 | CHAPTER III. The mysterious state-room |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
The succceding day the beautiful stranger made her appearance,
for the first time, at the dinner table, and at her entrance, leaning on
the arm of the gallant host—who had a tolerable eye for female beauty—a
universal sensation was created by her beauty.
`Who is she?' where is she from? who are her party?' were questions
that no one could answer.
Captain Harry Hunter, as we shall call him until we get to the
denoument of our story, dined at the same table, but diffidently took
his seat at the extreme end, but his eyes were scarcely off from her;
but being rallied by his companion he colored, and to give proof of
his indifference to the lady, began very coolly to pepper a glass of
champaigne, instead of his salad.
`Hunter, will you take the mustard?' asked a waggish lieutenant at
his elbow.
`Thank you;' and the champaigne was enlivened by an abundant
spoonful of this pleasant mixture.
`A little salt?' inquired another opposite, handing him the salt-cellar.
`Thank you—thank you!' and the absent lover added very seriously
a spoonful of salt to his mustard and pepper.
`Now a little oil, Harry,' said the first wag, `and you will have the
honor of inventing a new dish—a devilled champaigne.'
A shout of laughter from a dozen gentlemen and ladies, who had
been amused observers, recalled the smitten captain to his senses, and
he fixed his eyes with a look of mingled wonder, shame, and anger on
the heterogeneous mixture before him. Laughing with the others the
affair soon passed; but it gave very positive proof of the state of his
heart in the judgment of more than one person at the table.
For several days afterwards the young lady became an object of curiosity,
and so great were her personal attractions, that the most aristocratic
of the summer sojourners at the Point, would have called upon
her and sought her acquaintance, but `the homely uncle and aunt'
they could not get over. They were a bar sinister to the otherwise
immaculate shield of her loveliness. Therefore she was courted by
no one, and remained isolated and alone amid a throng of gay and
fashionable people. Yet she seemed to be the happiest there. Her
mornings were past in exploring the wild scenery in the neighborhood,
and in sketching the most striking objects. Curiosity increased.
Who has seen her sketch book?' Nobody—yet the rumor was that,
it was filled with landscapes worthy of Rembrant. She had twice
seated herself at the piano when the drawing-room was nearly empty,
and in three minutes had filled it from terrace, lawn, and garden, by
the ravishing sweetness of her voice, and the magic music her skilful
touch drew from the ivory keys. `Who could she be?'
No one could say. The women avoided her, yet were dying to find
out who she was, and who Mr. and Mrs. Hodge were, and where they
lived, and what they did. They could not even learn the lady's name.
She was registered simply the niece, and as the niece only was she
known. A few ladies had spoken to her civilly to see if they could
get any thing out of her. But they grew no wiser. A gallant commodore
in the navy who had become a little deaf from the roar of cannon
in an engagement was her chief beau, for in his eye beauty was
aristocracy, spite of uncles and aunts. A few handsome cadets, also,
had fluttered about her, and she had encouraged their civility, and
and was often to be seen promenading on their arms. To the officers
and other gentlemen she was distant and haughty, and wore an air of
independence which, thought the ladies, would have become a lady
personages was very presumptive and should be put down. So a party
was formed against her, while another come forward in her defence;
and for a time, she set them all by the ears, and was every where the
subject of conversation. A French Marquis arrived at the Point, and
with native gallantry attached himself to the beauty. They spoke
French together constantly. `She speaks French, too!' was whispered
about.
`She is a French teacher, perhaps,' said the opposition.
`She is a cultivated woman,' said the others.
There came a German prince, too, to the Point, and the day after
his arrival, he was seen escorting her to the table, and during dinner
they conversed wholly in German. Curiosity increased.
With the Swedish consul she conversed in his own tongue; with
the Spanish minister in Spanish, and even talked Latin with a Roman
priest who was travelling through the country. To sum up her accomplishments,
in music she was a mocking bird, warbling melodies
in all languages; in conversation a wonder; in accomplishments unparalleled;
in taste perfect; in painting a master; in walking she
moved like a goddess; and in riding she seemed to be the very spirit
of horsemanship—a female Putnam, while she managed her rein with
equal grace and boldness. Truly never were people so mystified—
never was curiosity so keen—never were ladies so long at fault in getting
at the bottom of a mystery.
In the meanwhile, what became of Captain Harry Hunter? From
the moment, the first night of his arrival, a spirit of diffidence and reserve
seemed to have taken possession of him. He avoided her presence,
turned from her path, and showed apparent aversion for her society.
It appeared dislike. She observed him, and rightly translated it.
It was the timidity of Love.
The inquries she had made about him from time to time, till she had
learned his whole history as we have already given it, led to conjectures
that Harry knew something of her. But his reserve, and the
fact of never being seen in her presence, took from the supposition all
its force.
One twilight, Captain Harry had been listlessly walking in that
most romantic spot of the Hudson, `Kosciusco's Garden,' when coming
to the fountain, he seated himself; and while the tinkling fall of
the water into the marble basin soothed his spirit, his thoughts dwelt
hearing the strains of music borne to his ears from the encampment.
The shades of night crept over the spot; the glens around grew dark;
the diverging walks became indistinct in the gloom, and solitude, and
silence reigned around him.
`What care I for family? Will parents, sisters, rank, compensate
for her loss? Never. No, I will seek her,' he said half aloud, as if
he had come to a final decision in relation to his passion, `and be she
the lowest of the low by parentage, I will declare my consuming
passion and receive from her own lips the sentence to live or die.'
`Live then!'
He started, and looking up, saw standing near him, the object of
his thoughts and words.
`Lady—angelic creature,' he instantly cried, kneeling before her
and seizing her hand, `forgive the language I have dared to use, I
knew not—'
`Nay, Captain Hunter, you are forgiven—I know your passion, and
should be cruel not only to myself as well as to a generous heart
which I know you to possess, to deceive you. If the ack nowledgement
that your interest in me is reciprocated by the unworthy object
of it, will render your being happier, and restore to your cheek the
color, and to your lip and eye the light that have left them for this two
weeks, then receive it—and there is my hand in token of the truth of
my heart.'
This was spoken with the extraordinary frankness that characterised
all that she did or said. Its effect upon him was electrical. Her hand
was pressed to his lips and then their lips were pressed together. Ere
they left the spot, they had pledged to each other their undying love.
Still the fair stranger, in whose breast had been kindled a passion simultaneous
with, and as vivid as his own, did not give him, at his repeated
solicitations, her name.
`In giving you myself, fair sir, I think I have given you as much as
your merits can well lay claim to,' she said archly. `If, as you have
now promised, after our marriage, you will accompany me to England,
I will then give you my name. Till then, seek not to know more of
me, unless perhaps at the altar.'
`Enough,' he said, `I am the slave of your will, and I obey.'
| CHAPTER III. The mysterious state-room | |