University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

`Are the Clydes coming to-night, mamma?' said Miss
Clinton, as she took a last elaborate back and front view of
herself.

`Yes, my dear—I suppose so—I invited them of course.'

`But I mean are they coming—what does ail the neck
of this dress?'

`Nothing at all.'

`Nothing at all! when it twists round and puckers—'

`When you twist round.'

`When I don't. And just see mamma—the waist is a
great deal too long.'

`I don't perceive it, indeed.'

`Because you don't look, ma'am. Let me shew you—
where's a card—now what do you think of that?—two
inches below the sleeve, mamma!'

`I think my dear, that your grandmother would have
thought two inches below the sleeve was no waist at all.'

`Very likely ma'am, but the old lady didn't know everything.
What makes you think the Clydes will come? They
might have forgotten to send regrets.'

`I saw Mr. Clyde in the street to-day, and he said he
should certainly come and bring his sister.'

`I should think he might, it will be such a small party.
But it's a dreadful thing to be so long out of society! one
grows so shockingly old. Why mamma, she must be
more than twenty.'

`Well my dear, so must you, if you live long enough.'

`My dear ma'am what things you do always say to bring
down one's spirits!—Just like Marion Arnet,—she told
me the other day—By the by she's just as much off as ever
with Thornton Clyde.'

`Is that what she told you?'

`La no, mamma—what an idea! But I mean there's not
the least prospect of their ever making it up.' And Miss
Clinton surveyed herself in the glass with much complacency.

`I can't conceive what concern it is of yours, my
dear.'

`No ma'am—perhaps not,—but one likes to talk.'

`I think however that one should talk goodnaturedly,
when one can,' said Mrs. Clinton, as she got up and peeped
over her daughter's shoulder. `Dear me—I look pale to-night!
How should you like to have such remarks made
about you, my dear?'

`Dear mamma!—as if I ever, ever could be such a fool!
But Rosalie never does make disagreeable speeches, so I'm
quite willing she should come; especially as she's so grave
now and quiet. I suppose her engrossing power can hardly
have survived these two years of seclusion.'

Miss Clinton wondered how it had survived, when she
saw Rosalie enter the room and perceived that the engrossing
power was in full force. It was only natural she tried
to persuade herself, that people should crowd about one
whom they had seen but seldom for a year or two; but a
mere greeting did not seem to content them, and there were

as many new as old friends in the circle that soon formed
about Miss Clyde. Only over one person she seemed to
have lost her power. Mr. Raynor went up and paid his
respects, and came away again,—therefore, as Miss Clinton
remarked to herself, `there could have been nothing in that.'
The power had not descended to her, however, for he
attached himself perseveringly to two old ladies; and was
deep in a discussion upon the state of the roads, the streets,
and the atmosphere, and just having his juvenile inexperience
enlightened on the subject of hailstorms, when his fair hostess
claimed his attention.

`Mr. Raynor, doesn't it seem very dull to you here, after
Paris?'

`As the daylight after gas.'

`Well, that is pretty bad. Things look beautiful by
gaslight, don't you think so?'

`Beautiful?—some things,' said the gentleman, whose
eye had made a momentary excursion after his thoughts.
`But candlelight is in general thought more becoming Miss
Clinton.'

`Do you think so? The other room is lighted with
candles—let us go in there and see if the people look
different.'

`By what rule of comparison will you judge of different
people by different lights?' said Mr. Raynor, as he obediently
gave the lady his arm.

`O we can compare each other,' said Miss Clinton laughing.
`But candles must be the most becoming, as you say,
for all the oldest people have got in here to have the benefit
of it.'

He looked grave and she changed the subject.

`How well Miss Clyde looks to-night—only rather pale.'

`What shade of colour puts a lady beyond the charge of
paleness?'

`O I don't know—but she keeps herself so shut up.'

`I have reason to believe that you are mistaken there,
Miss Clinton. I have certainly received the impression that
Miss Clyde walks a great deal.'

`What is mamma whispering about?' said Miss Clinton
as they slowly paced back again. `Wanting Miss Clyde to
sing—and she won't, or don't—which is it? Miss Arnet
will—no she don't choose, I know from her look.'

`Will you sing?' inquired Mr. Raynor, who really liked
his companion better at the piano than anywhere else.

`O not for anything—there, some one else is going.
And now Miss Clyde has got away to talk to Mrs. Delt. I
would give the world for her coolness and self-possession—I
never could cross a room alone.'

`Will you cross it with me, then?' said Penn Raynor
presenting himself. `Here am I Miss Clinton—at your
service,—totally disengaged because nobody will take the
trouble to engage me.'

