3. III.
My party at Nahant consisted of Thalaba, Forbearance,
and myself. The place was crowded, but I
passed my time very much between my horse and my
friend, and was as certain to be found on the beach
when the tide was down, as the sea to have left the
sands. Job (a synonyme for Forbearance which became
at this time his common soubriquet) was, of
course, in love. Not the least to the prejudice, however,
of his last faithful passion — for he was as fond
of the memory of an old love, as he was tender in the
presence of the new. I intended to have had him dissected
after his death, to see whether his organization
was not peculiar. I strongly incline to the opinion
that we should have found a mirror in the place of his
heart. Strange! how the same man who is so fickle
in love, will be so constant in friendship! But is it
fickleness? Is it not rather a superflu of tenderness in
the nature, which overflows to all who approach the
fountain? I have ever observed that the most susceptible
men are the most remarkable for the finer qualities
of character. They are more generous, more
delicate, and of a more chivalrous complexion altogether,
than other men. It was surprising how reasonably
Bruin would argue upon this point. “Because
I was happy at Niagara,” he was saying one day as
we sat upon the rocks, “shall I take no pleasure in
the falls of Montmorenci? Because the sunset was
glorious yesterday, shall I find no beauty in that of
to-day? Is my fancy to be used but once, and the
key turned upon it for ever? Is the heart like a bonbon,
to be eaten up by the first favorite, and thought
of no more? Are our eyes blind, save to one shape
of beauty? Are our ears insensible to the music save
of one voice?”
“But do you not weaken the heart, and become incapable
of a lasting attachment, by this habit of inconstancy?”
“How long, my dear Phil, will you persist in talking
as if the heart was material, and held so much love
as a cup so much water, and had legs to be weary, or
organs to grow dull? How is my sensibility lessened
— how my capacity enfeebled? What would I have
done for my first love, that I would not do for my last?
I would have sacrificed my life to secure the happiness
of one you wot of in days gone by: I would jump
into the sea, if it would make Blanche Carroll happier
to-morrow.”
“Sautez-donc!” said a thrilling voice behind; and
as if the utterance of her name had conjured her out
of the ground, the object of all Job's admiration, and
a little of my own, stood before us. She had a work-basket
in her hand, a gipsy-hat tossed carelessly on
her head, and had preceded a whole troop of belles
and matrons, who were coming out to while away the
morning, and breathe the invigorating sea-air on the
rocks.
Blanche Carroll was what the women would call
“a little love,” but that phrase of endearment would
not at all express the feeling with which she inspired
the men. She was small, and her face and figure
might have been framed in fairy-land for bewitching
beauty; but with the manner of a spoiled child, and,
apparently, the most thoughtless playfulness of mind,
she was as veritable a little devil as ever took the shape
of woman. Scarce seventeen at this time, she had
a knowledge of character that was like an instinct, and
was an accomplished actress in any part it was necessary
for her purpose to play. No grave Machiavel
ever managed his cards with more finesse than that
little intriguante the limited world of which she was
the star. She was a natural master-spirit and plotter;
and the talent that would have employed itself in the
deeper game of politics, had she been born a woman
of rank in Europe, displayed itself, in the simple society
of a republic, in subduing to her power everything
in the shape of a single man that ventured to her
net. I have nothing to tell of her at all commensurate
with the character I have drawn, for the disposal
of her own heart (if she has one) must of course be
the most important event of her life; but I merely
pencil the outline of the portrait in passing, as a
specimen of the material that exists — even in the
simplest society — for the dramatis personœ of a
court.
We followed the light-footed beauty to the shelter
of one of the caves opening on the sea, and seated ourselves
about her upon the rocks. Some one proposed
that Job or myself should read.
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” interrupted the belle, “where is
my bracelet? — and where are my verses?”
At the ball the night before she had dropped a
bracelet in the waltz, and Job had been permitted to
take care of the fragments, on condition of restoring
them, with a sonnet, the next morning. She had just
thought of it.
“Read them out! read them out!” she cried, as
Job, blushing a deep blue, extracted a tri-colored pink
document from his pocket, and tried to give it to her
unobserved, with the packet of jewelry. Job looked
at her imploringly, and she took the verses from his
hand, and ran her eye through them.
“Pretty well!” she said; “but the last line might
be improved. Give me a pencil, some one!” And
bending over it, till her luxuriant hair concealed her
fairy fingers in their employment, she wrote a moment
upon her knee, and tossing the paper to me, bade me
read it out with the emendation. Bruin had, meantime,
modestly disappeared, and I read with the more
freedom: —
“'Twas broken in the gliding dance,
When thou wert in the dream of power;
When shape and motion, tone and glance,
Were glorious all — the woman's hour!
The light lay soft upon thy brow,
The music melted in thine ear,
And one perhaps forgotten now,
With 'wildered thoughts stood listening near,
Marvelling not that links of gold
A pulse like thine had not controlled.
