University of Virginia Library

3. III.

Miss Ellerton sat in the music-room the next morning
after breakfast, preventing pauses in a rather interesting
conversation, by a running accompaniment
upon the guitar. A single gold thread formed a fillet
about her temples, and from beneath it, in clouds of
silken ringlets, floated the softest raven hair that ever
grew enamored of an ivory shoulder. Hers was a
skin that seemed woven of the lily-white, but opaque
fibre of the magnolia, yet of that side of its cup turned
toward the fading sunset. There is no term in painting,
because there is no touch of pencil or color, that
could express the vanishing and impalpable breath
that assured the healthiness of so pale a cheek. She
was slight as all southern women are in America, and
of a flexible and luxurious gracefulness equalled by
nothing but the movings of a smoke-curl. Without
the elastic nerve remarkable in the motions of Taglioni,
she appeared, like her, to be born with a lighter specific
gravity than her fellow-creatures. If she had
floated away upon some chance breeze you would only
have been surprised upon reflection.

“I am afraid you are too fond of society,” said Miss
Ellerton, as Juba came in hesitatingly and delivered
her a note in the hand writing of an old correspondent.
She turned pale on seeing the superscription, and
crushed the note up in her hand, unread. I was not
sorry to defer the denouement of my little drama, and
taking up the remark which she seemed disposed to
forget, I referred her to a scrap-book of Van Pelt's,
which she had brought home with her, containing
some verses of my own, copied (by good luck) in that
sentimental sophomore's own hand.

“Are these yours, really and really?” she asked,
looking pryingly into my face, and showing me my
own verses, against which she had already run a pencil
line of approbation.

“Peccavi!” I answered. “But will you make me
in love with my offspring by reading them in your own
voice.”

They were some lines written in a balcony at daybreak,
while a ball was still going on within, and contained
an allusion (which I had quite overlooked) to
some one of my ever-changing admirations. As well
as I remember they ran thus:—

“And who was this `sweet lover,' Mr. Wrongham?
I should know, I think, before I go farther with so expeditious
a gentleman.”

“As Shelley says of his ideal mistress—

It was but an apostrophe to the presentiment of that
which I have found, dear Miss Ellerton! But will you
read that ill-treated billet-doux, and remember that
Juba stands with the patience of an ebon statue waiting
for an answer?”

I knew the contents of the letter, and I watched the
expression of her face, as she read it, with no little
interest. Her temples flushed, and her delicate lips
gradually curled into an expression of anger and scorn,
and having finished the perusal of it, she put it into
my hand, and asked me if so impertient a production
deserved an answer.

I began to fear that the eclaircissement would not
leave me on the sunny side of the lady's favor, and felt
the need of the moment's reflection given me while
running my eye over the letter.

“Mr. Slingsby,” said I, with the deliberation of an
attorney, “has been some time in correspondence with
you?”

“Yes.”

“And, from his letters and your brother's commendations,
you had formed a high opinion of his character,
and had expressed as much in your letters?”

“Yes—perhaps I did.”

“And from this paper intimacy he conceives himself
sufficiently acquainted with you to request leave
to pay his addresses?”

A dignified bow put a stop to my catechism.

“Dear Miss Ellerton!” I said, “this is scarcely a
question upon which I ought to speak, but by putting
this letter into my hand, you seemed to ask my opinion.”

“I did—I do,” said the lovely girl, taking my hand,
and looking appealingly into my face; “answer it for
me! I have done wrong in encouraging that foolish
correspondence, and I owe perhaps to this forward
man a kinder reply than my first feeling would have
dictated. Decide for me—write for me—relieve me
from the first burden that has lain on my heart
since—”

She burst into tears, and my dread of an explanation
increased.

“Will you follow my advice implicitly?” I asked.

“Yes—oh, yes!”

“You promise?”

“Indeed, indeed!”

“Well, then, listen to me! However painful the
task, I must tell you that the encouragement you have
given Mr. Slingsby, the admiration you have expressed
in your letters of his talents and acquirements, and the
confidences you have reposed in him respecting yourself,
warrant him in claiming as a right, a fair trial of
his attractions. You have known and approved Mr.
Slingsby's mind for years—you know me but for a few
hours. You saw him under the most unfavorable
auspices (for I know him intimately), and I feel bound
in justice to assure you that you will like him much
better upon acquaintance.”

Miss Ellerton had gradually drawn herself up during
this splendid speech, and sat at last as erect and
as cold as Agrippina upon her marble chair.

“Will you allow me to send Mr. Slingsby to you,”
I continued, rising—“and suffer him to plead his own
cause?”

“If you will call my brother, Mr. Wrongham, I
shall feel obliged to you,” said Miss Ellerton.

I left the room, and hurrying to my chamber, dipped
my head into a basin of water, and plastered my long
locks over my eyes, slipped on a white roundabout,
and tied around my neck the identical checked cravat
in which I had made such an unfavorable impression
on the first day of my arrival. Tom Ellerton was soon
found, and easily agreed to go before and announce me
by my proper name to his sister; and treading closely
on his heels, I followed to the door of the music-room.

“Ah, Ellen!” said he, without giving her time for
a scene, “I was looking for you. Slingsby is better,
and will pay his respects to you presently. And, I
say—you will treat him well, Ellen, and—and, don't
flirt with Wrongham the way you did last night!—
Slingby's a devilish sight better fellow. Oh, here he
is!”

As I stepped over the threshold, Miss Ellerton gave
me just enough of a look to assure herself that it was
the identical monster she had seen at the tea-table,
and not deigning me another glance, immediately commenced
talking violently to her brother on the state of
the weather. Tom bore it for a moment or two with
remarkable gravity, but at my first attempt to join in
the conversation, my voice was lost in an explosion of
laughter which would have been the death of a gentleman
with a full habit.

Indignant and astonished, Miss Ellerton rose to her
full height, and slowly turned to me.

“Peccavi!” said I, crossing my hands on my bosom,
and looking up penitently to her face.

She ran to me, and seized my hand, but recovered
herself instantly, and the next moment was gone from
the room.

Whether from wounded pride at having been the
subject of a mystification, or whether from that female
caprice by which most men suffer at one period or
other of their bachelor lives, I know not—but I never
could bring Miss Ellerton again to the same interesting
crisis with which she ended her intimacy with Mr.
Wrongham. She proffered to forgive me, and talked
laughingly enough of our old correspondence; but
whenever I grew tender, she referred me to the “sweet
lover,” mentioned in my verses in the balcony, and
looked around for Van Pelt. That accomplished
bean, on observing my discomfiture, began to find out
Miss Ellerton's graces without the aid of his quizzing-glass,
and I soon found it necessary to yield the pas
altogether. She has since become Mrs. Van Pelt,
and when I last heard from her was “as well as could
be expected.”