This page contains affiliate links. As Amazon Associates we earn from qualifying purchases.
Language:
Form:
Genre:
Published:
  • 1843
Edition:
Collection:
FREE Audible 30 days

“What say the YOUNG gentlemen to this?” asked Mr. Monson, laughing. “This is a question not to be settled altogether by ladies, old or young.”

“Betts Shoreham has substantially told you what HE thinks; and now I claim a right to give MY opinion,” cried John Monson. “Like Betts, I will not decry my countrywomen, but I shall protest against the doctrine of their having ALL the beauty in the world. By Jove! I have seen in ONE opera-house at Rome, more beautiful women than I ever saw together, before or since, in any other place. Broadway never equals the corso, of a carnival.”

{corso, of a carnival = the Corso, a main street in Rome, at Carnival time}

“This is not sticking to the subject,” observed Mrs. Monson. “Pocket- handkerchiefs and housekeepers are our themes, and not pretty women. Mademoiselle Hennequin, you are French enough, I am sure, to like more sugar in your tea.”

This changed the subject, which became a desultory discourse on the news of the day. I could not understand half that was said, laboring under the disadvantage of being shut up in a close drawer, on another floor; and that, too, with six dozen of chattering French gloves lying within a foot of me. Still I saw plainly enough, that Mademoiselle Hennequin, notwithstanding she was a governess, was a favorite in the family; and, I may add, out of it also–Betts Shoreham being no sort of a connection of the Monsons. I thought, moreover, that I discovered signs of cross-purposes, as between the young people, though I think a pocket-handkerchief subject to those general laws, concerning secrets, that are recognized among all honorable persons. Not having been actually present on this occasion, should I proceed to relate ALL that passed, or that I fancied passed, it would be degrading myself to the level of those newspapers which are in the habit of retailing private conversations, and which, like most small dealers in such things, never retail fairly.

I saw no more of my mistress for a week. I have reason to think that she had determined never to use me; but female resolutions, in matters of dress, are not of the most inflexible nature. There was a certain Mrs. Leamington, in New York, who gave a great ball about this time, and being in the same set as the Monsons, the family was invited as a matter of course. It would have surpassed the powers of self-denial to keep me in the back-ground on such an occasion; and Julia, having first cleared the way by owning her folly to a very indulgent father, and a very tormenting brother, determined nobly to bring me out, let the effect on Betts Shoreham be what it might. As the father had no female friends to trouble him, he was asked to join the Monsons–the intimacy fully warranting the step.

Julia never looked more lovely than she did that night. She anticipated much pleasure, and her smiles were in proportion to her anticipations. When all was ready, she took me from the drawer, let a single drop of lavender fall in my bosom, and tripped down stairs toward the drawing- room; Betts Shoreham and Mademoiselle Hennequin were together, and, for a novelty, alone. I say, for a novelty, because the governess had few opportunities to see any one without the presence of a third person, and because her habits, as an unmarried and well educated French woman, indisposed her to tete-a-tetes with the other sex. My mistress was lynx-eyed in all that related to Betts Shoreham and the governess. A single glance told her that their recent conversation had been more than usually interesting; nor could I help seeing it myself–the face of the governess being red, or in that condition which, were she aught but a governess, would be called suffused with blushes. Julia felt uncomfortable–she felt herself to be de trop; and making an incoherent excuse, she had scarcely taken a seat on a sofa, before she arose, left the room, and ran up stairs again. In doing so, however, the poor girl left me inadvertently on the sofa she had so suddenly quitted herself.

{de trop = one too many}

Betts Shoreham manifested no concern at this movement, though Mademoiselle Hennequin precipitately changed her seat, which had been quite near–approximately near, as one might say–to the chair occupied by the gentleman. This new evolution placed the governess close at my side. Now whatever might have been the subject of discourse between these two young persons–for Mademoiselle Hennequin was quite as youthful as my mistress, let her beauty be as it might–it was not continued in my presence; on the contrary, the young lady turned her eyes on me, instead of looking at her companion, and then she raised me in her hand, and commenced a critical examination of my person.

“That is a very beautiful handkerchief, Mademoiselle Hennequin,” said Betts Shoreham, making the remark an excuse for following the young lady to the sofa. “Had we heard of its existence, our remarks the other night, on such a luxury, might have been more guarded.”

No answer was given. The governess gazed on me intently, and tears began to course down her cheeks, notwithstanding it was evident she wished to conceal them. Ashamed of her weakness, she endeavored to smile them away, and to appear cheerful.

“What is there in that pocket-handkerchief, dear Mademoiselle Hennequin,” asked Betts Shoreham, who had a pernicious habit of calling young ladies with whom he was on terms of tolerable intimacy, “dear,”–a habit that sometimes misled persons as to the degree of interest he felt in his companions–“what CAN there be in that pocket- handkerchief to excite tears from a mind and a heart like yours?”

“My mind and heart, Mr. Shoreham, are not as faultless, perhaps, as your goodness would make them out to be. ENVY is a very natural feeling for a woman in matters of dress, they say; and, certainly, I am not the owner of so beautiful a pocket-handkerchief–pardon me, Mr. Shoreham; I cannot command myself, and must be guilty of the rudeness of leaving you alone, if—-“

Mademoiselle Hennequin uttered no more, but rushed from the room, with an impetuosity of manner and feeling that I have often had occasion to remark in young French women. As a matter of course, I was left alone with Betts Shoreham.

I shall conceal nothing that ought to be told. Betts Shoreham, notwithstanding her dependent situation, and his own better fortunes, loved the governess, and the governess loved Betts Shoreham. These were facts that I discovered at a later day, though I began to suspect the truth from that moment. Neither, however, knew of the other’s passion, though each hoped as an innocent and youthful love will hope, and each trembled as each hoped. Nothing explicit had been said that evening; but much, very much, in the way of sympathy and feeling had been revealed, and but for the inopportune entrance of Julia and myself, all might have been told.

CHAPTER XV.

There is no moment in the life of man, when he is so keenly sensitive on the subject of the perfection of his mistress, as that in which he completely admits her power. All his jealousy is actively alive to the smallest shade of fault, although his feelings so much indispose him to see any blemish. Betts Shoreham felt an unpleasant pang, even–yes, it amounted to a pang–for in a few moments he would have offered his hand–and men cannot receive any drawback with indifference at such an instant–he felt an unpleasant pang, then, as the idea crossed his mind that Mademoiselle Hennequin could be so violently affected by a feeling as unworthy as that of envy. He had passed several years abroad, and had got the common notion about the selfishness of the French, and more particularly their women, and his prejudices took the alarm. But his love was much the strongest, and soon looked down the distrust, however reasonable, under the circumstances, the latter might have appeared to a disinterested and cool-headed observer. He had seen so much meek and pure-spirited self-denial; so much high principle in the conduct of Mademoiselle Hennequin, during an intimacy which had now lasted six months, that no passing feeling of doubt, like the one just felt, could unsettle the confidence created by her virtues. I know it may take more credit than belongs to most pocket-handkerchiefs, to maintain the problem of the virtues of a French governess–a class of unfortunate persons that seem doomed to condemnation by all the sages of our modern imaginative literature. An English governess, or even an American governess, if, indeed, there be such a being in nature, may be every thing that is respectable, and prudent, and wise, and good; but the French governess has a sort of ex-officio moral taint about her, that throws her without the pale of literary charities. Nevertheless, one or two of the most excellent women I have ever known, have been French governesses, though I do not choose to reveal what this particular individual of the class turned out to be in the end, until the moment for the denouement of her character shall regularly arrive.

There was not much time for Betts Shoreham to philosophize, and speculate on female caprices and motives, John Monson making his appearance in as high evening dress as well comported with what is called “republican simplicity.” John was a fine looking fellow, six feet and an inch, with large whiskers, a bushy head of hair, and particularly white teeth. His friend was two inches shorter, of much less showy appearance, but of a more intellectual countenance, and of juster proportions. Most persons, at first sight, would praise John Monson’s person and face, but all would feel the superiority of Betts Shoreham’s, on an acquaintance. The smile of the latter, in particular, was as winning and amiable as that of a girl. It was that smile, on the one hand, and his active, never dormant sympathy for her situation, on the other, which, united, had made such an inroad on the young governess’s affections.

“It’s deuced cold, Betts,” said John, as he came near the fire; “this delightful country of ours has some confounded hard winters. I wonder if it be patriotic to say, OUR winters?”

“It’s all common property, Monson–but, what have become of your sister and Mademoiselle Hennequin? They were both here a minute since, and have vanished like–“

“What?–ghosts!–no, you dare not call them THAT, lest their spirits take it in dudgeon. Julie is no ghost, though she is sometimes so delicate and ethereal, and as for Henny–“

“Who?” exclaimed Betts, doubting if his ears were true.

“Henny, Tote and Moll’s governess. Whom do you think I could mean, else? I always call her Henny, en famille, and I look upon you as almost one of us since our travels.”

{en famille = at home}

“I’m sure I can scarcely be grateful enough, my dear fellow–but, you do not call her so to her face?”

