4. IV.
A PAIR OF EYES.
Three days after this scene. I had reason to be exceedingly
sorry that I had quarrelled with Baskerville.
It was at that time the habit of the young ladies of the city to
promenade with their gallants upon the Capitol Square in the
evening, and enjoy the music of a fine brass band which played
from a rostrum opposite the City Hall.
The scene at such moments was really charming. The white
walls of the Capitol rose dreamily in the moonlight; the great
bronze Washington towered above; bright forms moved to and
fro beneath the moon; eyes sparkled; smiles shone! O summer
night, with that wondrous moon! whither have you flown with
the curls that lay in masses on those snowy shoulders?
One evening I went to listen to the music, and, lost in the
crowd in front of the rostrum occupied by the musicians, was
enjoying that sad and beautiful air, the “Mocking Bird”—when,
all at once, I saw in front of me a face so lovely that something
like a thrill passed through my frame.
It was the face of a girl—let me try and draw her outline.
Fancy a maiden of about nineteen, with a figure rounded, slender,
and as flxible as the stem of the river-flag—waving hair of
a deep chestnut, twisted up into a shining braid on the snowy
neck; and eyes—ah, those eyes!—they were languishing, brilriant,
and of an intense and dazzling violet—that tint which the
summer sky wears when the purple of the sunset dashes against
the blue. That face and those eyes possessed a haunting beauty
such as I had never before seen in woman. As she stood there
in the moonlight, keeping time with her slipper to the strains of
the “Mocking Bird,” I thought she was some fairy—not a girl
of flesh and blood!
Such was the exquisite face—and now do you ask, how I saw
her eyes? I was gazing at the clear and elegant profile half
turned from me, when some sound behind the girl attracted her
attention, and she turned her head. For an instant those wondrous
eyes met mine—then they were withdrawn, and I heard
her utter some cold words to the gentleman upon whose arm she
leaned.
I looked at him—I had not wasted a glance upon him before.
It was Baskerville.
Nothing could be more unfortunate. I had made up my mind
to discover who his companion was—for I had seen her at none
of the parties which I had attended—and now there was an inseparable
barrier in my relations with her escort. I nevertheless
determined to ascertain her name, and chance seemed about to
assist me. The band soon ceased playing; the crowd began to
disperse; and the young lady and Baskerville approached the
western gate, through which the multitude were passing. I was
close behind them, and, just as they reached the gate, observed
that she had dropped her handkerchief. Here was the opportunity.
She evidently did not observe the accident, and I hastily
picked up the handkerchief—resolving to read the name upon it,
and then return it.
Straining my eyes in the moonlight, I discovered in one corner
of the little perfumed affair of lace and chambric the young lady's
initials! “M. B.” was all; and, disappointed, I looked round
for the owner.
She had disappeared—lost like a flower amid the crowd. I
tried in vain to discover her; and at last gave up the search.
In vain did I go to every concert, every party, every church
thenceforward—looking for her. She did not reappear. She
had vanished like a dream of the moonlight night.
I ought to have sent the handkerchief to Baskerville, you may
say, for transmission to its owner. So I ought to have done—
but I did not.
