University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Miss Atherton kept her promise, and made an
early return of Fanny's call. As the ride was a
long one, she spent the day and night at Holly, and
they had a long tête-à-tête together. How soon under
such circumstances an intimacy ripens.

Saddened by Pinckney's absence, and gaining no
comfort from her visits to Sarah, who was sadder,
and dared not impart her feelings in sympathy, Fanny
sought the excitement of the city to relieve the lone-liness
which, in spite of her efforts, pressed upon her
heart. She made her home with Miss Atherton at
Langdale's. She found in the gay circle of fashion
that Miss Atherton was all the talk—the envy of the
belles, and the toast of the beaux. The admiration
she excited seemed so common to her that nothing
in her manner indicated her consciousness of it.

And Langdale, with his intellect and manner, and
full appreciations of beauty and address in woman,
how he delighted to seat himself upon the sofa between
them and spend the joyous hours! He knew so well
the art of pleasing—and he had known so much of
the sorrows and selfishness of existence, that whatever
could lend a charm to it he garnered with a
miser's care to enjoy with a poet's sensibility. He
scanned the beauties, from their silken slippers to
their slightest curl or ribbon, with that feeling of

delicate perception that made the minutest touch in
the poetry of life a minister to his enjoyment. How
quietly, yet shrewdly, he would comment upon any
little trait of character he had seen exhibited in
society, and with a tact that gave it the interest of
a novel: or if literature was the theme, who that
heard men could fancy him the keen man of the
world, who knew the interest table so well, and had
turned it to such good account amidst day-books, and
ledgers,—draymen and hogsheads; yet the truth is,
that it was this contrast that gave such a zest to his
enjoyment of the society of his inmates; and how
quickly he anticipated any little want in his household
which would or might contribute to their gratification;
the fanciful bird-cage and its glittering inmate,
if it struck his eye in the street, was so unostentatiously,
if attainable, conveyed to his home. The
richness of the hot-house, the varieties of the exotics,
some beautiful specimen of statuary, some rare fossil,
some glorious painting, if met with, he made his
own, to contribute if but to a moment's pleasure.
And amidst it all the cares of business clouded his
brow not an instant, or gave to his thought and presence
of mind the least abstraction. If some merchant-friend
dined with him, whose soul was wrapped
up in sordid traffic, Langdale continued the conversation,
not only to make him pleased with himself,
but amusing to his inmates, and when he left, with
what a quiet good humour he would trace some trait
of his character, or tell some tale of him on change,
but without the least malice—scandal he despised.

Miss Atherton, who had seen the world thoroughly
and in its highest circles, would often wonder to herself
over his powers of pleasing, while Fanny, in listening
to him, would forget for the moment even
Pinckney.

One day, when Fanny and Miss Atherton were

together in the latter's chamber—it was one of those
gloomy days of autumn when the fire looks so pleasant
within and everything so unpleasant without—on such
a day, while Fanny was busied with a bit of fancywork,
Miss Atherton was busy in rummaging in her
trunks among a number of letters and trinkets, when
looking up, she said:

“Fanny, what a dull day—it's enough to give one
the horrors to look out; yet everything within, nevertheless,
is not unjoyous. It's a day that makes one
look back; don't you think so? I always call them
your confidential days.”

“That's a good term,” replied Fanny; “'tis
strange, indeed, how our feelings change with the
weather. I can't say that I have been moping all
the morning, but I have a kind of pleasing thoughtfulness
upon me. From your pile of letters, and your
being a single lady, I can judge what kind of reminiscences
you are calling up.”

“As to that, maybe you are mistaken—but here
I have a whole trunk full of letters—from belles and
beaux—friends and foes; from foolish old lords and
gay young gentlemen—even down to a servant maid,
Are you fond of poetry?”

“Very, indeed.”

“I suppose every young gentleman who rhymes
thinks he writes poetry. Here's a scrap from a certain
gentleman to a certain friend of mine, upon the
gentleman's understanding that the lady was engaged
—It is called:

“There, don't you think that gentleman loved and
meant to love, though hopelessly!” exclaimed Mrs.
Atherton, laughing, and laying the MS. on the table
beside her.

