University of Virginia Library

1. I.

When I made my first call on Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, they
had been married about a year. Theirs had been what is
termed a love-match: the bride, who was an heiress in a small
way, having stolen from the comfortable and ample roof of her
father one tempestuous night, and taken, in the presence of the
priest and two or three witnesses, for better or for worse, John
Robinson, to cherish and love, in health and sickness, thenceforward.

Matilda Moore, previously to becoming Mrs. Robinson, was
a tall, slender, fair-faced woman, with a passionate vein in her
nature, which, as she was much indulged and petted, had
scarcely been thoroughly aroused. White teeth, flaxen curls,
rosy cheeks, and an amiable smile, with an unexceptionable
toilette, and graceful manners, gave her the reputation of a
beauty with many, though the few might have found in the
wide, full chin, and hanging lip, as in the general cast of her
countenance, a want of refinement and intellectuality. Be that
as it may, she had passed through the regular training of boarding-schools,
pianists, and dancing-masters, and in the circle which
her father's position, as a well-to-do lumber-merchant, commanded,
was quite a belle.

In the valley lying between the city, and the hill-country
wherein Clovernook nestles itself, stands a great irregular
building, known as the Columbia House. In days gone by, it
was a very popular resort of persons and parties in quest of
recreation. But the fashion of this world passeth away, and
at the time I speak of it was fallen somewhat from its genteel
pretensions, the once pretty pleasure-grounds were turned into

yards for cattle and swine, the piazzas had been boxed into
dormitories for drovers, and the slender ornamental railing
which once encompassed the house was quite broken away by
reason of having been used as hitching-posts for the fast trotters
of jockeys, whose partiality for the Columbia House was evinced
by the fact that from ten to twenty slender-wheeled buggies and
high-headed horses might be seen, any summer afternoon, hemming
it in. But this is a digression, and what the house is, or
was, has nothing to do with my story, farther than that it
chanced to be here, at a ball given in celebration of some political
triumph, that the first meeting of Mr. John Robinson
and Miss Matilda Moore took place.

“A pretty girl, I'll swear, you just danced with,” said Mr.
Robinson to Uncle Jo, as everybody called the well-known
dancing-master: tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of something
stronger than it should have been under the circumstances, for
he was that night the gallant of as pretty a country girl as one
may pick from the meeting-house of a summer morning.

“She dances with infinite grace, Uncle Jo. Won't you take
another glass? You haven't moistened your lips, man.”

Could Uncle Jo refuse? As he “tossed the rosy,” Mr. Robinson
continued, “Is there a better dressed lady in the saloon?”
And, as if some one dissented, he quickly added, “No, siree!”
Must have the dimes, eh, Uncle Jo? won't you produce me?”

Shortly after this one-sided conversation, Uncle Jo appeared
in the saloon, and made his way, with an indolent sort of
saunter, as of one conscious of welcome anywhere, toward the
nook wherein Miss Moore had seated herself, for a little respite,
and the refreshing influence of some light gossip with her cousin
Kate. At his side was Mr. Robinson.

Hardly had the lady time for the whisper behind her fan,
“Is n't he handsome?” when Uncle Jo presented him as Mr.
John Robinson, of —, son of Hon. Judge Robinson; and
she hastened to tuck away the white lace that hung in a series
of short skirts over her pink-satin petticoat, to make room by
her side for the splendid and dashing son of the judge.

“Excuse me, Tild,” said the cousin, rising, with a meaning
look, that indicated, “Do as much for me some time;” and

linking her arm through that of Uncle Jo, she skipped gayly
away for a promenade, rallying her captive coquettishly on not
giving himself exclusively to one, if he did not expect all the
ladies to claim his service.

“Gad, Uncle Jo,” said Mr. Robinson, toward the dawn of
the morning, “I'll remember you when I fall heir to the —
property. You have made me a happy and an envied man
to-night.”

“I congratulate you,” said the dancing-master, who cared not
a whit when young ladies fell in love, nor with whom; “but
remember, that belles may coquette on occasion. Do you see
anything of that?” He pointed to Miss Moore, who was at
the moment looking tenderly in the face of a very fat man with
very black whiskers, luxuriant and uncropped, reproaching him
in a way that might or might not have meaning in it, for having
deserted her wantonly and unprovokedly a whole evening,
which seemed to her interminable.

“Is the young woman a fool, that she is going to show a
whole ball-room which way her cattle run? No, sir! But
I'll bet you what you dare, or I'll play three games of eucre
with you, and stake my country property, that Miss Matilda
Moore will be Mrs. Matilda somebody else before this night
twelvemonth.”

“Very likely,” said Uncle Jo, quietly; and the two gentlemen
retired for a social glass at parting.

I need say no more of Mr. Robinson, I think. The reader
may form his own idea of what sort of young men drink with
the dancing-master, boast of property which is still their father's
and of conquests of ladies who have but chanced to chat
with them half an hour.

Thereafter Mr. Robinson had, to use his own characteristic
phrase, a devilish sight of business in town. He usually drove
his father's, horse and chaise, which he described as “mine,”
and, in company with the rich and accomplished Miss Moore,
went off to the fashionable resorts for ices, strawberries, and
other such delicacies, which have been, longer than I can remember,
the “food of love.” At all balls, races, and pic-nics, too,
they were the most dashing and noticeable couple.

Miss Moore was proud of being escorted by Mr. Robinson,
son of the Judge, and Mr. Robinson of attending the handsome
and wealthy Miss Matilda. For a time all went merry, but
“the course of true love never did run smooth.”