  MOUNT PROSPECT INSTITUTE, WEST BLOOMFIELD, N. J. A. E. Chalon, R.A. W. H. Egleton MIRROR OF BEAUTY. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XXXVI. April, 1850. No. 4. Table of Contents Fiction, Literature and Articles Poetry, Music, and Fashion Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, April, 1850. No. 4. “The shower is past, the birds renew their songs, And sweetly through its tears the landscape smiles.” “April,” says the author of the “Fairie Queene,” “is Spring—the juvenile of the months, and the most feminine—never knowing her own mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover; toying it with the young sun till he withdraws his beams from her, and then weeping till she gets them back again.” April is frequently a very sweet and genial month, partly because it ushers in the May, and partly for its own sake. It is to May and June what “sweet fifteen,” in the age of woman, is to the passion-stricken eighteen, and perfect two-and-twenty. It is to the confirmed Summer, what the previous hope of joy is to the full fruition—what the boyish dream of love is to love itself. It is, indeed, the month of promises—and what are twenty performances compared with one promise? April, then, is worth two Mays, because it tells tales of May in every sigh that it breathes, and every tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger, the herald, the promise, the prophecy, the foretaste of all the beauties that are to follow it—of all and more—of all the delights of Summer, and all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious Autumn.” It is fraught with beauties itself, which no other month can bring before us. “When proud, pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.” It is one sweet alternation of smiles, and sighs, and tears—and tears, and sighs, and smiles—till all is consummated at last in the open laughter of May. April weather is proverbial for a mixture of the bright and gloomy. The pleasantness of the sunshiny days, with the delightful view of fresh greens and newly opened flowers, is unequaled; but they are frequently overcast with clouds, and chilled by rough, wintry blasts. This month, the most perfect image of Spring — “Looks beautiful as when an infant is waking From its slumbers;” and the vicissitudes of warm gleams of sunshine and gentle showers, have the most powerful effects in hastening the universal springing of vegetation, whence the season derives its appellation. The influence of the equinoctial storms frequently prevailing, causes much unpleasant weather; its opening is— “Mindful of disaster past, And shrinking at the northern blast, The sleety storm returning still, The morning hoar, the evening chill: Reluctant comes the timid Spring, Scarce a bee, with airy ring, Murmurs the blossomed boughs around That clothe the garden’s southern bound; Scarce a sickly, straggling flower Decks the rough castle’s rifted tower; Scarce the hardy ivy peeps From the dark dell’s entangled steeps, Fringing the forests devious edge, Half-robed, appears the privet hedge, Or to the distant eye displays, Weakly green, its budding sprays.” An ancient writer beautifully describes one of those bright, transient showers which prevail at this season. Away to that sunny nook, for the thick shower Rushes on strikingly: ay, now it comes, Glancing about the leaves with its first dips, Like snatches of faint music. Joyous bird, It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time To thy warbling notes. Now it louder falls, Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills; And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps With a crash of many sounds; the thrush is still, There are sweet scents around us; the flow’ret hides, On that green bank, beneath the leaves; The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds, And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses. And now the shower slopes to the warm west, Leaving a dewy track; and see, the big drops, Like falling pearls, glisten in the sunny mist. The air is clear again, and the far woods Shine out in their early green. Let’s onward, then, For the first blossoms peep about the path; The lambs are nibbling the short, dripping grass, And the birds are on the bushes. The month of April not unfrequently introduces us to the chimney or house-swallow, known by its long, forked tail and red breast. At first, here and there only one appears glancing quickly by us, as if scarcely able to endure the cold, which Warton beautifully describes — The swallow for a moment seen, Skims in haste the village green. But in a few days their number is much increased, and they sport with seeming pleasure in the warm sunshine. Along the surface of the winding stream, Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim, Or round the borders of the spacious lawn, Fly in repeated circles, rising o’er Hillock and fence with motion serpentine, Easy and light. One snatches from the ground A downy feather, and then upward springs, Followed by others, but oft drops it soon, In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, When all at once dart at the falling prize. As these birds live on insects, their appearance is a certain proof that some of this minute tribe of animals have ventured from their winter abodes. Thomson thus describes this busy month among the feathered tribes — Some to the holly-hedge Nestling repair, and to the thicket some; Some to the rude protection of the thorn Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree Offers its kind concealment to a