University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The company were assembled by ten; not all,
but nearly twice as many as could press at one
time into the ample and splendid apartments.

A fashionable New-York mansion is not surpassed
anywhere in graceful elegance and complete
comfort. There were many rooms blazing
with light. The opening hall was carpeted with
oilcloth of such rich figures and glossy smoothness
as resembled the pictured marble floors of Italian
palaces; but the stairs and drawing-rooms, instead
of being like those of many European nobles, of
cold marble or naked granite, were thickly covered
with the most gorgeous carpets. But few paintings
and statues graced the walls. There was,
however, a profusion of mirrors, marble tables,

curtains of crimson velvet studded with gold,
vases, urns, and jars of rare flowers; exquisitely-wrought
lamps, dispensing a soft and veiled radiance,
like moonlight, from large globes, sometimes
stained with deeply-coloured pictures, and sometimes
of a frosty white; couches, ottomans, and
sofas of embroidered satin; and a variety of such
other costly objects as could be obtained by wealth
from any part of the world for the indulgence of
pride or the gratification of luxury. The balustrades
of the steps which led to the upper apartments
were of beautifully-carved mahogany, stained
with the rich colour of a ripe chestnut; and,
by means of secret apertures, invisible fires diffused
through the corridors a mild warmth, permitting all
the interior doors of the house to stand open, without
afflicting even the sensitive victims of rheumatism
or toothache with the horrors of a draught.

Immediately on their arrival, the guests were
ushered into separate apartments above, where,
according to their sex, they re-arranged their toilet,
which even the motion of a carriage might have
disturbed. Here, previous to their entrance, floated
groups of sylphs and sirens, to reclaim a wandering
curl or replant a drooping rose. Then The
gentlemen's apartment—the extraordinary preparations
to be elegant—the collars bent to the precise
angle—the cravats tied in the exquisite knot
—the shining feet—the curled heads—the crooked
elbows—the audacious whiskers. Cupid, hast
thou no pity? There is nothing so merciless as a fop.

The two principal saloons were thrown into one,
by means of the double doors of glassy mahogany.
A band of musicians, stationed in an adjoining hall,
ever and anon breathed a low air that banished care
and gravity, inspired wit and pleasure, and animated
rather than interrupted conversation.

At the lower end of the apartment stood Mrs.
Temple; her majestic figure multiplied in the
mirrors,—her face, always a radiant one, now glowing
with pride and conscious beauty. A coronet
of diamonds on her queenly brow flashed, burned,
and trembled with every motion in the light; and
above nodded a snowy plume. She looked thus, in
her glory, like the rising sun.

By her side stood Flora; not so tall as her
mother, nor so commanding, but yet invested by
the charm of youthful loveliness with more direct
power over the feelings. For her style of beauty,
she was admirably dressed in simple white; her
hair parted plainly on her forehead, and a rose,
fresh culled from nature, the only ornament of her
strikingly beautiful head. Venus might have so
stood by Juno.

It was a study to see Mrs. Temple “receive:”
that stately air—that gracious recognition and graceful
acknowledgment—the ready word—the quick
repartee—the brilliant smile—the beaming look.

Then Flora—without any of that dramatic effect
—more reserved—more natural—more lovely—
growing like a Guido on the contemplation—more
difficult to imitate, and—to forget.

Had the proud dame known her true moral glory
that night, she would have attached no value to the
splendour which surrounded her, but triumphed
alone, conspicuous and envied as the mother of
Flora Temple.

The rooms were filled—the halls—the steps
before the door. Family after family of the very
highest ton (and are there not the loftiest exclusives
in a republic?) came pouring up. Wealthy merchants—eminent
counsellors, just from profound
tomes, gladly escaped to this scene of light and
joy—astute judges, who had perhaps recently

