39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
UNDER THE MOON.
It was the afternoon of the same day. The sun was slowly
dropping toward the woods, his orange light veiled by a dreamy
haze, and the mild beams, passing through the windows of an upper
room at Blandfield, fell upon Miss Evelyn Bland, who was just
completing her toilet.
She was going to a party in the neighborhood, and had bestowed
upon her toilet that elaborate attention which young ladies, even
the least vain or sedulous of their personal appearance, will do.
Her beautiful neck and shoulders emerged like snow drifts from a
cloud of translucent gauze, which veiled, without concealing, the
rounded outlines; her exquisite arms were nearly as white, and
only touched by a delicate rose tint; her hair was a great pile of
curls, with pearls interwoven, a spray of the same ornaments surmounting
the forehead; her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled, her
red lips wore a happy smile, and the surliest cynic that ever
laughed at female loveliness would have acknowledged that the
little maiden of Blandfield was a beauty. She scarcely wore any
jewels—the gold bands upon her wrists were nearly all. In her
hair a white rose, lingering, you would have said, to deck out the
damsel for her merry-making, was relieved against her curls. As
she stood before the mirror in the orange light, her tall and slender
figure glowing in it, and glanced over her fair shoulder, Evelyn was
like a vision of youth, and freshness, and joy.
We writers of romances point to these fair beings, and tell how
they are clad, describing the curls and the roses, but find it more
difficult to speak of the heart beating under the laces. Let us say,
only, that Evelyn was plainly happy, and not lay bare the tender
heart, or inquire too curiously what made it beat so. Was it the
thought: “He will see me as I now look to-night?” Was she
thinking, “if he only is pleased, I care for the opinion of no one
else?” Some such thought came to her, for her cheek colored, and
the lace covering her shoulders rose and fell suddenly.
A bell rang. Then the cheerful voice of Judge Bland was heard.
“Come! my dear. If you take such old gentlemen as myself
out at night, you must go early and return soon.”
And crying, “Yes, dear papa!” Evelyn seized her fan, cast one
last glance, woman-like, over her shoulder into the mirror, raised
her rustling train, and hastened down stairs, a gleam of sunshine
lighting up the house, and flushing the very tea-things with its
splendor.
A ride of five miles in the roomy old family chariot, drawn by
its four glossy horses, and driven by the steady old family coachman,
brought them to the scene of the festivity; and it was easy to
discover from the blazing windows, the forms passing to and fro,
and the merry music of the violins, that the party or “assembly,”
as they then said, was in full progress.
Evelyn ran up-stairs, and, emerging from her wrappings, quickly
re-appeared, entering the drawing-room on her father's arm. The
fresh little beauty, all curls and roses, presented a vivid contrast to
the staid and benevolent Judge, with his long gray hair, his thin
figure clad in black, and his stately courtesy. Evelyn was not in
the least staid; she resembled rather a child brimming with
laughter. You could see from her glowing cheeks that the crowd,
the rich dresses, the atmosphere of frolic, stirred her pulses,—from
the little satin slipper tapping the floor to the music that she
wanted to dance—and she had speedily a number of requests from
young gentlemen to indulge in that ceremony with them.
She had just engaged herself for a number of cotillons and minuets,
when her friend the feeble youth urged his claims. Evelyn
was good-natured—above all on this night—and promised her hand
for a remote set. She had just done so, when Sainty Harley, in all
the glory of his college uniform, and a whole May-day in his
laughing face, came up and engaged the next. Then Miss Evelyn
plunged into the festivities of the night.
Some abler hand must draw the picture of those old Virginia
festivities, where mirth and music, laughter and bright eyes, made
up a scene of so much picturesque attraction. They come back
now—these old gatherings—to the memory of the aged like a breath
of the spring time, or an echo from old years. How they danced
and laughed in those long-gone hours! How the sparkling eyes
were brighter than the diamonds!—the voices merrier than the
music of the violins! How the youths and the maidens bowed in
the minuet, or ran with flushed cheeks through the old Virginia
reels—minuets that are dead and gone—reels that have dropped to
silence, even as the rose, the bright eyes, and the gay laughter are
gone, and the youths and maidens sleep under the grass and
flowers.