few, Their food its insects, and its moss their nests. Others apart, far in the grassy dale, Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave; But most in woodland solitudes delight, In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks, Steep, and divided by a babbling brook, Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day, When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots Of hazel, pendent o’er the plaintive stream, They frame the first foundation of their domes; Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid, And bound with clay together. Now ’tis naught But restless hurry through the busy air, Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps The slimy pool, to build the hanging house Intent. And often, from the careless back Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved, Steal from the barn a straw, till soft and warm, Clean and complete, their habitation grows. Another celebrated poet completes the picture: — The cavern-loving wren sequestered seeks The verdant shelter of the hollow stump; And with congenial moss, harmless deceit, Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs The oriole, and the hoarse-voiced crow, Rocked by the storm, erect their airy nests. The ousel, long frequenter of the grove Of fragrant pines, in solemn depth of shade, Finds rest. Or mid the holly’s shining leaves, A simple bush, the piping thrush contents; Though in the woodland contest, he, aloft, Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain, And scorns the humble quire. The wood-lark asks A lowly dwelling, hid beneath some tuft, Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof: Songster beloved! who to the sun such lays Pours forth as earth ne’er owns. Within the boughs The sparrow lays her spotted eggs. The barn, With eaves o’er-pendent, holds the chattering tribe. Secret the linnet seeks the tangled wood, The white owl seeks some antique ruined wall, Fearless of rapine; or in hollow trees, Which age has caverned, safely courts repose. The velvet jay, in pristine colors clad, Weaves her curious nest with firm-wreathed twigs, And sidelong forms her cautious door; she dreads The taloned hawk, or pouncing eagle, Herself, with craft suspicion ever dwells. As the singing of birds is the voice of courtship and conjugal love, the concerts of the groves begin to fill all with their various melody. In England the return of the nightingale in the spring is hailed with much joy; he sings by day as well as night; but in the daytime his voice is drowned in the multitude of performers; in the evening it is heard alone, whence the poets have always made the song of the nightingale a nocturnal serenade. The author of the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” thus beautifully describes an April night, and the song of this siren: — All is still, A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the nightingale begins his song; He crowds, and hurries, and precipitates, With fast, thick warble, his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburden his full soul Of all his music! I know a grove, Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, Which the great lord inhabits not; and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up; and grass, Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the paths; But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales. And far and near, In wood and thicket o’er the wide grove, They answer and provoke each other’s songs — With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift—jug, jug! And one low, piping sound, more sweet than all, Stirring the air with such a harmony That, should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lifts up her love-torch. Oft a moment’s space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky With one sensation, and those wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if one quick and sodden gale had swept An hundred airy harps! And I have watched Many a nightingale perched giddily On blossoming twig, still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song, Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. Milton, too, in the first of his sonnets, has a beautiful address to this success portending songster: O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, While hours lead on the laughing month of May, Thou with fresh hopes the lover’s heart dost fill. The fishes are now inspired by the same enlivening influence which acts upon the rest of animated Nature, and in consequence, again offer themselves as a prey to the art of the angler, who returns to his usual haunt. “Beneath a willow long forsook, The fisher seeks his ’customed nook; And bursting through the crackling sedge That crowns the current’s caverned edge, He startles from the bordering wood The bashful wild-ducks early brood.” A considerable number of plants flower in this month, which Bloomfield beautifully describes. Neglected now the early daisy lies, Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom’st the only prize, Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad Flowers of all hues with sweetest fragrance stored, Where’er she treads Love gladdens every plain, Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train; Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies, Anticipating wealth for Summer skies. In particular, many of the fruit-bearing trees and shrubs, the flowers of which are peculiarly termed blossoms. These form a most agreeable spectacle, as well on account of their beauty, as of the promise they give of