sealed the fate of wretched criminals, chatted with
the bright-eyed girls, and sipped their coffee to
dulcet music—physicians, from the death-bed of
the dying or the dead—distinguished members of
Congress—ex-governors and bank-directors—popular
authors (for even America began to have
popular authors)—elégants—beaux-esprits—and
“young men of talent” by the score—and lions in
such plenty that they were in each other's way;—
all mingled in the enchanting tide of sparkling
pleasure and radiant beauty. The waltz—that airy
child of fashion and caprice—even here, where the
pioneer had scarcely flung away his axe, floated
like a zephyr, though, truth to say, within a sadly
circumscribed compass. Music breathed—champaign
exploded—the pressure for pleasure grew
greater and more insupportable—the sides of the
obese were penetrated by the elbows of the enthusiastic—the
gentlemen were wedged in closely,
with one hand and an opera-hat above their head—
imperial carpets were soaked with wasted wine—
each charming mouth dropped words of wit and
mirth—those who were out pressed to get in—those
who were in pressed to get out—the roar of new
carriages thundered at the door, and—what is there
after all like a rout?

But, heavens! what a voice! what loveliness!
what execution! A young girl, of peculiar grace
and beauty, ran her slender fingers rapidly over the
keys of a piano, and sang with such tones of sweetness
that the auditors almost ceased to breathe. A
difficult and brilliant bravura elicited from every
lip repeated and irrepressible exclamations of delight
and pleasure. They had not yet died away,
when a plaintive ballad, simple as the murmurs of
a running brook, and soft as the voice of the dove
mourning her mate in the forest, once more hushed

every sound and touched every heart, till the last
sweet note, melting away, left a general pause—
the truest tribute of praise.

“Who is she?” cried one.

“Who can she be?” exclaimed another.

It was old Mr. Romain's daughter. Every one
knew old Mr. Romain.

If any thing can heighten the spell of good wine,
it is music a little while after. If any thing can
extract from music its last alloy of earth, and leave
it purely an ethereal rapture, it is good wine a little
while before.

“By heavens,” said Albert Moreland, “this is
wonderful!—Norman, did you ever hear such
sounds?”

“Many a time and oft,” replied Leslie, with indifference.

Rosalie Romain was the centre of all eyes; even
Flora stood by almost unobserved. Never
was collected a fairer array than shone here to-night,
and none so marked as Rosalie Romain. Her
beauty was indeed of a kind to bewilder the unwary.
Her person was graceful and majestic, and
somewhat above the ordinary stature. A warm
and passionate languor was felt in her manner and
expression; except at times, when suddenly excited
to peculiarly winning loveliness and naïveté. Eyes
large and dark—pearly teeth—a bewitching smile
—the most engaging air—and a voice that might
sound an alarm to the heart of a cynic, invested
her with uncommon powers of allurement. She
was peculiarly favoured, too, with a complexion of
such transparent brightness, lips so red and pouting,
and cheeks so fresh and rosy, as would have imparted
a character of beauty to features much less
intrinsically perfect.

“What, Norman, silent!” cried Moreland again

to the young man whom he had previously addressed,
who was rather gravely regarding Miss
Romain, while others could not find words to praise
her sufficiently; “and, now I remember, this enchantress
the world has given to you. Is it not so,
Miss Temple?”

“Even so, Mr. Moreland,” answered Flora, with
a smile; “and a more elegant girl Mr. Leslie could
scarcely desire.”

Leslie coloured in some confusion.

“See,” exclaimed Moreland, “the guilty wretch!”

“Upon my soul,” said Leslie, “you do me too
much honour.”

“Nay, but I saw,” said Moreland, “even this
minute—the language of Miss Romain's eyes is
not easily to be mistaken; and Mr. Norman Leslie
himself, for all his present gravity, has a pair of
orbs which converse indifferently well. Look at
them, Miss Temple.”

“Nonsense, it is untrue,” said Norman. “I
solemnly assure you it is untrue. Miss Temple,
protect me from the raillery of this sarcastic
lawyer.”

“I must reserve my forces, Mr. Leslie, for a
juster cause,” replied Miss Temple, smiling.

“There, I told you so, Leslie; Miss Temple
knows it—I know it—everybody knows it.”

“Albert, upon my honour—”

“Why,” interrupted Moreland, “now I remember
me, I have myself seen a copy of verses, addressed
by N. L. to R. R., enough to make stones
weep. I hereby formally accuse you of the dreadful
and very uncommon crime of love.”

“What shall be the penalty?” asked Norman.

