bannerbanner
Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6, December 1848
Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6, December 1848полная версия

Полная версия

Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6, December 1848

Язык: Английский
Год издания: 2017
Добавлена:
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
На страницу:
8 из 15

Though Flory was the admiration of all eyes, and "the beaux" seemed really to have no appreciation of the presence of we poor insignificants when she was by, yet to not many of us did the "green-eyed monster" ever whisper one bad, ungracious thought of her.

We all loved her – and a sadder set never waited in our depôt the arrival of the eastern train, than gathered there the day Mr. Cleveland and family were to leave for a home in the "far West."

There were some, indeed, who invariably honored Florence with the title of "coquette!" and pursed up their lips very sanctimoniously whenever they heard of her new conquests; particularly may this remark apply to old Widow Forbes, who rejoiced in the possession of four grown-up daughters – "fixtures" most decidedly they were in her household – for these four above-mentioned, were not in any way remarkable for their personal attractions; and two of them had well-nigh passed the third stage of woman's unmarried life! But by far the greater part of the villagers rejoiced in the presence of Florence Cleveland as they would in a sunbeam on a dull day; she was always so cheerful, so generous and obliging.

None of those sunny curls of hers were visible the day Florence set out on her journey; perhaps you think that was because ladies do not usually travel with such appendages in view, and that they were snugly packed away in the back part of her traveling hat. But had Flory's head been uncovered then, I fear me it would have borne terrible witness of the desecrating hands which had been busy about it; for the fairy-like ringlets which had so long adorned the beautiful head, full beautiful enough without them, were slumbering on the hearts of us, her miserable, weeping cronies; and I know not how many gentlemen's purses were freighted with like treasure.

What a silent, stupid company we were gathered there that day. It was a bright morning – there was not a cloud to be seen in all the sky; and Susy, the old fortune-teller, said it was a day that augured well for their future prosperity; but that did not help us any. Every body seemed to think we were to lose one of the choicest lights of our village – and so, indeed, we were.

At last the odious depôt-bell rung – soon after the "fire-demon" heaved in sight, followed by its long train of crowded cars. In ten minutes the leave-taking was all over, our friends were seated – their "worldly goods" were stowed away – another ring of the bell, that never sounded half so remorselessly before, and away they went, over the road – across the bridge – past the burial-ground – and on – on – on!

To my bosom I pressed a package Florence had given to me that morning of her departure, which she bade me not open till she was fairly gone. I need not tell you how I hastened home when I had seen her depart – how, with just one look at their old garden, which ran back of my father's house, through whose paths we had wandered so often together – how with one thought of how lonely I was and always should be, now that she was gone, I hied away to my room, that I might be alone with my sorrow. But every thing seemed determined to speak out to me of her; there, by the window, was her "old arm-chair;" she had given it to me as a keepsake; and many, many a time had the broad, leather-covered seat supported us both – so, of course, the very sight of that gave me such a blue-fit that I threw myself into its open "arms," and indulged in the most luxurious fit of weeping, the length whereof might be counted by hours, not by minutes. But when I had fairly "cried it out," (you know all things must have an end,) I went to bed with the most dreadful headache conceivable, and opened with more of regret than curiosity, the last "testament" of dear Flory.

It was in the shape of a long, long letter, filling many pages of paper; but I shall not indulge you, reader, with a glance even, at all the contents – satisfy yourself with these few extracts, and oblige yours, &c.

"Writing is not my forte, Carry, you know that very well," the epistle began, "but I had for a long time determined to explain myself to you; and when father finally succeeded in convincing mother that the West is such a wonderful country, and that it is the best and only place for them to safely settle our troop of boys, then I made up my mind to write you what I had intended to speak. Don't think me vain, but I'm going to be my own heroine in these pages; I'm going to give you the key wherewith to unfold parts of my life, which you, with others, may now think quite unexplainable.

"When I am gone, and the partial regret some will feel at first, is worn away, and they begin with all earnestness to give me what they think my 'due,' and honor me once more with the flattering titles they have given me before this, then do you, my friend, take up the gauntlet in my defence. If I should happen to die of those horrible 'fevers,' into whose hands we are about to commit ourselves, 'Aunt Sally,' may say it is a just 'dispensation of Providence' that has removed me; and that old Juliet Baker might take it into her head to write my veritable history, under the title of 'The Coquette,' and so be published in one of the magazines as a warning for all who shall come after me – an immortality to which I assure you I do not aspire. Or Tom Harding might be tempted to discourse more eloquently than ever on my respective demerits – drawing some of his sage conclusions therefrom. So, dear, if such things should happen, remember to stand up valiantly for 'woman's rights,' and me! As I have mentioned Tom Harding's name, I may as well, in these 'confessions,' have done with him as speedily as possible. I know very well what all the gossips said when it was rumored that I had 'cut him dead,' after encouraging the poor fellow, who was really 'too good for me!' But, as it happened in this case, they were all wrong – as doth unfortunately sometimes happen even with gossipers. Tom, since time immemorial, (you will bear me out in the truth of this statement,) has been one of the most active beaux in our village; attaching himself, with all his canine characteristics, to every lady who was favored with the least pretensions to beauty, and making himself vastly useful in the way of getting up all sorts of 'parties of pleasure' in summer, and in the winter also. It was very needful, was it not, that we should be always on good terms with him, which, as a body, we managed very well to do. As he had been in love with, and offered himself to at least a dozen girls of our acquaintance, I don't yet know why he should have thought that I would take up with him at last. Now was it not presumption, Carry? To be sure, he came to our house night after night, and sat often with us in church on Sundays – and it was rumored we were engaged; but that, I fancy, did not make the case a clear one."

