Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.18 #108 (May 1859).
I.
"And now, my dear," said Mrs. Mayfield as she clasped Rosalie's bracelet and gave the last few finishing touches to her attire, "be very careful not to dance too much this evening. I know it is very delightful and exhilarating, but there's nothing that injures a girl's appearance more, in my opinion. Walk quietly through a few sets, if you like, but don't run the risk of getting red and heated. How painful it is to see a young lady led to a seat by her partner, with her face in a perfect flame, and her breath so hurried that she almost pants! And be very sure not to eat any ices, you are so delicate. I really tremble every time you go out lest you should get sore throat, or bronchitis, or something of that kind. Now wrap up warm, my love, for the night is cold, and you know it isn't as if you had only to sink back in a carriage and ride home when the party is over. There's the evil of being poor!"
"Not a very terrible evil, I think, mamma," said Rosalie, smiling; "at least there are plenty of instances about us much more distressing, and plenty who would wonder what poverty we had to complain of."
"There you are, my dear, just as usual!" exclaimed her mother; "as if that made any difference! If I am tired and cold as I walk home at two in the morning, it doesn't make me any warmer to reflect that there may be people somewhere in the cellars around who are colder yet."
"No!" thought Rosalie; "but it might make a person more patient with a discomfort that would be removed as soon as home was reached." She made no comment, however; but presently remarked, "Poor Mrs. Taylor! I should not like to be in her place just now! I suppose they are in the last agonies of preparation, lighting up and going about to see that every thing is comme il faut."
"I don't know why you should say poor Mrs. Taylor," replied her mother. "I should like nothing better, Rosalie, than to see you at the head of just such an establishment as hers, and suffering no greater trial than she undergoes in giving this very entertainment."
"Indeed, mamma, you could not wish me a more unwelcome lot! I consider Mrs. Taylor one of the most unfortunate women of my acquaintance!"
"Unfortunate!" thought Mrs. Mayfield, "and with an income like hers! What insane idea has Rosalie got into her head now? I can't see," she added aloud, "what there is in Mrs, Taylor to call forth especial commiseration."
"I'll tell you, mamma. She married a man she never would have thought of had it not been for his money—a man inferior to her in mind, manner, education—one with whom she could not pass a single evening pleasantly—and she must spend her whole life with him! The perfect absence of all domestic happiness drives her to seek enjoyment in dress and display, and these produce rivalries and heart-burnings innumerable. Then the sort of life she leads makes her heartless. I really do not think she cares half as much for her children as unfashionable mothers do—my friend Mrs. Wood, for instance."
"We must not be censorious, Rosalie! That is a very bad spirit, my child; and there's no need of being heartless just because one happens to be rich, even allowing that Mrs. Taylor is a trifle so. As for her husband's inferiority, she doesn't feel it so much, because you see, my dear, Mr. Taylor is down at the counting-house so late, and then at her parties he just stands somewhere very quietly, and does not make himself at all conspicuous. I don't believe she is often mortified by his appearance."
"My dear mamma," cried Rosalie, laughing, "you would make an excellent special pleader; but you have not convinced me, after all. If I ever have a husband I shall take care that he is not one with whom I shall dread to pass an evening tête-à-tête; nor shall he be of the sort whose chief virtue consists in keeping quiet and not making spectacles of themselves. No, indeed! He shall be one whose company and conversation I can enjoy when we are alone, and whom I shall be proud to present to all my guests."
"Very well, my love," said her mother, kindly, "I hope you may some day find him. But I shall take good care," she added, mentally, "that he has something to depend upon more substantial than all these agreeable qualities which you seem to consider the only things of importance."
Mrs. Mayfield was one of a class perhaps as much to be pitied as those who undergo privations of a more absolute nature. Her position and associations ever since her marriage had been with people of means greatly superior to her own, and the endeavor to maintain a footing among them taxed to the very utmost her powers of economy and management. Her husband, now some years dead, had been an amiable, intelligent, and well-bred man, but lacked, alas! the faculty, so essential in these days, of making money speedily. Industrious in his profession, affectionate in his family, esteemed among his friends, he was such a husband as any woman might have valued; yet it is to be feared that his wife sometimes overlooked these sterling qualities, and would have preferred to see him more like various A's and B's of her acquaintance, who, beginning with nothing, had risen, by means not to be too closely scrutinized, to splendid houses on the Avenue and country-seats up the river. Poor Mr. Mayfield! He felt, in some degree, what were his wife's sentiments in this respect, and tried ever and anon to remedy affairs by sundry bits of speculation. But his was not the gift of Midas, and these little attempts generally ended in loss and disappointment. Mrs. Mayfield sighed to find that the regular income of his business, and her own tact in expenditure, were all she could rely upon. Often when keenly conscious of deficiencies which she was powerless to supply, she thought, "If I were only a man I am sure I could do something, just as those around me do." It seemed so very hard that when she was not in the least trying to vie with rich people—which would be, of course, the height of folly—but only desiring to have things just respectable, she should find it impossible to compass her end.