At the end of every set Evelyn looked around her. At last she
saw him.
He was standing in the midst of a group of gentlemen who were
talking politics. A portly old red-faced nabob had him by the
button. He looked over the shoulder of the old nabob, who was
wheezing and arguing, and her eyes met his own.
Ten minutes afterwards Mr. Justin Harley had offered his arm to
Miss Evelyn Bland, and they were walking under the faint light of
the crescent moon, around the white circle.
What is said under the light of a crescent moon, when music is
sounding? That is a secret to all but those who speak and those
who listen. Often it is some commonplace which is uttered,
and the reply is no more brilliant. But what the lips do not utter,
the eyes say plainly; what the words give no hint of, the tones of
the voices say unmistakably!
Other couples passing near Justin Harley and Evelyn Bland
heard only a murmur. And yet those murmured words made two
hearts beat; and the faces of Harley and Evelyn glowed, as faces
will when there comes a quick, delicious thrill to the heart. It was
enough that they heard each other's voice—that they were walking
side by side, her hand on his arm, in the faint light of the young
moon. Evelyn went on slowly, with her beautiful head bent; then
she raised her eyes and looked at the moon; then, as though a
more powerful magnet had attracted her, as if yielding to the sway
of some master influence, she turned her head, saw that Harley
was gazing at her, and for a single instant their eyes met in one of
those glances which reveal what is passing in the soul.
“A voice called “Miss Bland.” Then the voice was succeeded
by a presence, and the feeble youth rushed up. The next dance
was about to begin, and Miss Bland was engaged to him. He protruded
his elbow; Miss Bland had no recourse but to accept it; the
youth hurried off with his prize—but fate arrested him.
Sainty Harley had or had not understood rightly. He met the
couple, and declared that the dance was his own; the feeble youth
protested—his rival insisted. Then the feeble youth looked at the
stalwart youngster, and was slowly convinced. Then Sainty Harley
bore off his prize, laughing—heard the prize say, “I am very much
obliged to you!”—and was soon bowing through the minuet in response
to the low and graceful curtseys of his smiling partner.
Harley was looking at them, and his face wore a charming smile.
They were youth and joy incarnate. The young man was naturally
graceful, and danced admirably. His eyes were fixed upon Evelyn,
his boyish face flushed with pleasure; and the expression of his
partner's eyes was as happy as his own.
Harley was looking at the boy with his sweet paternal smile.
Then a slight cloud of sadness passed over his face. Was he thinking
that Sainty was better suited in age to Evelyn than himself?
Did he regret his thirty years in presence of this rosebud of nineteen
whom he had begun to love so dearly? These thoughts come
to men sometimes, when they have passed their spring-time, and
the woman they love is just entering it. But the cloud passed as
quickly as it came. He looked at them again with his bright smile,
and as that smile came back to his lips, he heard a voice say,
“There it is!”
He turned quickly. St. Leger, who had danced until he was
tired, was looking at him and laughing.
“There is what, my dear friend?” said Harley.
“Why, your new look—the new Harley! Confess now—don't you
feel like murdering that youngster? He has the appearance of
being in love with her himself!”
The music suddenly ceased, and Harley could not reply. The
words of St. Leger caused him a slight chill at the heart. He banished
it instantly, however, and the smile came back as Sainty
offered his arm to escort his beautiful partner out into the moonlight.
As Evelyn disappeared she turned her head slightly, and
her eyes met Harley's. There was something exquisite in this flitting
glance and the faint smile which accompanied it.
Unfortunately it was seen by Miss Clara Fulkson, aged about
forty, unmarried, overdressed, and in person and manner what is
called stunning.
At two o'clock in the morning, Sainty Harley might have been
seen wrapping a shawl, with an air of the tenderest solicitude,
around Miss Evelyn Bland's lovely shoulders, and assisting her
with devoted attention into her coach.
The assembly was over.
