrosia and
nectar.
At the conclusion of the banquet, the band in the orchestra, on a signal
from some of the gentlemen, struck up the symphony to a favourite air
that chiefly owes its popularity to the words with which Moore has
introduced it into his melodies; and "To ladies' eyes a round, boys,"
was sung in concert by all the best male voices in the room. The song
went off with much eclat, and made a pleasant conclusion to the evening.
After the belles had curtsied out the beaux, and retired to the
cloak-room to equip themselves for their departure, they found the
gentlemen all waiting to see them to their carriages, and assist in
escorting them home: declaring that as the play was over, and the
curtain dropped, they must be allowed to resume their real characters.
When Lucinda Mandeville arrived at her own house, and found herself
alone in her dressing-room, all the smothered emotions of the evening
burst forth without restraint, and leaning her head on the arm of the
sofa, she indulged in a long fit of tears before she proceeded to take
off her ornaments. But when she went to her psyche for that purpose, she
could not help feeling that hers was not a face and figure to be seen
with indifference, and that in all probability the unguarded warmth with
which Fitzsimmons had replied to her mock courtship, was only the
genuine ebullition of a sincere and ardent passion.
It was long before she could compose herself to sleep, and her dreams
were entirely of the ball and of Fitzsimmons. When she arose next
morning, she determined to remain all day up stairs, and to see no
visiters; rejoicing that the fatigue of the preceding evening would
probably keep most of her friends at home.
About noon, Gordon Fitzsimmons, who had counted the moments till then,
sent up his card with a pencilled request to see Miss Mandeville.
Terrified, agitated, and feeling as if she never again could raise her
eyes to his face, or open her lips in his presence, Lucinda's first
thought was to reply that she was indisposed, but she checked herself
from sending him such a message, first, because it was not exactly the
truth, and secondly, lest he should suppose that the cause of her
illness might have some reference to himself. She therefore desired the
servant simply to tell Mr. Fitzsimmons that Miss Mandeville could
receive no visiters that day.
But Fitzsimmons was not now to be put off. He had been shown into one of
the parlours, and going to the writing-case on the centre-table, he took
a sheet of paper, and addressed to her an epistle expressing in the most
ardent terms his admiration and his love, and concluding with the hope
that she would grant him an interview. There was not, of course, the
slightest allusion to the events of the preceding evening. The letter
was conceived with as much delicacy as warmth, and highly elevated the
writer in the opinion of the reader. Still, she hesitated whether to see
him or not. Her heart said yes--but her pride said no. And at length she
most heroically determined to send him a written refusal, not only of
the interview but of himself, that in case he should have dared to
presume that the unfortunate scene at the ball could possibly have meant
anything more than a jest, so preposterous an idea might be banished
from his mind for ever.
In this spirit she commenced several replies to his letter, but found it
impossible to indite them in such terms as to satisfy herself; and,
after wasting half a dozen sheets of paper with unsuccessful beginnings,
she committed them all to the fire. Finally, she concluded that she
could explain herself more effectually in a personal interview, whatever
embarrassment the sight of him might occasion her. But not being able at
this time to summon courage to meet him face to face, she sent down a
note of three lines, informing Mr. Fitzsimmons that she would see him in
the evening at seven o'clock.
Several of Lucinda's friends called to talk about the ball, but she
excused herself from seeing them, and passed the remainder of the day up
stairs, in one long thought of Fitzsimmons, and in dwelling on the
painful idea that the avowal of his sentiments had, in all probability,
been elicited by her indiscretion of the preceding evening. "But," said
she to herself, "I will steadily persist in declining his addresses; I
will positively refuse him, for unless I do so, I never can recover my
own self-respect. I will make this sacrifice to delicacy, and even then
I shall never cease to regret my folly in having allowed myself to be
carried so far in the thoughtless levity of the moment."
Being thus firmly resolved on dismissing her admirer, it is not to be
supposed that Lucinda could attach the smallest consequence to looking
well that evening, during what she considered their final interview.
Therefore we must, of course, attribute to accident the length of time
she spent in considering which she should wear of two new silk dresses;
one being of the colour denominated _ashes of roses_--the other of the
tint designated as _monkey's sighs_. Though ashes of roses seemed
emblematic of an extinguished flame, yet monkey's sighs bore more direct
reference to a rejected lover, which, perhaps, was the reason that she
finally decided on it. There was likewise a considerable demur about a
canezou and a pelerine, but eventually the latter carried the day. And
it was long, also, before she could determine on the most becoming style
of arranging her hair, wavering between plaits and braids. At last the
braids had it.