Rosalie had been from babyhood extremely pretty, and no pains were spared to render her accomplishments equal to her personal charms. Mrs. Mayfield hoped and believed that her child was not destined to drudge through life on insufficient means, as she had done. That Rosalie should make a wealthy match; that her graceful form should be arrayed in silken robes and draped in velvets and Cashmeres; that her lovely face should look forth from Paris bonnets; that she should eat from silver and Sèvres, and ride out in a splendid carriage with servants in livery—this was the climax of her mother's ambition. Perhaps she was not so much to blame. If she had known any of the great evils of life—if she had had a dissipated or unkind husband, or rebellious, ungrateful children—if she had suffered from the loss of health or friends, or the disgrace of those dear to her—she might have estimated more lightly the inconveniences that she endured. As it was, it seemed to her that to have plenty of money, never to be obliged to save, and calculate, and contrive, and do without, must be the sum of human felicity. But she never imparted her designs to Rosalie. There were several reasons for this. She had respect to the fresh, unworldly nature of the young girl, and shrank from instilling therein mercenary or prudential maxims. She knew, moreover, from good use of her eyes during a series of years, that husband-hunting girls are soon found out, and that Rosalie's chances of the desired match were not at all lessened by her perfect unconsciousness and naïveté. Her extreme beauty won admiration wherever she appeared, and the mother trusted to her own good management to turn this admiration to account in time. Meanwhile there was no haste; for Rosalie was only nineteen, and in the first bloom of her beauty. She had been kept free, thus far, from any undesirable entanglement, and her destiny would no doubt declare itself in the course of a year or two.
Heroines have been so often described that I hardly dare inflict Rosalie's portrait on my readers; yet she was lovely enough to claim attention, even amidst a crowd of beauties. Rather tall and slight, yet redeemed from the least suspicion of thinness or meagreness by the full and rounded outlines of her form, with a small, exquisitely-shaped head, and features delicate and regular. Large brown eyes, pensive and affectionate, were shaded by the longest and blackest lashes, and her cheek had a deep, bright bloom, like the heart of a rose. Then she moved so well; she stood, or sat, or leaned as no one else did. Her dresses always fitted her so perfectly, her garments fell in such full and graceful folds, that she appeared better attired in the cheapest material than other people in rich or costly apparel. She was gentle and good, a little romantic perhaps, and entirely unaware of her mother's views for her. Of the evils of limited means she knew but little; for Mrs. Mayfield was the queen of managers, and made her few hundreds do full service down to the very last cent; and Rosalie, happily, was not one of those covetous spirits who can never see any thing handsome or desirable in the possession of other people without straightway feeling themselves very ill-used because they can not have one like it. But all this time we are forgetting Mrs. Taylor's party.
When Rosalie doffed her wrappings and shone forth in the glory of her pretty pink silk, her mother glanced around the dressing-room, full of ladies in almost every stage of the toilet, and decided in her own mind that though there were several more expensively dressed, there was not one who looked half as well. With which comfortable reflection she drew on her gloves, shook out her handkerchief, and descended the stairs accompanied by the fair object of her meditations.
There was the customary display; a blaze of light, a wilderness of exotics, a hum of voices, soft odors of millefleurs and violet, bright eyes, sparkling jewels, etc., etc. There were meagre arms and necks, uncovered to the pitiless gaze and cruel sneer; there were plump forms exposed much more than was necessary or desirable. Conspicuous amidst the brilliant throng was the hostess. She was one of the night-blooming plants; seen by daylight she was a tall, sallow, plain woman, on whom you would never have bestowed a second glance. But enchant her with the magic of full dress, shed over her the soft bloom and fairness of rouge and pearl-powder, brush and oil her hair à discretion, and add a few false braids and bandeaux, lace her up and fill her out, put flashing gems upon her neck and arms, rich lace in her berthe and flounces, then give her quantum suf. of gaslight and excitement, and look you! she shone forth splendid among belles; a perfect extinguisher to many a one who would completely put her out in truthful sunshine. She was all smiles, grace, and courtesy; a striking contrast to her liege lord. He was, perhaps, very respectable in his own proper province of making the money, but decidedly out of place where his wife was spending it.
"You've seen the two lions, I suppose," said Mrs. James, a chaperon, who, having duly disposed of her charges, had retreated to a sofa and Mrs. Mayfield.
"No," returned that lady; "I was not aware that there was any unusual attraction present."
"Oh yes; a great author and a great fortune. Mr. Henry is the fortune, and Mr. Irwin the author."
"Irwin? I do not remember any such name," said Mrs. Mayfield, who was tolerably au fait of the literary world.
"I presume not; he writes under a nom de plume, and has only been very recently found out. He has just published some wonderful thing that every body is wild over: strange that I can't recollect his title, nor that of his book! Mr. Henry is excessively handsome."
"And a great fortune, I think you said?"
"Yes, immense—so they say, at least. I can't speak from personal knowledge, never haying seen either of the young men until to-night. But they were talking of it in the dressing-room, and saying what a splendid match he would be for somebody. He bears the highest possible character, too, which is what you can not often say of these rich young men. There he is now, talking with Rosalie; that tall, distinguished-looking man; and there is Mr. Irwin, across the room with Amy Sandford."
Mrs. Mayfield looked with interest, and thought the term "distinguished" extremely applicable to that favored son of fortune. He was tall, dark, with very black hair and mustache, and a very fascinating mien. He seemed much absorbed by Rosalie, and straightway the mother's mind ran over a long line of delightful possibilities. He could not fail to be interested and to admire her child: of that she was certain; and as for Rosalie, why he was just the sort of interesting, romantic-looking personage that the dear girl would be sure to fancy. And, ah! if he should fall in love—and, oh! if he should propose, and Rosalie should accept him! (Accept him! of course she will; I can't have her refuse such an offer!) And then the engagement-ring—diamond solitaire from Tiffany's—she saw it already sparkling on Rosalie's snow-white hand. No doubt he would want a short engagement—lovers are always so impatient, particularly rich ones; and how was she ever to provide Rosalie with a suitable trousseau. Never mind, she would sell out a portion of her bank stock; for, of course, after the marriage she would live with "them," and a few hundreds, more or less, wouldn't matter. And then the laces, the silks, the ribbons, the embroideries! She saw herself deep in consultation with milliners and mantua-makers; and Rosalie a perfect martyr to trying on bonnets and fitting dresses, and all the delightful business of preparation. And so her child's fate would be fairly accomplished; she would be secure from poverty and its long train of attendant evils; and that great object once gained, the mother could sing "Nunc dimittis" with a grateful heart. So interested was she in this airy architecture that she hardly noticed Mr. Irwin, the author. She merely observed that he was a slight and rather good-looking young man; there was nothing in his literary celebrity to make her note him more closely. Mrs. Mayfield held the traditionary opinion of authors; they were, in her mind, inseparably connected with garrets, dipped candles, and empty pockets.