future benefits. “What exquisite differences and distinctions, and resemblances,” exclaims Warton, “there are between all the various blossoms of the fruit-trees; and no less in their general effect, than in their separate details. “The almond-blossom which comes first of all, and while the tree is quite bare of leaves, is of a bright blush-rose color; and when they are fully blown, the tree, if it has been kept to a compact head, instead of being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose, magnified by some fairy magic, to deck the bosom of some fair giantess. The various lands of plum follow, the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and clustering as those of the almond. The peach and nectarine, which are now preparing to put forth their blossoms, are unlike either of the above; and their sweet effect, as if growing out of the bare wall or rough wooden paling, is peculiarly pretty. They are of a deep blush color, and of a delicate bell-shape; the lips, however, divided and turning backward, to expose the interior to the cherishing sun. But, perhaps, the bloom that is richest, and most promising in its general appearance, is that of the cherry, clasping its white honors all around the long, straight branches, from heel to point, and not letting a leaf or bit of stem be seen, except the three or four leaves that come as a green finish at the extremity of each branch. The blossoms of the pears, and, loveliest of all, the apples, do not come in perfection till next month.” It is, however, an anxious time for the possessor, as the fairest prospect of a plentiful increase is often blighted. Shakspeare draws a pathetic comparison from this circumstance, to paint the delusive nature of human expectations: This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost! And Milton beautifully uses the same simile: Abortive as the first-born bloom of Spring, Nipped with the lagging rear of Winter’s frost. Herrick indulges in the following “fond imaginings” to blossoms: Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do you fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
What! were ye born to be An hour and half’s delight, And so to bid good-night? ’Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite!
But your lovely leaves where we, May read how soon things have Their end, though ne’er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you away to glide Into the grave. The poet of the Seasons gives delightful utterance to the aspirations of many a bosom at this inspiring season: Now from the town, Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields, Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk; Or taste the smell of daisy; or ascend Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, And see the country far diffused around, One boundless blush of white empurpled shower Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye Hurries from joy to joy, and hid beneath The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. The farmer is busied in sowing early sorts of grain and seeds for fodder, for which purpose dry weather is most suitable, though plentiful showers, at due intervals, are desirable for feeding the young grass and springing seeds: “The work is done, no more to man is given, The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven; Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around, And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground; In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun, His tufted barley yellow with the sun, Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store, And all his harvest gathered around his door.” OR THE PEARL IN THE OYSTER. ——— BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. ——— “The pearl in ocean’s cavern lies, The feather floats upon the wave.”
Kate Lorimer was neither a beauty, a wit, nor an heiress: she was only one of those many commonplace young ladies, who are “brought out” every winter to laugh, dance and flirt, for a season or two, then to marry, and fulfill their destiny by immuring themselves in a nursery for the rest of their lives. So said the world—but for once that many-eyed and many-tongued gossip was mistaken. Kate was very unlike most young ladies. With her Juno-like figure, and fine, though somewhat massive, features, there needed only a careful study of the mysteries of the toilet to make her appear what dandies call “a splendid woman.” But Kate, though in reality she was neatness itself, generally seemed but one degree removed from a sloven; so careless was she respecting the color, make, and adjustment of her clothes. Then she had what Shakspeare calls “a very pretty wit,” a certain shrewdness of intellect, and a quiet sense of the ridiculous, which wanted only the piquant sauce of boldness and ill-nature to make her what the witlings in primrose kids would style “bre-i-lliant.” But Kate was equally indifferent to her own looks and manners. She seemed like a kind of human machine, moved by some invisible springs, at the volition of others, but by no positive will of her own. What, you will ask, was the secret of this cold abstraction in a young and not ungifted girl? There was no mystery about it; Kate was only one of the many instances of “a candle placed in the wrong socket,” as my poor friend —— used to say. She was one of a large family, but she was neither the oldest—the first inheritor of parental love—nor the youngest—the recipient of its fond dotage. Her elder brother, a tall, graceful youth, was the pride of both father and