“Why–no–perhaps not exactly in her very teeth–and beautiful teeth she has, Betts–Julie’s won’t compare with them.”

“Miss Monson has fine teeth, notwithstanding. Perhaps Mademoiselle Hennequin–“

“Yes, Henny has the best teeth of any girl I know. They are none of your pearls–some pearls are yellowish, you know–but they are teeth; just what ought to be in a handsome girl’s mouth. I have no objection to pearls in a necklace, or in the pockets, but TEETH are what are wanted in a mouth, and Henny has just the finest set I know of.”

Betts Shoreham fidgetted at the “Henny,” and he had the weakness, at the moment, to wish the young governess were not in a situation to be spoken of so unceremoniously. He had not time to express this feeling, before John Monson got a glimpse of me, and had me under examination beneath the light of a very powerful lamp. I declare that, knowing his aversion to our species, I felt a glow in all my system at the liberties he was taking.

“What have we here?” exclaimed John Monson, in surprise; “has Miss Flowergarden made a call, and is this her card?”

“I believe that pocket-handkerchief belongs to your sister,” answered Betts, drily, “if that be what you mean.”

“Jule! well, I am sorry to hear it. I did hope that no sister of MINE would run into any such foolish extravagance–do you own it, Jule?” who entered the room at that instant–“is this bit of a rag yours, or is it not more likely to be Henny’s?”

“Bit of a rag!” cried the sister, snatching me dexterously out of the spoiler’s hands; “and ‘Henny,’ too! This is not a bit of a rag, sir, but a very pretty pocket-handkerchief, and you must very well know that Mademoiselle Hennequin is not likely to be the owner of any thing as costly.”

“And what did it cost, pray? At least tell me THAT, if nothing else.”

“I shall not gratify your curiosity, sir–a lady’s wardrobe is not to be dissected in this manner.”

“Pray, sir, may I ask,” Mr. Monson now coming in, “did you pay for Jule’s handkerchief? Hang me, if I ever saw a more vulgar thing in my life.”

“The opinion is not likely to induce me to say yes,” answered the father, half-laughing, and yet half-angry at his son’s making such allusions before Betts–“never mind him, my dear; the handkerchief is not half as expensive as his own cigars.”

“It shall be as thoroughly smoked, nevertheless, rejoined John, who was as near being spoilt, and escaping, as was at all necessary. “Ah, Julie, Julie, I’m ashamed of thee.”

This was an inauspicious commencement for an evening from which so much happiness had been anticipated, but Mrs. Monson coming down, and the carriages driving to the door, Mademoiselle Hennequin was summoned, and the whole party left the house.

As a matter of course, it was a little out of the common way that the governess was asked to make one, in the invitations given to the Monsons. But Mademoiselle Hennequin was a person of such perfect bon ton, had so thoroughly the manners of a lady, and was generally reputed so accomplished, that most of the friends of the family felt themselves bound to notice her. There was another reason, too, which justice requires I should relate, though it is not so creditable to the young lady, as those already given. From some quarter, or other, a rumor had got abroad that Miss Monson’s governess was of a noble family, a circumstance that I soon discovered had great influence in New York, doubtless by way of expiation for the rigid democratical notions that so universally pervade its society. And here I may remark, en passant, that while nothing is considered so disreputable in America as to be “aristocratic” a word of very extensive signification, as it embraces the tastes, the opinions, the habits, the virtues, and sometimes the religion of the offending party–on the other hand, nothing is so certain to attract attention as nobility. How many poor Poles have I seen dragged about and made lions of, merely because they were reputed noble, though the distinction in that country is pretty much the same as that which exists in one portion of this great republic, where one half the population is white, and the other black; the former making the noble, and the latter the serf.

{make one = be included; bon ton = superior manners and culture; notice her = include her socially; “aristocratic” = Cooper was hypersensitive to accusations of being “aristocratic”; poor Poles = since his days in Paris in the early 1830s, Cooper had befriended and aided Poles fleeing Russian domination of their homeland}

“What an exceedingly aristocratic pocket-handkerchief Miss Monson has this evening,” observed Mrs. G. to Mr. W., as we passed into Mrs. Leamington’s rooms, that evening; “I don’t know when I’ve seen any thing so aristocratic in society.”

“The Monsons are very aristocratic in all things; I understand they dine at six.”

“Yes,” put in Miss F., “and use finger bowls every day.”

“How aristocratic!”

“Very–they even say that since they have come back from Europe, the last time, matters are pushed farther than ever. The ladies insist on kneeling at prayers, instead of inclining, like all the rest of the world.”

“Did one ever hear of any thing so aristocratic!”

“They DO say, but I will not vouch for its truth, that Mr. and Mrs. Monson insist on all their children calling them ‘father’ and ‘mother,’ instead of ‘pa’ and ‘ma.’ “

“Why, Mr. W., that is downright monarchical, is it not?”

“It’s difficult to say what is, and what is not monarchical, now-a-days; though I think one is pretty safe in pronouncing it anti-republican.”

“It is patriarchal, rather,” observed a wit, who belonged to the group.

Into this “aristocratical” set I was now regularly introduced. Many longing and curious eyes were drawn toward me, though the company in this house was generally too well bred to criticise articles of dress very closely. Still, in every country, aristocracy, monarchy, or democracy, there are privileged classes, and in all companies privileged persons. One of the latter took the liberty of asking Julia to leave me in her keeping, while the other danced, and I was thus temporarily transferred to a circle, in which several other pocket-handkerchiefs had been collected, with a view to compare our several merits and demerits. The reader will judge of my surprise, when, the examination being ended, and the judgment being rendered altogether in my favor, I found myself familiarly addressed by the name that I bore in the family circle, or, as No. 7; for pocket-handkerchiefs never speak to each other except on the principle of decimals. It was No. 12, or my relative of the extreme cote gauche, who had strangely enough found his way into this very room, and was now lying cheek by jowl with me again, in old Mrs. Eyelet’s lap. Family affection made us glad to meet, and we had a hundred questions to put to each other in a breath.

{cote gauche = left wing, politically}

No. 12 had commenced life a violent republican, and this simply because he read nothing but republican newspapers; a sufficiently simple reason, as all know who have heard both sides of any question. Shortly after I was purchased by poor, dear Adrienne, a young American traveler had stepped into the magasin, and with the recklessness that distinguishes the expenditures of his countrymen, swept off half a dozen of the family at one purchase. Accident gave him the liberal end of the piece, a circumstance to which he never would have assented had he known the fact, for being an attache of the legation of his own country, he was ex officio aristocratic. My brother amused me exceedingly with his account of the indignation he felt at finding himself in a very hot-bed of monarchical opinions, in the set at the American legation. What rendered these diplomates so much the more aristocratic, was the novelty of the thing, scarcely one of them having been accustomed to society at home. After passing a few months in such company, my brother’s boss, who was a mere traveling diplomatist, came home and began to run a brilliant career in the circles of New York, on the faith of a European reputation. Alas! there is in pocket-handkerchief nature a disposition to act by contraries. The “more you call, the more I won’t come” principle was active in poor No. 12’s mind, and he had not been a month in New York society, before he came out an ultra monarchist. New York society has more than one of these sudden political conversions to answer for. It is such a thorough development of the democratic principle, that the faith of few believers is found strong enough to withstand it. Every body knows how much a prospect varies by position. Thus, you shall stand on the aristocratic side of a room filled with company, and every thing will present a vulgar and democratic appearance; or, vice versa, you shall occupy a place among the oi polloi, and all is aristocratic, exclusive, and offensive. So it had proved with my unfortunate kinsman. All his notions had changed; instead of finding the perfection he had preached and extolled so long, he found nothing to admire, and every thing to condemn. In a word, never was a pocket-handkerchief so miserable, and that, too, on grounds so philosophical and profound, met with, on its entrance into active life. I do believe, if my brother could have got back to France, he would have written a book on America, which, while it overlooked many vices and foibles that deserve to be cut up without mercy, would have thrown even de Tocqueville into the shade in the way of political blunders. But I forbear; this latter writer being unanswerable among those neophytes who having never thought of their own system, unless as Englishmen, are overwhelmed with admiration at finding any thing of another character advanced about it. At least, such are the sentiments entertained by a very high priced pocket-handkerchief.

{magasin = shop; ex-officio = by virtue of his position–Cooper frequently criticized American diplomats for taking on the conservative views of the monarchial governments to which they were accredited; oi polloi = common people, rabble (Greek); de Tocqueville = Alexis de Tocqueville = French writer (1805-1859), famous for his account of American culture, “Democracy in America” (1835 and 1840)–Cooper had provided Tocqueville with letters of introduction for his 1832 American visit, but resented the extreme admiration accorded his book}

Mademoiselle Hennequin, I took occasion to remark, occupied much of the attention of Betts Shoreham, at Mrs. Leamington’s ball. They understood each other perfectly, though the young man could not get over the feeling created by the governess’s manner when she first met with me. Throughout the evening, indeed, her eye seemed studiously averted from me, as if she struggled to suppress certain sentiments or sensations, that she was unwilling to betray. Now, these sentiments, if sentiments they were, or sensations, as they were beyond all dispute, might be envy–repinings at another’s better fortunes–or they might be excited by philosophical and commendable reflections touching those follies which so often lead the young and thoughtless into extravagance. Betts tried hard to believe them the last, though, in his inmost heart, he would a thousand times rather that the woman he loved should smile on a weakness of this sort, in a girl of her own age, than that she should show herself to be prematurely wise, if it was wisdom purchased at the expense of the light-heartedness and sympathies of her years and sex. On a diminished scale, I had awakened in his bosom some such uneasy distrust as the pocket-handkerchief of Desdemona is known to have aroused in that of the Moor.