The party went off splendidly, every one said. There was the supper with a profusion of dainties, set forth with all the radiance of silver and crystal; there was the best band in the city to furnish music for the dancers; there were twinkling feet and gliding forms, gayety, excitement, pleasure, heartaches. In all this was nothing to distinguish it from similar gatherings of the season, except to those with whom, as with Mrs. Mayfield, some new interest had then and there arisen.
II.
Mr. Henry called the next day, and was, as he esteemed it, fortunate enough to find Rosalie alone; Mrs. Mayfield had taken cold the evening before, and, feeling quite unwell, kept her room. When his card was brought up Rosalie wished to send word that she was engaged, but her mother would not hear of such a thing. "It is nothing, my dear," she said; "I shall be entirely well to-morrow, and I can not have you deny yourself a pleasant call for such a trifle." So Rosalie descended, not sorry, perhaps, that her mother insisted upon it, for she had found Mr. Henry very agreeable the evening before.
He made the very longest call that etiquette would allow, as Mrs. Mayfield, who lay in her chamber watching with pleased anxiety for any movement below, did not fail to observe. What would they talk about? she wondered; and how would Rosalie look to the rich man's eyes? Would she be as captivating in her simpler home dress in prosaic daylight as he had found her the evening before? She had not many fears. The young girl's beauty was not of the order that depended on judicious concealment or artificial aids. She could stand in broad sunshine, or sit in a cross-light even, without bringing to view any material defects. The mother awaited with interest and satisfaction the close of the hall-door and Rosalie's reappearance.
"Well, dear," she asked, when the light form was again at her side, "did you have a pleasant call?"
"Very, mamma," was the emphatic reply.
"I thought he seemed an intelligent young man," continued Mrs. Mayfield.
"Much more than that," said Rosalie; "he has a very fine mind indeed."
"Then you must have enjoyed his conversation, of course; you have always such a passion for intellect."
"Yes, dear mamma; but there is a little pain mingled with the pleasure I take in such society—I feel my own inferiority so keenly."
"Well, my child, I am your mother, and perhaps partial; but I can't see what call you have to feel inferior to any one."
"Thank you, dear mother," replied Rosalie, laughing. "I don't think I have often cause to reproach myself with undue humility; but Mr. Henry is very different from other gentlemen."
"Beautiful!" was Mrs. Mayfield's inward comment. "Just the husband she was determined to have, and just the one I should have chosen for her."
"You have not told me what you talked about," she went on. "He made a very long call."
"Oh, we spoke of the party, naturally—people always do the next day."
"And what else? You must soon have exhausted that subject."
"And of the weather—and one or two new books—and Dr. H—'s lecture."
"And nothing else?"
"No, ma'am. At least, it was nothing—I mean, nothing to speak of. Indeed, mamma, you must believe me, it was nothing at all," stammered Rosalie, with deepening color, as her mind reverted to the look and manner which had given meaning to the commonplace words.
"I feel rather tired, my love; draw down the curtain and wrap the blanket a little closer round my feet. I think I could sleep if the room were quiet," was the mother's only comment.
Pleasant visions floated round her pillow and lured her to repose. She saw plainly that Rosalie was interested; she had never known her flush or hesitate before at the calls of any number of gentlemen acquaintance. As for Mr. Henry himself, there was little doubt of the state of his feelings; she had not watched him the whole of the previous evening, to the exclusion of all other interests, to be ignorant of his sentiments now. Every thing was going on charmingly—precisely as she could wish. She only longed to be up and well, and furthering the matter by every means in her power.
This was not soon to be. The cold which she had regarded as a trifling affair proved a very serious one, and a long and dangerous illness followed. Rosalie's bright eyes grew dim with watching, and her fair face thin from anxiety and confinement. Many a time during those weary weeks did she look forward with a boding heart to the dreadful possibility of her mother's death. But she was spared that heavy trial; good care and a good constitution at last prevailed; and when spring began to breathe once more upon the frozen earth Mrs. Mayfield was convalescent.
During her illness Mr. Henry had been all attention. He had called very frequently, quite undiscouraged by the fact that he seldom saw Rosalie, and even then but for a very few minutes. Mrs. Mayfield, who amidst all her suffering did not forget her daughter's interests, would occasionally insist that she should go down to the parlor for a time; and then the sight of her sweet and sorrowful countenance appealed more touchingly to the heart of the lover than the most brilliant beauty could have done. He longed to fold her in his arms and shield her through life from every trouble. He would not speak of love at such a time, yet he anxiously awaited the moment when he should be at liberty to declare his feelings and seek a return.
One pleasant morning Mrs. Mayfield sat in the great easy-chair near the bed-head, propped with pillows and wrapped in shawls. She was very pale and wasted, yet to the eyes that had watched her so anxiously for weeks there was a perceptible improvement in her face. A like change was visible in the room: the windows, no longer darkened, admitted the sweet spring sunshine; Rosalie's canary sung from his gilded cage; a bouquet of beautiful hot-house flowers stood in a vase on the table, instead of the vials and powders that had so lately covered it.
"How pleasant it is to feel one's self really better!" said Mrs. Mayfield. "It seems almost like a new world to me. I believe the sky never looked so blue, nor the grass down in the little plot so green, before.
