 | CHAPTER XII.
AURELIA'S PRIZE AT THE FAIR. Ellie, or, The human comedy |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
AURELIA'S PRIZE AT THE FAIR.
Sansoucy was prompt to his engagement on the next
evening; and ladies know very well how much such
promptitude indicates.
In fact, it had seemed to Mr. Sansoucy, that the figures
indicating the hour of eight, on that evening, had been
put forward on the face of time by some adverse fate—
and that the day would never end, and bring the world
round to the expected hour.
Precisely, as the hands of Mr. Ashton's clock pointed
to the time, Mr. Sansoucy made his appearance—greeted
Mr. and Mrs. Ashton; and saw that Aurelia was quite
ready. A malicious critic would have said that she anticipated
quite as much pleasure from the visit, as did her
admirer—but the gallantry of the present historian will
not permit him even so much as to hint such a thing;
and he confines himself, therefore, to the simple statement,
that Miss Aurelia's appearance indicated that she was not
only willing, but ready.
Mr. Sansoucy was doomed, however, to first undergo
the importunities of Misses Bel and Liz, for their verses,
promised them. To these demands he replied, that the
words of their request had been, “if you come to-morrow
or the next day”—and inasmuch as the next day had not
yet arrived, he was not failing in his promise.
“Well, sir, please bring them to-morrow,” said Miss
music, and sing them.”
“Cousin Aurelia?”
“Yes, sir—she has been singing the May verses all the
afternoon, and I have learned them so nicely.”
For some reason, Miss Aurelia turns away, and says
she must go up stairs for something.
“Cousin Aurelia is so good to us,” says Lizzie, with
an affectionate look.
“Is she?”
“Yes, indeed, I love her dearly.”
“And so do I,” said Bel, “don't you, Mr. Sansoucy?
Of course—I mean—”
And Miss Bel, fearing that she has committed an impropriety,
assumes a delightful little air of demure
gravity—and thereafter bursts out laughing.
Liz looks surprised and says:
“Why, everybody loves cousin Aurelia—I think she is
the sweetest and dearest thing in the world! Indeed, indeed,
Mr. Sansoucy, when you know her well, you'll like
her as much as we do.”
“No doubt of it, my little friend.”
“I'm sure you will,” says the child, with that manner
full of softness and smiles, of purity and goodness, which
none but the authoress of one of the most delightful books
of any age, the “Wide, Wide World,” can adequately reproduce.
As for the present historian, he follows that
beautiful and pure pen at a respectful distance, and gladly
acknowledges the delightful entertainment, as well as the
instruction he has derived from those beautiful pictures
from the subject of Mr. Sansoucy's visit to the fair;
and we are recalled to our duty of chronicler, by the
reëntrance of Aurelia, who smiles, and signifies that she
is ready.
The wind had lulled, and although it was very cold,
they had a fine starlight night to guide them. They soon
reached the Fair, and entered the buzzing and brilliant
throng.
The Fair had been originated by some charitable
ladies for the poor; and all classes of the community had
been called upon to contribute something to its tables.
The call had not been in vain—and Miss Aurelia gazed
with the curiosity and interest of a true woman, upon the
beautiful things heaped up upon the tables. Her own
needle had contributed, in no slight degree, to several of
the departments; and she felt a pardonable pride upon
finding that these were not excelled in taste or beauty, by
anything of the same description which had been offered.
The young lady was early in the evening armed with a
huge bouquet, for which Mr. Sansoucy was compelled by
his hard little merchant, the vendor, to pay a moderate
fortune:—and so they went on through the crowd, smiling
and exchanging salutations with a hundred friends.
The apartment blazed with lights, and the fair merchants
had prepared their head-dresses, and decorations
generally with the evident conviction that they would be
subjected to a large amount of comment—and the consequence
of this preparation was an array of enemies fatal
to that class.
The immense crowd hummed and buzzed and laughed
and undulated to and fro:—and at times this laughter
would rise almost to a shout, and the uproar would be
stunning.
In their circuit Aurelia saw suddenly opposite to her,
Mr. Heartsease—and as this gentleman had been pining
for a recognition for some moments, their salutation was
simultaneous.
“How divinely you look this evening, my dear Miss
Ashton,” said the amiable Heartsease, gently passing his
hand through his hyacinthine locks; “I thought there
was something wanting in the rooms—but since you came,
the spectacle is perfect.”
And the gallant Heartsease smiled, kissing his hand to
a lady friend, who nodded to him as she passed.
“Oh, me! what terrible flattery!” said Aurelia, laughing,
“or rather irony—you are too bad, Mr. Heartsease.”