“We shall be obliged to procure one by special
act of Congress,” replied the lawyer, quickly; “for
the offence is so heinous, that, like parricide, the

legislator might well forget to include it in his
code.”

“Whatever it may be,” said Norman, “the endictment
is false.”

“You will plead guilty, then, to flirtation?—
remember Congress Hall.”

“Of flirtation,” said the youth, blushing perceptibly,
“perhaps; but, if that is a crime, I have
repented and done penance—I hold myself absolved.”

“Jealousy!” said Moreland: “the dear creatures
have quarrelled; I vow I will bring them
together. Miss Temple knows—”

But Miss Temple had disappeared.

“Albert,” said Norman, in a low voice, “never
again jest with me on that subject. I hate that
girl—I actually hate her. She is the wiliest coquette
that ever breathed. I did think once I loved
her; her beauty and winning allurement of manner
fired my boyish feelings. But I needed only a
slight experience in the capacity of a lover, to read
in her actions a cold heart and a shallow understanding.
She is vain, proud, and silly; though
brilliant, accomplished, and lovely. She is a show
—a dazzle—a bright, but hollow and useless mask,
without either head or heart. She has taught me
a lesson in woman which I shall not lightly forget.”

“But I see you with her often, and in friendship,”
said Moreland.

“Certainly,” replied Norman, laughing; “you
would not have me challenge her? When I say
hate, I mean I dislike the class of characters to
which she belongs. Individually, I would not injure
her either in reputation or feelings. She is a
gay, and can be a fascinating woman; and perhaps
I am somewhat severe upon female character.
Besides, the world has placed me among her rejected

lovers. I would do away the impression, as
I do not deserve the honour. I meet her often in
society. We have had no definite misunderstanding.
This change in my sentiments has been the
work of silent observation. I found a glittering
toy, thought it diamond—examined it, and discovered
it to be but common glass. Yet I do not
wish, and indeed have no right, to withhold from
her the civilities due to a lady.”

“Come, come,” said Moreland, “I think I see
through all this. You are a little jealous. That
French count, who has set the whole town crazy—”

“What! that Clairmont!” interrupted Norman,
with an expression of contempt—“that fop! that
coxcomb!”

“Ay!” cried Moreland, “that is the very language
of the green-eyed monster.”

“I tell you,” said Norman, “I would attend his
union with Rosalie Romain as cheerfully as you.”

“But you will not have an opportunity,” returned
Moreland; “I have myself, to be sure, remarked
his admiration for Miss Romain.”

“And hers for him?”

“What could she do, Norman? You know in
your heart that he is the most elegant dog in the
world, and turns every woman's head he looks at;
his address—his person—his accomplishments—
his fortune—the exceeding propriety and elegance
with which he speaks the English—his high rank—
and that guitar! and he has nothing on earth to do
but to idle and make love. The girls are flattered
—men envious—husbands look on him obliquely—
and lovers (the Lord help them!) are jealous,—
Mr. Norman Leslie among the rest. But hear me
to the close. As for that beautiful creature Miss
Romain—why, we are not Turks—the formidable
rival can marry but one—and this one cannot be

Miss Romain; for, to my certain knowledge, he is
paying particular attention to—”

“And so, I am to take the lady if he will not!”

“Well, well, Norman! you need not flash your
eyes so sternly on me; I am not a count in the
French army.”

“Nor he neither,” said Leslie, quickly, and in a
low tone, “I'll wager my life. The strongest suspicions
have crossed me. You know how he appeared
here—under what odd circumstances; his
baggage lost—his boat overturned—and the devil
to pay: so that he might or might not be what he
professes. Count or no count, I have an instinctive,
unconquerable aversion to him. I have noted
trifles in him which argue dark things.”

