15. XV.
PYGMALION.
I have no doubt my fair readers—if, indeed, I am honored
with such—have carefully omitted perusing that tirade upon politics—hastening
on to some imaginary “love scenes.”
Alas! mesdames, there were none at all to record. It would
charm me, not only upon your account, but my own too, to
describe some romantic interviews with this young lady; but I
should be compelled to draw upon my imagination. That would
not become the narrator of real events—and thus, all these expectations
must be disappointed.
The young lady did not melt—indeed, she seemed to freeze
more and more. I can scarcely describe the phenomenon which
I then witnessed. Liking is apt to conciliate liking in return—
to a certain extent, at least; but the more she knew of me, the
less Miss May Beverley seemed to care for me. It is impossible
to describe the chill and stately air with which the young lady
received my attentions. It was the bearing of a duchess who
repels one of the commonalty; and it commenced the very day
after my arrival.
She came into the parlor where I was lying on a sofa, and,
slightly bending her head, upon which the bright chestnut hair
was now disposed in rich braids, inquired calmly how I felt.
“Thank you—a great deal better!” was my reply, as I gazed
with unconcealed admiration upon the beautiful girl. “My hurt
is very trifling, and I am only too glad I received it—for it has
given me the happiness of knowing you.”
I must have spoken with ardor, and betrayed what I felt, for,
as her eyes met my own, full of eager feeling, her cheek colored
slightly, and she turned away.
“I have spoken too warmly for a stranger, perhaps, Miss Beverley—a
mere acquaintance of yesterday,” I added, “but you will
pardon me, I hope—these are not times of ceremony. Feeling
ripens rapidly now, and the acquaintance of to-day becomes the
friend—perhaps more than the friend—of to-morrow!”
She turned toward me—as I caught her expression, my heart
sank. It was a statue of ice which I saw before me—or marble,
if you like the comparison better.
“Pardon my words, Miss Beverley,” I murmured, “but you
are not a mere acquaintance. You exposed yourself to danger
to assist me in the wood yonder”—
“Not at all, sir!” she interrupted, in a freezing tone; “it was
nothing; and I would have done as much for any one.”
I sank back, silent, and cruelly mortified.
“Does your arm pain you much, sir? I hope it is better this
morning. The sun is coming out, I think, and the weather
promises to be fair again.”
With which words, Miss May Beverley moved calmly to the
window; looked out; raised her snow-white hand to arrange the
braids of her hair; and then slowly glided out of the apartment
—cold and stately to the last.
There is the first interview, my dear feminine reader. Do
you think that it promises any thing “thrilling,” or “romantic”?
It was a specimen of all. Miss Beverley did not thaw—she
grew colder and colder as I grew warmer.
For I no longer tried to deceive myself upon the subject of my
sentiments toward her. In a day—an hour, as it were—her love
had become the only thing worth living for. Her eyes were the
stars of the evening sky—her chestnut hair the golden waves of
sunset—in her smile was the splendor of the pensive moon that
shines in the summer night!
In other words, it was a world all “moonlight, love, and flowers”
which I inhabited, my dear reader. See the song for the
rest.
When my mind was not reduced to an imbecile condition about
May Beverley, I used to lie on my sofa, and flush with anger at
a thought which incessantly recurred. Had Baskerville, with
whom she had been walking that evening, basely uttered in her
presence something to my discredit? Had he misrepresented
that encounter at the hotel, and thus poisoned the young lady's
mind against me? When that thought came to me, I clinched
my hands, and fell into silent rages. More than once I determined
to ask, plainly, the truth; but the cold face of the young
lady always repelled me. That pride and disdain, too, which
is the vice of the Surry family, withheld me. If she would
take that man's word, and condemn me without a hearing,
she cared nothing for me! Why should I make myself ridiculous?
In other words, I was in love with Miss May Beverley, and my
choice seemed to be unlucky. It is an old story. I don't mean
to prose on with it.
I will only say, that “day after day,” as sighs the hero of
“Love's Chidings,” the same phenomenon was presented—a man
burning, and a woman freezing. The longed-for thaw never took
place in May Beverley; and even in her selection of songs—for
she played and sang exquisitely—she seemed to repel her unfortunate
wooer.
See! she strolls to the piano, yonder, with that “regal, indolent
air,” of a born duchess, half haughty, half careless, all graceful.
The April sun lights up her waving hair, and crowns the
bright head like a glory.