{Shakespeare, “Othello”}

Nor can I say that Julia Monson enjoyed herself as much as she had anticipated. Love she did not Betts Shoreham; for that was a passion her temperament and training induced her to wait for some pretty unequivocal demonstrations on the part of the gentleman before she yielded to it; but she LIKED him vastly, and nothing would have been easier than to have blown this smouldering preference into a flame. She was too young, and, to say the truth, too natural and uncalculating, to be always remembering that Betts owned a good old-fashioned landed estate that was said to produce twenty, and which did actually produce eleven thousand a year, nett; and that his house in the country was generally said to be one of the very best in the state. For all this she cared absolutely nothing, or nothing worth mentioning. There were enough young men of as good estates, and there were a vast many of no estates at all, ready and willing to take their chances in the “cutting up” of “old Monson,” but there were few who were as agreeable, as well mannered, as handsome, or who had seen as much of the world, as Betts Shoreham. Of course, she had never fancied the young man in love with herself, but, previously to the impression she had quite recently imbibed of his attachment to her mother’s governess, she had been accustomed to think such a thing MIGHT come to pass, and that she should not be sorry if it did.

I very well understand this is not the fashionable, or possibly the polite way of describing those incipient sentiments which form the germ of love in the virgin affections of young ladies, and that a skillful and refined poet would use very different language on the occasion; but I began this history to represent things as they are, and such is the manner in which “Love’s Young Dream” appears to a pocket-handkerchief.

{“Love’s Young Dream” = popular poem by Thomas Moore (1780- 1852)}

Among other things that were unpleasant, Miss Monson was compelled to overhear sundry remarks of Betts’s devotion to the governess, as she stood in the dance, some of which reached me, also.

“Who is the lady to whom Mr. Shoreham is so devoue this evening?” asked Miss N. of Miss T. “‘Tis quite a new face, and, if one might be so presuming, quite a new manner.”

{devoue = devoted, attentive}

“That is Mademoiselle Henny, the governess of Mrs. Monson’s children, my dear. They say she is all accomplishments, and quite a miracle of propriety. It is also rumored that she is, some way, a very distinguished person, reduced by those horrid revolutions of which they have so many in Europe.”

“Noble, I dare say!”

“Oh! that at least. Some persons affirm that she is semi-ROYAL. The country is full of broken-down royalty and nobility. Do you think she has an aristocratic air?”

“Not in the least–her ears are too small.”

“Why, my dear, that is the very symbol of nobility! When my Aunt Harding was in Naples, she knew the Duke of Montecarbana, intimately; and she says he had the smallest ears she ever beheld on a human being. The Montecarbanas are a family as old as the ruins of Paestum, they say.”

{Paestum = ancient Roman city outside Naples}

“Well, to my notion, nobility and teaching little girls French and Italian, and their gammes, have very little in common. I had thought Mr. Shoreham an admirer of Miss Monson’s.”

{gammes = musical scales}

Now, unfortunately, my mistress overheard this remark. Her feelings were just in that agitated state to take the alarm, and she determined to flirt with a young man of the name of Thurston, with a view to awaken Betts’s jealousy, if he had any, and to give vent to her own spleen. This Tom Thurston was one of those tall, good-looking young fellows who come from, nobody knows where, get into society, nobody knows how, and live on, nobody knows what. It was pretty generally understood that he was on the look-out for a rich wife, and encouragement from Julia Monson was not likely to be disregarded by such a person. To own the truth, my mistress carried matters much too far–so far, indeed, as to attract attention from every body but those most concerned; viz. her own mother and Betts Shoreham. Although elderly ladies play cards very little, just now, in American society, or, indeed, in any other, they have their inducements for rendering the well- known office of matron at a ball, a mere sinecure. Mrs. Monson, too, was an indulgent mother, and seldom saw any thing very wrong in her own children. Julia, in the main, had sufficient retenue, and a suspicion of her want of discretion on this point, was one of the last things that would cross the fond parent’s mind at Mrs. Leamington’s ball. Others, however, were less confiding.

{retenue = discretion}

“Your daughter is in HIGH SPIRITS to-night,” observed a single lady of a certain age, who was sitting near Mrs. Monson; “I do not remember to have ever seen her so GAY.”

“Yes, dear girl, she IS happy,”–poor Julia was any thing but THAT, just then–“but youth is the time for happiness, if it is ever to come in this life.”

“Is Miss Monson addicted to such VERY high spirits?” continued one, who was resolute to torment, and vexed that the mother could not be sufficiently alarmed to look around.

“Always–when in agreeable company. I think it a great happiness, ma’am, to possess good spirits.”

“No doubt–yet one needn’t be always fifteen, as Lady Wortley Montague said,” muttered the other, giving up the point, and changing her seat, in order that she might speak her mind more freely into the ear of a congenial spirit.

{Lady Wortley Montague = Lady Mary Wortley Montague (1689- 1762), English essayist and letter-writer}

Half an hour later we were all in the carriages, again, on our way home; all, but Betts Shoreham, I should say, for having seen the ladies cloaked, he had taken his leave at Mrs. Leamington’s door, as uncertain as ever whether or not to impute envy to a being who, in all other respects, seemed to him to be faultless. He had to retire to an uneasy pillow, undetermined whether to pursue his original intention of making the poor friendless French girl independent, by an offer of his hand, or whether to decide that her amiable and gentle qualities were all seeming, and that she was not what she appeared to be. Betts Shoreham owed his distrust to national prejudice, and well was he paid for entertaining so vile a companion. Had Mademoiselle Hennequin been an American girl, he would not have thought a second time of the emotion she had betrayed in regarding my beauties; but he had been taught to believe all French women managing and hypocritical; a notion that the experience of a young man in Paris would not be very likely to destroy.

{managing = manipulative}

“Well,” cried John Monson, as the carriage drew from Mrs. Leamington’s door, “this is the last ball I shall go to in New York;” which declaration he repeated twenty times that season, and as often broke.

“What is the matter now, Jack?” demanded the father. “I found it very pleasant–six or seven of us old fellows made a very agreeable evening of it.”

“Yes, I dare say, sir; but you were not compelled to dance in a room eighteen by twenty-four, with a hundred people treading on your toes, or brushing their heads in your face.”

“Jack can find no room for dancing since the great ball of the Salle de l’Opera, at Paris,” observed the mother smiling. “I hope YOU enjoyed yourself better, Julia?”

{Salle de l’Opera = Paris Opera House–the building referred to by Cooper served as Opera House from 1821-1873 and was replaced by the present building in 1874}

My mistress started; then she answered with a sort of hysterical glee–

“Oh! I have found the evening delightful, ma’am. I could have remained two hours longer.”

“And you, Mademoiselle Hennequin; I hope you, too, were agreeably entertained?”

The governess answered meekly, and with a slight tremor in her voice.

“Certainly, madame,” she said, “I have enjoyed myself; though dancing always seems an amusement I have no right to share in.”

There was some little embarrassment, and I could perceive an impulse in Julia to press nearer to her rival, as if impelled by a generous wish to manifest her sympathy. But Tom’s protest soon silenced every thing else, and we alighted, and soon went to rest.

The next morning Julia sent for me down to be exhibited to one or two friends, my fame having spread in consequence of my late appearance. I was praised, kissed, called a pretty dear, and extolled like a spoiled child, though Miss W. did not fail to carry the intelligence, far and near, that Miss Monson’s much-talked-of pocket-handkerchief was nothing after all but the THING Miss Halfacre had brought out the night of the day her father had stopped payment. Some even began to nick-name me the insolvent pocket-handkerchief.

I thought Julia sad, after her friends had all left her. I lay neglected on a sofa, and the pretty girl’s brow became thoughtful. Of a sudden she was aroused from a brown study–reflective mood, perhaps, would be a more select phrase–by the unexpected appearance of young Thurston. There was a sort of “Ah! have I caught you alone!” expression about this adventurer’s eye, even while he was making his bow, that struck me. I looked for great events, nor was I altogether disappointed. In one minute he was seated at Julia’s side, on the same sofa, and within two feet of her; in two more he had brought in play his usual tricks of flattery. My mistress listened languidly, and yet not altogether without interest. She was piqued at Betts Shoreham’s indifference, had known her present admirer several months, if dancing in the same set can be called KNOWING, and had never been made love to before, at least in a manner so direct and unequivocal. The young man had tact enough to discover that he had an advantage, and fearful that some one might come in and interrupt the tete a tete, he magnanimously resolved to throw all on a single cast, and come to the point at once.