“Oh ho!” said Moreland, laughing; “what
havoc love can make in the brain of a sensible fellow!
Here you are, crammed with sentiment and
romance, and as full of quarrel `as my young mistress's
dog!' You doubt the honour of a noble
whom no one else could dream of doubting, and
you scornfully dismiss the character of a young girl
whom all the rest of the company are dying in love
for. `Good Heaven! the souls of all my tribe defend
from jealousy.' ”

“Love or hate,” said Norman, thoughtfully, “I
do not like this sprig of nobility. If this be the
stuff of European nobles, Heaven send that they
keep hereafter the other side of the Atlantic. I half
fancy sometimes my aversion is reciprocated; and
I have a gloomy presentiment that we shall one
day cross each other.”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Moreland; “you
must be wary how you approach him, for his anger
is no jest. He is, as perhaps you know, the most
deadly shot in the country; this is the most conspicuous
among his accomplishments. He plants

a pistol-bullet at the farthest distance, ten times out
of twelve, upon a silver sixpence. I have seen him
do it; and they do say that he has no desire whatever
to keep this remarkable skill a secret.”

“Doubtless,” replied Norman; “he fancies, I
suppose, that such a power will awe the plebeian
crowd whose dinners he eats—whose wives and
daughters he makes love to—”

“And whose matches he breaks off,” interrupted
Moreland. “He has already, as you know, killed
a man at the South; and I believe that is one reason
the women love him so.”

“Is there a character on earth,” said Norman,
“so base and execrable as a professed shot? It
would be no bad deed to send back this malapert
popinjay with a broken wing. One looks without
horror at the worst calamity of a professed duellist
in a duel.”

“What a husband he will make!” said Moreland;
“and how many of these women are dying for him
because only of his nickname—those five cabalistic
letters which compose the word count! Yet, truth
to say, he is an elegant fellow.”

“I wish Miss Romain no worse fate,” answered
Norman, “than success in her evident designs to
entrap him.”

“And you are really off there, then?”

“I tell you, Albert, if this bright-lipped girl who
enchants the people here so to-night, with the
wealth of Crœsus, were to be had for the asking,
and Flora Temple, without friend or fortune, were
to be wooed and won by perseverance, I could
rather choose the latter, and live with her in a desert,
than trust my happiness with yonder unfeeling
flirt. As for the Frenchman, I wish him success—
they are fit for each other; and the Lord help them,
say I, by their winter fireside.”

“Phoo! phoo!” said Moreland, “such people
have no winter fireside; they live in the world and
for it, and not for each other, nor with each other:
and, between you and me, dear Norman, I am glad,
and so will Mary be, that you have escaped from
this siren; but then, as I live, it's Flora Temple.”

“No, Albert—no!” replied Norman, rather hastily;
and then falling into a more contemplative
manner—“Flora Temple is not for me neither.
She is one of your intellectual women—a passionless,
self-possessed, unloving nature—soft and winning,
I grant, but without warmth. She has a heart,
doubtless, but it is not formed for love. No gentle
thought-wanderings—no fond wishes or alarms;
you never saw a cloud or a flush upon her brow. I
am sure she would ridicule a lover to death. I like
a woman with a soul. Some rich automaton, with
all the external trappings of dignity and fashion,
will marry her, just when mamma says, ere the
bloom of bellehood has passed utterly away. She
will not resist; she will have no reason for resistance,
for she will adapt herself to the caprices of
one man as well as of another. There will be a
wedding—company—calls—cards—and jams; ices
will be eaten—champaign spilt—compliments paid;
there will be blushes, smiles, wishes, witticisms,
and congratulations; years will roll on, and Mistress
Flora, whatever her name may be, will bud
and bloom, fade and fall—a good wife, an exemplary
mother, and—I heartily hope—an indulgent and
contented grandmamma. She will live and die—
be mourned and forgotten, all in the forms and fashions
prescribed by propriety and custom; and there
will be the end of her. I hate cold women, and
Miss Temple is cold as ice.”

Poor Flora! how he slandered her!

The two friends parted; and Norman followed

the tide as it flowed around the room, sometimes
pausing to address an acquaintance, sometimes to
exchange a word with a belle.

“Ah! Mr. Leslie,” cried Miss Romain, “you
come opportunely. Here are Miss Morton and
myself actually deserted, wandering about like two
princesses of romance. You are a true knight-errant,
and shall be our champion.”

“Happy chance!” replied Leslie, extending his
arms, and they accompanied him on his rounds.

“Dear me!” cried Miss Morton, “I thought
Count Clairmont was to be here. It is now twelve
o'clock.”