Mr. Fitzsimmons was announced a quarter before seven, his watch being
undoubtedly too fast. Lucinda came down in ill-concealed perturbation,
repeating to herself, as she descended the stairs, "Yes--my rejection of
him shall be positive--and my adherence to it firm and inexorable."
Whether it was so we will not presume to say, but this much is
certain--that in a month from that time the delinquent gentlemen made
the _amende honorable_ by giving the ladies a most splendid ball, at
which the _ci-devant_ Miss Mandeville and Mr. Gordon Fitzsimmons made
their first appearance in public as bride and bridegroom, to the great
delight of Colonel Kingswood.
THE RED BOX,
OR,
SCENES AT THE GENERAL WAYNE.
A TALE.
----"Just of the same piece
Is every flatterer's spirit."--SHAKSPEARE.
In one of the most beautiful counties of Pennsylvania, and in the
immediate vicinity of the Susquehanna, stood an old fashioned country
tavern, known by the designation of the General Wayne. Of its landlord
and his family, and of some little incidents that took place within its
precincts about forty years ago, it is our purpose to relate a few
particulars.
The proprietor of the house and of the fine farm that surrounded it, was
by birth a New-Englander; and having served in Washington's army during
the whole of the revolutionary war, he was still distinguished by the
title of Colonel Brigham. When, on the return of peace, he resumed his
original occupation of farming, he concluded to settle on the genial
soil of Pennsylvania, and removed thither with his wife, their little
daughter, and an adopted child named Oliver, a fine boy whom they
boasted of loving equally with their own Fanny; that he was equally
indulged admitted not of a doubt.
As Oliver advanced to manhood he took the chief charge of the farm, and
Mrs. Brigham with great difficulty prevailed on her husband to set up an
inn; partly to give himself more occupation, and partly because his
boundless hospitality in entertaining gratuitously all strangers that
came into the neighbourhood, had become rather too much of a tax.
Accordingly, a range of stalls for horses was erected at a short
distance from the house, which was beautified with a new porch, running
all along the front, and furnished with green benches. A village artist
(who was not only a painter, but a glazier also) was employed to
contrive a sign, which it was expected would surpass all that had ever
been seen in the country; it being neither Buck nor Fox, neither Black
Horse, Green Tree, Conestoga Wagon, or any of those every-day things.
The painter's ideas were committed to board in the shape of the
landlord's old commander, General Anthony Wayne. This effigy was
evidently designed for that of a human being, but the artist had begun
the upper part on so large a scale, that there was little or no room for
the body and limbs; the gallant general looking as if crushed down by
the weight of his hat and head. He stood upon a narrow strip of
verdigris green, with his two heels together, and his toes wonderfully
turned out. The facings of his coat, and all his under-clothes, were of
gold. He wielded in one hand an enormous sword--the other held out a
pistol in the act of going off--and he leaned on a cannon from whence
issued a flash of scarlet fire, and a cloud of sky-blue smoke.
It is true, that when the sign came home, the colonel made many
objections to it, declaring that gold breeches had never been worn in
the continental army, and that no man ever stood still leaning on a gun
at the moment it was discharged--neither did he think it by any means a
good likeness of General Wayne. But Mrs. Brigham reminded her husband
that there was no use in telling all this to everybody, and that it
might suit some people's ideas of General Wayne--adding, that she never
saw a sign that _was_ a good likeness, except Timothy Grimshaw's White
Lion, which looked exactly like Timothy himself.
Oliver averred that the artist was certainly a liberal man, and had
given them the full worth of their money, for beside the gilding, there
was more paint on it than on any sign he had ever seen.
Their neighbour, Tempy Walters, was, however, of opinion that they had
been greatly overcharged, for that a man had painted her brother's
cellar-door (which was considerably larger than this sign) for half the
money. "To be sure," added Tempy, "there was no gold on the
cellar-door--but it must have taken twice the paint."
To be brief, the colonel dismissed the case by paying the artist rather
more than he asked--telling him, also, that he should be glad to see him
at his house whenever he chose to come, and that his visits should not
cost him a cent.
There never, perhaps, was a less profitable tavern than the General
Wayne. The people of the neighbourhood were amazingly sober, and Mrs.