Ladies may be attentive and agreeable, even over the verge of intimacy with one another, and yet not be suspected of designs matrimonial; but boys and girls, who have from early childhood grown up with the most fraternal feelings, as soon as childhood has passed, must be expected to give up what was a very delightful kind of friendship, indeed; is that wise?

"The fact is, I never for a moment thought of marrying Tom Harding; but I did think him a great deal better youth than he proved to be. When he foolishly proposed the subject to me, I dismissed it again quietly as might be, convincing him, as I hope, that the thing was forever impossible. And I kept his secret well. No one till to-day can say that I was ever guilty of parading this offer, and its refusal, before my friends; and I scarcely think you will consider me as parading it now; or, indeed, of entering on this recital merely to gratify a foolish personal vanity. Tom, himself, by his ungentlemanly conduct, exposed all that ever was exposed; and his impudent, silly behavior toward me has had the final result of making me heartily despise him; and I sincerely hope no damsel that I love will ever accept offers, which some dozens may yet have the honor, or – which is it? be doomed to hear!

"Harry Kirkland was, indeed, a fine fellow – at least I thought so once, for I was engaged to him within a time I well remember. Talented, too – was he not? But, oh, what an unreasonable mortal he was.

"When I engaged myself to Harry, I did love him truly, or what I thought was him, but you will not wonder that my love cooled before such evidences of tyranny, incipient it could hardly be called, as he exhibited, truly in a petty manner, but giving me good, overpowering evidence of what I might expect when the chains of Hymen should be flung around us.

"He went to his Club, and the Lyceum, and became a member of the Odd Fellows Society, so soon as there was one organized in the village – indeed, on all points acted his own pleasure, even as to the number of cigars he would smoke per day. And I, like a reasonable woman, thinking all this part and parcel of his own business, never for a moment thought of interfering. But no sooner had I, in a kind of dumb way, (foolishly enough, I confess now,) answered his pathetic appeals, by acknowledging that I loved him, than he at once, without questioning his right and title, proceeded to take the reins of government into his own hands. And then it was incessantly, 'Florence, why do you allow that cox-comb to visit you?' or, 'why did you go to the party last night when I was away?' or, 'how can you endure that conceited fool?' or, 'do, dear, arrange your hair in some other style – curls are so common!' or, at another time, when I had adorned myself with special thoughts of him, and his particular taste, the ungracious salutation would be, 'It is so strange you will wear flounces —I cannot endure them, and they are so unbecoming for you!'

"Well, I did give James Thompson, 'the cox-comb,' as Harry called him, leave to understand I was not 'at home' to him; and I stayed away from all places of amusement to which Harry would not, or could not go, (which former I came at last to know was most frequently the case.) And I did treat Charles Wood more coolly than my conscience approved, for nature gave to him a good, kind heart, if she did not make him a genius. And I left off flounces, which my tasty little 'dress-maker' thought 'such a pity;' and I braided my hair, which all the time cried out against the stiff bands I put on the curly locks; in short, for six months I made a fool of myself, by giving way to all my exacting lover's whims. It makes me shudder when I think of what had been my fate had I married him – I should have died a very martyr long before this day.

"I knew that on most subjects Harry's opinion was worth having – his judgment sound; so I resolved to try what might be done on this point, which certainly concerned our happiness so much. By degrees I went back to my old habits, saying never a word to him of the test I was intending to put to him. Perhaps you would have proceeded differently – you might have reasoned with him, and urged him not to distress himself about affairs far too trifling for him to interfere with – about which no woman likes the interference, even of a favored lover.

"But such a course was not the one for me – and in the end, a person pursuing a far different method of reasoning might, probably would, have arrived at the same climax that I did. Wherever among my old friends I chose to go, I went without consulting the pleasure of his highness, who had led me about as a child in leading-strings quite long enough. What books I liked, I read; concerning my judgment on this point, perhaps, (not altogether unwarrantably either,) quite as good as his own. I dressed in what fashion I pleased – and wore my hair in the style nature intended. At one determined stroke I broke the thread-like chains which, from their very fineness, had been more galling to me than links of iron. I could read by Harry's look of astonishment what his thoughts were, as he saw these changes in me – and it was with some anxiety, I do confess, that I awaited the result; for all this time I loved him well, though my attachment was not so selfish in its nature as was his love toward me.

