"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.
"Sir, you are welcome to the General Wayne," said Colonel Brigham, "though I cannot say much for the sign. That was not the way brave Anthony looked at Stony Point. May I ask the favour of your name?"
The stranger looked at first as if unaccustomed to this question, and unwilling to answer it. However, after a pause, he deigned to designate himself as Mr. Culpepper, and slightly mentioned the four young men as his nephews, the Mr. Lambleys. There was a family likeness throughout the brothers. They were all tall and slender--all had the same fawn-coloured hair, the same cheeks of a dull pink, the same smiling mouths habitually turned up at the corners, and faces that looked as if all expression had been subdued out of them, except that their greenish-gray eyes had the earnest intent look, that is generally found in those of dumb people.
Mr. Culpepper was conducted into a parlour, where (though the evening was far from cold) he expressed his satisfaction at finding a fire. He deposited on the broad mantel-piece a small red morocco box which he had carried under his arm, and while his nephews (who had all been to see the baggage deposited) were engaged in disrobing him of his extra habiliments, he addressed himself to Colonel Brigham, whom he seemed to regard with particular complaisance.
"Well, landlord," said he; "you are, perhaps, surprised at my stopping here?"
"Not at all," said the colonel.
"The truth is," pursued Mr. Culpepper, "I am travelling for my health, and therefore I am taking cross-roads, and stopping at out of the way places. For there is no health to be got by staying in cities, and putting up at crowded hotels, and accepting invitations to dinner-parties and tea-parties, or in doing anything else that is called fashionable."
"Give me your hand, sir," said Colonel Brigham; "you are a man after my own heart!"
The four Mr. Lambleys stared at the landlord's temerity, and opened their eyes still wider when they saw it taken perfectly well, and that their uncle actually shook hands with the innkeeper. This emboldened them to murmur something in chorus about their all disliking fashion.