“I think, Miss Monson,” he continued, after a very beautiful specimen of rigmarole in the way of love-making, a rigmarole that might have very fairly figured in an editor’s law and logic, after he had been beaten in a libel suit, ”I think, Miss Monson, you cannot have overlooked the VERY particular attentions I have endeavored to pay you, ever since I have been so fortunate as to have made your acquaintance?”

“I!–Upon my word, Mr. Thurston, I am not at all conscious of having been the object of any such attentions!”

“No?–That is ever the way with the innocent and single-minded! This is what we sincere and diffident men have to contend with in affairs of the heart. Our bosoms may be torn with ten thousand distracting cares, and yet the modesty of a truly virtuous female heart shall be so absorbed in its own placid serenity as to be indifferent to the pangs it is unconsciously inflicting!”

“Mr. Thurston, your language is strong–and–a little–a little unintelligible.”

“I dare say–ma’am–I never expect to be intelligible again. When the ‘heart is oppressed with unutterable anguish, condemned to conceal that passion which is at once the torment and delight of life’–when ‘his lip, the ruby harbinger of joy, lies pale and cold, the miserable appendage of a mang–‘ that is, Miss Monson, I mean to say, when all our faculties are engrossed by one dear object we are often incoherent and mysterious, as a matter of course.”

Tom Thurston came very near wrecking himself on the quicksands of the romantic school. He had begun to quote from a speech delivered by Gouverneur Morris, on the right of deposit at New Orleans, and which he had spoken at college, and was near getting into a part of the subject that might not have been so apposite, but retreated in time. By way of climax, the lover laid his hand on me, and raised me to his eyes in an abstracted manner, as if unconscious of what he was doing, and wanted to brush away a tear.

{Gouverneur Morris = American Federalist leader and diplomat (1752- 1816)–a 1795 American treaty with Spain granted the United States the right of navigation on the Mississippi River and to deposit goods at New Orleans without paying customs duties}

“What a confounded rich old fellow the father must be,” thought Tom, “to give her such pocket-handkerchiefs!”

I felt like a wren that escapes from the hawk when the rogue laid me down.

Alas! Poor Julia was the dupe of all this acting. Totally unpracticed herself, abandoned by the usages of the society in which she had been educated very much to the artifices of any fortune-hunter, and vexed with Betts Shoreham, she was in the worst possible frame of mind to resist such eloquence and love. She had seen Tom at all the balls in the best houses, found no fault with his exterior and manners, both of which were fashionable and showy, and now discovered that he had a most sympathetic heart, over which, unknown to herself, she had obtained a very unlimited control.

“You do not answer me, Miss Monson,” continued Tom peeping out at one side of me, for I was still at his eyes–“you do not answer me, cruel, inexorable girl!”

“What WOULD you have me say, Mr. Thurston?”

“Say YES, dearest, loveliest, most perfect being of the whole human family.”

“YES, then; if that will relieve your mind, it is a relief very easily bestowed.”

Now, Tom Thurston was as skilled in a fortune-hunter’s wiles as Napoleon was in military strategy. He saw he had obtained an immense advantage for the future, and he forbore to press the matter any further at the moment. The “yes” had been uttered more in pleasantry than with any other feeling, but, by holding it in reserve, presuming on it gradually, and using it in a crisis, it might be worth–“let me see,” calculated Tom, as he went whistling down Broadway, “that ‘yes’ may be made to yield at least a cool $100,000. There are John, this girl, and two little ones. Old Monson is worth every dollar of $700,000–none of your skyrockets, but a known, old fortune, in substantial houses and lands– let us suppose the old woman outlive him, and that she gets her full thirds; THAT will leave $466,660. Perhaps John may get a couple of hundred thousand, and even THEN each of the girls will have $88,888. If one of the little things should happen to die, and there’s lots of scarlet fever about, why that would fetch it up at once to a round hundred thousand. I don’t think the old woman would be likely to marry again at her time of life. One mustn’t calculate too confidently on THAT, however, as I would have her myself for half of SUCH thirds.”

{full thirds = Old Monson’s widow would under American common law receive a life interest in one-third of his real property, called a dower right, which would revert to his children if she died without remarrying.}

CHAPTER XVI.

For a week nothing material transpired. All that time I lay in the drawer, gaining a knowledge of what passed, in the best manner I could. Betts Shoreham was a constant visitor at the house, and Tom Thurston made his appearance with a degree of punctuality that began to attract notice, among the inmates of the house on the opposite side of the street. All this time, however, Tom treated Julia with the greatest respect, and even distance, turning more of his attention toward Mrs. Monson. He acted in this manner, because he thought he had secured a sufficient lien on the young lady, by means of her “yes,” and knew how important it was for one who could show none of the usual inducements for consent, to the parents, to obtain the good-will of the “old lady.”

At the end of the week, Mrs. Monson opened her house to receive the world. As a matter of course, I was brought out on this occasion. Now, Betts Shoreham and Mademoiselle Hennequin had made great progress toward an understanding in the course of this week, though the lady becoming more and more conscious of the interest she had created in the heart of the gentleman, her own conduct got to be cautious and reserved. At length, Betts actually carried matters so far as to write a letter, that was as much to the point as a man could very well come. In a word, he offered his hand to the excellent young French woman, assuring her, in very passionate and suitable terms, that she had been mistress of his affections ever since the first month of their acquaintance. In this letter, he implored her not to be so cruel as to deny him an interview, and there were a few exceedingly pretty reproaches, touching her recent coy and reserved deportment.

Mademoiselle Hennequin was obliged to read this letter in Julia’s room, and she took such a position to do it, as exposed every line to my impertinent gaze, as I lay on the bed, among the other finery that was got out for the evening. Mrs. Monson was present, and she had summoned the governess, in order to consult her on the subject of some of the ornaments of the supper table. Fortunately, both Julia and her mother were too much engaged to perceive the tears that rolled down the cheeks of the poor stranger, as she read the honest declaration of a fervid and manly love, nor did either detect the manner in which the letter was pressed to Mademoiselle Hennequin’s heart, when she had done reading it the second time.

Just at this instant a servant came to announce Mr. Shoreham’s presence in the “breakfast-room.” This was a retired and little frequented part of the house at that hour, Betts having been shown into it, in consequence of the preparations that were going on in the proper reception-rooms.

“Julia, my dear, you will have to go below–although it is at a most inconvenient moment.”

“No, mother–let Mr. Betts Shoreham time his visits better–George, say that the ladies are ENGAGED.”

“That will not do,” interrupted the mother, in some concern–“we are too intimate for such an excuse–would YOU, Mademoiselle Hennequin, have the goodness to see Mr. Shoreham for a few minutes- -you must come into our American customs sooner or later, and this may be a favorable moment to commence.”

Mrs. Monson laughed pleasantly as she made this request, and her kindness and delicacy to the governess were too marked and unremitted to permit the latter to think of hesitating. She had laid her own handkerchief down at my side, to read the letter, but feeling the necessity of drying her eyes, she caught me up by mistake, smiled her assent, and left the apartment.

Mademoiselle Hennequin did not venture below, until she had gone into her own room. Here she wept freely for a minute or two, and then she bathed her eyes in cold water, and used the napkin in drying them. Owing to this circumstance, I was fortunately a witness of all that passed in her interview with her lover.

The instant Betts Shoreham saw that he was to have an interview with the charming French girl, instead of with Julia Monson, his countenance brightened; and, as if supposing the circumstance proof of his success, he seized the governess’ hand, and carried it to his lips in a very carnivorous fashion. The lady, however, succeeded in retaining her hand, if she did not positively preserve it from being devoured.

“A thousand, thousand thanks, dearest Mademoiselle Hennequin,” said Betts, in an incoherent, half-sane manner; “you have read my letter, and I may interpret this interview favorably. I meant to have told all to Mrs. Monson, had SHE come down, and asked her kind interference–but it is much, much better as it is.”

“You will do well, monsieur, not to speak to Madame Monson on the subject at all,” answered Mademoiselle Hennequin, with an expression of countenance that I found quite inexplicable; since it was not happy, nor was it altogether the reverse. “This must be our last meeting, and it were better that no one knew any thing of its nature.”

“Then my vanity–my hopes have misled me, and I have no interest in your feelings!”

“I do not say THAT, monsieur; oh! non–non–I am far from saying as much as THAT”–poor girl, her face declared a hundred times more than her tongue, that she was sincere–“I do not–CANNOT say I have no interest in one, who so generously overlooks my poverty, my utter destitution of all worldly greatness, and offers to share with me his fortune and his honorable position–“

“This is not what I ask–what I had hoped to earn–gratitude is not love.”

“Gratitude easily becomes love in a woman’s heart”–answered the dear creature, with a smile and a look that Betts would have been a mere dolt not to have comprehended–“and it is my duty to take care that MY gratitude does not entertain this weakness.”

“Mademoiselle Hennequin, for mercy’s sake, be as frank and simple as I know your nature prompts–DO you, CAN you love me?”

