Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth, Mrs. Varley’s genteel “metropolitan friends,” had detained themselves at Saratoga so long as the most fashionable company remained. But they at length wrote a hasty note to the “dear Varleys” stating definitely when they should be at the depÔt in N., expecting to see the carriage in waiting. And they did come, “bag and baggage,” to stay till November—it was only August then, and they flattered themselves, so they announced, that even in so short a stay, very much happiness might be reciprocated.

The prime advantage of Mrs. Tyler’s acquaintance to the Varley family, consisted in the circumstance that that lady and her daughter boarded at what they called one of the most fashionable houses in the city. Mrs. Tyler despised housekeeping; it confined one so to the mercy of servants, besides company made it so troublesome and expensive. The Miss Varleys could go and board at the same place in the winter, and Mrs. Tyler would be so very kind and condescending as to “take all the trouble of chaperoning them into the society of the ‘upper ten thousand,’ and nobody could with any certainty predict what advantages might accrue; perhaps a splendid settlement, perhaps”—I know not how many inducements she possessed, all of which sounded golden enough in the ears of the Miss Varleys when they made her acquaintance at —— Beach the season before, and insured for her what she intended, an invitation to the country when it was genteel to go into the country without such a bill of expense. The sphere in which Mrs. Tyler actually moved was only in the same pseudo-genteel orbit with the Mrs. Washington Potts’s, Mrs. De Perouk’s and a similar galaxy of inferior magnitude, to whose acquaintance and real claims to respect our shrewd and gifted countrywoman, has introduced so many delighted and instructed readers. Blessings on her simplicity, and on her two-edged satire; blessings on her mind and her pen, for holding up a mirror before the face of society, in which it may see not only its lineaments of loveliness, but also its deformities.

Mrs. Tyler was a very small, dried-up woman, if I may be tolerated for the expression, though a row of beautiful porcelain teeth displayed themselves whenever she parted her parched and skinny lips; her cheeks were most unnaturally rosy—I should have said rougey! A profusion of smooth and glossy ringlets adorned her head, and her whole dress was so in the extreme of fashion, there could have been, indeed, but a paltry difference between her “polar and equatorial diameter.” Brilliants sparkled in her gay caps, among the ribbons and roses; gems flashed on her withered hands; “tinkling ornaments, cauls, round tires like the moon, chains, and bracelets, and mufflers, bonnets and head-bands, and tablets, earrings and rings, changeable suits of apparel, mantles, and wimples, and crisping-pins, glasses, fine linen, hoods and veils,” figuratively speaking, the Prophet’s whole catalogue of a Judean toilette, was in requisition, with many modern inventions, at which a Judean maiden would have stood aghast, to make a vain old woman young again! O, miserable ambition!

Miss Elizabeth was large and masculine in all her proportions, with an ungraceful stoop in her shoulders, coarse and prominent features, staring blue eyes, a brilliant and exquisite complexion, and most unusually beautiful hair. Her manners were intended to be easy and nonchalant, while in truth, to the eyes of true refinement, they were unpardonably bold and rude. Miss Tyler had persuaded herself she was a wit, her sayings had sometimes occasioned so much laughter, and she delighted to use her fancied power everywhere, and on all occasions, shooting the shafts of her sarcasm and irony hither and thither without delicacy, civility, or mercy. She dressed gaudily and expensively, while her father drudged behind the counter of his “hardware and leather establishment,” early and late to support such enormous and unnecessary expenditures. She read novels “all night,” and was familiar with the fate of every hero and heroine, from those of Bulwer, Eugene Sue, and George Sand, down to the prettiest specimen of “yellow-covered literature” for sale in small retail beer-shops, or peddled in railroad cars by newsboys. She gloried in the unfeminine and unprincipled habit of laughing at and ridiculing people in their very presence, if their backs were turned, and especially country people; was strangely familiar with strangers; laughed and talked very loud in the streets, shops, and public conveyances, et cetera. Dear reader, I need not fill my outline more definitely; with a blush for the honor of my sex, I am compelled to admit there is more than one Elizabeth Tyler in “these degenerate days!”

Well, the next day after Mrs. Tyler and her daughter arrived Mrs. Varley gave a very extensive invitation to the ton of the village, to assemble at her house in the evening, to pay their respects and make the acquaintance of her most distinguished visiters. The invitation, of course, included Mr. Style, Mrs. Tower, and Jessie Lincoln, concerning whom they had unaccountably neglected to make any inquiries, strange as it may seem, when she was the object of such nervous anxiety.

From eight till nine, poor Charlotte sat on the sofa by the side of Miss Tyler, terribly dispirited, and eagerly watching for the announcement of the Rev. Mr. Style. Elizabeth rallied her in vain; she scarcely remembered to introduce her friend, and tried fruitlessly to be amused by Elizabeth’s coarse and unladylike satires on the really elegant company as they entered. By and by Charlotte and Elizabeth simultaneously started; Charlotte rose from her seat, and Miss Tyler suddenly seized her arm, as if to detain her till some surprise was explained, and leveled her quizzing-glass deliberately at a group who were that moment exchanging salutations with Mrs. Varley near the door.