mother, and whatever privileges Kate might have claimed as the first of the troop of damsels who chattered their days away in the nursery and school-room, they were entirely forgotten in favor of the second daughter, who chanced to be extremely beautiful. The fact was that Kate occupied a most insignificant position between a conceited oldest son and a sister who was a belle. Her brother Tom’s sententiousness overwhelmed her and crushed her into nonentity, while Louisa’s beauty and vivacity threw her completely into the shade. At her very first entrance into society, Kate felt that she had only a subordinate part to play, and there was a certain inertness of character about her, which made her quietly adopt the habits befitting her inferior position. Her mother, a handsome, stylish woman, with an easiness of temper which won affection but not respect from her children, and a degree of indolence which sadly interfered with the regularity of her household—sometimes fretted a little at Kale’s sluggishness, and wished she was a little less “lumpish” at a party. But there was a repose in Kate’s manner, which, upon the whole, Mrs. Lorimer rather liked, as it effectually prevented any rivalry between the two sisters. Aunt Bell, a somewhat precise, but sensible old maid, was the only one who was seriously dissatisfied. She remembered Kate’s ambition as a schoolgirl; she preserved among her most precious mementoes all Kate’s “prizes,” “rewards of merit,” etc. And she could not conceive why this enthusiasm and eagerness for distinction should have died away so suddenly and so completely. Aunt Bell suspected something of the truth, but even she, who loved Kate better than any body in the world, could not know the whole truth. Kate Lorimer was like one of those still, quiet mountain lakes, which at one particular spot are said to be unfathomable, but whether because they are so deep, or because a wonderfully strong under-current carries away the line and plummet in its descent, is never clearly ascertained by those who skim over the surface of the sleepy waters. Almost every one liked her; that is, they felt that negative kind of liking which all persons have for a quiet, good-humored sort of a body, who is never in the way. At a crowded party Kate always gave up her place in the quadrille if there was a want of room on the floor; if beaux were scarce, Kate was quite content to talk to some frowsy old lady in a corner; if a pair of indefatigable hands were required to play interminable waltzes and polkas, Kate’s long white fingers seemed unwearied; in short, Kate never thought of herself, because she honestly believed she was not worth anybody’s thinking about. Was she so inordinately humble as to set no value upon herself? Not exactly that; but she had so high a standard of excellence in her own soul, and was so conscious of her utter inability to attain to that standard, that she grew to feel a species of contempt for herself, and therefore she neglected herself, not as a penance, but because she would not waste thought or time upon any thing appertaining to herself. No one understood poor Kate, and of course nobody appreciated her. When she spent hours in dressing her beautiful sister for a ball, and then twisting up her own fine hair in a careless knot, and slipping on a plain white dress, was ready in ten minutes to accompany the belle to the gay scene where she knew she could never shine, people only called her slovenly and careless, but gave her no credit for the generous affection which could lavish decorations on another, and be content through a whole evening “to hear Praise of a sister with unwounded ear.” When she refused invitations to parties that she might stay at home and nurse Aunt Bell through a slow fever, people said—“She is so indolent, she is glad of an excuse to avoid the trouble of going out.” No one knew that she was not too indolent to watch through the long hours of night beside the sick-bed of the invalid, while her lovely sister was sleeping off the fatigues of the dance. When she gave up a gay season at the Springs, rather than disappoint her old grandmother, who had set her heart upon a visit from one of the sisters—when she spent a long, dull summer in a hot country-house, with no other companions than Aunt Bell and the infirm old lady, and no other amusement than could be found in a book-case full of Minerva-Press novels, then people—those wonderfully knowing people—again said, “Kate Lorimer is turning her indolence to account, and will earn a legacy out of it;” while the fact was, neither Aunt Bell nor grandmother had a cent in the world beyond their life-interest in their old country home. “If Louisa makes an engagement this winter, I think I shall hurry Ella’s education a little, so as to bring her out next season;” said Mrs. Lorimer to her husband, during one of those “curtain conferences” which are quite the opposite to “curtain lectures.” “Why should you do that? You will have Kate still to provide for, and Ella will be all the more attractive for another year’s study,” was the reply of the calculating though kind father. “Oh, Kate is a hopeless case; she will never be married, she is too indifferent; no man will take a fancy to a girl who at the first introduction shows by her manner that she does not care what he thinks of her.” “Then you think Kate is one of the ‘predestinate old maids?’ ” “I am afraid so.” “Well, Kate is a good child, and we shall want one of the girls to keep house for us when we grow old; so I don’t know that we need regret it much.” “You don’t consider the mortification of bringing out two daughters at a time and having one left on hand, like a bale of unsaleable goods, while such a woman as that vulgar Mrs. Dobbs has married her four red-headed frights in two seasons.” “How was that done?” “Oh! by management; but then the girls were as anxious as the mother, and helped themselves along. As to Kate, I don’t believe she would take the trouble to walk across the room in order to secure the best match in the country.” “She certainly is very indifferent, but she seems perfectly contented.” “Yes, that is the trouble; she is perfectly satisfied to remain a fixture, although she knows that she will have to rank with the ‘antiques’ as soon as I begin to bring out her four younger sisters.” “Perhaps it would be better to bring out Ella next winter,” sighed the father. “Yes, Ella is lively and fresh-looking, and during the festivities which will follow Louisa’s wedding, she can slip into her place in society without the expense of a ‘coming-out’ party.” “You speak as if Louisa’s marriage were a settled thing.” “Because she can have her choice now of half a dozen, and by the time the season is over she will probably decide.” “Well, under your guidance, she is not likely to make an imprudent choice.” “I hope not. To tell you the truth, I am waiting for one more declaration, and then there will be no more delay,” said the mother. “Has she not admirers enough?” “Yes, but if she can secure young Ferrers it will be worth waiting.” “What! Clarence Ferrers? Why, he is worth almost half a million; is he an admirer of Louisa’s?” “He is a new acquaintance, and seems very much struck with her beauty; but he is an odd creature, and seems to pride himself upon differing from all the rest of the world; we shall see what will happen. One thing only is certain, Louisa will be married before the year is out, and Kate will, I think, resign herself to old-maidism with a very good grace.” And having come to this conclusion, the two wise-acres composed themselves to sleep. Clarence Ferrers, so honorably mentioned by Mr. Lorimer as “worth half a million,” was a gentleman of peculiar tastes and habits. His father died while he was yet a boy, and he had struggled with poverty and hardship while acquiring the education which his talents deserved, and which his ambition demanded. He had stooped his pride to labor, and he had learned to submit to want, but he had never bowed himself to bear the yoke of dependence. Alone he had toiled, alone he had struggled, alone he had won success. His mother had been the first to encourage his youthful genius, and to plant the seeds of honorable ambition within his soul. He had loved her with an almost idolatrous affection, and when he saw her eking out by the labors of the needle the small annuity which secured her from starvation, in order that he might devote all his own little stipend as a teacher to his own education, he felt that gratitude and love alike required him to persevere until success should reward the mother by crowning the son. There is something ennobling and hallowing in such a tie as that which existed between Mrs. Ferrers and Clarence. A gentle, humble-minded woman herself, she was ambitious that her son should be good and great. She knew the benumbing effect of poverty upon the soul, but she took care that the genial warmth of affection should counteract its evil influences upon the gifted mind of her darling son. She was his friend, his counselor, his sympathizing companion, sharing all his hopes, his aspirations, his pleasures, and his sorrows, as only a true-hearted and loving woman can do. Long ere he reached the years of mature manhood the bond between mother and son had been made stronger than death; and, alas! far more enduring than life. Mrs. Ferrers lived to see Clarence occupying a position of honor and usefulness as professor in one of our most distinguished colleges. Her death left him a lonely and desolate man, for so close had been their communion, so thorough had been their mutual sympathy, that he had never till then felt the need of another friend. But in the enthusiasm of his deep and fervent love, he felt that he was not dissevered by the hand of death; and many an hour did he hold converse in his secret soul with the “spirit-mother,” whom he felt to be ever near him. Clarence Ferrers had counted his thirtieth summer, when an old great-uncle, who had suffered him to struggle with poverty during all his early years, without stretching forth a finger to sustain him, died very suddenly, leaving behind him an immense fortune, which he distributed by will, among some dozen charitable associations, whose very names he had never heard until they were suggested by his lawyer, and making not the slightest mention of his nephew. Luckily for him, the will was unexecuted, and the neglected Clarence learned that, as heir-at-law, he was entitled to the whole of his miserly uncle’s hoarded wealth. Years had passed since Clarence had even seen the old man; and he certainly owed him no gratitude for the gift which would have been withheld from him if death had not been more cruel even than avarice. But Clarence was not a man to feel selfishly on any subject. One hundred thousand dollars, the fifth part of his newly-acquired fortune, was distributed among the charities named in the will, thus fulfilling the supposed wish of the deceased. With another large portion he endowed a “Home for Poor Gentlewomen,” as a tribute to the memory of his mother, whose life had been one of struggle and care for want