“I never, never flatter,” sighed Heartsease.
“Then you admire me very much,” said Aurelia, logically,
and smiling as she spoke, “how pretty the rooms
are—the tables.”
“I was admiring the animated nature, my dear Miss
Ashton.”
“Were you?”
“Yes, indeed: I have lost my heart seven distinct times
since my entrance. Ah! I am dreadfully susceptible.”
“Indeed.”
“Too true—and I foresee that I shall lose it for the
eighth time in a moment—there, it's gone!”
And Heartsease ogled Miss Aurelia with affecting
earnestness.
“Oh, Mr. Heartsease, how you jest!”
“Never.”
“You are making fun of a country girl.”
“I admire them vastly more than town ladies.”
“Where there is so much to attract? I think that
you and Mr. Sansoucy laugh at me.”
And Aurelia with a delightful affectation of chagrin
looked at Sansoucy.
That gentleman's look was quite enough, if Miss Aurelia
truly feared such a thing; and she turned away in silence.
“They are about to have a lottery yonder,” sighed
Heartsease, smiling; “the project was explained to me
just now.
“What is it, sir?”
“You buy a ticket, and draw a blank or a prize,”
replied Hearstease, with the air of a man who utters an
intricate and difficult sentence, and fears it will not be
understood.
“Ah!” said Aurelia.
“Possible!” said Sansoucy.
“Yes, my dear friend, and I think I'll go take a chance.
It has been formerly observed that marriage is a lottery—
which prevents me from making the remark again. As I
can't try matrimony, I'll try the lottery.”
“Why, can't you?” said Sansoucy.
“Impossible, my dear fellow—I have reflected about
all.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, you are philosophical: who are you smiling at?”
But Heartsease's enraptured eyes were fixed upon the
distance.
“Who is it, my dear Heartsease?”
But Heartsease only kissed his hand to the distance.
“Come—I know that is a lady—and for an incorrigible
bachelor—”
“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said Heartsease, gliding
away, “and you, my dear Miss Ashton, I see as a friend
I wish to salute—my highly esteemed friend, Miss Gosyp.”
And Heartsease disappeared in the crowd, languid and
smiling to the last.
“Suppose we follow Mr. Heartsease's advice,” said Sansoucy,
smiling; “here is the lottery.”
Aurelia assented, and Mr. Sansoucy purchasing some
tickets, they waited for the wheel of fortune to revolve.
The utmost incongruity was observable in the prizes which
fell to various elderly gentlemen, and a lady of great dignity
started back before the vision of a snuff-box.
Mr. Sansoucy drew a blank—Aurelia, a prize.
It was the lace cap of a child, and with a smile, she
declared herself perfectly satisfied. They again entered
the undulating noisy crowd, and so in the midst of one of
the merriest uproars ever seen or heard, passed the hours
of the evening until nearly midnight.
Mr. Sansoucy and Aurelia went away before the crowd
of the cold bright night, talked on a thousand subjects—
which conversation the present historian sees no reason to
repeat.
The stars must surely be intended for some other purpose
than to show the crossings, even though their light
be needed by as elegant a gentleman as Heartsease.
Surely, if even they were as the ancients thought, only
bright lamps hung in the heavens for the benefit of earth,
their mission is far nobler than to light a crossing. In
their infinite depths, a solemn beauty reigns—a joy, and
thoughtful loveliness—and though the philosopher of a
unique school, considered it a “sad sight;” a thousand
and ten thousand human hearts, know how much quiet joy
lies in those golden fires, fretting the noble vault, and
shining upon earth with hope and encouragement. Under
the light of stars such tender words have been spoken!—
such pure feelings have risen up like silent fountains,
touched by a hand they must obey! Such loving words
have been whispered with those serene sentinels for listeners—such
hope has come to fainting human souls from
gazing on them in their azure fields, and thinking how
they roll forever there, and like the moon, “take up the
wondrous tale,” through all the ages, and show who has
made and placed them there!
So under the stars Sansoucy and Aurelia came back
home—and the little hand lay in his own at parting—and
the innocent cheek was covered with its tell-tale blush.
She went from him like the light—and when he turned
away the night seemed darker.
He saw her plainly all the way as he returned—with perfect
plainness—her bright eyes laughing—and her slipper
poised upon the portico, as she stood on the threshold—
and in her hand the pretty lace cap which she had drawn
at the fair.
“How beautiful and lovely she is,” he said; “so pure
and good.”
And Mr. Sansoucy went on with a smile.
| CHAPTER XII.
AURELIA'S PRIZE AT THE FAIR. Ellie, or, The human comedy | |