“There is Mr. Style! that’s him! that splendid figure!” whispered Charlotte, who had neither eyes nor ears for any one else.

“Gracious, Charlotte Varley! what kind of company do you entertain, for mercy’s sake!” very audibly ejaculated Miss Tyler. “Upon my word, if there isn’t my mantuamaker, Jessie Lincoln, invited to a party to honor us, mamma! Isn’t that a pretty piece of impudence! Well, I did think you were genteel people, and decently aristocratic before—you Varleys!”

“Laud!” chimed the mamma, displaying her elegant row of porcelain, and fanning herself vigorously, “Who is the people that’s distinguished by such elustrious visiters as sewing-women, and takes ’em out into company? Don’t introduce us, Miss Varley!”

“Havn’t you got some tailoress girls, and school ma’ams stowed away somewhere, Lottie, that you are going to bring out, to give distinction to this mÉlange?” sneered Elizabeth, in a lower tone, with a most contemptuous smile, before Charlotte had time to recover from her confusion enough to apologize that the company was no more exclusively patrician.

“She is Mrs. Tower’s visiter,” stammered Charlotte, in a whisper, as Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth rose from the sofa, and majestically walked a little aside, lest the despised mantuamaker should approach near enough to make an introduction inevitable.

“A towering specimen she must be!” punned Elizabeth to Miss Emilie Jones, who had stood near the sofa, leaning on the arm of her brother. The blood mounted to Emilie’s forehead, in an angry flood, and the bitterest retort rushed with the speed of lightning to her lip.

“Hush, Emilie,” softly whispered her more prudent brother, as he saw the resentment of the insult to her friends, flashing in luminous sparkles from her black and brilliant eyes. “Silence is the ‘better part of valor’ just now, sister!”

Emilie darted from his side, and in a few minutes she had clustered a charming circle of ladies and gentlemen about Miss Lincoln, and by the most graceful and assiduous attentions, she sought to banish the cruel embarrassment and mortification Miss Tyler’s vulgar rudeness had occasioned, for Jessie had instantly recognized her, and guessed at the import of her contemptuous remarks, by the inquiring eyes that were immediately bent upon her, from the vicinity in which Miss Tyler had made her communications. She did not blush for the truth that she was poor, and had heretofore gained her livelihood by the labor of her hands, but the curious and somewhat disdainful glances which she felt were directed toward her, chafed her sensitiveness to its tenderest vitality. She did, indeed, shrink from the charge of intrusion and presumption, which she had no doubt many hearts were preferring against her, however politeness might for the moment peek to conceal it. Poor Jessie tried to appear composed as if nothing had happened to pain her, but she found her self-possession deserting her in her utmost need. The hand that rested on Emilie’s arm trembled—the great tears struggled into Jessie’s eyes—her cheeks glowed one moment with the heat of a fever, and the next her face was almost as colorless as the white dress she wore.

“Do take me to some less conspicuous place, Emilie,” she whispered, “this cruel scrutiny kills me.”

Emilie did as she was requested, and apparently without design, extricated her from the group around her, led her to a seat by an open window, and sat down by her, with so much sympathy and distress in her usually joyous face, that poor Jessie was quite overcome, and was obliged to screen herself with the curtain to conceal her irrepressible tears. As she took hold of the folds of the curtain, the massive drapery fell, and so rich and dark was the velvet, that it entirely concealed those within from those without, who were gayly promenading the piazza, or lingering listlessly in the moonlight.

Some movement diverted almost all the company from the room, and also from the piazza near the window where Jessie and Emilie were sitting, and the same movement gave Mr. Style an unobserved opportunity to join them. Emilie looked in his face—there was a sternness and resentment in its expression that puzzled her for a moment, it was so unlike him, but his first remark solved her difficulty at once.

“Don’t be so distressed, Miss Lincoln—it is not difficult to put the right interpretation—” and then he bit his lips to stay the wrathful thoughts that were clamoring for utterance. A gleam of delight illuminated Emilie’s eyes, and she involuntarily extended her hand to him, in token of her sympathy with all he had refrained from uttering.

“Ah!” she said, and the bitterest scorn was in her glance and tone, “you are a prudent man, I know, but I am a fearless and reckless being, and I shall take the liberty to read out the interpretation, you no doubt wisely repress.”

“No, no, dear Emilie,” expostulated Jessie, “I will beg Mrs. Tower to release me from my promise, and I will go where I shall not involve my generous friends in such painful and humiliating circumstances.”

“Never! Jessie Lincoln, never!” warmly remonstrated Emilie, “you shall?—”

She was interrupted by the sound of footfalls and smothered voices on the piazza without.

“I would not be an impertinent listener,” she said, “but I recognize Charlotte’s voice. Something of interest to you, Mr. Style, I presume, for I hear your name.”

The footsteps drew nearer, and the voices grew more clear and audible.