“He never comes till late when he means to remain,”
said Miss Romain; “but, favoured as we
are, I had quite forgotten him,” added she, looking
expressively at Norman. “Come, Mr. Leslie, for
mercy's sake say something; you are as dull as a
philosopher.”

“I am a philosopher, Miss Romain,” said Norman,
gravely.

“Since when, pray? and wherefore, my noble
knight?” asked Miss Romain, again looking up familiarly
in his face, and hanging on his arm as a
happy wife might lean on the support of a loving
husband.

“All men—that is, all wise men,” pursued the
youth, “grow philosophical as they grow old; and
one surely needs philosophy when danger hangs
on either arm, and looks him in the face.”

“Meaning us! well, that is about as inappropriate
a speech for a philosopher,” said Miss Romain,
“as I ever heard. Did you hear, Maria, his pretty
speech?”

“Yes, often. To-day, when he called at our
house—”

“Called—who called?”

“Why, the count. Dear me! you were speaking
of Count Clairmont, were you not?”

“There must be two philosophers in our circle,”
said Miss Romain to Leslie, with a significant
smile, and in a whisper, which again brought her
mouth almost against his own. Her languishing
eyes were lifted to his; he felt her breath on his
cheek. At this moment his glance encountered
that of Miss Temple. Her gaze was calm as a sister's.
Why did a feeling of disquietude—of confusion—shoot
through his heart?

A few moments after his gay companions were
called away to the dance, and he was left again
alone. As he stood, his eyes, involuntarily passing
over the varied assembly of countenances, sought
out and reposed on the face of Miss Temple.

“After all, how much more truly beautiful she
is!”—thus the youth thought, as he stole his unobserved
study of her features—“how much more
noble and wife-like than Rosalie!” As he gazed,
the rose which ornamented her hair fell unnoticed;
he picked it up.

“Miss Temple, you have dropped your rose;
allow me—” She reached forth her hand, received
it with a graceful acknowledgment, and was about
placing it in her hair. What would he not have
given to place it there himself! He never saw
her look so serenely, so perfectly lovely.

“Why, Leslie!” exclaimed the brother of Miss
Morton—a handsome young fop, with his hair curled
profusely around his forehead—and bowing low
with the conscious elegance of a compliment,
“your heart must be marble! Had that fair tribute
fallen to me, I should have cherished it as a
relic out of Holy Land.”

How often it happens that the bosom struggling
with pure feeling is denied the power of expressing

it; while nature gives the envied eloquence to the
careless and the gay, who neither know how to
value nor how to use it.

“If you esteem the poor rose so highly, Mr.
Morton,” said Flora, “pray take it. Perhaps it will
be as potent as other relics.”

Morton bowed; received the flower—kissed it—
and placed it in his bosom. That careless act of
Flora's cost him a heartache. Norman knew the
simple youth, and smiled.

“What a fine creature, Leslie—hey?” said Morton,
affectedly, a few moments afterward. “But
don't deduce any false conclusions from this kindness
of hers to me. It is mere civility on her part;
nothing more, upon honour. But she is a splendid
article, I declare—isn't she? Halloo! who is that
dashing fellow with her?”

“Count Clairmont,” said his sister. “Now, just
as if you did not know the count, and he at our
house every day of his life!”

“Why, so it is!” exclaimed Morton. “Well, I
never—I did not know him with his back turned, I
declare. He's a fine-looking fellow, though—isn't
he! And how he does dress! Did you ever! How
he talks and laughs to Flora—don't he! Why,
he'll get her for the next cotillon—won't he? and
I have very particular reasons for wishing to dance
with her myself. Excuse me, ladies; by-by, Leslie.
Why, only look! 'Pon my soul, I declare, I
never—”

He broke away abruptly through the press.
Leslie saw him reach the spot where Flora stood,
and bow with a violent and rather determined attempt
at grace. Flora's slight responsive bend of
the head implied assent; and whatever were the
“very particular reasons” for Mr. Morton's wish to
dance with her, they were now to be gratified.

“Come, your hand for this cotillon,” cried Howard
to Miss Romain.

“With all my heart,” answered she.

