MABEL WYNNE.
Mabel Wynne was the topmost sparkle on the
crest of the first wave of luxury that swept over New
York. Up to her time, the aristocratic houses were
furnished with high buffets, high-backed and hair-bottomed
mahogany chairs, one or two family portraits,
and a silver tray on the side-board, containing cordials
and brandy for morning-callers. In the centre of the
room hung a chandelier of colored lamps, and the
lighting of this and the hiring of three negroes (to
“fatigue,” as the French say, a clarinet, a baseviol,
and a violin) were the only preparations necessary for
the most distinguished ball. About the time that
Mabel left school, however, some adventurous pioneer
of the Dutch haut ton ventured upon lamp-stands for
the corners of the rooms, stuffed red benches along
the walls, and chalked floors; and upon this a French
family of great beauty, residing in the lower part of
Broadway, ventured upon a fancy ball with wax-candles
instead of lamps, French dishes and sweetmeats instead
of pickled oysters and pink champagne; and,
the door thus opened, luxury came in like a flood.
Houses were built on a new plan of sumptuous arrangement,
the ceiling stained in fresco, and the
columns of the doors within painted in imitation of
bronze and marble; and at last the climax was topped
by Mr. Wynne, who sent the dimensions of every
room in his new house to an upholsterer in Paris,
with carte blanche as to costliness and style, and the
fournisseur to come out himself and see to the arrangement
and decoration.
It was Manhattan tea-time, old style, and while
Mr. Wynne, who had the luxury of a little plain
furniture in the basement, was comfortably taking his
toast and hyson below stairs, Miss Wynne was just
announced as “at home,” by the black footman, and
two of her admirers made their highly-scented entrée.
They were led through a suite of superb rooms, lighted
with lamps hid in alabaster vases, and ushered in
at a mirror-door beyond, where, in a tent of fluted silk,
with ottomans and draperies of the same stuff, exquisitely
arranged, the imperious Mabel held her
court of 'teens.
Mabel Wynne was one of those accidents of sovereign
beauty which nature seems to take delight in misplacing
in the world—like the superb lobelia flashing
among the sedges, or the golden oriole pluming his
dazzling wings in the depth of a wilderness. She
was no less than royal in all her belongings. Her
features expressed consciousness of sway—a sway
whose dictates had been from infancy anticipated.
Never a surprise had startled those languishing eyelids
from their deliberateness—never a suffusion other than
the humid cloud of a tender and pensive hour had
dimmed those adorable dark eyes. Or, so at least it
seemed!
She was a fine creature, nevertheless—Mabel
Wynne! But she looked to others like a specimen
of such fragile and costly workmanship that nothing
beneath a palace would be a becoming home for her.
“For the present,” said Mr. Bellallure, one of the
gentlemen who entered, “the bird has a fitting cage.”
Miss Wynne only smiled in reply, and the other
gentleman took upon himself to be the interpreter of
her unexpressed thought.
“The cage is the accessory—not the bird,” said
Mr. Blythe, “and, for my part, I think Miss Wynne
would show better the humbler her surroundings.
As Perdita upon the greensward, and open to a shepherd's
wooing, I should inevitably sling my heart upon
a crook—”
“And forswear that formidable, impregnable vow of
celibacy?” interrupted Miss Wynne.
“I am only supposing a case, and you are not likely
to be a shepherdess on the green.” But Mr. Blythe's
smile ended in a look of clouded revery, and, after
a few minutes' conversation, ill sustained by the gentlemen,
who seemed each in the other's way, they
rose and took their leave—Mr. Bellallure lingering
last, for he was a lover avowed.
As the door closed upon her admirer. Miss Wynne
drew a letter from her portfolio, and turning it over
and over with a smile of abstracted curiosity, opened
and read it for the second time. She had received it
that morning from an unknown source, and as it was
rather a striking communication, perhaps the reader
had better know something of it before we go on.
It commenced without preface, thus:—
“On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a
chimney-sweep, after doing his work and singing his
song, commenced his descent. It was the chimney
of a large house, and becoming embarrassed among
the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the
hearth of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child.
The sun was just breaking through the curtains of
the room, a vacated bed showed that some one had
risen lately, probably the nurse, and the sweep, with
an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious
little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round
arm buried in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream
on her rosy and parted lips. It was a picture of
singular loveliness, and something in the heart of that
boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the child,
knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed
to his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from
his breast, and looked at the skin white upon his side.
The contrast between his condition and that of the
fair child sleeping before him brought the blood to his
blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He knelt
beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in
his sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and
dewy fingers poured his whole soul with passionate
earnestness into a resolve.