Of course such a direct question, put in a very categorical way, caused the questioned to blush, if it did not induce her to smile. The first she did in a very pretty and engaging manner, though I thought she hesitated about indulging in the last.

“Why should I say ‘yes,’ when it can lead to no good result?”

“Then destroy all hope at once, and say NO.”

“That would be to give you–to give us both unnecessary pain. Besides, it might not be strictly true–I COULD love–Oh! No one can tell how my heart COULD love where it was right and proper.”

After this, I suppose it is unnecessary for me to say, that Betts soon brought the category of possibilities into one of certainty. To own the truth, he carried every thing by his impetuosity, reducing the governess to own that what she admitted she COULD do so well, she had already done in a very complete and thorough manner. I enjoyed this scene excessively, nor was it over in a minute. Mademoiselle Hennequin used me several times to wipe away tears, and it is strong proof how much both parties were thinking of other matters, that neither discovered who was present at so interesting a tete-a-tete.

At length came the denouement. After confessing how much she loved Betts, how happy she would be could she be his slave all the days of her life, how miserable she was in knowing that he had placed his affections on HER, and how much more miserable she should be, had she learned he had NOT, Mademoiselle Hennequin almost annihilated the young man by declaring that it was utterly impossible for her to consent to become his wife. The reason was the difference in fortune, and the impossibility that she should take advantage of his passion to lead him into a connection that he might afterwards regret. Against this decision, Betts reasoned warmly, but seriously, in vain. Had Mademoiselle Hennequin been an American, instead of a French, girl, her feelings would not have been so sensitive on this point, for, in this great republic, every body but the fortune-hunters, an exceedingly contemptible class, considers a match without money, quite as much a matter of course, as a match with. But, the governess had been educated under a different system, and it struck her imagination as very proper, that she should make both herself and her lover miserable, because he had two hundred thousand dollars, and she had not as many hundreds. All this strangely conflicted with Betts’ preconceived opinion of a French woman’s selfishness, and, while he was disposed to believe his adored perfection, he almost feared it was a trick. Of such contradictory materials is the human mind composed!

At length the eyes of Betts fell on me, who was still in the hand of Mademoiselle Hennequin, and had several times been applied to her eyes unheeded. It was evident I revived unpleasant recollections, and the young man could not avoid letting an expression escape him, that sufficiently betrayed his feelings.

“This handkerchief!” exclaimed the young governess–“Ah! it is that of Mademoiselle Julie, which I must have taken by mistake. But, why should this handkerchief awaken any feeling in you, monsieur? You are not about to enact the Moor, in your days of wooing?”

{the Moor = from Shakespeare’s “Othello”}

This was said sweetly, and withal a little archly, for the poor girl was glad to turn the conversation from its harassing and painful points; but Betts was in no humor for pleasantry, and he spoke out in a way to give his mistress some clue to his thoughts.

“That cursed handkerchief”–it is really indecent in young men to use such improper language, but they little heed what they say when strongly excited–“that cursed handkerchief has given me as much pain, as it appears also to have given you. I wish I knew the real secret of its connection with your feelings; for I confess, like that of Desdemona’s, it has excited distrust, though for a very different cause.

The cheeks of Mademoiselle Hennequin were pale, and her brow thoughtful. Still, she had a sweet smile for Betts; and, though ignorant of the nature of his suspicions, which she would have scarcely pardoned, it was her strongest wish to leave no darker cloud between them, than the one she felt it her duty to place there herself. She answered, therefore, frankly and simply, though not without betraying strong emotion as she proceeded.

“This handkerchief is well known to me,” answered the young French woman; “it revives the recollections of some of the most painful scenes of a life that has never seen much sunshine. You have heard me speak of a grandmother, Mr. Shoreham, who took care of my childhood, and who died in my arms. That handkerchief, I worked for her support in her last illness, and this lace–yes, this beautiful lace was a part of that beloved grandmother’s bridal trousseau. I put it where you see it, to enhance the value of my labors.”

“I see it all!” exclaimed the repentant Betts–“FEEL it all, dearest, dearest Mademoiselle Hennequin; and I hope this exquisite work, this refined taste brought all the comfort and reward you had a right to anticipate.

A shade of anguish crossed the face of Adrienne–for it was no other– as she gazed at me, and recalled all the scenes of her sufferings and distress. Then I knew her again, for time and a poor memory, with some development of person, had caused me to forget the appearance of the lovely creature who may be said to have made me what I am; but one glance at her, with that expression of intense suffering on her countenance, renewed all my earlier impressions.

“I received as much as I merited, perhaps,” returned the meek-minded girl–for she was proud only in insisting on what she fancied right–“and enough to give my venerated parent Christian burial. They were days of want and sorrow that succeeded, during which, Betts, I toiled for bread like an Eastern slave, the trodden-on and abused hireling of a selfish milliner. Accident at length placed me in a family as a governess. This family happened to be acquainted with Madame Monson, and an offer that was brilliant to me, in my circumstances, brought me to America. You see by all this how unfit I am to be your wife, monsieur. You would blush to have it said you had married a French milliner!”

“But you are not a milliner, in that sense, dearest Adrienne–for you must suffer me to call you by that name–you are a lady reduced by revolutions and misfortunes. The name of Hennequin I know is respectable, and what care I for money, when so much worth is to be found on your side of the scale. Money would only oppress me, under such circumstances.”

“Your generosity almost overcomes my scruples, but it may not be. The name to which I am entitled is certainly not one to be ashamed of–it is far more illustrious than that of Hennequin, respectable as is the last; but of what account is a NAME to one in my condition!”

“And your family name is not Hennequin?” asked the lover, anxiously.

“It is not. My poor grandmother assumed the name of Hennequin, when we went last to Paris, under an apprehension that the guillotine might follow the revolution of July, as it had followed that of ’89. This name she enjoined it on me to keep, and I have never thought it prudent to change it. I am of the family of de la Rocheaimard.”

The exclamation which burst from the lips of Betts Shoreham, betokened both surprise and delight. He made Adrienne repeat her declarations, and even desired her to explain her precise parentage. The reader will remember, that there had been an American marriage in Adrienne’s family, and that every relative the poor girl had on earth, was among these distant connections on this side of the Atlantic. One of these relatives, though it was no nearer than a third cousin, was Betts Shoreham, whose great-grandmother had been a bona fide de la Rocheaimard, and who was enabled, at once, to point out to the poor deserted orphan some forty or fifty persons, who stood in the same degree of affinity to her. It is needless to say that this conversation was of absorbing interest to both; so much so, indeed, that Betts momentarily forgot his love, and by the time it had ended, Adrienne was disposed to overlook most of her over scrupulous objections to rewarding that very passion. But the hour admonished them of the necessity of separating.

“And now, my beloved cousin,” said Betts Shoreham, as he rose to quit the room, seizing Adrienne’s unresisting hand–“now, my own Adrienne, you will no longer urge your sublimated notions of propriety against my suit. I am your nearest male relative, and have a right to your obedience–and I command that you be the second de la Rocheaimard who became the wife of a Shoreham.”

“Tell me, mon cher cousin,” said Adrienne, smiling through her tears– “were your grand-parents, my good uncle and aunt, were they happy? Was their union blessed?”

{mon cher cousin = my dear cousin}

“They were miracles of domestic felicity, and their happiness has passed down in tradition, among all their descendants. Even religion could not furnish them with a cause for misunderstanding. That example which they set to the last century, we will endeavor to set to this.”

Adrienne smiled, kissed her hand to Betts, and ran out of the room, leaving me forgotten on the sofa. Betts Shoreham seized his hat, and left the house, a happy man; for, though he had no direct promise as yet, he felt as reasonably secure of success, as circumstances required.

CHAPTER XVII.

Five minutes later, Tom Thurston entered, and Julia Monson came down to receive HIM, her pique not interfering, and it being rather stylish to be disengaged on the morning of the day when the household was in all the confusion of a premeditated rout.

{premeditated rout = planned party}

“This is SO good of you, Miss Monson,” said Tom, as he made his bow–I heard it all, being still on the sofa–“This is SO good of you, when your time must have so many demands on it.”

“Not in the least, Mr. Thurston–mamma and the housekeeper have settled every thing, and I am really pleased to see you, as you can give me the history of the new play–“

“Ah! Miss Monson, my heart–my faculties–my ideas–” Tom was getting bothered, and he made a desperate effort to extricate himself– “In short, my JUDGMENT is so confused and monopolized, that I have no powers left to think or speak of plays. In a word, I was not there.”

“That explains it, then–and what has thus confused your mind, Mr. Thurston?”

“The approach of this awful night. You will be surrounded by a host of admirers, pouring into your ears their admiration and love, and then what shall I have to support me, but that ‘yes,’ with which you once raised me from the depths of despair to an elevation of happiness that was high as the highest pinnacle of the caverns of Kentucky; raising me from the depths of Chimborazo.”

{caverns of Kentucky = Mammoth Cave; Chimborazo = a 20,500 foot volcano in Ecuador}

Tom meant to reverse this image, but love is proverbially desperate in its figures of speech, and any thing was better than appearing to hesitate. Nevertheless, Miss Monson was too well instructed, and had too much real taste, not to feel surprise at all this extravagance of diction and poetry.