`But I am not disengaged—' said Miss Clinton.

`Mrs. Clinton says,' pursued Penn, `that she shall call
upon Harry next,—so there's a decided opening.'

`Then we will walk over to the piano together,' said the
lady, `and secure a good place.'

`Aye, take my arm too,' said Penn. `Just as well, you
know Miss Clinton—only the old line about two strings to
your bow, renversé—as we used to say in Paris.'

`As we used to say,' said his cousin smiling.

`O deuce take it Harry—you're so precise,—one word
that you don't understand is as good as another. But I say
how charming Miss Clyde looks—and everybody.'

`Mr. Penn is quite impartial in his admiration,' said
Miss Clinton.

`Always was,' said Penn. `I'm a sort of a bee—or a

butterfly—I declare I don't know which, but I guess it's the
butterfly. I wonder why people call bees so industrious?
Butterflies go round just as much, only they dress up
for the occasion and go by the force of sunshine. Now
the bees seem moved by the mere power of business—or
buzziness.'

`You've been studying natural history, Mr. Penn,' said
Miss Clinton laughing.

`O yes—in the Champs Elysées,—good place that to
study butterflies. Especially with a bee along to keep you
in order. Harry is a nice bee though—he never cries hum.'

`And never stings, I hope?' said Miss Clinton insinuatingly.

`Ah there's a question. But he don't plunge his sting
so far in that you can't get it out,—and I suppose he'd tell
you it was for your especial benefit, then.'

`You would think Penn spoke from experience,' said Mr.
Raynor, `but I assure you he is cased in armour of proof.
Too nimble moreover, and too skilled in intricate passages.
Like the bee-moth—only not so mischievous.'

`Too bad that, I declare,' said Penn. `I shall not rest
now till I have executed some desperate piece of mischief.
Do you remember Harry how I carried off Miss Clyde's
bouquet once?'

`Yes,' said his cousin rather gloomily.

`Carried it off? how?' said Miss Clinton. `I shall hold
mine very fast.'

Penn went into some laughing threats concerning the
bouquet, and his cousin as if old recollections had taken off
present restraint, looked over the heads about him with very
little care whether he were watched or not.

It was a wearisome thing, he thought, to see her sitting
there and not to be allowed to go and talk to her,—to have

been so long in the same room and yet to have had only the
greeting of a common acquaintance;—nor quite that, for it
had been graver and more quickly ended; yet he would not
have changed it for one of a class. In a very abstracted
state of mind he obeyed Mrs. Clinton's call to the piano, and
sang.

The song was not much in itself, certainly; but there
was a power in the fine voice and the deep feeling and expression
with which every word was given, that held the
listeners motionless; and from end to end of the still room
was the song heard. It was not till the voice ceased, and
the singer had played a few soft notes that might almost
have been involuntary—so exactly did they carry out the
spirit of the song; that the ladies recollected their pocket-handkerchiefs,
and Penn Raynor exclaimed,

`Who upon earth's that, Harry?'

`Who upon earth is what?' said his cousin striking
another chord.

`Yes, did you ever know her, Mr. Raynor?' said the
lady of the house.

`Did I ever know whom, ma'am?' he said half turning
about.

`Why this lady of the song. There's no description
given of her, either—I don't know how it is—but it is all
so life-like that I feel as if I must have seen her. Is there
really such a flower in the world?'

It was with a singular smile that he heard her—a smile
that to any keen eye would have said enough. But lightly
touching the keys again, his answer was given with perfect
gravity.

`If there be, Mrs. Clinton, you will find it in the genus
woman, and in that species where Nature and Christianity
have both done their best.'

`O I have no doubt Mr. Raynor knows the original,'
said Miss Arnet. `He always had a preoccupied air,—as if

he were saying to himself, “I have seen better faces in my
time, than stand on any shoulders that I see before me at
this instant.'”

`True—at this instant,' said Mr. Raynor looking down
at the keys. `But what a character to give of me!'

`Deserved—' said Miss Arnet.

`By your favour, no,' said he rousing himself. `In the
first place, I am not always thinking of ladies' faces, hetero-dox
as that may seem. And in the second—'

`No second to that, I beg.'

`But it's very provoking to be made to cry over a rival
beauty,' said Miss Clinton.

`Rival beauties?' said Mr. Raynor. `Did you ever hear
of a belle that was rivalled by a wild flower?'

`No—did you?'

`A belle thought to try the matter once, so she made a
great effort and went to take a walk in the country.'

`What slander!' said two or three indignant voices.

`But do let him go on,' said Miss Arnet.