“It sounds in that fashion,” replied Fanny; and I
like what seems to be the intenseness of his feelings.”

“Feelings! now, Fanny, do you think that any one
ever sat down to write poetry who felt at the time.”

“So the writers of it say,” replied Fanny; “and
I can fancy nothing more natural. We see a friend
to unburden our hearts; and why not, when we have
no friend, to make our pen one—as somebody talks of
a lover breathing his mistress's name to the flowers.”

“Oh! you are thinking of Hudibras!” exclaimed
Miss Atherton:

Fanny blushed, and Miss Atherton continued:
“listen to this: here's an extract from the same writer,
but in humble prose:

“`Whom could I love but thee! In the world I've
left behind me—a wide continent through which I
travelled—I saw none who for a moment attracted my
attention. Here, in this bright land, where beauty
assumes its loveliest forms, and borrows all the graces
of poetry and the arts—the cultivation of centuries—still
I passed on indifferent to the living though not to the
dead, until I saw thee—then whom could I love but
thee? and from that hour, of whom else have I thought?
why do I linger here when friends are calling me to
my distant home, sunny as this, but that thou art all
the world to me, and I have no home but in thy smile!
Last night when I saw you with the gay flatterers

around you, to whom you listened seemingly with so
pleased an ear, whose ear did I seek if not thine—
and was it not deaf to me? why sometimes then have
you smiled on me? was it with the Syren's wish to
beckon through flowery paths to destruction? yet but
smile if you only act it, let me but be near you—

“In the name of mercy!” exclaimed Fanny,
smiling, as Miss Atherton stopped, “what became of
that swain forlorn.”

“What became of—him! he's still in flesh, I presume
—still in flesh—men have died and worms have eaten
them, et cetera. Don't you think a school-boy, upon
the instant, could finish the quotation? `but not for
love.' Listen to this:

“`Hope has been called a flatterer—a sycophant;
yet she is the only sycophant and flatterer who forsakes
not the wretched, but whose smile grows
warmer as their wretchedness increases. To all the
living she is a bosom friend, and she forsakes not
even the dead, for she haunts the grave of the departed,
and visits the sleepless pillow of the bereaved with the
promise that the severed shall meet again. And O!
after such a promise how sweetly slumber visits the
eyelids of that lonely one. Then why am I so forsaken
that she comes not to me? In vain I court her
smile, and solicit her to promise me, when you frown
upon me, one impulse of cheerful existence for the
future. But no! she acts towards me as your slave,
and you forbid her to visit me with even a whisper
that is gladdening. Oh! beloved —”'

“Read the name out,” interrupted Fanny; “read
the name out, O! beloved Clara.”

“Could you think,” exclaimed Miss Atherton, that
so hopeless a youth would dare to practise the profanity
of using such a beloved one's Christian name?
No! were it you, he'd have to say `O! beloved Miss
Fitzhurst.' If hope had been your slave, as he represents,
and you had told her to smile upon him, then
it might be `O! beloved Fanny.' Our sex seldom
rise to the dignity of the solitary surname, such as
Cæsar, Washington, Napoleon, except in mythology;
for instance, Hope—she's a female and flirt, and yet
we always call her plain Hope.”

“The sex is known by the character without the
designation,” said Fanny, laughing. “I wonder if
ever she flittered into this gentleman's presence again!
Do let me see a scrap of his hand-writing—they say
it shows the character, and I fancy his must be excessively
tremulous—that scrap of rhmye, if it has not the
name.”

“Yes, it is a tremulous hand,” replied Miss Atherton,
handing to Fanny the MS. of the lines on `Despondency'
with a careless hand, but a peculiar smile.

“Astonishing!” exclaimed Fanny; “how much the
hand-writing is like that of Howard, of Mr. Pinckney.
And his initials!” said she, in a faltering tone, dropping
the paper from her hand. “Deceived, and so
cruelly.”