"And the sky never looked to me so dark and threatening as during these last few weeks," said Rosalie, with emotion, as she kissed her mother's forehead. "I almost feared, mamma, it would never be bright again." There was a pause of deep feeling. '"I don't think you have sufficiently admired Mr. Henry's flowers, mamma," said Rosalie at length, in a more cheerful tone. "See this geranium, and those lovely roses. They have such a rich, creamy tint, and are so deliciously fragrant!"
"Yes, they are beautiful, and I'm sure I'm much obliged to Mr. Henry for that and all his other kind attentions. Not that I am vain enough to fancy, Rosalie, my dear, that they are all meant for an old woman like me."
The young girl colored, but made no reply.
"What book is it that you have been reading this morning?" inquired the mother, presently.
"Here it is," said Rosalie, producing it, and smiling, though she looked a little conscious.
"Leaves and Mosses, by Frederic Shoberl," read Mrs. Mayfield, aloud. "Oh, I know Mr. Shoberl very well already by his writings. That must be an assumed name, I fancy. Do you know who it is? Any one of consequence?"
"I thought you knew, mamma. It is Mr. Henry himself."
"Mr. Henry? Why no! I never dreamed that he had written any thing."
"Certainly he has. I supposed you had heard of it. He is the very person whose poems we have admired so often. But now I think of it, he has only very recently declared himself. His identity was discovered about the time of Mrs. Taylor's great party, and you have been too ill ever since then to notice such things."
"Yes, and I haven't seen any of our acquaintance either: we shall begin to have plenty of calls now that I am getting so much better. But about these poems, it is a very pretty name for a book: don't you think so?"
"Rather pretty, but a little too much on the 'Winnie Wildwood' and the other fanciful and alliterative styles. I rallied Mr. Henry on the title, and he confessed that it was rather of the romantic order, but alleged in excuse that he wished to use a name suggestive of nature, and yet without pretension. Moss and leaves are certainly unostentatious."
"Suppose you read to me a while: I should like to hear what these poems are like." Rosalie obeyed, and her mother listened with pleasure. She was fond of poetry, and the "Leaves and Mosses" had a sweet and natural charm that had fascinated minds of a much higher order than her own. "Why, Rosalie," she exclaimed, with enthusiasm, "Mr. Henry has real genius!"
"So I think, mamma."
"And I never dreamed of it in him! What a graceful accomplishment it is to write so well! I admire it more than almost any other." Poor Mrs. Mayfield! not a shadow of suspicion crossed her mind. And to be an author—a crime in a poor man—was a charming thing in a rich one.
"Has Mr. Henry any business?" she presently inquired.
"Oh yes, he is a lawyer, mamma."
"That is very well, too. I like to see that sort of spirit in a young man. He should have some profession, some steady occupation, always."
"You are quite right, dear mamma."
"Because if one is ever so rich employment is desirable. I don't know how it may be in Europe, but in our country I am sure that a young man of the largest fortune is much better off to have something practical and important to take up his mind."
"I have no doubt it is so," assented Rosalie, who thought the conversation was taking a rather speculative turn.
A familiar ring was now heard at the door. "Yes, my dear, go down, of course," said Mrs. Mayfield, in answer to Rosalie's inquiring glance. "I feel extremely well to-day, and shall amuse myself perfectly with Mr. Henry's book while you are gone."
Our young friends found their tête-à-tête this morning somewhat embarrassing. While her mother was so very ill, and Rosalie had only come down for a few minutes to answer in person Mr. Henry's inquiries, there had been no time for awkward consciousness; but now, when he had asked after Mrs. Mayfield's health and received the gratifying assurance that she was rapidly convalescing, his mind at once reverted to the avowal he had determined to make so soon as that point was reached. Rosalie, half aware of his feelings, half awakened to the state of her own heart, found little to say. Conversation proceeded by very slow and easy stages.
"Have you ever read this little book?" said Rosalie, at length, making a desperate effort after self-control as she took up the "Loves of the Poets," which lay in "blue and gold" upon the centre-table. "It contains a great deal of information about the 'gentle craft' and the fair ladies who inspired them."
So Mr. Henry had heard; he had never read the volume in question, however, and did not care to. He preferred such knowledge of the poets as he could gain from their own writings and contemporary authors. Statistics in these matters were not to his taste.
"You have acted with prudence," said Rosalie, smiling mischievously, "if you wished to retain your enthusiasm. Do you know I used to think, when I was younger, that it was a glorious thing to be loved by a poet and immortalized in his verses? But this little book has sadly undeceived me. Who would care to be Beatrice, and have her praises chanted years after her death by the husband of the ill-tempered Gemma Donati? Or 'Highland Mary,' with one's memory recalled and apostrophized when her adorer was most happily married to another woman? Only to think of the circumstances under which 'Mary in Heaven' was composed!"
"What were they?"
"Have you never heard them? The excellent Robert, it seems, had been working all day in harvest, apparently in fine spirits; but as night came on he 'grew very sad about something,' and wandered out into the barn-yard, whither his affectionate wife followed him, urging him to come in, as the air was cold, and she feared for his health. He promised again and again to come, but still delayed compliance; at last she went out and found her bard 'stretched upon a heap of straw;' his eyes fixed on a 'beautiful planet that shone like another moon.' This time she prevailed on him to come in, when he immediately sat down and wrote the stanzas to 'Mary in Heaven.'"
"After which he probably had a chat with his wife, and perhaps a 'drap' of something to cheer his drooping spirits," said Mr. Henry, laughing. "Really, Miss Mayfield, it was shameful; Mrs. Burns should be indicted for the cruel blow her recital has inflicted on all romance-loving young ladies like yourself."