“I am not certain, Mr. Thurston, that I rightly understand you,” she said. “Chimborazo is not particularly low, nor are the caverns of Kentucky so strikingly elevated.”

“Ascribe it all to that fatal, heart-thrilling, hope-inspiring ‘yes,’ loveliest of human females,” continued Tom, kneeling with some caution, lest the straps of his pantaloons should give way–“Impute all to your own lucid ambiguity, and to the torments of hope that I experience. Repeat that ‘yes,’ lovely, consolatory, imaginative being, and raise me from the thrill of depression, to the liveliest pulsations of all human acmes.”

“Hang it,” thought Tom, “if she stand THAT, I shall presently be ashore. Genius, itself, can invent nothing finer.”

But Julia did stand it. She admired Tom for his exterior, but the admiration of no moderately sensible woman could overlook rodomontade so exceedingly desperate. It was trespassing too boldly on the proprieties to utter such nonsense to a gentlewoman, and Tom, who had got his practice in a very low school, was doomed to discover that he had overreached himself.

“I am not certain I quite understand you, Mr. Thurston, answered the half-irritated, half-amused young lady; “your language is so very extraordinary–your images so unusual–“

“Say, rather, that it is your own image, loveliest incorporation of perceptible incarnations,” interrupted Tom, determined to go for the whole, and recalling some rare specimens of magazine eloquence– “Talk not of images, obdurate maid, when you are nothing but an image yourself.”

“I! Mr. Thurston–and of what is it your pleasure to accuse me of being the image?”

“O! unutterable wo–yes, inexorable girl, your vacillating ‘yes’ has rendered me the impersonation of that oppressive sentiment, of which your beauty and excellence have become the mocking reality. Alas, alas! that bearded men,”–Tom’s face was covered with hair–“Alas, alas! that bearded men should be brought to weep over the contrarieties of womanly caprice.”

Here Tom bowed his head, and after a grunting sob or two, he raised his handkerchief in a very pathetic manner to his face, and THOUGHT to himself–“Well, if she stand THAT, the Lord only knows what I shall say next.”

As for Julia, she was amused, though at first she had been a little frightened. The girl had a good deal of spirit, and she had tant soit peu of mother Eve’s love of mischief in her. She determined to “make capital” out of the affair, as the Americans say, in shop-keeping slang.

{tant soit peu = an ever so tiny amount}

“What is the ‘yes,’ of which you speak,” she inquired, “and, on which you seem to lay so much stress?”

“That ‘yes’ has been my bane and antidote,” answered Tom, rallying for a new and still more desperate charge. “When first pronounced by your rubicund lips, it thrilled on my amazed senses like a beacon of light–“

“Mr. Thurston–Mr. Thurston–what DO you mean?”

“Ah, d—n it,” thought Tom, “I should have said HUMID light’–how the deuce did I come to forget that word–it would have rounded the sentence beautifully.”

“What do I mean, angel of ‘humid light,'” answered Tom, aloud; “I mean all I say, and lots of feeling besides. When the heart is anguished with unutterable emotion, it speaks in accents that deaden all the nerves, and thrill the ears.” Tom was getting to be animated, and when that was the case, his ideas flowed like a torrent after a thunder-shower, or in volumes, and a little muddily. “What do I mean, indeed; I mean to have YOU,” he THOUGHT, “and at least, eighty thousand dollars, or dictionaries, Webster’s inclusive, were made in vain.”

“This is very extraordinary, Mr. Thurston,” rejoined Julia, whose sense of womanly propriety began to take the alarm; “and I must insist on an explanation. Your language would seem to infer–really, I do not know, what it does NOT seem to infer. Will you have the goodness to explain what you mean by that ‘yes?'”

“Simply, loveliest and most benign of your sex, that once already, in answer to a demand of your hand, you deigned to reply with that energetic and encouraging monosyllable, yes–dear and categorical affirmative–” exclaimed Tom, going off again at half-cock, highly impressed with the notion that rhapsody, instead of music, was the food of love–“Yes, dear and categorical affirmative, with what ecstasy did not my drowsy ears drink in the melodious sounds–what extravagance of delight my throbbing heart echo its notes, on the wings of the unseen winds–in short, what considerable satisfaction your consent gave my pulsating mind!”

“Consent!–Consent is a strong WORD, Mr. Thurston!”

“It is, indeed, adorable Julia, and it is also a strong THING. I’ve known terrible consequences arise from the denial of a consent, not half as explicit as your own.”

“Consequences!–may I ask, sir, to what consequences you allude?”

“The consequences, Miss Monson–that is, the consequences of a violated troth, I mean–they may be divided into three parts–” here, Tom got up, brushed his knees, each in succession, with his pocket- handkerchief, and began to count on his fingers, like a lawyer who is summing up an argument–“Yes, Miss Julia, into three parts. First come the pangs of unrequited love; on these I propose to enlarge presently. Next come the legal effects, always supposing that the wronged party can summon heart enough to carry on a suit, with bruised affections–” “hang it,” thought Tom, “why did I not think of that word ‘bruised’ while on my knees; it would tell like a stiletto–” “Yes, Miss Julia, if ‘bruised affections’ would permit the soul to descend to such preliminaries. The last consequence is, the despair of hope deferred.”

“All this is so extraordinary, Mr. Thurston, that I insist on knowing why you have presumed to address such language to me–yes, sir, INSIST on knowing your reason.”

Tom was dumbfounded. Now, that he was up, and looking about him, he had an opportunity of perceiving that his mistress was offended, and that he had somewhat overdone the sublime, poetical and affecting. With a sudden revulsion of feeling and tactics, he determined to throw himself, at once, into the penitent and candid.

“Ah, Miss Monson,” he cried, somewhat more naturally–“I see I have offended and alarmed you. But, impute it all to love. The strength of my passion is such, that I became desperate, and was resolved to try any expedient that I thought might lead to success.”

“That might be pardoned, sir, were it not for the extraordinary character of the expedient. Surely, you have never seen in me any taste for the very extraordinary images and figures of speech you have used, on this occasion.”

“This handkerchief,”–said Tom, taking me from the sofa–“this handkerchief must bear all the blame. But for this, I should not have dreamt of running so much on the high-pressure principle; but love, you know, Miss Julia, is a calculation, like any other great event of life, and must be carried on consistently.”

“And, pray, sir, how can that handkerchief have brought about any such result?”

“Ah! Miss Monson, you ask me to use a most killing frankness! Had we not better remain under the influence of the poetical star?”

“If you wish to ensure my respect, or esteem, Mr. Thurston, it is necessary to deal with me in perfect sincerity. Nothing but truth will ever be pleasing to me.”

“Hang it,” THOUGHT Tom, again, “who knows? She is whimsical, and may really like to have the truth. It’s quite clear her heart is as insensible to eloquence and poetry, as a Potter’s Field wall, and it might answer to try her with a little truth. Your $80,000 girls get SUCH notions in their heads, that there’s no analogy, as one might say, between them and the rest of the species. Miss Julia,” continuing aloud, “my nature is all plain- dealing, and I am delighted to find a congenial spirit. You must have observed something very peculiar in my language, at the commencement of this exceedingly interesting dialogue?”

“I will not deny it, Mr. Thurston; your language was, to say the least, VERY peculiar.”

“Lucid, but ambiguous; pathetic, but amusing; poetical, but comprehensive; prosaical, but full of emphasis. That’s my nature. Plain- dealing, too, is my nature, and I adore the same quality in others; most especially in those I could wish to marry.”

“Does this wish, then, extend to the plural number?” asked Julia, smiling a little maliciously.

“Certainly; when the heart is devoted to virtuous intentions, it wishes for a union with virtue, where-ever it is to be found. Competence and virtue are my mottoes, Miss Julia.”

“This shows that you are, in truth, a lover of plain-dealing, Mr. Thurston–and now, as to the handkerchief?”

“Why, Miss Julia, perceiving that you are sincere, I shall be equally frank. You own this handkerchief?”

“Certainly, sir. I should hardly use an article of dress that is the property of another.”

“Independent, and the fruit of independence. Well, Miss Monson, it struck me that the mistress of such a handkerchief MUST like poetry– that is, flights of the imagination–that is, eloquence and pathos, as it might be engrafted on passion and sentiment.”

“I believe I understand you, sir; you wish to say that common sense seemed misapplied to the owner of such a handkerchief.”

“Far from that, adorable young lady; but, that poetry, and eloquence, and flights of imagination, seem well applied. A very simple calculation will demonstrate what I mean. But, possibly, you do not wish to hear the calculation–ladies, generally, dislike figures?”

“I am an exception, Mr. Thurston; I beg you will lay the whole matter before me, therefore, without reserve.”

“It is simply this, ma’am. This handkerchief cost every cent of $100–“

“One hundred and twenty-five,” said Julia quickly.