“Miss Fitzhurst, how agitated you are!” exclaimed
Miss Atherton, in a tone of apparent alarm. “I regret
exceedingly that the discovery of this secret, or, I
should rather say, this mere fact, should so much agitate
you. I did not fancy that Mr. Pinckney was other
to you than an acquaintance; and you must do me
the justice to say, under what I presume are existing
circumstances, that it was your joke upon his hand-writing,
and your expressed wish to see it, that caused

me to show it; beside, hand writings, now I reflect,
may be alike, and this you are not certain, are you,
this is Mr. Pinckney's?”

“You know it is—but no matter—it is immaterial,”
said Fanny, making an effort to resume her work.
“Read on.”

“Not for worlds!” exclaimed Miss Atherton: “not
for worlds! I assure you, Miss Fitzhurst, that there
is nothing in my feelings and relations towards Mr.
Pickney which does not leave him free as air.
Whatever rights of explanation there are arising
from this unfortunate little incident, they rest entirely
between you and Mr. Pinckney. Indeed, if
I had, for a moment, fancied the possibility of
anything unpleasant to your feelings occurring in
this careless examination of my trunk, I would have
locked it up forever, and have thrown the key into
Lethe. I repeat, therefore, that there is nothing in
my feelings or relations towards Mr. Pinckney which
does not leave him perfectly free to act; and if you
feel yourself so placed towards him—it never crossed
my brain for a moment as to need of him an explanation,
I beg and pray of you that you will mention the
precise manner in which you discovered his communication
to myself. Among those many packages
which you see there spread out, which, as I told you,
are from a variety of persons, from lords to waitingmaids,
it was by the merest accident I chanced to
light upon a stray letter of his; one of the extracts
was not his—and I forgot that he was not now in
Europe. These little effusions have no effect upon
myself; I look at them as the offerings of a gallant,
gay, young gentleman, who was then fresh from the
poets, and who would not write so wildly now, though
he might be truly and devotedly in love. I though
you looked at them in that light yourself, for you may
remember we laughed heartily over them—not that

they are not remarkably well written, but from their
excessive professions of hopeless attachment. I hope
you thoroughly comprehend my feelings in this matter,
Miss Fitzhurst?”

“Thoroughly,” said Fanny, “thoroughly.”

“Indeed, Fanny, I hardly know how to advise
you. I had heard that Mr. Pinckney was attentive
to you; so I have heard that Mr. Bradley was. Mr.
Pinckney I had heard so often here and in other places
given away, that I continued to hold him a gallant
devoted to our sex at large. Indeed, I do not know
how to advise you.”

“To whom else have they given him?” asked
Fanny, trying to force a smile.

“To whom? such things so escape my memory. Ah!
I have heard Colonel Bentley say, by-the-by, a friend
of your family's, Fanny, that he thought at one time,
to use his expression, that our Lothario was smitten
with Miss Grattan; so you see how utterly ignorant I
was that the discovery of his hand-writing in badinage
to anybody could give you a moment's uneasiness.
I dare avow, now, that Mr. Pinckney, in his interviews
with you, never mentioned that he knew me
abroad but casually—did he?”

“He did not—but—”

“Hear me, one moment, Fanny. No one has ever
heard me speak of him in any way but as a Lovelace.
Your brother, intimate as they are, I do not believe
ever heard him mention my name, except as one that
he had met and admired. Not even in his letters from
abroad, where he was, with the same pen and ink in
his hand with which he wrote to him, puzzling his
brain to concoct these billet-doux to me. Pardon me—
but I think I can guess a little at what may have been
understood by you as regard to his feelings towards
you, but you never heard him mention me but as a
casual acquaintance.”

“No, never. Don't let's talk in this way—it's
nothing,” said Fanny, deeply blushing.

“Well,” resumed Miss Atherton, “to show you the
light in which I view these little communications, I
have never mentioned to a soul that he ever showed
me any attentions abroad whatever. In truth, it
would be excessively unpleasant to me to have my
name brought into the matter in any way. Should it
be, let me not be thought too urgent in requesting—
in repeating the request—that you will fully explain
my innocent and unconscious agency.”