“Hereafter you may learn, if you wish, the first
struggles of that boy in the attempt to diminish the
distance between yourself and him—for you will have
understood that you were the beautiful child he saw
asleep. I repeat that it is twelve years since he stood
in your chamber. He has seen you almost daily since
then—watched your going out and coming in—fed his
eyes and heart on your expanding beauty, and informed
himself of every change and development in your
mind and character. With this intimate knowledge
of you, and with the expansion of his own intellect,
his passion has deepened and strengthened. It possesses
him now as life does his heart, and will endure
as long. But his views with regard to you have
changed, nevertheless.
“You will pardon the presumption of my first
feeling—that to attain my wishes I had only to become
your equal. It was a natural error—for my
agony at realizing the difference of our conditions in
life was enough to absorb me at the time—but it is
surprising to me how long that delusion lasted. I am
rich now. I have lately added to my fortune the last
acquisition I thought desirable. But with the thought
of the next thing to be done, came like a thunderbolt
upon me the fear that after all my efforts you might
be destined for another! The thought is simple
enough. You would think that it would have haunted
me from the beginning. But I have either unconsciously
shut my eyes to it, or I have been so absorbed
in educating and enriching myself that
that goal only
was visible to me. It was perhaps fortunate for my
perseverance that I was so blinded. Of my midnight
studies, of my labors, of all my plans, self-denials, and
anxieties, you have seemed the reward! I have never
gained a thought, never learned a refinement, never
turned over gold and silver, that it was not a step
nearer to Mabel Wynne. And now, that in wordly
advantages, after twelve years of effort and trial, I
stand by your side at last, a thousand men who never
thought of you till yesterday are equal competitors
with me for your hand!
“But, as I said, my views with regard to you have
changed. I have, with bitter effort, conquered the
selfishness of this one lifetime ambition. I am devoted
to you, as I have been from the moment I first
saw you—life and fortune. These are still yours—
but without the price at which you might spurn them.
My person is plain and unattractive. You have seen
me, and shown me no preference. There are others
whom you receive with favor. And with your glorious
beauty, and sweet, admirably sweet qualities of character,
it would be an outrage to nature that you should
not choose freely, and be mated with something of
your kind. Of those who now surround you I see no
one worthy of you—but he may come! Jealousy
shall not blind me to his merits. The first mark of
your favor (and I shall be aware of it) will turn upon
him my closest, yet most candid scrutiny. He must
love you well—for I shall measure his love by my
own. He must have manly beauty, and delicacy, and
honor—he must be worthy of you, in short—but he
need not be rich. He who steps between me and you
takes the fortune I had amassed for you. I tell you
this that you may have no limit in your choice—for the
worthiest of a woman's lovers is often barred from her
by poverty.
“Of course I have made no vow against seeking
your favor. On the contrary, I shall lose no opportunity
of making myself agreeable to you. It is against
my nature to abandon hope, though I am painfully
conscious of my inferiority to other men in the qualities
which please a woman. All I have done is to
deprive my pursuit of its selfishness—to make it subservient
to your happiness purely—as it still would be
were I the object of your preference. You will hear
from me at any crisis of your feelings. Pardon my
being a spy upon you. I know you well enough to
be sure that this letter will be a secret—since I wish
it. Adieu.”
Mabel laid her cheek in the hollow of her hand and
mused long on this singular communication. It stirred
her romance, but it wakened still more her curiosity.
Who was he? She had “seen him and shown him
no preference!” Which could it be of the hundred
of her chance-made acquaintances? She conjectured
at some disadvantage, for “she had come out” within
the past year only, and her mother having long been
dead, the visiters to the house were all but recently
made known to her. She could set aside two thirds
of them, as sons of families well known, but there
were at least a score of others, any one of whom might,
twelve years before, have been as obscure as her
anonymous lover. Whoever he might be, Mabel
thought he could hardly come into her presence again
without betraying himself, and, with a pleased smile
at the thought of the discovery, she again locked up
the letter.
Those were days (to be regretted or not, as you
please, dear reader!) when the notable society of
New York revolved in one self-complacent and clearly-defined
circle. Call it a wheel, and say that the
centre was a belle and the radii were beaux—(the
periphery of course composed of those who could
“down with the dust”). And on the fifteenth of July
regularly and imperatively, this fashionable whee
rolled off to Saratoga.
“Mabel! my daughter!” said old Wynne, as he
bade her good night the evening before starving for
the springs, “it is useless to be blind to the fact that
among your many admirers you have several very
pressing lovers—suiters for your hand I may safely
say. Now, I do not wish to put any unnecessary restraint
upon your choice, but as you are going to a
gay place, where you are likely to decide the matter
in your own mind, I wish to express an opinion. You
may give it what weight you think a father's judgment
should have in such matters. I do not like Mr.