of such “a home” in the early days of her widowhood. Then, after liberally providing for all who had any claims upon the old miser, he placed his affairs in the hands of a trusty agent, and sailed for Europe. Clarence Ferrers set out upon his travels with no fixed purpose, except that of acquiring knowledge of all kinds, and of compelling occupation of mind to quiet yearnings of the heart. Eight years elapsed ere he revisited his native land. During that time he had explored every part of Europe, treading the greensward of its by-ways, no less than the dust of its high-roads. From the islands of the Archipelago to the most northerly part of Russia, he had traveled, commanding respect by his scientific attainments, receiving attentions every where for his courtly elegance of manner, winning love wherever he went by his suavity and kindness. Then to the East, that land of sacred memories, he turned his steps; Egypt, the land of mystery, too, was not forgotten, and when Clarence returned to his own country, he bore with him treasures of learning and wisdom from every land where the footsteps of man had trod. Yet was he as modest as he was learned, and few would have suspected that the quiet, gentlemanlike person, whose tall figure bent so gracefully over some timid girl at the piano, or who so carefully escorted some old lady to the supper-room at a party, was the celebrated traveler and man of world-known science. Such was the man whom Mr. Lorimer pronounced to be “WORTH half a million!” I have sketched him at some length, because this is no fancy portrait, and memory has been faithful to her trust in thus enabling me to trace, though but in faint and shadowy outline, the noble character of one of God’s noblest creatures. But all this time I have forgotten poor Kate Lorimer. She would have thought it strange that she ever should be remembered, especially when Clarence Ferrers was in one’s mind. Kate had seen Clarence Ferrers introduced to her beautiful sister, and had felt a glow of pleasure as she marked his look of genuine admiration. She had listened to words of graceful compliment, so unlike the vapid flattery of others. She had heard the tones of that thrilling voice, whose musical accents had been able to move alike the wild Arab, and the wilder Cossack, by their melody. She sat alone in the only shadowy corner of a gay and crowded saloon, but she would not have exchanged places with the most flattered and courted of the guests; for she could listen unobserved to the gifted traveler, and look unnoticed upon his expressive countenance. She had heard of him from childhood; for Aunt Bell had been one of Mrs. Ferrers’ earliest friends, and the story of his early struggles, his devoted love for his mother, and his subsequent good fortune, had been one of Aunt Isabel’s favorite themes. But he was a man when Kate was still in the nursery, and was but a shy girl of fourteen when, as she remembered, he called to pay his farewell visit to his mother’s friend previous to his departure. To the unappreciated girl, living in the midst of an ungenial though not unhealthy moral atmosphere, the picture of perfect sympathy and affection, as it had existed between the gentle mother and her gifted son, was one which, unconsciously, left its reflection within her soul, and became a sort of ideal to her half-developed nature. She did not retain the slightest remembrance of his actual appearance, but so vivid an image of his mental and moral gifts was traced upon her memory, that she felt she needed not the intercourse of social life to make her know him better. Yet as the beauty and vivacity of her sister attracted him closer to her side, it was impossible for Kate, with all her shyness, to avoid becoming acquainted with him; and it sometimes happened that when the beautiful Louisa was led off to the dance by one of her host of admirers, she would leave Kate to entertain Mr. Ferrers till her return, thus flattering him by her evident desire to retain his society, and, at the same time securing him from all rival belles. Clarence Ferrers was now eight-and-thirty, an age when a man, however gifted, will not be insensible to the evident admiration of a very young and extremely pretty woman. He was still a fine looking man, but he was no longer youthful in his appearance. His teeth were fine, and his eyes, those soft, bright, tender eyes, were as beautiful as in boyhood, when his mother loved nothing so well as to kiss those full, heavily-fringed lids for the sake of the beaming look which rewarded the caress. But Clarence had not escaped the touch of Time; his luxuriant locks were thinned, and the silver threads were mingled among those dark chestnut curls. He appeared full as old as he really was; but who could look on his magnificent brow, watch the play of his flexible lips, or listen to the tones of his exquisite voice, and think of the ravages of Time? Kate Lorimer was one of the best listeners in the world. There was a certain negligent ease with which she inclined herself toward the speaker, and a look of quiet attention on her countenance which always gratified the self-love of those who conversed with her. To be sure, in nine cases out of ten, this pleasant manner arose only from her indolent good humor, which found a kind of luxurious repose in the monotonous hum of a busy talker. But when listening to Clarence Ferrers, (for she seldom talked with him, except as much as common politeness required,) Kate soon found that his conversation did not afford her a mere cushion for mental repose. Not that