“Bless me,” THOUGHT Tom, “what a rich old d—l her father must be. I will not give her up; and as poetry and sentiment do not seem to be favorites, here goes for frankness–some women are furious for plain matter-of-fact fellows, and this must be one of the number. One hundred and twenty-five dollars is a great deal of money,” he added, aloud, “and the interest, at 7 per cent, will come to $1.75. Including first cost and washing, the annual expense of this handkerchief may be set down at $2. But, the thing will not last now five years, if one includes fashion, wear and tear, &c., and this will bring the whole expense up to $27 per annum. We will suppose your fortune to be $50,000, Miss Julia–“

Here Tom paused, and cast a curious glance at the young lady, in the hope of hearing something explicit. Julia could hardly keep her countenance, but she was resolved to go to the bottom of all this plain- dealing.

“Well, sir,” she answered, “we will suppose it, as you say, $50,000.”

“The interest, then, would be $3,500. Now 27 multiplied by 130–” here Tom took out his pencil and began to cypher–“make just 3510, or rather more than the whole amount of the interest. Well, when you come to deduct taxes, charges, losses and other things, the best invested estate of $3,500 per annum, will not yield more than $3,000, nett. Suppose a marriage, and the husband has ONLY $1,000 for his pocket, this would bring down the ways and means to $2,000 per annum; or less than a hundredth part of the expense of keeping ONE pocket-handkerchief; and when you come to include rent, fuel, marketing, and other necessaries, you see, my dear Miss Monson, there is a great deal of poetry in paying so much for a pocket-handkerchief.”

“I believe I understand you, sir, and shall endeavor to profit by the lesson. As I am wanted, you will now excuse me, Mr. Thurston–my father’s step is in the hall–” so Julia, in common with all other Manhattanese, called a passage, or entry, five feet wide–” and to him I must refer you.”

This was said merely as an excuse for quitting the room. But Tom received it literally and figuratively, at the same time.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Accustomed to think of marrying as his means of advancement, he somewhat reasonably supposed “refer you to my father” meant consent, so far as the young lady was concerned, and he determined to improve the precious moments. Fortunately for his ideas, Mr. Monson did not enter the room immediately, which allowed the gentleman an opportunity for a little deliberation. As usual, his thoughts took the direction of a mental soliloquy, much in the following form.

“This is getting on famously,” thought Tom. “Refer you to my father– well, that is compact and comprehensive, at the same time. I wish her dandruff had got up when I mentioned only $50,000. Seriously, that is but a small sum to make one’s way on. If I had a footing of my own, in society, $50,000 MIGHT do; but, when a fellow has to work his way by means of dinners, horses, and et ceteras, it’s a small allowance. It’s true, the Monsons will give me connections, and connections are almost–not quite–as good as money to get a chap along with–but, the d—l of the matter is, that connections eat and drink. I dare say the Monson set will cost me a good $500 a year, though they will save something in the way of the feed they must give in their turns. I wish I had tried her with a higher figure, for, after all, it may have been only modesty–some women are as modest as the d—l. But here comes old Monson, and I must strike while the iron is hot.”

{dandruff = dander–but while “dander” can mean dandruff as well as temper, the reverse is not true}

“Good morning, Mr. Thurston,” said the father, looking a little surprised at seeing such a guest at three o’clock. “What, alone with my daughter’s fine pocket-handkerchief? You must find that indifferent company.”

“Not under the circumstances, sir. Every thing is agreeable to us that belongs to an object we love.”

“Love? That is a strong term, Mr. Thurston–one that I hope you have uttered in pure gallantry.”

“Not at all, sir,” cried Tom, falling on his knees, as a school boy reads the wrong paragraph in the confusion of not having studied his lesson well–“adorable and angelic–I beg your pardon, Mr. Monson,”–rising, and again brushing his knees with some care–“my mind is in such a state of confusion, that I scarcely know what I say.”

“Really, I should think so, or you could never mistake me for a young girl of twenty. Will you have the goodness to explain this matter to me?”

“Yes, sir–I’m referred.”

“Referred? Pray, what may that mean in particular?”

“Only, sir, that I’m referred–I do not ask a dollar, sir. Her lovely mind and amiable person are all I seek, and I only regret that she is so rich. I should be the happiest fellow in the world, Mr. Monson, if the angelic Julia had not a cent.”

“The angelic Julia must be infinitely indebted to you, Mr. Thurston; but let us take up this affair in order. What am I to understand, sir, by your being referred?”

“That Miss Julia, in answer to my suit, has referred me to you, sir.”

“Then, so far as she herself is concerned, you wish me to understand that she accepts you?”

“Certainly–she accepted, some time since, with as heavenly a ‘yes’ as ever came from the ruby lips of love.”

“Indeed! This is so new to me, sir, that you must permit me to see my daughter a moment, ere I give a definite answer.”

Hereupon Mr. Monson left the room, and Tom began to THINK again.

“Well,” he thought, “things DO go on swimmingly at last. This is the first time I could ever get at a father, though I’ve offered to six-and-twenty girls. One does something like a living business with a father. I don’t know but I rather overdid it about the dollar, though it’s according to rule to seem disinterested at first, even if you quarrel like furies, afterwards, about the stuff. Let me see–had I best begin to screw him up in this interview, or wait for the next? A few hints, properly thrown out, may be useful at once. Some of these old misers hold on to every thing till they die, fancying it a mighty pleasant matter to chaps that can’t support themselves to support THEIR daughters by industry, as they call it. I’m as industrious as a young fellow can be, and I owe six months’ board, at this very moment. No–no–I’ll walk into him at once, and give him what Napoleon used to call a demonstration.”

The door opened, and Mr. Monson entered, his face a little flushed, and his eye a little severe. Still he was calm in tone and manner. Julia had told him all in ten words.

“Now, Mr. Thurston, I believe I understand this matter,” said the father, in a very business-like manner; “you wish to marry my daughter?”

“Exactly, sir; and she wishes to marry me–that is, as far as comports with the delicacy of the female bosom.”

“A very timely reservation. And you are referred?”

“Yes, Mr. Monson, those cheering words have solaced my ears–I am referred. The old chap,” aside, “likes a little humbug, as well as a girl.”

“And you will take her without a cent, you say?”

“Did I, sir? I believe I didn’t exactly say that–DOLLAR was the word I mentioned. CENTS could hardly be named between you and me.”

“Dollar let it be, then. Now, sir, you have my consent on a single condition.”

“Name it, sir. Name five or six, at once, my dear Mr. Monson, and you shall see how I will comply.”

“One will answer. How much fortune do you think will be necessary to make such a couple happy, at starting in the world? Name such a sum as will comport with your own ideas.”

“How much, sir? Mr. Monson, you are a model of generosity! You mean, to keep a liberal and gentlemanly establishment, as would become your son-in-law?”

“I do–such a fortune as will make you both easy and comfortable.”

“Horses and carriages, of course? Every thing on a genteel and liberal scale?”

“On such a scale as will insure the happiness of man and wife.”

“Mutual esteem–conjugal felicity–and all that. l suppose you include dinners, sir, and a manly competition with one’s fellow citizens, in real New York form?”

“I mean all that can properly belong to the expenses of a gentleman and lady.”

“Yes, sir–exceedingly liberal–liberal as the rosy dawn. Why, sir, meeting your proposition in the spirit in which it is offered, I should say Julia and I could get along very comfortably on $100,000. Yes, we could make that do, provided the money were well invested–no fancy stocks.”

“Well, sir, I am glad we understand each other so clearly. If my daughter really wish to marry you, I will give $50,000 of this sum, as soon as you can show me that you have as much more to invest along with it.”

“Sir–Mr. Monson!”

“I mean that each party shall lay down dollar for dollar!”

“I understand what you mean, sir. Mr. Monson, that would be degrading lawful wedlock to the level of a bet–a game of cards–a mercenary, contemptible bargain. No, sir–nothing shall ever induce me to degrade this honorable estate to such pitiful conditions!”

“Dollar for dollar, Mr. Thurston!”

“Holy wedlock! It is violating the best principles of our nature.”

“Give and take!”

“Leveling the sacred condition of matrimony to that of a mere bargain for a horse or a dog!”

“Half and half!”

“My nature revolts at such profanation, sir–I will take $75,000 with Miss Julia, and say no more about it.”

“Equality is the foundation of wedded happiness, Mr. Thurston.”

“Say $50,000, Mr. Monson, and have no more words about it. Take away from the transaction the character of a bargain, and even $40,000 will do.”

“Not a cent that is not covered by a cent of your own.”

“Then, sir, I wash my hands of the whole affair. If the young lady should die, my conscience will be clear. It shall never be said Thomas Thurston was so lost to himself as to bargain for a wife.”

“We must, then, part, and the negotiation must fall through.”

Tom rose with dignity, and got as far as the door. With his hand on the latch, he added–

“Rather than blight the prospects of so pure and lovely a creature I will make every sacrifice short of honor–let it be $30,000, Mr. Monson?”

“As you please, sir–so that it be covered by $30,000 of your own.”

“My nature revolts at the proposition, and so–good morning, sir.”

Tom left the house, and Mr. Monson laughed heartily; so heartily, indeed, as to prove how much he relished the success of his scheme.