"Indeed," said Rosalie, shaking her pretty head, "I don't blame her in the least. Do you suppose it was very pleasant for her to have her husband writing those beautiful, passionate verses to another woman? She did quite right to give a simple detail of the facts in the case."
"But 'Mary' was dead, you must remember."
"I think such a rival must be almost worse than a living one; because with the latter there is always a possibility that she may reveal defects that shall cure her lover of his devotion. But the dead are safe: their faults are forgotten; their virtues alone remembered; and there is a sort of poetic halo thrown about them with which any woman might dread to contrast herself."
"What other instances do you feel disposed to carp at among these unlucky poets?"
"Oh! very many. How poor and artificial a thing is Waller's passion for his Sacharissa, for example. In almost every case you will find that the lady was indifferent to her adorer, or hopelessly beyond his reach; or else that he celebrated her charms at leisure, while he was comfortably espoused to some one else. I must say that I should rather have been Mrs. Donne, or Habington's Castara, than any of the Stellas, Lauras, or Leonoras. I should very much prefer inferior poetry, accompanied by truthful feeling."
"So you think," said Mr. Henry, seriously, after a short pause, "that you could not value any poetic celebrity that was not founded on a mutual attachment?"
Rosalie, for the first time conscious of the dangerous ground she had been treading upon, knew not how to retreat; she blushed violently, and could not reply.
"And you would rather," he added, drawing nearer, and taking in his her unresisting hand, "be the dear wife of a humble poet than the distant heroine of the greatest?"
Every one can guess at Rosalie's answer.
III.
Not many hours had elapsed since the above interview ere Rosalie, with smiles and blushes, had confided to her mother its substance and result. Great was Mrs. Mayfield's inward exultation. Surely she might now consider herself a favorite of fortune. Her child, her beautiful Rosalie, had accomplished a destiny more brilliant than she had ever predicted for her. Wealth, that would secure her luxury and leisure; fashion, position, and more than that—a husband whose virtues she could esteem, whose genius she must admire, and whom, to crown all, she evidently loved with all her heart. Very complacently did the mother recall those words of Mrs. James: "He bears the highest possible character." To be sure, in her former estimates of what Rosalie's husband was to be, character and mind had not very largely entered; but she now felt and acknowledged their value.
"As soon as you are well enough to see him, mamma," said Rosalie, "Mr. Henry will call to ask your consent."
"And that will be to-morrow, my love," said Mrs. Mayfield. "I feel myself immensely better. The sight of your happiness has done me more good than all the physician's visits."
The next day, at a quite early hour, Mrs. Mayfield might have been seen ensconced in the depths of a luxurious arm-chair, going through in form the interview with her daughter's futur. It was delightfully satisfactory. Mr. Henry was so respectful, yet solicitous. He spoke with such tenderness, such delicacy, of Rosalie, and asked her hand with as much diffidence as if he feared a refusal—as if, in short, he were asking a favor instead of conferring one. But then, Mrs. Mayfield suddenly recollected, he could not know how glad she was to give him her child; and, on the whole, it was quite as well he could not. He set her heart at rest, too, on the only subject that disturbed her. In all her plans for Rosalie's settlement she had arranged, as a matter of course, that she should live with the young couple; but when an actual engagement was under consideration she began to experience some misgivings. She was well aware of the common prejudice against mothers-in-law; and suppose Mr. Henry shared in it? Well, it would be hard for her, but she could live by herself; at any rate, she would have her dear child's happiness to rejoice in. These misgivings made the present arrangement all the more agreeable. Mr. Henry said with so much feeling that he could not think of asking a mother to give up her only child, and that she would confer the greatest possible favor on both himself and Rosalie by consenting to share their home. She must not consider that, in the proposed marriage, she was to lose a daughter, but only to gain a son, etc., etc. All of which had in it nothing very striking or original, but was not on that account less pleasing to the proud and gratified mother. So happy was she that at times a doubt came over her whether it were not all a dream, and she pinched her arm quite cruelly to make sure that she was enjoying a "sober certainty of waking bliss." When the filial elect had taken his departure she was profuse in her praises to Rosalie of his delicacy, his generosity, his nobleness; all of which, we may be sure, the young lady echoed in her heart, though outwardly she disclaimed for him any special virtue.
"Why, what did you expect of us, mamma?" she asked. "Did you suppose we would leave you alone, widowed and invalid as you now are? You paid me a poor compliment if you fancied I should forsake the mother who had loved and cared for me all my life for a person I had known but a few weeks."
"Oh, my dear, I didn't doubt you at all; but you know how men sometimes feel about these things."
"Mr. Caudle, for instance. Well, mamma, I hope Mr. Henry is no more like him than I like his wife, or you like that lady's 'dear mother.'"
"You may laugh, Rosalie, but it is a very common prejudice, and not altogether without foundation. Such being the case, you may imagine how I was touched by Mr. Henry's noble behavior. He will find it no loss to him, either. Even in the richest household a person of experience can prevent much irregularity and waste; and against all waste I set my face decidedly, no matter how great the means are."
"If experience is valuable in a rich household it will be doubly so in ours," remarked Rosalie, "for I opine it will not be at all of that description."
Mrs. Mayfield was so absorbed in delightful visions that she did not hear this comment, or it might have provoked unpleasant explanation.
The business of preparation now began in earnest; the lover had pleaded for a short engagement, and the marriage was to take place in three months—there was plenty to do. As soon as Mrs. Mayfield could venture out a hackney-coach was hired by the day, and the mother and daughter spent hour after hour at Beck's or Stewart's, examining, selecting, purchasing, the innumerable beautiful and costly articles that compose the trousseau. Reversing the rule on such occasions it was the fair fiancée who hinted of economy, who thought such and such things unnecessary or extravagant; it was the parent who insisted that the various elegances were not only suitable, but indispensable.