`Well—as story-tellers say—the lady went into the
woods, with her hoop and her lace ruffles and her diamonds
and her white gloves'—

`Don't you think diamonds and white gloves pretty?'
interrupted Miss Clinton.

`Certainly—so did this lady. She went on, expecting to
make a great impression upon her rivals; but the difficulty
was to find them. First she perceived the Columbines.
But she didn't feel as if they were rivals, though they were
all red and yellow like herself'—

`You are atrocious!'

`As to her dress, of course—but they hung down their
heads and she thought the world was wide enough for her
and the Columbines too. Their hoops were so small, and

they were such good little things that nodded to everybody.'

`I am not a good little thing, that's one comfort,' said
Miss Arnet.

`The lady was puzzled to find a rival. The Dandelions
were pretty, but common, and low bred; and the Anemones
had `no complexion,'—any man would be out of his senses
to look at such a piece of wax-work.'

The ladies exchanged glances.

`But at length she came to the violet, and there she
stood a long time. Was the violet a rival? She tried her
by all the tests. She walked before her and threw her into
the shade—the violet looked fairer than ever, and just as
good-natured. That was not like a rival. But then some
people who came by looked first at the violet—and that
was. At last she inquired anxiously if the violet was
invited to Mrs. Peony's ball of next week. But the violet
said she had never been to a ball and did not even know
Mrs. Peony by sight. That settled the matter, she could
never be a belle. So our friend called her a sweet little
creature, and reached home with but one source of dissatisfaction.'

`What was that?' eagerly exclaimed the circle, closing
about Mr. Raynor as he sat on the music stool.

`She had forgotten to ask where the violet bought her
perfume.'

`O you horrid man!' said Miss Clinton; and `you are
too bad!'—`you are perfectly scandalous!' echoed about.

`The ladies have been so much interested in the story,'
said Thornton Clyde, `that they have forgotten to find out
why Mr. Raynor took them into the woods.'

`You are in no doubt on the subject, Mr. Clyde?' said
the person spoken of, as he rose and passed through their
circle.

`I am in no doubt on several subjects,' said Thornton
dryly. `Yet now I think of it, Mr. Raynor, why was not
the rose your chosen subject of comparison?'

`Should a princess by the popular vote dare compare
herself with a queen in her own right?' said Mr. Raynor.

`And does the queen never have the popular vote?'
said Thornton.

`Sometimes—' Mr. Raynor said, with a glance at the
court just then holden by Rosalie. But he himself turned
and went into the next room, merely pausing to shake hands
with Dr. Buffem, who now made his appearance.

`A pretty pass things have come to!' said the Doctor,
walking straight up to the court. `Mrs. Clinton—good
evening! Miss Clinton—your humble servant! A pretty
pass things have come to! A hedge-row of boys round a
lady and never a gateway for a man to get through. I'll
make a clearance!—Miss Rosalie—enchanting princess—
“Queen of my soul! Light of my eyes!”—shall I rescue
you from your enchanted ring?—shall I send them about
their business?—though indeed my mind misgives me they
have none. “To men addicted to delights, business is an
interruption.'”

`The doctor is personifying business to-night then,' said
one of the gentlemen who had been set aside.

`What then?' said the doctor. `I tell you I sha'n't quit
the ring these twenty years.'

`You'll have a chance to carry everybody off in that
time, doctor,' said Penn.

`Everybody?' said the doctor.

Now my dear, take my arm, and let us have a comfortable
little walk. Now how do you get on at home—and what
rambles has the Sister of Charity been taking lately?
Did you hear of the cat that fell out of a two story window
yesterday?'

`No indeed,' said Rosalie smiling.

`Ah that was a great case!' said the doctor gravely—
`a great case! Fell on her feet you know of course, and
all that, but must have deranged the circulation. I said it
must have interfered with the ordinary course of things very
much, but some people thought not. But the cat has not
spoken since.'

`Nor mewed?' said Rosalie.

`You hush!' said the doctor, `and don't put yourself
into a consultation. But what have you been about? and
how are the pets at home? One of 'em I see looks flourishing.'

`Yes, they are both very well.'

`And their sister aint.—Don't tell me—I know—I read
you like a book. Let me feel your pulse.—That's it—strong
enough, but a little fluttering. I read you just like a dictionary,
my dear—words and definitions. Now Miss Rosalie,
I'm going to prescribe for you; and do you mind and follow
orders. A large dose of care for yourself, taken night and
morning in a little less care for other people.'

`That last is a hard medicine to get, sir.'

`Not a bit of it—ask anybody, and they'll give you as
much as you want. And see here—look up at me—don't
you wash it down with anything. Shake it down, if you
like, to the tune of a hop or two—and season with “Quips,
and pranks and wreathed smiles.”