Clarence dealt much in the marvelous, or excelled much in narration, although he abounded in illustrative anecdotes and reminiscences on every subject; but he had the art—so rare and so delightful—of waking up every faculty in the mind of those with whom he conversed. He imparted knowledge in such a manner as to make his hearer feel as if the ideas were his own, and the corroborative facts only were the results of the traveler’s observation. Yet he was no flatterer, he only, as I said before, had the power of arousing and stimulating the intellect of his hearers. If Clarence Ferrers had been at first struck with the extreme beauty of Louisa, he was not less sensible to the “surprises of sudden joy” with which he beheld the dawning of Kate’s peculiar qualities of character. Her moral nature he had read at a glance, and it inspired him with respect and esteem, but her intellectual being, which was a mystery even to herself, became a study to the man of science and research. There was so much freshness of thought in her hitherto slumbering mind; such clearness of perception when she was unconsciously led to exercise her mental vision; such harmony of movement between the reasoning and the imaginative faculty, that Clarence became daily more interested in the “lumpish” Kate, despite the attractions of her beautiful sister. “Mamma, I do not believe I can put off Frank Dormer any longer; he is desperately in love, and determined to make a declaration,” said Louisa, one morning, as she sat assisting Kate to trim a ball-dress with which she expected to charm all eyes. “It would be a pity to lose so rich and generous an admirer, Lou,” was the reply of the prudent mother. “But suppose I should accept him, mamma?” “That you would not do; Frank Dormer is only rich in expectancy, while Clarence Ferrers has both wealth and fame.” “I like Frank best;” said the young lady, coolly. “My dear Louisa, have you lost your senses?” “No, madam; but you may as well let me tell you now, that, for all his fortune, I would not marry Clarence Ferrers.” “Why not?” “Oh, he is so frightfully sensible, I should never dare do or say an absurd thing for fear of seeing those great lamping eyes looking reproval at me. Besides, he does not seem inclined to offer himself.” “How can you say so, Louisa? I am sure he never leaves us at a party, and seems never so happy as when sitting near us and watching your graceful movements when you are dancing.” “Well, he can’t expect me to drop into his arms by the mere fascination of his look. If he were not so rich, I should not think of him for a moment, while I really like Frank. He is full of gayety and frolic, and with him I should have a merry life. Clarence Ferrers is too old and grave for me. Don’t you think so, Kate?” Kate started at the question; she had evidently been in one of her dreamy moods, and perhaps had not heard a word of their conversation. Poor Kate! she bent over her sewing, and seemed intent only on placing at proper distances the delicate white roses which looped the gauze drapery of Louisa’s new dress; but she felt a sudden faintness come over her, which required all her habitual self-control to subdue. Not until the dress was finished and displayed upon the sofa to her mother’s criticism; not until the pearl ornaments had been laid upon the beauty’s dark curls by the skillful fingers of the all-enduring Kate; not until she had listened to all her sister’s ideas respecting the sash, which was to be tied at the side, with long floating ends; in short, not until all the important trivialities of a belle’s ball-costume had been discussed and decided upon by the aid of Kate’s taste, was she at liberty to retire to her own room. At last she was released, and as Louisa sprung up stairs, humming a lively Opera air, Kate, gathering up her sewing materials, slowly followed till she arrived at the door of her own apartment, which, in consideration of its being the smallest room in the house, and in the fourth story, she was permitted to occupy alone. This had long been poor Kate’s sanctuary, where she could think and feel and act as she pleased. Now she quietly locked the door, and then, when she had secured herself from intrusion, she sat down in the rocking-chair which had been her companion from childhood, and gave way to the tears which were pressing so painfully against her hot eye-lids. Kate had often wept—much oftener than those who called her indifferent and cold in temper, could have imagined—but never had she shed such bitter, burning tears as now. There was grief and shame, and wounded affection, and mortified pride, all blended in the emotion which now agitated her. She could not have analyzed her own feelings; she only knew she was very unhappy and very lonely. That evening Kate was too unwell to accompany her sister to the ball. A severe headache, arising from an attack of influenza, which accounted for the humid eyes that would weep in spite of all poor Kate’s efforts, was sufficient apology. So Mrs. Lorimer, with her tall son and beautiful daughter, were whirled off to the gay scene, leaving Kate to read the newspaper and play backgammon with her rheumatic father, who never went out after sunset. But the old gentleman’s evenings were generally short. By nine o’clock he was comfortably fixed in bed, and Kate sat alone in the deserted drawing-room, when she was startled by the sound of the door-bell. It was too late for a visiter, and Kate’s first thought was that it might be a message for a parcel for her brother. She did not alter her position, therefore, but