“Now we are alone, Elizabeth,” said Charlotte, “I must tell you my troubles. I had every reason to believe Mr. Style was in love with me—mamma says I had—and I have no doubt he was on the eve of a declaration, which would have made me the proudest and happiest creature in the world, when Mrs. Tower brought about the advent of that minx of a low-bred Jessie Lincoln, whose true place in the world you have been good enough to disclose. How I do despise her! I know Mrs. Tower got her here on purpose to foil me. They say she manages admirably to keep them together, and that Mistress Jessie is ready to dog him everywhere, and throw herself eternally in his way. And then that saucy Emilie Jones, my worst enemy, sustains her in it all, and helps it forward. I don’t know what ridiculous things that bewitched mantuamaker wont do to raise herself into genteel society, and save any more mantuamaking. But I declare, Elizabeth, I shall die without him! What shall I do? How shall I manage it? Come, you know?” Charlotte’s voice began to tremble as if she were in tears.

A crimson blush—but it was the blush of indignant innocence—burnt Jessie’s face, neck and arms. She rose to go, but Mr. Style, with contempt and disgust, and utter indignation battling with discretion for the mastery in every lineament of his face, gently drew her to a seat again.

“Do?” responded the heartless and unprincipled Elizabeth, “why, let me think. He does somehow seem to be a prize worth capturing, he is so stately and handsome. I am not sure, Lottie, but I shall come into the ranks to contend for him myself, ha! ha! ha! At least you could afford me the pleasure of a flirtation, just while I stay! I would not snap my finger, however, for a little obscure country parson for a husband! Well, I guess you must manage to get some story into currency, that will give her an impulse back to her patterns and fashion-plates, and make him a chance to forget such a very meek and meaching face, and sanctimonious demeanor; but mind you, don’t mention your authority. I shall be terribly angry if you do, for these sewing-girls get possession of a great many things they might circulate to one’s disadvantage you know—and they are so touchy and jealous, they are really a very mischievous class of persons. But let me tell you a fact. I lost a splendid bracelet that cost me forty dollars at one dress-maker’s! I will not mention her name, but you can make your own inferences!” And Elizabeth Tyler and Charlotte Varley maliciously giggled.

“I may draw mine too, may I not?” said Emilie Jones, as she sprang to her feet, with dashing eyes and indignation burning in every feature. Thrusting aside the drapery, she presented herself on the piazza, with an air as imperial as a second Zenobia defending the honor of her Palmyra. But the offending parties had hastily retreated, and mingled with the other guests who were returning from a stroll in the beautiful garden, which was gayly enough illuminated to be the trysting-place of Houries.

“Be calm, Jessie—Miss Lincoln,” said Mr. Style, as he drew her unresisting arm within his own. “Such malice always works ruin to those who cherish it.”

Jessie’s wounded heart fluttered strangely. The cruel and unprovoked injustice she suffered, awoke her pride, and made her stronger in body and spirit, while the mingling of the champion and the lover in Mr. Style’s tone and manner reassured her, and restored her self-possession. He placed her by the side of Mrs. Tower, who was chatting agreeably, wholly ignorant that any thing had occurred to disturb or distress Jessie, then attached himself to one and another circle, as he saw their entertainment flagging, and at length he found himself by the side of Miss Charlotte and her friend.

“Really, Mr. Style,” said Charlotte, as she laid her small, fair hand on his arm, and looked up languidly in his face; “you have been so choice of yourself or so democratic to-night, I have hardly seen you at all. Now it is your duty as a knight-errant, to make yourself agreeable to my dearest friend, Miss Tyler.”

Mr. Style was disgusted almost to loathing, and in his soul he shrunk from the false and deceitful woman, whose deliberate wickedness and folly his own senses had so unwillingly attested. But he gallantly bowed in obedience to Charlotte’s familiar challenge, and addressed something very common-place to Miss Tyler. She was transformed in a moment, and became all vivacity, and wit, and life. She joked and frolicked, and laughed till the attention of the company was attracted, and poor Charlotte began to be most cruelly jealous. Indeed, so entirely did Miss Tyler attach herself to Mr. Style, that emancipation was hopeless for the remainder of the evening. At a late hour the guests departed; and painful, indeed, were the disclosures Jessie made to Mrs. Tower, of the misery and mortification she had endured so innocently.

“Do let me go to-morrow, dear Mrs. Tower, my mother; I can never endure that the humbleness of my station should expose you to reproach like this.”

“No, Jessie,” replied Mrs. Tower, as she drew the weeping girl to her bosom. “You are my own daughter now, and by an instrument legally attested, no longer dependent on your own exertions, but my chosen and acknowledged heiress. It is no reproach to you, my dearest child, among those whose true elevation of mind and character places them above the necessity of those artificial props, which are always called to sustain assumption—that you were reared under the clouds of misfortune, or that your own hands supported an invalid father and mother. Jessie, I honor you for it, and the gift of a fortune is but a trifling reward. Say no more about leaving me—you cannot and you must not do it. Leave this matter all to my ‘elder wisdom,’ and forget it in the repose your mind and body need.”

——