  Florence May was, indeed, a bewitching little widow—only eighteen, and with nearly half a million of dollars in her rosy little palm. The evening star bursting through a cloud was not more bright than were her eyes twinkling through the veil of sable crape, or if perchance some saucy zephyr brushed aside the envious weed, what charming flowers were thereby disclosed—what tempting roses and lilies, and sweet, blue violets, all bathed in the golden sunshine of her glittering tresses. Ah, yes—and then the golden sunshine of those glittering guineas—truly was she not a most adorable widow! And never was a poor little widow so tormented with lovers since the world began. Dingle, dingle, dingle, quoth the door-bell incessantly; tap, tap, tap, urged the maid at the entrance of her private sitting-room, until the poor child wearied of shaking her little head, and uttering a “No!” to their various demands for admittance. With cards, and tender billet-doux, her tables were overburthened, while pluming themselves upon their relationship, the seven cousins and nephews intruded without ceremony into her presence, eyeing each other with jealous defiance, and snarling and snapping like a parcel of angry lap-dogs. “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” “I do bite my thumb, sir.” “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” “No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir—but I bite my thumb, sir.” The neighborhood were kept alive with surmises as to who would win the rich heiress, daily expecting to see a gay wedding party issuing forth, in contrast to the gloomy funereal spectacle so lately before them. Yet weeks and months rolled on uneventful. What could it mean? Was the widow crazy or bewitched? How could she remain so unconcerned when her fortune was at stake! Day after day was poverty stealthily drawing nearer, in as much as she still neglected to fulfill the terms on which her fortune rested, and yet she moved about as careless and indifferent as though the comforts and elegancies which surrounded her were unconditionally hers—what a strange creature she must be! It was thus reasoned the “lookers on in Venice.” Six months of widowhood were passed. Florence was still unmarried; and once more the relatives took heart against despair, and golden visions mingled in their day-dreams. Her obstinacy was to them inexplicable—for they knew upon the separate assurances of the several nephews and cousins that she had had unexceptionable offers, and if from those choice specimens of man she could not select a husband, why, of course, they had reason to hope she never would be married. Such was the state of affairs, when one day Florence received the following note, written in an unknown hand, accompanied with a bouquet of beautiful flowers: “Madam,—I have seen you, and who that has once looked upon you but must adore you! I dare not approach you, nor would I mingle with the throng of flatterers around you. Enough for me to worship at a distance, and to guard with my whole soul that treasure which may never be mine. My life I would willingly lay at your feet, but there are important reasons why you should not know me. Of one thing, madam, rest assured, you have a friend who will secretly watch over you, and guard you from every danger.” Upon a mind so artless as that of Florence, this singular note, which was without signature, produced a very pleasing influence, and excited a lively interest for the unknown writer. The idea of possessing such a friend inspired her with a degree of confidence such as she had not known since the death of her husband. Nor to that one note did the unknown limit his attentions—they were manifested in various ways. Ofttimes in the sweet language of flowers they were spoken—or to her little boudoir some rare and exquisite painting found its way. Books, too, with penciled margins, all evincing a pure and elegant perception; music, which, when awakened by her fingers, breathed the very spirit of melody; and when from the same unknown hand there came a beautiful cage, whence the tiny warbler trilled forth in sweetest notes her favorite airs, Florence was lost in amazement. Who, then, was this mysterious person who so well understood her tastes, and who was thus ever studying her happiness? The note had stated: “There are important reasons why you should not know me.” And Florence was possessed of too much delicacy, and had too much respect for the writer of the note to seek to penetrate the mystery. Yet by the use which she made of his gifts, her silent thanks to the donor were expressed, and insensibly yielding to the delightful associations they called forth, she felt as if some kind guardian was ever near shielding