“That is saying a great deal,” said Miss Temple,
with an arch smile, as she was passing.

Miss Romain blushed, or seemed to blush.

“Gentlemen will please take their partners,”
cried the manager of the ball.

The field was now much clearer. Some had
gone off to the card-rooms, and some were at the
buffet. A space had been gradually occupied by
the dancers sufficiently large to enable them to
walk through the figures; and a group of girls
ranged themselves in their places: Howard with
Miss Romain, Morton with Miss Temple, and the
count with a tall young lady newly out from boarding-school—full
of sentiment, blushes, and delight.
It was evident, from her frequent repetition of
“my lord,” that the phrase was a favourite one,
and redolent of recollections of Lord Mortimer and
other heroes of circulating libraries.

“How uncommonly lovely the American women
are,” said the count.

“Oh! my lord,” with a slight courtesy.

“When I was in Greece—”

“Have you really been in Greece, my lord?”

“Why, I almost lived in the Parthenon.”

“The what, my lord?”

“The Parthenon. I worshipped—I was fairly
in love with it.”

“In love? oh, my lord!” and the blooming
young lady cast down her eyes, and blushed decidedly.

“And, as I was saying, there was a young
Greek girl—”

“A young Greek girl, my lord?”

“A most lovely and glowing creature—”

“Oh! my lord.”

“And she was very, very like you.”

“Dear me, my lord! like me?”

“You have the same expression about the eyes;
and the mouth has the same—”

“Forward two, and cross over,” cried Miss Romain:
“why, Miss Thomson, are you not in the
cotillon?”

Miss Thomson was so lost in conjecturing what
sort of an expression the count could mean, that
she missed her turn.

“We have such delightful weather, Miss Temple,”
cried Morton.

“Truly charming, Mr. Morton. Broadway was
brilliant this morning.”

“Indeed!”

“I never saw a gayer scene.”

“Ah! really.”

“There is a new—”

“Miss Temple,” stammered Morton, apparently
unconscious that he interrupted her.

“Mr. Morton!” she replied, in some surprise at
the extreme embarrassment which had suddenly
come over him.

“I—I—I was going—to beg—Miss Temple—I
was going—I was going—”

“Well, why don't you go?” said Miss Temple,
unable to repress a smile; “the whole cotillon
waits for you.”

And the young man skipped forward and hopped
back awkwardly, blundering through the figure
with a burning face. The count, eying him through
his glass, whispered Miss Thomson, who suddenly
laughed outright; but covered her mouth in girlish
confusion with her folded handkerchief.

When Morton had accomplished his manœuvres,
with a secret curse upon the inventor of dancing,
he returned with redoubled determination to strike
the blow. Miss Temple, with a large fortune settled
separately upon her, and with yet higher expectations
from parents, uncles, and scores of
wealthy relatives, so young, so gentle, and so
beautiful withal, was a prize indeed.

“I was about to say, or rather to ask,” resumed
Morton—“to ask whether your affections—”

“My what!” cried Flora, aloud, and really
thrown off her guard by this sudden sentimental
turn in the conversation.

“Hush, for heaven's sake!” cried Morton, in a
vehement whisper; and he was then compelled to
jump forward again.

Miss Temple opened her large blue eyes in astonishment
and some alarm. But the last thing a
modest woman thinks of a man is, that he loves
her—especially when such a sentiment has never
entered into her own bosom. She continued the
dance therefore frankly, not fully trusting to the
evidence of her ears, with an inward prayer that the
palpable squeeze which Morton bestowed on her
hand might be the result of awkwardness rather
than intention. She saw, however, the full necessity
of being on her guard; for though no one
could ever be farther removed from her “affections”
than Mr. Frederick Morton, yet she was
aware that mistakes on such subjects had happened
before, and might again. The youth, half-desperate,
but resolving not to be repulsed by what he
deemed the coquetries and caprices of her sex—
building largely upon the rose which he had ostentatiously
stuck into his buttonhole, and at heart as
assured as Malvolio that his mistress regarded him
with favouring eyes—approached her again, and

with a decisive resolution in his manner, said, in a
low tone,—

“To be short with you, Miss Temple (for it will
be time to forward two again presently), I wish to
inquire—for very particular reasons—whether—
you are engaged?”