“It's wearing late,” said Fanny, rising; “it is time
for us to prepare for dinner;” and she arose from her
seat, when Miss Atherton took her hand, and, impressing
a kiss upon her brow, walked with her to
her chamber door.

Poor Fanny! compressing her lips together, she
leaned against her bed in speechless agony for several
minutes, when, by a strong resolution of her will, she
made her toilet, and entered the withdrawing room
a moment after Miss Atherton, where she found Mr.
Langdale standing by her side, while she was preparing
to play on a most tasteful harp which that
gentleman had just purchased.

“Are you unwell, Miss Fitzhurst,” said Langdale
to her, on observing her pale brow.

“No, sir; not at all.”

“A little sorrowful only,” said he; “then come, coz,
play for Miss Fitzhurst Moore's beautiful song—`O
soon return.”'

“No; let me sing you a song of your friend, Mr.
Pinckney, which was written abroad, and was popular
with the Americans there. I like the tune, if I don't
believe entirely in the hopelessness of the sentiment.”

So speaking, she sang the following lines, to which
Langdale listened attentively, attracted as he was, not
only by the gracefulness of her form, which her attitude

at the harp so finely developed, but by the softness
of her tones, and the distinctness of her enunciation;
in which last particular she did not prove herself
a follower of fashion.

“There, sir!” exclaimed Miss Atherton, rising, and
bowing to Langdale's compliments, “I have christened
your harp for you with your friend's song; it
is a beautiful instrument of most delightful tone. I
must say of all the gentlemen I have met in two
continents, that a certain coz of mine knows best
how to charm his guests. Won't you endorse that,
Fanny?”

“With my whole heart,” said Fanny. “Mr. Langdale,
can you tell me when the mail goes eastward?”

“Ah!” said Langdale, “I may quote your friend
and my friend's song to you, and apply it to you
both—

This afternoon, Miss Fitzhurst, at five o'clock—the
mail closes at half-after-four. Do you know, Miss
Fitzhurst, that this song of our friend's, of which my
fair coz seems to have exclusive possession, reminds
me of a suspicion which has often crossed my
mind?”

“What is that, Mr. Langdale?” asked Fanny.

“Why, that our friend, Pinckney, and this coz of
mine, know more about each other in relation to
themselves than we wot of. I have thought it often,
have not you?”

“Why should I?” said Fanny, turning pale.

“I cannot give any conclusive reason,” replied
Langdale, “but my surmises are strong. He makes
me jealous, I assure you. You know your power—

therefore, from a selfish motive, I beseech you keep
him closer to your side when he returns.”

Miss Atherton struck the keys of the harp, as if she
were unconscious of what was said, and, dinner being
announced, they each took an arm of Langdale, and
proceeded to the dining-room.

Fanny in vain endeavoured to make a show of
dining. As soon as she could she withdrew to her
chamber, and, after gazing vacantly into the street
for some time, she took pen and paper, and, addressing
Pinckney, wrote as follows:

“Miss Fitzhurst's compliments to Mr. Pinckney,
with the return of the presents and letters she has received
from Mr. Pinckney. She hopes by the next
mail to receive her's. Miss Fitzhurst would remark,
that if, hereafter, either business or pleasure should
bring Mr. Pinckney to —, that she considers
that no courtesies heretofore existing between them
will require his appearance at Holly. On the contrary
should Miss Fitzhurst and Mr. Pinckney
ever meet, it must be on the footing of entire
strangers.”

Making up a package of his letters and presents,
and enclosing them in the above, Fanny called her
servant, and, giving him the means to pay the postage,
ordered him to take it immediately to the post-office.
This done, she locked her door, and, throwing
herself on her bed, gave loose to her bitter feelings.

Miss Atherton was standing at the front door as
the servant descended the steps, where Langdale had
just left her, and, observing the letter in his hand, she
asked:

“Ay, John, is that for me?”

“No, Miss,” he replied, holding up the letter so
that Miss Atherton could read the direction; “it is a
letter that Miss Fitzhurst has ordered me to put into
the post-office.”

“You had better make haste then, John, or you
will be too late for the mail;” and the menial hastened
on his errand.