sat with her head bent, her hands listlessly lying in her lap, and her whole attitude one of the deepest dejection. A gentle footstep, and the tones of a well-known voice, startled her from her painful dream, and as she looked up her eyes fell on the stately form of Clarence Ferrers. “I heard you were kept at home by indisposition, Miss Lorimer,” said he, “will you pardon me if I have availed myself of this opportunity of seeing you alone?” Kate was a little bewildered, but she murmured something about “the pleasure of seeing him,” etc. like a well-bred young lady. “Kate—Miss Lorimer—will you answer me frankly? I have lately indulged the hope that we may be united in a closer bond than even the friendship with which you have honored me; have I deceived myself with vain fancies?” Kate’s heart seemed to stand still for a moment, and an icy coldness ran through her veins. She saw it all in a moment. Clarence Ferrers wanted to learn from her his chance of success with her beautiful sister. What should she do? Louisa did not love Clarence, but it was a desirable match. Should she sacrifice the prospects of her sister, or should she betray the noble confidence of him who called her his friend? How could she decide when her own heart was just awakened to a dim sense of its own mad folly and weakness? Clarence watched her countenance, and marveled at the lights and shadows that flitted so rapidly across it. “I am afraid I have given you pain, Miss Lorimer,” said he at length: “I meant not to distress you; only tell me whether I have done wrong in believing that I might yet occupy a nearer and dearer place in your esteem; whether I have been mistaken in my hope of finding you my strongest advocate?” Kate felt that she must speak. “You can scarcely need an advocate,” said she timidly: “I presume I understand your meaning, and I can only say that any woman might be proud to be the object of your choice.” “And is this all you can say? Am I to think that on the empty gifts of fame, or the paltry advantages of fortune, I must depend for that most precious of earthly things, a sympathizing heart. ‘Proud to be my choice’—oh! Kate, I did not expect such a cold rebuff from you.” Tears rushed into Kate’s eyes; she felt herself growing weaker every moment, and she determined to put an end to the conversation. “Have you spoken to my sister, Mr. Ferrers?” said she, while she strove in vain to check the quick gasps that almost suffocated her. “To your sister!” said Clarence, in some surprise. “No, Miss Lorimer, I preferred coming first to you.” “I have but little influence over Louisa,” said the trembling girl, “but all that I have shall be exerted in your behalf.” “Louisa!—your sister!—I really do not comprehend you, Kate.” A momentary feeling of wounded pride aroused Kate, and mastered her coming weakness. She rose from her seat; “Did you not ask me to be your advocate with my sister?” asked she, while her cheek and lip grew white as ashes. “My advocate with your sister!” exclaimed Clarence; “no indeed: Kate! my own dearest Kate! it was with your own sweet self I wanted an advocate, and hoped to find my strongest one in your heart.” Kate grew dizzy and faint; a mist gathered before her eyes, and when it cleared away she was sitting on the sofa, with a strong arm lovingly twined about her waist, and on the soft white hand which lay in the grasp of Clarence glittered the betrothal ring, though how or when it was placed there she never clearly could remember. “How strangely Clarence Ferrers disappeared from the ball to-night,” exclaimed Mrs. Lorimer, as she puffed her way up to her room at two o’clock in the morning. “I was not sorry he went, mamma, for it gave Frank the chance he has so long wanted. He offered himself last night, while we were in the midst of that last polka; and I referred him to papa,” said Louisa, as she turned toward her own room. “Well, I only hope you have not been too hasty,” said the mother, too sleepy just then to care much about the matter. The next morning Mr. Lorimer was visited in his private office by the young and handsome Frank Dormer. He was an only child; his father was prepared to “come down” handsomely with the cash, and Mr. Lorimer gave a ready assent to the proposition of the enamored youth. He had scarcely finished his after-dinner nap, on the same day, when Clarence Ferrers sought an interview. Matters were soon arranged with a man who was “worth half a million,” and Mr. Lorimer chuckled and rubbed his hands with infinite glee, as he reminded his wife of her prediction that “Kate was a predestinate old maid.” Kate has been more than two years a wife, and in the elegant, self-possessed, dignified woman, whose statuesque repose of manner seems now the result of the most perfect grace, no one would recognize the dull, indifferent, “lumpish” Kate of former years. In the atmosphere of affection every faculty of mind and body has attained perfect development. She has learned to value herself at her real worth, because such a man as Clarence Ferrers has thought her deserving of his regard. She is not the less humble, but she is no longer self-despising and self-neglectful. In order to do honor to her husband, she has striven to be all he would have her, and the result is one of the most intellectual and elegant women of whom our country can boast. The “light” which was threatened with extinction has now found “its right socket,” and no brighter luminary shines either in the world of fashion, or in the circle of home. |
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