“I am,” said Flora.

“Miss Temple!” exclaimed Morton; “I declare—upon
my soul—the deepest regret—”

“If you had only spoken before, Mr. Morton,”
said Flora.

“Oh, Miss Temple! may I ask—so far—as to
inquire—to whom?”

“Indeed, I do not think I can remember their
names; but I am engaged to several.”

“Oh, Miss Flora! I declare,” said Morton, “my
heart is relieved from a whole mountain.”

“Heavens! Mr. Morton, a whole mountain!
That must be a very great relief.”

“Very,” said Morton; “but the engagement I
meant—” he laid his hand upon his breast.

“Why, Morton!” said the count, “what can be
the matter with you? forward, my good sir—forward.”

And the disappointed lover chassezed forward
with a rueful countenance, inwardly vowing vengeance
against the count, and scarcely knowing
whether he was on his head or his heels. He cut
a pigeon-wing at the end of the figure, and again
approached his mistress with a more collected and
bolder mind.

“Miss Temple,” he cried, “my feelings—”

The sudden cessation of music here rendered
the two last words rather more distinctly audible
than the susceptible speaker intended. Flora actually
blushed; for it was evident that so pathetic
an exclamation could scarcely be the beginning

of a conversation, and, by the surprise manifested
in their countenances, it was clear that many of
the by-standers had heard it. Howard, who was
standing near, seized the unfortunate Morton with
his thumb and finger by the lapel of his coat, gazed
into his face with a look of burlesque sympathy,
and exclaimed,--

“Your feelings, Mr. Morton? you don't say so!”

“I do believe, my lord,” said Miss Thomson,
with the air of one who has just discovered and is
considerably astounded by an extraordinary secret
—“I do believe, my lord, that Mr. Morton has
been making love.”

“You are with me for the next cotillon, Miss
Temple?” cried the count.

“It is of no use,” muttered Morton; “I declare
—I never—that infernal count in the French army!
But I'll teach him—” and his passions were really
inflamed by beholding his rival basking in the
smile of the delightful girl whom, in the language
of the novelist, he wished one day to “make his.”

After the cotillon, the count resigned Flora and
took her mother. Mr. Temple was in another
room at the whist-table. What those husbands'
hearts are made of!

“Count!” said Mrs. Temple

“Dear madam?”

“You have been dancing with Flora.”

“An angel!”

“Is she not? and just as pure and amiable as
she is lovely.”

“When I was in Vienna,” said the count, with
his hand on his cravat, “I knew a young dutchess—”

“Like Flora?”

“Not half so distinguée, but still like her.”

“Well!”

“I knew her—I admired—and—”

“And you loved—”

“No, I could not love; because—although the
lady herself was kind enough—yet she had not that
sense—that soul—that radiance of mind, if I may
say so, which Flora has.”

“Would they admire Flora at Vienna?”

“She would turn their heads.”

“And they hers.”

“What a sensation she would produce at court!”

“I have half a mind to let her go.”

“Do! Let me take her.”

“But what should I do without her?”

“Come you with us, and see the great world.”

“One never knows when you are in earnest,
count.”

“You are looking splendidly to-night,” said he,
half whispering in her ear.

“Nonsense,” said she, tapping him on the shoulder
with her fan.

“With you two, your country would be well
represented at any court in Europe.”

“Ah! you men! What can silly girls do, when
we women let you talk so!”

“I could worship Flora to-night,” he said, in a
yet lower tone; “only—”

“Only what?”

Again he half whispered in her ear.

“Go,” she exclaimed, tapping him once more
with her fan—“go; you are positively dangerous.”

She left him as she spoke, and the last words
were uttered looking back.

“But where is Flora?” said Mrs. Temple.

Flora had disappeared.

In the midst of the gayety and flash of the revel,
a servant entered with a note for Mr. Leslie.

“By your leave, fair wax,” said the youth.

A few lines were scrawled in evident haste—
“Urgent affair—without a moment's delay—at the
B. Hotel—room No. 39—up stairs—wait with impatience—particulars
when we meet—Yours till
death—Frederick Morton.”