“'Tis midnight now. The dance is done,
And thou, in thy soft dreams, asleep,
And I, awake, am gazing on
The fragments given me to keep:
I think of every glowing vein
That ran beneath these links of gold,
And wonder if a thrill of pain
Made those bright channels ever cold!
With gifts like thine, I can not think
Grief ever chilled this broken link.
“Good-night! 'Tis little now to thee
That in my ear thy words were spoken,
And thou wilt think of them and me
As long as of the bracelet broken.
For thus is riven many a chain
That thou hast fastened but to break,
And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again,
As careless that another wake:
The only thought thy heart can rend
Is — what the fellow'll charge to mend!”
Job's conclusion was more pathetic, but probably
less true. He appeared after the applause had ceased,
and resumed his place at the lady's feet, with a look
in his countenance of having deserved an abatement
of persecution. The beauty spread out the fragments
of the broken bracelet on the rock beside her.
“Mr. Smith!” said she, in her most conciliating
tone.
Job leaned toward her with a look of devoted inquiry.
“Has the tide turned?”
“Certainly. Two hours since.”
“The beach is passable, then?”
“Hardly, I fear.”
“No matter. How many hours' drive is it to Salem?”
“Mr. Slingsby drives it in two.”
“Then you'll get Mr. Slingsby to lend you his
stanhope, drive to Salem, have this bracelet mended,
and bring it back in time for the ball. I have spoken,
as the grand Turk says. Allez!”
“But my dear Miss Carroll — ”
She laid her hand on his mouth as he began to remonstrate,
and while I made signs to him to refuse,
she said something to him which I lost in a sudden
dash of the waters. He looked at me for my consent.
“Oh! you can have Mr. Slingsby's horse,” said the
beauty, as I hesitated whether my refusal would not
check her tyranny, “and I'll drive him out this evening
for his reward, N'est-ce pas? you cross man!”
So, with a sun hot enough to fry the brains in his
skull, and a quivering reflection on the sands that
would burn his face to a blister, exit Job, with the
broken bracelet in his bosom.
“Stop, Mr. Slingsby,” said the imperious little belle,
as I was making up a mouth, after his departure, to
express my disapprobation of her measures, “no lecture,
if you please. Give me that book of plays, and
I'll read you a precedent. Because you are virtuous,
shall we have no more cakes and ale? Ecoutez! And,
with an emphasis and expression that would have been
perfect on the stage, she read the following passage
from “The Careless Husband:” —
“Lady Betty. — The men of sense, my dear, make
the best fools in the world; their sincerity and good
breeding throw them so entirely into one's power, and
give one such an agreeable thirst of using them ill, to
show that power — 'tis impossible not to quench it.
“Lady Easy. — But, my Lord Morelove —
“Lady B. — Pooh! my Lord Morelove's a mere Indian
damask — one can't wear him out; o' my conscience,
I must give him to my woman at last. I begin
to be known by him; had I not best leave him off, my
dear?
“Lady E. — Why did you ever encourage him?
“Lady B. — Why, what would you have one do?
For my part, I could no more choose a man by my
eye than a shoe — one must draw them on a little, to
see if they are right to one's foot.
“Lady E. — But I'd no more fool on with a man I
could not like, than wear a shoe that pinched me.
“Lady B. — Ay; but then a poor wretch tells one
he'll widen 'em, or do anything, and is so civil and
silly, that one does not know how to turn such a trifle
as a pair of shoes, or a heart, upon a fellow's hands
again.
“Lady E. — And there's my Lord Foppington.
“Lady B. — My dear! fine fruit will have flies about
it; but, poor things! they do it no harm; for, if you
observe, people are generally most apt to choose that
the flies have been busy with. Ha! ha!
“Lady E. — Thou art a strange, giddy creature!
“Lady B. — That may be from too much circulation
of thought, my dear!”
“Pray, Miss Carroll,” said I, as she threw aside the
book with a theatrical air, “have you any precedent
for broiling a man's brains, as well as breaking his
heart? For, by this time, my friend Forbearance has
a coup de soleil, and is hissing over the beach like a
steam-engine.”
“How tiresome you are! Do you really think it
will kill him?”
“It might injure him seriously — let alone the danger
of driving a spirited horse over the beach, with the
tide quarter-down.”
“What shall I do to be `taken out of the corner,'
Mr. Slingsby?”
“Order your horses an hour sooner, and drive to
Lynn, to meet him half way on his return. I will resume
my stanhope, and give him the happiness of
driving back with you.”
“And shall I be gentle Blanche Carroll, and no
ogre, if I do?”
“Yes; Mr. Smith surviving.”
“Take the trouble to give my orders, then; and
come back immediately, and read to me till it is time
to go. Meantime, I shall look at myself in this black
mirror.” And the spoilt, but most lovely girl bent
over a dark pool in the corner of the cave, forming a
picture on its shadowy background that drew a murmur
of admiration even from the neglected group who
had been the silent and disapproving witnesses of her
caprice.”