Bellallure—for, beside my prejudice against the man,
we know nothing of his previous life, and he may be
a swindler or anything else. I do like Mr. Blythe—
for I have known him many years, he comes of a
most respectable family, and he is wealthy and worthy.
These two seem to me the most in earnest, and you
apparently give them the most of your time. If the decision
is to be between them, you have my choice.
Good night, my love!”
Some people think it is owing to the Saratoga
water. I differ from them. The water is an “alterative,”
it is true—but I think people do not so much
alter as develop at Saratoga. The fact is clear enough
—that at the springs we change our opinions of almost
everybody—but (though it seems a bold supposition
at first glance) I am inclined to believe it is because
we see so much more of them! Knowing people in
the city and knowing them at the springs is very much
in the same line of proof as tasting wine and drinking
a bottle. Why, what is a week's history of a city acquaintance?
A morning call thrice a week, a diurnal
bow in Broadway, and perhaps a quadrille or two in
the party season. What chance in that to ruffle a
temper or try a weakness? At the springs, now, dear
lady, you wear a man all day like a shoe. Down at
the platform with him to drink the waters before breakfast—strolls
on the portico with him till ten—drives with
him to Barheight's till dinner—lounges in the drawing-room
with him till tea—dancing and promenading
with him till midnight—very little short altogether of
absolute matrimony; and, like matrimony, it is a very
severe trial. Your “best fellow” is sure, to be found
out, and so is your plausible fellow, your egotist, and
your “spoon.”
Mr. Beverly Bellallure had cultivated the male
attractions with marked success. At times he probably
thought himself a plain man, and an artist who
should only paint what could be measured with a rule,
would have made a plain portrait of Mr. Bellallure.
But—the atmosphere of the man! There is a physiognomy
in movement—there is aspect in the harmonious
link between mood and posture—there is expression
in the face of which the features are as much
a portrait as a bagpipe is a copy of a Scotch song.
Beauty, my dear artist, can not always be translated
by canvass and oils. You must paint “the magnetic
fluid” to get a portrait of some men. Sir Thomas
Lawrence seldom painted anything else—as you may
see by his picture of Lady Blessington, which is like
her without having copied a single feature of her face.
Yet an artist would be very much surprised if you
should offer to sit to him for your magnetic atmosphere—though
it expresses (does it not?) exactly
what you want when you order a picture! You wish
to be painted as your appear to those who love you—
a picture altogether unrecognisable by those who love
you not.
Mr. Bellallure, then, was magnetically handsome
—positively plain. He dressed with an art beyond
detection. He spent his money as if he could dip it
at will out of Pactolus. He was intimate with nobody,
and so nobody knew his history; but he wrote himself
on the register of Congress hall as “from New
York,” and he threw all his forces into one unmistakable
demonstration—the pursuit of Miss Mabel
Wynne.
But Mr. Bellallure had a formidable rival. Mr.
Blythe was as much in earnest as he, though he played
his game with a touch-and-go freedom, as if he
was prepared to lose it. And Mr. Blythe had very
much surprised those people at Saratoga who did not
know that between a very plain man and a very elegant
man there is often but the adding of the rose-leaf to
the brimming jar. He was perhaps a little gayer
than in New York, certainly a little more dressed,
certainly a little more prominent in general conversation—but
without any difference that you could swear
to, Mr. Blythe, the plain and reliable business man,
whom everybody esteemed without particularly admiring,
had become Mr. Blythe the model of elegance
and ease, the gentleman and conversationist
par excellence. And nobody could tell how the statue
could have lain so long unsuspected in the marble.
The race for Miss Wynne's hand and fortune was
a general sweepstakes, and there were a hundred men
at the springs ready to take advantage of any falling
back on the part of the two on the lead; but with
Blythe and Bellallure Miss Wynne herself seemed
fully occupied. The latter had a “friend at court”
—the belief, kept secret in the fair Mabel's heart, that
he was the romantic lover of whose life and fortune
she had been the inspiration. She was an eminently
romantic girl with all her strong sense; and the devotion
which had proved itself so deep and controlling
was in reality the dominant spell upon her heart.
She felt that she must love that man, whatever his
outside might be, and she construed the impenetrable
silence with which Bellallure received her occasional
hints as to his identity, into a magnanimous determination
to win her without any advantage from the
romance of his position.
Yet she sometimes wished it had been Mr. Blythe!
The opinion of her father had great weight with her;
but, more than that, she felt instinctively that he was
the safer man to be intrusted with a woman's happiness.
If there had been a doubt—if her father had
not assured her that “Mr. Blythe came of a most
respectable family”—if the secret had wavered between
them—she would have given up to Bellallure
without a sigh. Blythe was everything she admired
and wished for in a husband—but the man who had
made himself for her, by a devotion unparalleled even
in her reading of fiction, held captive her dazzled imagination,
if not her grateful heart. She made constant
efforts to think only of Bellallure, but the efforts
were preceded ominously with a sigh.