"Now, dear mamma," said Rosalie, one morning, "about the dress for the ceremony; we shall not have a large party, so something simple and pretty will be all that is required."
"No, it will not be a large party, to be sure, because our house is small, and a crowd in a small house is decidedly vulgar. A jam in a great house, on the contrary, is entirely different; it shows such an extensive circle of acquaintance. But though the party will be small I intend it to be brilliant, and I wish your dress to correspond. However, let me hear what your own ideas are."
"I think, mamma, a good silk—not too rich, because it would be wasted with an overdress—with double skirts of tulle, looped with flowers, a puffed tulle berthe, and a tulle vail, very long and ample, would be what I should like. These, with a wreath, bouquet, etc., would be quite sufficient."
"Why, my child, half the brides in town this winter wore just such a dress."
"I know it, mamma—that is the very reason. It is pretty and becoming, and would be considered entirely proper. I do not care for any thing more."
"But I do, Rosalie. Now I think a rich moire antique, with a Honiton berthe and vail—I wouldn't venture on flounces, they are rather extravagant—would be beautiful."
"But oh, mamma, so expensive!"
"Leave that to me, my dear. I always supposed you would be married some day if you lived, and have made provision for it. I don't expect to have it happen more than half a dozen times, and I can afford to give you things suitable to your future station."
"I don't see how my station is to be altered in any way, mamma; we shall have probably the very same circle we know at present."
"Simple little thing!" thought the mother. "It's just as well to let her go on so. If she has no idea that she is elevating herself at all, he will be much less likely to fancy hereafter that he has done her an honor. True, my dear," she added, aloud; "but you know brides always dress a good deal. If after a time, when you have your husband's money to spend, you choose to practice economy, it will be all very well. But now I shall get what I think proper. I told the man to be here with the hack at eleven; and we will drive straight to Miss Lawson, and get that love of a bonnet you admired so much yesterday. No remonstrances, Rosalie, for they'll not be of the slightest use."
Few girls require much urging to accept of such luxuries as their elders choose to provide, and Rosalie smilingly yielded. She had a great love of beautiful things, and was, besides, accustomed to pay implicit obedience to the constituted authority. Never being admitted to her mother's pecuniary confidence she was quite ignorant, too, of their real circumstances, and took it for granted that Mrs. Mayfield would do every thing as it should be. As they rolled along to Lawson's, the mother, leaning back against the cushions, saw with her mind's eye future drives she should take in Rosalie's company, not, as now, in a "shabby hack," as she internally designated the vehicle in question, but in their own carriage drawn by steeds of mettle, driven by coachmen of bulk. Sweet visions! how soothing to maternal pride!
Good society is like the Russians; it has a great horror of sickness, and indeed of distress of any kind. While Mrs. Mayfield was ill very few of the "dear five hundred" came near her, and most of these contented themselves with inquiries at the door. Now that she was well again and the fact of Rosalie's engagement was bruited abroad, callers became plentiful, and on their return from shopping expeditions there would be found quite a litter of cards on the centre-table. Every one congratulated Mrs. Mayfield! It was such a charming match for Rosalie! Such a handsome young man, so perfectly suited to her in person! And then such a genius! and do you know Mr. — tells me he is succeeding nobly in his profession? He is thought one of the most promising young men at the bar! And his character! ah, there you are fortunate, dear Mrs. Mayfield! I'm afraid you don't half appreciate it! Young men nowadays, particularly these literary characters, are apt to be so dreadfully unsteady. But certainly if any one deserves to do well, it is Rosalie; such a sweet girl, and so extremely beautiful. On these themes were the changes rung unceasingly, and the delighted auditor was never weary.
"What an excellent thing," she often remarked to herself, "good breeding is! Every one of these people knows that it is a splendid match for Rosalie, but nobody even hints, ever so delicately, what an advantage it will be to her in the way of money. They only talk of Edgar's talents and reputation, and all that, just as if she had been used to a fortune from her cradle, and it was not worth mentioning." Very solacing were these thoughts; all the days passed in a delicious flutter of excitement and anticipation.
There had been, it is true, a slight decadence of bliss when the engagement-ring was first shown her. She had imagined its splendors so radiantly beforehand that the pretty little gage d'amour which Rosalie one day exhibited seemed to her almost shabby. No diamond solitaire this, blazing like the Koh-i-noor cut down a trifle. It contained three stones: the central one of fair size; those on each side much smaller. Mrs. Mayfield's experienced glance told her in a moment that it could never have cost over seventy-five or a hundred dollars.
"Only think, mamma," said Rosalie, who, with all the pleasure of a pretty girl in a pretty ornament, was turning the ring on her finger and watching its sparkle, "that I should have a diamond ring! I am sure I never expected to."
"But I expected you would," thought the mother, "and a much handsomer one than this." She examined it more closely; the stones were good and clear, but she could not conscientiously exceed her first estimate of their value. "It is very strange," she said to herself; "quite unaccountable. It would be a very pretty ring for a clerk on a salary to give; but for Mr. Henry!" and the dreadful suspicion crossed her mind—"If he should be mean!"
Such a thought could not, however, hold out long against Edgar's frank and manly bearing. Mrs. Mayfield settled it in her own mind that it was owing to his literary tastes—these author-people never seemed to be quite of sound mind on common matters. In the first place, he probably knew nothing about how costly a ring he ought to give; in the second, he had, no doubt, been terribly overreached in the price. That was the worst of authorship; it was well Edgar was a rich man. With these unpractical ways she should tremble for Rosalie's future if he were not.