Listen! she touches the piano, and then commences singing
in a voice which echoes through the old hall. Do you know
what she is telling, whoever listens, in that song? Here is the
cheerful and jovial view of life and human nature which I listen
to for my mental improvement, as I lie on my sofa, or bend over
her, my face close to the perfumed hair and the snow-white neck,
encircled by the thin golden chain.
(Favorite air of young ladies in the land of “Dixie,” as sung
by Miss May Beverley, con espress.:)—
“In the birth of spring to meet!
In the morning air so sweet!
And woman's love is sweeter than roses in May:
But the birth of spring will fleet,
Like the roses at her feet!
And love, like the seasons, must soon pass away.
“The summer sun is bright,
And the swallow's wing is light—
And woman's love is warm as a fair summer day;
But the sun will set at night,
And the swallow wing his flight—
And love, like the summer, must soon pass away!
“The leaf on autumn's bough
In the moonlight glimmers now—
And woman's love is as pure as its soft silver ray;
But the leaf goes on the gale,
And the silver moon will fail—
And love, like the autumn, must soon pass away!
“Gay winter sweeps us by,
Joy beams in every eye—
And woman's love is gayer and brighter than all;
But chill's the winter's breath,
And the eye must close in death—
And love, death, and winter must all pass away!”
The young lady ceases—her voice dies away, and I observe:
“That is a lively and inspiring air you have selected, Miss
Beverley. It is my favorite song—after the `Miserere' in
Trovatore.”
I laugh as I make this brilliant jest, but no smile touches the
beautiful face of the young lady.
“Do you like Verdi?” she says, indifferently. And touching
the piano, she commences singing—
As she sings, her voice soars, triumphs, and the silver trills
ring through the old hall and the adjoining grounds. This time
I do not joke—I hang upon her lips. With eyes glowing, bosom
heaving, and cheeks full of passionate feeling, the young lady
gives to the music of Verdi an effect which I never dreamed it
possessed.
The ice had melted, roses had tinted the marble face—it was a
passionate girl, not a cold and stately woman, which I saw
before me.
Then the air died away; the color in the cheeks faded: she
was marble again.
“You spoke of the `Miserere,' ” she said, in a tone of careless
indifference, as she ran her hands over the instrument before
her.
“Yes, it is the soul of sadness.”
“Then you do not wish to hear it?”
“On the contrary, I should be delighted if you would sing it.”
“I will try, then; if I weary you, tell me, and I will stop.”
If she wearied me! The idea seemed curious to the hapless
individual who could have stood there, beside her, and listened
to her forever.
So, in slow, measured strains, came that singular air which
Owen Meredith heard Mario sing, “Aux Italiens,” and which
brought back his early love from the grave. That is a tenor
song, my dear reader, as you doubtless know; and before I heard
May Beverley, I thought no woman could sing it. She made the
music magical, and I still hear that strain, echoing forever in
my memory. Was it her own heart speaking in the mournful
music? Had she ever bidden farewell to any love in those wild
accents? I knew not—I only knew that her voice produced an
indescribable effect upon me, and that, on that day, I did not
ask her to sing again.
I pass on from that period of enchantment. It was only for a
moment, now and then, that the violet eyes glowed, the cheeks
filled with color. The young lady remained as obstinately chill
as before; and yet a little incident at the time seemed to indicate
that she possessed deep and earnest feelings.
There was a young Charley Beverley, her brother, who had
been off on a visit somewhere, but returned now to “The Oaks”
to get his equipments and join the forces on the Potomac.
Charley was a gay youngster, of about seventeen, with only one
passion in the world—to ride unbroken colts: only one ambition—to
shoulder a musket and go and fight “the Yankees.”
He was a favorite with all, but his sister May seemed his special
adorer. She hung around the youth with the deepest fondness
and devotion; sewed night and day at his articles of clothing;
could not bear, apparently, to have him out of her sight, and,
when he was leaving her, covered his face with passionate
kisses, and burst into an agony of tears. As the youth disappeared,
she passed by a certain gentleman with an air of utter
unconsciousness of the fact of his existence, and, going to her
chamber, did not reappear again until the next morning.
She then made her appearance, as cold and haughty as before.
All traces of emotion had vanished from her face; her tones
were calm and indifferent; her walk as measured, stately, and
queenlike as before.
Altogether, I came to the conclusion that Miss May Beverley
was a singular character, and I only regretted that I had been
so unfortunate as to become the victim of her beautiful eyes.
Things are in a desperate condition with a wooer, my dear
reader, when he is sorry that he ever met “her.” If you are
young and susceptible, I strongly advise you to avoid the filles
du marbre. Sunshine and roses are much better than the gray
skies of winter, when the shining flowers seem destined never to
bloom again!