`Not such a one as that!—I declare you are flying in

the face of my prescription and me together. I'll fix you!
wait till I find one of my assistants!—'

`Do you condescend to keep any, sir?' said Rosalie, as
the doctor began to walk her about the room in a somewhat
rummaging style.

`The secret society of medicine, my dear, has its officers.
You wait—not long neither. Now,' said Dr. Buffem, pushing
quietly through a narrow opening, and indicating with
his thumb one particular velvet collar; `now there is one
that I always employ for Miss Clinton, but that won't do
for you. I must find an engraving, or a book—or a bookworm!'
he said, bringing Rosalie with a short turn into the
library. `Friend Henry, what art thou about?'

Mr. Raynor started and turned round from the table
where he stood.

`Not studying that print?' said the doctor.

`Not at all.'

`No I thought not. Well here is one of my patients
whom I want to leave in your hands—otherwise on your
arm,—“for I must quit the busy haunts of men.”—Fact,
and no fib, Miss Rosalie—I declare your eye is as good as a
policeman! Well Mr. Henry—are you going to do as I bid
you? or must I find somebody else?'

`And how came Miss Clyde to be under your care, sir?'
said Mr. Raynor, when the proposed transfer had been
made.

`How came she to be under my care?—why because I
took charge of her. Anything to say against it? What
the deuce do you mean by asking such a question, sir?'

`Patients usually seek the doctor,' said Mr. Raynor with
a slight smile.

`She never does,' said Dr. Buffem. `Great peculiarity
in her case! I've been prescribing for her to-night.'

`And the prescription?'

`A trifle, a trifle—' said the doctor. `A little good
sense and insensibility.

And with a profound flourish the doctor moved off.

Mr. Raynor began quietly to turn over the engravings
and to comment upon them, until his companion looked up
and answered; and then he said,

`That is a most admirable prescription—if it be made up
like Bunyan's, with `a promise or two.”

`They are all that I need to take.'

`No—not quite,' he said, establishing her hand upon his
arm, and taking her away from the eyes and tongues of
several people who seemed inclined to `fall in' and make a
circle.

`What then?' said Rosalie, trying to rouse herself and
shake off the influence of two or three of the evening's
events. `Sound sleep I do take, enough of it, and study too;
though sometimes to be sure of a rather juvenile sort—teaching
Hulda and not myself. But I often make longer and
deeper excursions and incursions alone. What more do I
need?'

`I could easier shew you than tell you,' he said with a
smile. `My ideas on the subject can never be put in words
—and you could never follow them. Such care as fresh air
and sunshine take of the flowers,—as you of Hulda,—such
care as I would take of the most precious thing in the world,
if I had it. And after all that tells you nothing.'

She thought it told her a good deal too much, and
though words fluttered to her lips they came not forth.

`Are you tired of walking about?' Mr. Raynor said in
the same quiet way. `I will find you a seat in the neighbourhood
of what Dr.Buffem might call `sweet recreation,'
—here in the midst of geraniums and myrtles and your
namesakes, the roses. What do you think of these pretty
painted faces, and how would you characterise them?'

`The geraniums? As beautiful and showy, but I think
not very loveable. Yet all the power they have is in
exercise—there are no wasted advantages,—they have made
the most of themselves.'

`Yes, and have advanced steadily to perfection. Then
here is the myrtle,—of most rare beauty and purity and
exquisiteness—if one may use the word. Exceeding sweet
too, and elegant in a high degree. But its sweetness you
must seek out for yourself,—the common course of things
does not call it forth. For all but the eye's perception, the
greenhouse were as sweet without its myrtle. And among
flowers as among characters, the strongest power of attraction
is that involuntary sweetness which some few breathe
forth.

`I will not trust myself to speak of the roses,' he said
presently, `but you must remember that I watch with
jealous eyes the care you bestow upon mine.'

`Deep in the flowers!' said Penn Raynor coming up to
them. `Miss Clyde, Harry's love for roses has lately become
what I call a passion.'

`Eye deep or thought deep?' said Thornton who had
followed.

`My thought and eye have kept sufficiently close company,'
said Mr. Raynor.

Thornton looked at him and then at his sister.

`Rosalie, I thought you wanted to go home so early.'

`Is it late?' she said, rising quick and taking his arm.

`Late for you, little precision.'

`But she cannot go yet!' exclaimed Penn. `You must
take her into the supper room, first.'

`I will have that pleasure myself,' said Mr. Raynor.

And Thornton had no resource but to let him have it,
and Rosalie too, for the time.