Meanwhile, the promessi sposi troubled themselves very little about matters of worldly wisdom. They had, at present, no care even of house or furniture hunting; for it had been arranged that after the wedding-jaunt they should stay with "mamma," and look up such a house as suited them at their leisure. Mrs. Mayfield thought this an excellent plan, as she should feel so much more at liberty to suggest and advise when they were actually married. Besides which, there was really so much to do with Rosalie's own preparations that there was no time for anything else. The lovers passed all their evenings together; sometimes Rosalie showed the pretty things she had bought during the day; all of which, indiscriminately, Edgar admired with enthusiasm on hearing them commended by such lovely lips or exhibited upon so beautiful a form. Sometimes they sang together, or Edgar read aloud; or, seated near each other, talked in confidential whispers of matters vastly interesting to themselves. All this Mrs. Mayfield could see from her station on the back-parlor sofa, where she often reclined of an evening, and where, it must be confessed, she occasionally "napped" a little, overcome with weariness from the day's exertions.
Time passed, and it was within a week of the wedding. Fast and furious flew the needles of the dress-makers, and at home Rosalie was equally busy with many little personal matters. The bridal presents began to come in; not so plentifully as in the case of richer people, but still with creditable profusion. There were plenty of silver pie-knives, pickle-forks, porte-monnaies, card-cases, napkin-rings, butter-knives, salt-cellars, and such small gear. Mr. Henry's sister, married to a wealthy merchant in Boston, sent a real camel's-hair shawl, and his brother, at the South, ordered a splendid tea-service from Ball and Black. Rosalie's godfather sent her a set of pearls; and there were point-lace handkerchiefs and Mechlin handkerchiefs; there were collars and sleeves; there were rings and brooches, rich or plain, according to the taste or means of the donors. Rosalie was delighted; it seemed to her like a fairy-tale, that she was the owner of all these pretty things. She said as much as she stood looking at them one evening with her mother and betrothed. They both smiled at her childish pleasure; and Mrs. Mayfield thought what an excellent thing it was that this was only the beginning of the fairy tale.
"Your friends have been most generous, Edgar," she presently remarked.
"Have they, indeed? I did not know it," he answered.
"Certainly they have," and she pointed out various articles which had come from cousins, uncles, and aunts on the Henry side. "Our family is not as well represented here," she continued. "To tell the truth, we have not many rich connections. I wonder what Mr. Bushe will send you, Rosalie."
"I can't tell, mamma; nothing at all, perhaps."
"I dare say. At his niece's wedding he gave her a little silver filagree watch-case. A charming present! only fit to use at night when she could not see it! And when Miss Tomkins—old Joshua Tomkins's daughter—was married, he sent a handsome piece of plate that cost a large sum, and he had never even seen her—was only a business acquaintance of her father! Cousin Anne remonstrated with him then; she said she did think it was downright extravagance. But Mr. Bushe insisted that it was necessary to his business standing, and that was his reason for doing it."
"It is a pity Miss Tomkins could not have known that," said Rosalie. "She would have prized the gift very highly."
"Oh, for that matter," remarked Mrs. Mayfield, "silver is silver, and the pitcher was just as good as if the motive had been better. I shouldn't wonder, Rosalie, if he sent you a Parian figure, or perhaps a china card-receiver."
"Very well," said Rosalie, smiling, "we shall do very well, I doubt not, if he sends nothing at all."
That night Mrs. Mayfield dreamed that thieves had broken into the house and stolen every vestige of the bridal presents. She awoke with a feeling of blank amazement and horror, and could scarcely persuade herself that it was a dream. She afterward regarded it as a presentiment.
IV.
Seldom is a visitor more cordially greeted than was Mrs. James when she came next morning to make a congratulatory call. Her footing with the Mayfields was rather that of a friend than a mere acquaintance; but as she had been spending some months in Washington and had only returned a few days before, the approaching marriage was still a fresh topic to her. She asked a great many questions, and offered numerous good wishes; and in proof of these last, took from her pocket a little case containing the prettiest of Geneva watches and the richest of chains, which were offered for Rosalie's acceptance. In requital of this courtesy she was shown all the bridal presents and such items of the trousseau as had come home from the several modistes. When every thing had been inspected and criticised, and admired, and lingered over with that loving reluctance which women feel to quit an article of finery, the three ladies sat down in the back parlor a while.
"So Miss Rosalie," said the visitor, "you have acted out your romantic fancies—it was love at first sight, I hear."
"I was not aware of it," returned the smiling girl. "Pray, who told you so, Mrs. James?"
"A little bird. Not that it was necessary, for any one who saw you together the evening of Mrs. Taylor's party knew all about it. By-the-by, there is another engagement in consequence of that party; there must have been something fatal in the air."
"Who is it, may we ask?" inquired Mrs. Mayfield.
"Mr. Irwin and Amy Sandford. You may remember seeing them a good deal together. It is a great match for her; you know the Sandfords are quite poor. However, Mr. Irwin can afford to consult his own taste, and his family are very well pleased, I hear. And speaking of them reminds me of the funny mistake I made in talking to you that night."
"I don't now recall any mistake," said Mrs. Mayfield, smiling pleasantly, and ready to excuse with graciousness whatever it might have been.
"You have forgotten all about it, I suppose, having so many important matters to think of since; but don't you remember my telling you that Mr. Henry was the fortune, and Mr. Irwin the author; and our both agreeing that Mr. Henry was so distinguished-looking, and that we should have known from his appearance that he 'was to the manner born.' I have laughed twenty times since to think of it. I didn't know either of the young men myself, and whether somebody told me wrong, or whether I confused the matter—"
What was the end of this sentence no one will ever exactly know, for at this juncture Mrs. Mayfield fainted dead away. There was a terrible confusion and alarm, cutting of stay-laces, dashing with cold water, and application of salts to the nose of the sufferer. In the midst of it all Mrs. James took her leave, averring that it made her so nervous to see a person in that state that she could do no good, and was only in the way.