Brigham allowed no tipplers to lounge about the bar-room or porch. The
charges were so moderate as scarcely to cover the actual cost of the
good things which were so profusely lavished on the table, and the
family could not relinquish the habit of treating their guests as
visiters and friends. Colonel Brigham always found some reason why such
and such articles were not worth considering at all, and why such and
such people could not afford to pay as well as he could afford to give
them food and shelter. On soldiers, of course, he bestowed gratuitous
entertainment, and was never more delighted than when he saw them
coming. Pedlers and tinmen always took it--and emigrants on their way to
the back settlements were invariably told to keep their money to help
pay for their land.
But though tavern-keeping did not realize the anticipations of Mrs.
Brigham in operating as a check on the hospitality of her husband,
still, as she said, it kept him about the house, and prevented him from
heating and fatiguing himself in the fields, and from interfering with
Oliver in the management of the farm--Oliver always doing best when left
to himself. It must be understood that this youth, though virtually a
dependant on the bounty of the Brighams, evinced as free and determined
a spirit as if he had been literally "monarch of all he surveyed." He
was active, industrious, frank to a fault, brave and generous; and would
have fought at any moment in defence of any member of the family; or,
indeed, for any member of any other family, if he conceived them to have
been injured.
Between Oliver and Fanny Brigham there was as yet no demonstration of
any particular attachment. They had been brought up so much like brother
and sister that they seemed not to know when to begin to fall in love.
Fanny coquetted with the smart young men in the neighbourhood, and
Oliver flirted with the pretty girls; not seeming to perceive that Fanny
was the prettiest of all. The old people, however, had it very much at
heart for a match to take place between the young people, as the best
preventive to Oliver "going west" (a thing he sometimes talked of, in
common with the generality of young farmers), and therefore they watched
closely, and were always fancying that they detected symptoms of real
_bona fide_ love. If the young people quarrelled, it was better so than
that they should feel nothing for each other but mutual indifference. If
they appeared indifferent, it was supposed that Fanny was modestly
veiling her genuine feelings, and that Oliver was disguising his to try
the strength of hers. If they talked and laughed together, they were
animated by each other's society. If they were silent, they had the
matter under serious consideration. If Fanny received with complaisance
the civilities of a rural beau, and if Oliver devoted his attention to a
rural belle, it was only to excite each other's jealousy. On one thing,
however, the old people were agreed--which was, that it was best not to
hurry matters. In this they judged from their own experience; for Mrs.
Brigham had lost her first lover (a man that had come to see her every
Wednesday and Saturday for five years and a half) because her father
prematurely asked him what his intentions were. And Colonel Brigham had
been refused no less than nine times, in consequence of "popping the
question" at his first interview--a way he had when he was young.
So equal, however, was their love for the two children (as they still
continued to call them), so anxious were they to keep Oliver always with
them, and so impossible did it seem to them to think of any other young
man as a son-in-law, that they would have sacrificed much to bring about
so desirable a conclusion. But we have been loitering too long on the
brink of our story, and it is time we were fairly afloat.
One clear, mild autumnal evening, Colonel Brigham (who for himself never
liked benches) was occupying a few chairs in his front porch, and
reading several newspapers; looking occasionally towards a cider-press
under a large tree, round which lay a mountain of apples that a horse
and a black boy were engaged in grinding. The colonel was habited in
striped homespun trousers, a dark brown waistcoat with silver buttons,
and no coat--but he took great pride in always wearing a clean shirt of
fine country-made linen. As relics of his former military capacity, he
persisted in a three-cocked hat and a black stock. He had joined the
army in the meridian of life, and he was now a large, stout, handsome
old man, with a clear blue eye, and silver gray hair curling on each
side of a broad high forehead. Suddenly a stage that passed the house
twice a week, stopped before the door. The only passengers in it were an
old gentleman who occupied the back seat, and four young ones that sat
on the two others, all with their faces towards him.
"Can we be accommodated at this inn for a few days?" said the elder
stranger, looking out at the side. Colonel Brigham replied in the
affirmative, adding that just then there were no guests in the house.
"So much the better," said the old gentleman; "I like the appearance of
this part of the country, and may as well be here for a little while as
any where else." And making a sign to the young ones, they all four
scrambled out of the stage with such eagerness as nearly to fall over
each other--and every one took a part in assisting him down the steps,
two holding him by the hands, and two by the elbows. But as soon as his
feet touched the ground, he shook them all off as if scattering them to
the four winds. He was a small slender old man, but of a florid
complexion, and showed no indication of infirm health, but the excessive
care that he took of himself--being enveloped in a great coat, over it a
fur tippet round his neck, and his hat was tied down with a silk
handkerchief.