“Talk of Scylla and Charybdis!” soliloquized the discomfited Tom, as he wiped the perspiration from his face–“Where the d—l does he think I am to find the $50,000 he wants, unless he first gives them to me? I never heard of so unreasonable an old chap! Here is a young fellow that offers to marry his daughter for $30,000–half price, as one may say– and he talks about covering every cent he lays down with one of my own. I never knew what was meant by cent. per cent. before. Let me see; I’ve just thirty-two dollars and sixty-nine cents, and had we played at a game of coppers, I couldn’t have held out half an hour. But, I flatter myself, I touched the old scamp up with morals, in a way he wasn’t used to. Well, as this thing is over, I will try old Sweet, the grocer’s daughter. If the wardrobe and whiskers fail there, I must rub up the Greek and Latin, and shift the ground to Boston. They say a chap with a little of the classics can get $30 or 40,000, there, any day in the week. I wish my parents had brought me up a schoolmaster; I would be off in the first boat. Blast it!–I thought when I came down to $30,000, he would have snapped at the bait, like a pike. He’ll never have a chance to get her off so cheap, again.”

{cent. per cent. = one hundred percent}

This ended the passage of flirtation between Thomas Thurston and Julia Monson. As for the latter, she took such a distaste for me, that she presented me to Mademoiselle Hennequin, at the first opportunity, under the pretence that she had discovered a strong wish in the latter to possess me.

Adrienne accepted the present with some reluctance, on account of the price that had been paid for me, and yet with strong emotion. How she wept over me, the first time we were alone together! I thought her heart would break; nor am I certain it would not, but for the timely interposition of Julia, who came and set her laughing by a humorous narrative of what had occurred between her father and her lover.

That night the rout took place. It went off with eclat, but I did not make my appearance at it, Adrienne rightly judging that I was not a proper companion for one in her situation. It is true, this is not a very American notion, EVERY thing being suitable for EVERY body, that get them, in this land of liberty, but Adrienne had not been educated in a land of liberty, and fancied that her dress should bear some relation to her means. Little did she know that I was a sort of patent of nobility, and that by exhibiting me, she might have excited envy, even in an alderman’s daughter. My non-appearance, however, made no difference with Betts Shoreham, whose attentions throughout the evening were so marked as to raise suspicion of the truth in the mind of even Mrs. Monson.

{rout = evening party; eclat = brilliance}

The next day there was an eclaircissement. Adrienne owned who she was, gave my history, acquainted Mrs. Monson with her connection with Mr. Shoreham, and confessed the nature of his suit. I was present at this interview, and it would be unjust to say that the mother was not disappointed. Still she behaved generously, and like a high principled woman. Adrienne was advised to accept Betts, and her scruples, on the score of money, were gradually removed, by Mrs. Monson’s arguments.

{eclaircissement = explanation}

“What a contrast do this Mr. Thurston and Adrienne present!” observed Mrs. Monson to her husband, in a tete a tete, shortly after this interview. “Here is the gentleman wanting to get our child, without a shilling to bless himself with, and the poor girl refusing to marry the man of her heart, because she is penniless.”

“So much for education. We become mercenary or self-denying, very much as we are instructed. In this country, it must be confessed, fortune-hunting has made giant strides, within the last few years, and that, too, with an audacity of pretension that is unrestrained by any of the social barriers which exist elsewhere.”

“Adrienne will marry Mr. Shoreham, I think. She loves; and when a girl loves, her scruples of this nature are not invincible.”

“Ay, HE can lay down dollar for dollar–I wish his fancy had run toward Julia.”

“It has not, and we can only regret it. Adrienne has half-consented, and I shall give her a handsome wedding–for, married she must be in our house.”

All came to pass as was predicted. One month from that day, Betts Shoreham and Adrienne de la Rocheaimard became man and wife. Mrs. Monson gave a handsome entertainment, and a day or two later, the bridegroom and bride took possession of their proper home. Of course I removed with the rest of the family, and, by these means, had an opportunity of becoming a near spectator of a honey-moon. I ought, however, to say, that Betts insisted on Julia’s receiving $125 for me, accepting from Julia a handsome wedding present of equal value, but in another form. This was done simply that Adrienne might say when I was exhibited, that she had worked me herself, and that the lace with which I was embellished was an heir-loom. If there are various ways of quieting one’s conscience, in the way of marriage settlements, so are there various modes of appeasing our sense of pride.

Pocket-handkerchiefs have their revolutions, as well as states. I was now under my first restoration, and perfectly happy; but, being French, I look forward to further changes, since the temperament that has twice ejected the Bourbons from their thrones will scarce leave me in quiet possession of mine forever.

{first restoration = the Bourbon dynasty was restored to the French throne in 1815, after the fall of Napoleon, only to be deposed again in 1830}

Adrienne loves Betts more than any thing else. Still she loves me dearly. Scarce a week passes that I am not in her hands; and it is when her present happiness seems to be overflowing, that she is most fond of recalling the painful hours she experienced in making me what I am. Then her tears flow freely, and often I am held in her soft little hand, while she prays for the soul of her grandmother, or offers up praises for her own existing blessings. I am no longer thought of for balls and routs, but appear to be doomed to the closet, and those moments of tender confidence that so often occur between these lovers. I complain not. So far from it, never was an “article” of my character more highly favored; passing an existence, as it might be, in the very bosom of truth and innocence. Once only have I seen an old acquaintance, in the person of Clara Caverly, since my change of mistress–the idea of calling a de la Rocheaimard, a boss, or bossess, is out of the question. Clara is a distant relative of Betts, and soon became intimate with her new cousin. One day she saw me lying on a table, and, after an examination, she exclaimed–

“Two things surprise me greatly here, Mrs. Shoreham–that YOU should own one of these THINGS”–I confess I did not like the word– “and that you should own this particular handkerchief.”

“Why so, chere Clara?”–how prettily my mistress pronounces that name; so different from Clarry!

“It is not like YOU to purchase so extravagant and useless a THING– and then this looks like a handkerchief that once belonged to another person–a poor girl who has lost her means of extravagance by the change of the times. But, of course, it is only a resemblance, as YOU–“

“It is more, Clara–the handkerchief is the same. But that handkerchief is not an article of dress with me; it is MY FRIEND!”

The reader may imagine how proud I felt! This was elevation for the species, and gave a dignity to my position, with which I am infinitely satisfied. Nevertheless, Miss Caverly manifested surprise.

“I will explain,” continued Mrs. Shoreham. “The handkerchief is my own work, and is very precious to me, on account des souvenirs.”

{des souvenirs = of memories}

Adrienne then told the whole story, and I may say Clara Caverly became my friend also. Yes, she, who had formerly regarded me with indifference, or dislike, now kissed me, and wept over me, and in this manner have I since passed from friend to friend, among all of Adrienne’s intimates.

Not so with the world, however. My sudden disappearance from it excited quite as much sensation as my debut in it. Tom Thurston’s addresses to Miss Monson had excited the envy, and, of course, the attention of all the other fortune-hunters in town, causing his sudden retreat to be noticed. Persons of this class are celebrated for covering their retreats skilfully. Tom declared that “the old chap broke down when they got as far as the fortune–that, as he liked the girl, he would have taken her with $75,000, but the highest offer he could get from him was $30,000. This, of course, no gentleman could submit to. A girl with such a pocket-handkerchief OUGHT to bring a clear $100,000, and I was for none of your half-way doings. Old Monson is a humbug. The handkerchief has disappeared, and, now they have taken down the SIGN, I hope they will do business on a more reasonable scale.”

A month later, Tom got married. I heard John Monson laughing over the particulars one day in Betts Shoreham’s library, where I am usually kept, to my great delight, being exceedingly fond of books. The facts were as follows. It seems Tom had cast an eye on the daughter of a grocer of reputed wealth, who had attracted the attention of another person of his own school. To get rid of a competitor, this person pointed out to Tom a girl, whose father had been a butcher, but had just retired from business, and was building himself a fine house somewhere in Butcherland.

“That’s your girl,” said the treacherous adviser. “All butchers are rich, and they never build until their pockets are so crammed as to force them to it. They coin money, and spend nothing. Look how high beef has been of late years; and then they live on the smell of their own meats. This is your girl. Only court the old fellow, and you are sure of half a million in the long run.”

Tom was off on the instant. He did court the old fellow; got introduced to the family; was a favorite from the first; offered in a fortnight, was accepted, and got married within the month. Ten days afterward, the supplies were stopped for want of funds, and the butcher failed. It seems HE, too, was only taking a hand in the great game of brag that most of the country had sat down to.

Tom was in a dilemma. He had married a butcher’s daughter. After this, every door in Broadway and Bond street was shut upon him. Instead of stepping into society on his wife’s shoulders, he was dragged out of it by the skirts, through her agency. Then there was not a dollar. His empty pockets were balanced by her empty pockets. The future offered a sad perspective. Tom consulted a lawyer about a divorce, on the ground of “false pretences.” He was even ready to make an affidavit that he had been slaughtered. But it would not do. The marriage was found to stand all the usual tests, and Tom went to Texas.