When Mrs. Mayfield returned to consciousness she was lying on the couch in her own room, and Rosalie was bending over her. The sight of her daughter brought all her woes to the mind of the unhappy woman. She groaned, and turned her face away.
"Leave me, Rosalie! leave me, child! I can't bear to see you or any one. Close the shutters, and don't come up till I ring."
"But, mamma, you are ill; can I not do something for you? Let me stay in the room, at any rate; I will be perfectly quiet."
"No, child, no—I can't have you. I shall do very well, but I want to be by myself;" and Rosalie, sadly perplexed by her mother's sudden illness and strange behavior, was fairly driven from the room.
Left alone, the poor mother had to face the conviction of her terrible mistake and its consequences. Alas! alas! and she had been the means of binding Rosalie to the very fate that, of all others, she dreaded most for her! Her child was to marry a poor man, and, worse than that, a poor author! Where were all those blissful visions—those bright anticipations—that had upheld her from earth during the past few months? All gone in a moment! She had plunged Rosalie into the same life that she herself had suffered so long, and from which it had been her firmest purpose to preserve her child. Rosalie must do as she had done; forego all luxury, curtail even necessaries, and, after all, find it a hard matter to live within her income! Her beautiful child must manage and drudge; must see things getting shabby, and have no means to renew them; must find her clothes worn and out of fashion, and have no money to replace them. She must use delf where other people used china; must walk where they rode; must wear calico where they wore silk or satin. She must keep inferior servants, and do half the work herself; must undergo privations, mortifications. The nursery must be her opera, and the kitchen her ball-room; and amidst these sordid cares her beauty would fade and her youth depart. Oh, it was dreadful! and poor Mrs. Mayfield wrung her hands in despair. How differently had she hoped! how differently believed! She thought Rosalie was safe, forever safe, from the faintest shadow of want or poverty. But it was not too late yet; she would break off the engagement.
Then came the thought of the publicity—the scandal. It was so near the wedding-day—all the preparations made—every one would wonder so what the reason could possibly be—and Rosalie might refuse to give up her lover, or, if she consented, would be so unhappy. Then the true cause would be sure to leak out, and they would be laughing-stocks for life. No, the engagement could not be broken off. She must abide by it, however dreadful the result.
How she had misunderstood and mistaken Mr. Henry's words! On asking her consent, and making a statement of his affairs, he had told her that he had a "small property," entirely independent of his profession and authorship. She had supposed it to be a modest way of alluding to his fortune, and had made no inquiries, not liking to show curiosity upon the subject. She now recurred to his words with ironical bitterness. "Small property!" she thought; "small enough I dare say. I wonder how much it is; twelve or fifteen hundred dollars perhaps!"
Then there was that ridiculous trousseau! She fairly shuddered as she thought of the sums already spent, and the bills that were yet to come. Why had she been so deaf to all Rosalie's remonstrances, so blind to all she might have seen? "A thousand dollars have gone for her clothes," she thought; "I might much better have bought her steel knives and forks, and ingrain carpeting."
Hours passed in these bitter self-upbraidings and fruitless repining; but at last Mrs. Mayfield's native good sense awoke to the folly of lamentation. "What's done is done," she said, "and all I can hope for now is that Mrs. James will not spread the story of her call this morning all over town, and make both Rosalie and myself ridiculous. At any rate I will not give her any clew to the mystery of my sudden illness if I can possibly help it. This business must be gone through with, and I will do it bravely." So saying she arose, bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, and descended to the drawing-room. She was unusually grave and quiet all the evening, but that was easily accounted for by her not feeling so well as usual.
The wedding came off in due time, and was quite a recherché affair; the bride, in particular, being pronounced the bride of the season. When the happy pair had set off, and the house was clear of guests, Mrs. Mayfield found leisure to examine a little packet which Mr. Bushe had placed in her hand at parting. It contained a check for $5000 payable to Rosalie's order. So the rich cousin had opened his heart for once.
By the time the newly married had returned from their journey Mrs. Mayfield had grown quite reconciled to the state of affairs; quite willing to admit that it might have been much worse. When they had been at home two or three weeks, and her good-will had been yet further propitiated by numerous little filial attentions from Mr. Henry, you could hardly have persuaded her that any thing could be better. Rosalie had a good husband, a talented, a loving husband; and, after all, happiness did not consist in having money to spend. This pleasant view of things was not lessened by the discovery that the "property" already spoken of, though small, was not paltry, and would form an acceptable addition to their income.
A house was purchased, after suitable hunting, not indeed in the Fifth Avenue or Madison Square, yet within the enchanted limits of Upper Tendom. It was not a "palace," but was sufficiently spacious and convenient for a small family. They furnished it prettily, not extravagantly; there was not an Aubusson carpet, a buhl cabinet, a Claude or a Titian (so called) in the building from top to bottom. There were plenty of books, however, and fine engravings; and such carpets and furniture as they had were thoroughly swept and nicely dusted. They had no fine or fashionable servants; but, on the other hand, they possessed their souls in peace, and were never cut to the quick by a sneer from a lady's maid or a foreign cook. Life went very smoothly with them; and, as a natural consequence, with their happy and sympathizing mother.
One evening when she was sitting by the nursery fire with a little Rosalie on her knee, while a fine boy played at her feet, she related to Rosalie mère the story of her mistake, and the woeful distress it caused her.
"But I recovered from it long ago," she added, laughing, "and I would not exchange Edgar now for any millionaire of them all. And Rosalie, my love, I often think of what your poor father used to say—that it is better to have desires according to our means, than means according to our desires; since, in the first case, we very soon reach a limit, but in the second our fancies so grow and expand that the wealth of Crœsus himself would not content us."