University of Virginia Library

6. VI.

A year or two afterwards, changes and chances brought me
for a moment within the circle in which she moved as the
admired star. The rooms were brilliant with lights and flowers,
and gaiety and beauty, and intellect; and the lately shrinking
country girl was the cynosure of all eyes—the most envied,
the most dreaded, the most admired, the most loved.

When my attention was drawn first toward her, there were
some voices that had sounded at least through the length and
breadth of their own country, softened to the most dulcet of
tones, for her sake; and she seemed to listen indifferently, as
though her thoughts were otherwhere.

I naturally recalled the humble life she had led—my walk
to her house along the autumn woods—the letter which had
been the key opening a new life to her—and while I was thus
musing, I heard a voice which seemed not altogether unfamiliar
—so low, and soft, and oily,—“Really, Miss Herbert, I was
never so proud as to-night—that you should have remembered
me on such an occasion as this! I cannot express the honor I
feel, the obligations you have placed me under.”

And then, as if constrained to throw aside all formality, and
express himself with simple sincerity, he continued—“Why,
how in the world did you get all these great folks together! I
don't believe there is a house in the United States, except
yours, that ever held at once so many celebrities.”

Before my eye fell on him, I recognized Mr. Dinsmore, and
observed him with increasing interest as he made his way to
Miss Ryan, who appeared not to see him, till having pushed
and elbowed his way, he addressed her with the familiarity of
an old and intimate friend, and as though he were not only
delighted himself, but felt assured that she must be much more
so. But she hesitated—looked at him inquiringly—and seemed
to say by her manner, as plainly as possible, “What impudent
fellow are you—and what do you want?”

“Surely, you remember meeting with me,” the gentleman
said, a little discomfited, but in his most insinuating tone.

“When—where?” she asked, as if she would remember him
if she could.

“Don't you remember,” he said, “a month with Sulley
Dinsmore at Captain Bailey's?”

“Ah, yes,” she replied, quoting his own words on a former
occasion; “Really, I had forgotten it.”

He shrunk a head and shoulders in stature, and slipt aside
like a detected dog; and after one or two ineffectual attempts
to rally, took leave in modest and becoming silence.

An hour afterward we sat alone—Charlotte and I—in the
dim corner of a withdrawing room; and as I was congratulating
her on her new position, especially on the beauty of her appearance
that night, she buried her face in my lap, and burst into
tears; and when I tried to soothe her, but wept the more. At
length, lifting herself up, and drying her eyes, she said: “What
would mother think, if she saw me here, and thus?”—And she
scanned her gay dress, as though it were something neither
right nor proper for her to wear. “And dear little Willie and
sturdy Jonathan,” she continued: “I suppose they sleep in
their little narrow bed under the rafters yet, and I—I—would
I not feel more shame than joy if they were to come in here
to-night! Oh, I wish I had staid at home and helped mother
spin, and read the sermon to father when the weekly paper
came. His hair is getting white, is n't it?” she asked, pulling
the flowers out of her own, and throwing them on the ground.

My wish was fulfilled—Charlotte had attained the position
I had thought her so fitted to adorn; but was she happier?
In the little gain was there not much loss—the fresh young
feeling, the capacity to enjoy, the hope, the heart, which, once
gone, never come back.

I cannot trace her biography all out: since that night
of triumph and defeat, our paths have never crossed each
other.