her from evil. Oft amid the rich braids of her hair those fragrant flowers were intertwined, or rested above a heart not less pure than themselves. The books acquired a new interest that other eyes had dwelt also upon their pages; and never did her fingers so skillfully or so tenderly touch the keys, as when before her was the It was now that chance brought her acquainted with a person whom we must allow to introduce himself to the reader by the following letter: “From Charles Crayford to his friend, Hastings. “I am in luck, my dear fellow; give me joy, for Fortune, blessed goddess, hath at length wafted me to the favor of wealth and beauty. ’Pon my soul, I know not which I am the most in love with, the person or the fortune of the divinity. Her name is May—Florence May. She is a widow—a young, blooming, bewitching widow, with half a million at her own free disposal, and, happily, without a relative in the world, or jealous guardian to cavil about disparity of fortune, or pry into secrets. “‘But how—and when—and where—did you meet your divinity?’ you ask. Listen, then, and admire my policy. “Passing down Chestnut street in a somewhat moralizing vein—unheeding the light forms and bright eyes flitting past me, and coining some new device to elude the importunities of my landlady and tailor, when, just as I reached the Washington House, the whole moving multitude came to a sudden halt—the cause of which I never even thought to ascertain—for “more attractive metal” at that moment drew my attention. On the steps of the hotel, my “‘Will you buy my flowers?’ said the child to a fashionably dressed lady—‘Will you buy my flowers—only a fip.’ “‘Really,’ exclaimed the fine lady, taking no notice whatever of the gentle voice and beseeching looks of the little girl—‘these genteel beggars are an insufferable nuisance!’ “‘Will you buy my flowers?’ again asked the child of a pompous old gentleman, who stood pulling and vaporing before me—‘Buy my flowers, sir?’ “‘Out of the way—quick—be off—or I will have you taken up for a vagrant!’ cried the pompous gentleman, elevating his gold-headed cane and shaking it over her head. Hastings, you should have seen the bright glow of indignation which flushed the cheeks of my charmer as this rude speech met her ear! My good genius nudged my elbow, and prompted me to pity the poor child. ‘Come here, my dear, and I will buy your flowers,’ I said. The frightened little girl sprung quickly to my side and looked imploringly up in my face. ‘And where do you live?’ I continued, confident that the eyes of the fair one were upon me, and taking out my tablets, I affected to note down her answer—then slipping some money into her hand, (what improvidence you will say,) I added—‘Keep the flowers, my poor child, perhaps you can sell them again.’ ’Pon my soul, the look of approbation which beamed from her eyes, as mine casually glanced toward the beautiful unknown, would have melted the heart of a miser to compassion. The crowd now began to move. In passing the little flower-girl my divinity endeavored to slip some money into her hand, but in the confusion and press of the moment it fell upon the pavement. I quickly picked it up and gave it to the child, and—lucky dog—received a bow of thanks and a sweet smile as my reward. Now mark the continued favors of the jade Fortune. That very evening, I don’t know what tempted me to call upon those prosy, clever people the Livermores, and there who should I meet but the same bewitching fair one. Ah, Hastings, ‘there is a divinity that shapes our ends;’ have I not proved it to you? I saw at once she recognized me as the hero of the morning’s adventure, and having then made my appearance in the character of excellence, I now topped the same part to perfection. I found her as far superior in mental as in personal charms to those around her, and when my hostess whispered me that she was also the uncontrolled mistress of a fortune, my heart melted at once—in the crucible of Mammon! The next day I took the liberty to call upon her, and was most graciously received, and have been a frequent visiter since. You should hear my conversation, Hastings—you would discredit the evidence of your senses. I affect morality and virtue—quote Cowper and Milton, and hint at charities committed sub-rosa. Think of becoming the husband of such a young, pretty dove-eyed creature—ay, and to husband the money, too, instead of marrying age and deformity for the sake of the gilding! By the way, I find my fair one wastes her fortune prodigiously upon paupers and charitable institutions. I shall look after this by and by; in the meantime, I am willing she should consider me a pattern of disinterested goodness. Yours, C. Crayford.” —— |
|