And now Bellallure's star seemed in the ascendant—
for urgent business called Mr. Wynne to the city, and
on the succeeding day Mr. Blythe followed him,
though with an assurance of speedy return. Mabel
was left under the care of an indulgent chaperon, who
took a pleasure in promoting the happiness of the
supposed lovers; and driving, lounging, waltzing, and
promenading, Bellallure pushed his suit with ardor
unremitted. He was a skilful master of the art of
wooing, and it would have been a difficult woman indeed
who would not have been pleased with his society—but
the secret in Mabel's breast was the spell by
which he held her.
A week elapsed, and Bellallure pleaded the receip
of unexpected news, and left suddenly for New York—
to Mabel's surprise exacting no promise at parting
though she felt that she should have given it with reluctance.
The mail of the second day following
brought her a brief letter from her father, requesting
her immediate return; and more important still, a note
from her incognito lover. It ran thus:—
“You will recognise my handwriting again. I have
little to say—for I abandon the intention I had formed
to comment on your apparent preference. Your happiness
is in your own hands. Circumstances which
will be explained to you, and which will excuse this
abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate
choice. On your arrival at home, you will
meet me in your father's house, where I shall call to
await you. I confess tremblingly, that I still cherish
a hope. If I am not deceived—if you can consent to
love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take
my hand when you meet me. That moment will decide
the value of my life. But be prepared also to
name another if you love him—for there is a necessity,
which I can not explain to you till you have
chosen your husband, that this choice should be made
on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has so
long loved you!”
Mabel pondered long on this strange letter. Her
spirit at moments revolted against its apparent dictation,
but there was the assurance, which she could
not resist trusting, that it could be explained and forgiven.
At all events, she was at liberty to fulfil its
requisitions or not—and she would decide when the
time came. Happy was Mabel—unconsciously happy—in
the generosity and delicacy of her unnamed
lover! Her father, by one of the sudden reverses of
mercantile fortune, had been stripped of his wealth
in a day! Stunned and heart-broken, he knew not
how to break it to his daughter, but he had written
for her to return. His sumptuous house had been
sold over his head, yet the purchaser, whom he did
not know, had liberally offered the use of it till his
affairs were settled. And, meantime, his ruin was
made public. The news of it, indeed, had reached
Saratoga before the departure of Mabel—but there
were none willing to wound her by speaking of it.
The day was one of the sweetest of summer, and
as the boat ploughed her way down the Hudson, Mabel
sat on the deck lost in thought. Her father's
opinion of Bellallure, and his probable displeasure at
her choice, weighed uncomfortably on her mind.
She turned her thoughts upon Mr. Blythe, and felt surprised
at the pleasure with which she remembered his
kind manners and his trust-inspiring look. She began
to reason with herself more calmly than she had
power to do with her lovers around her. She confessed
to herself that Bellallure might have the romantic
perseverance shown in the career of the chimney-sweep,
and still be deficient in qualities necessary
to domestic happiness. There seemed to her something
false about Bellallure. She could not say in
what—but he had so impressed her. A long day's
silent reflection deepened this impression, and Mabel
arrived at the city with changed feelings. She prepared
herself to meet him at her father's house, and
show him by her manner that she could accept neither
his hand nor his fortune.
Mr. Wynne was at the door to receive his daughter,
and Mabel felt relieved, for she thought that his pressence
would bar all explanation between herself and
Bellallure. The old man embraced her with an effusion
of tears which she did not quite understand, but
he led her to the drawing-room and closed the door.
Mr. Blythe stood before her!
Forgetting the letter—dissociated wholly as it was,
in her mind, with Mr. Blythe—Mabel ran to him
with frank cordiality and gave him her hand! Blythe
stood a moment—his hand trembling in hers—and as
a suspicion of the truth flashed suddenly on Mabel's
mind, the generous lover drew her to his bosom and
folded her passionately in his embrace. Mabel's
struggles were slight, and her happiness unexpectedly
complete.
The marriage was like other marriages.
Mr. Wynne had drawn a little on his imagination
in recommending Mr. Blythe to his daughter as “a
young man of most respectable family.”
Mr. Blythe was the purchaser of Mr. Wynne's superb
house, and the old man ended his days under its
roof—happy to the last in the society of the Blythes,
large and little.
Mr. Bellallure turned out to be a clever adventurer,
and had Mabel married him, she would have been
Mrs. Bellallure No. 2—possibly No. 4. He thought
himself too nice a young man for monopoly.
I think my story is told—if your imagination has
filled up the interstices, that is to say.