"One day I sent Harry a note, with a purse which I had knitted for him, and requested that he would accompany me in the evening, when there was to be a horseback-party on the lake-shore. In about half an hour much was I astonished by the return of the messenger, with an answer to my note, and my rejected gift. He declined the ride also, saying that he had a severe headache – (well might his head ache when it contained a brain capable of suggesting such a note.) After some few preliminaries, Harry proceeded to tell me that my gifts were altogether unacceptable so long as my heart continued not right toward him; that I had grieved him beyond all power of expression by the heartlessness I had exhibited in my disregard of all his wishes and opinions; this strange note ended by begging that I would not join the riding-party that night; that he would visit me in the evening, and receive from me then any explanations I might be ready to make.

"In ten minutes more the messenger was on his way back to Harry Kirkland's office, with a neat package, which contained the young man's notes, miniature, gifts, &c., with an assurance, which I wrote with a most steady hand, that my evening ride would, doubtless, prove more agreeable than a tête-tête with him, and that, as I had no explanations or apologies to offer, he need not be under the inconvenience of seeking me again at home, or elsewhere. I will not speak of the manner in which I passed that afternoon, after I had returned Harry's second note, unanswered, and unopened; nor what thoughts were busy in my mind, nor what feelings were busy in my heart. But I will tell you this, at tea-time, when father came home, he did not reject his daughter's kiss, or the purse either; and now it is snugly resting in the bottom of his pocket, well-filled, as I hope it ever will be.

"That moonlight ride – you remember it; perhaps you remember, also, that there was no gayer mortal among you than a certain Florence Cleveland. She might not have slept quite soundly that night, when she was alone in her little chamber, but it was not very long that Harry Kirkland's image disturbed her dreams. Harry was proud as I; doubtless he thought himself the abused one, (and that, you know, is wonderfully efficacious in curing heart-wounds,) and I can readily believe that many times since he has blessed the day that saved him from coquetting Florence Cleveland. But – you know already how suddenly Harry moved to New York that autumn, and also how you wondered we did not correspond.

"And what of George Stephenson? Ha! ha! I always laugh when I think of him —do you, dear? What did we think of him, mon ami, till we discovered one day, much to our amaze, that he was engaged to us both.

"Never shall I forget that tableau we presented – being our own spectators – when, with your head resting on my knee in the old summer-house, you, with trembling lips, told me of that delightful youth! and of your future prospects; and how, when you approached the interesting climax, I joined in with you and told my story, too; and how, instead of our becoming sworn foes from that hour, two more loving and light-hearted beings seldom took pen in hand, than we, when we wrote that joint letter, and saved George from the fate of bigamists! Well, there was never a more captivating youth than he – at least we must say so, to save ourselves from the obloquy of falling in love with such a scamp! Who'd have thought it? those very stories of his early life, and sorrows which drew such earnest tears from my eyes. I suppose you, too, have wept upon his shoulder as he told them. Ah, me!

"Then there was the poet, Earnest Ward. I tolerated him because his father was a college friend of my paternal, who wished us always to show him kindness, and make the orphan feel himself not quite so friendless. But you cannot believe that I loved him. Poor fellow! he is dead now. He never seemed destined to a long life to me; the fact is, he did not possess energy enough to keep him alive. And he was eternally railing against Fate and his poverty, which no man who wishes to gain favor in my eyes must indulge in. His talents were not of that order which commands the ear of the public – and yet he seemed to think so, and in that thought centered all his hope. There was nothing practical about Ernest. He belonged to that miserable class of beings, (how many of them we see about us,) who are aptly described as having lost their way in the great roads of life, having early groped blindly past the stations they were designed to fill. Ernest had a good deal of fancy and ingenuity – more than should have been lavished on newspaper enigmas, and verses descriptive of the color of my hair and eyes; he might have made a capital manufacturer, or designer of toys. He was made, I am convinced, for some such purpose, and might have excelled in some such art; but least of all, you will acknowledge, was Ernest Ward fitted to be my husband. And well for us was it, that if he did not know it, I did.

"And, last of all of whom I will speak, there was Edward Graham; and thus I fancy I hear him described by some (whom I will say I am not sorry to have left behind me,) 'a fine fellow! but driven to desperation and to sea by that worthless flirt, Florence Cleveland!' Now I will give you an opportunity, ma chere, to laugh in your sleeve, if you will, for beyond the shadow of a doubt, I am engaged to this same Edward Graham, who departed in such desperation; and what's more, I mean to marry him, too.

"And how shall I explain conduct that will appear so strange as this to you? You know Ned Graham almost as well as I do; and as we both have known him from childhood, it would be idle in me to speak of his fine, noble, generous character, and of his sensibleness, by far a rarer component of the human character than many people seem to imagine. Our engagement was, I confess, an altogether unanticipated thing to me, though there was always a lingering thought in my mind that Ned approached a little nearer my standard of manly perfection than any suitor I ever had. You and I have often together admired the outward man, so I will not now speak of those great black eyes of his, which seem to pierce you through and through, as though they would know your secret thoughts, (which, as far as they regarded him, could be only thoughts of admiration and respect.) And that manly form, so sweet and noble, that was never yet bent by the weight of a mean or sordid thought – that could not stoop to any thing low or ignoble. Now, when I tell you that Ned has hired himself to a sea-captain, whom his father has known from boyhood, for three years, that his wages (excepting only a moiety) have been paid at Ned's request into his father's hands to aid the old man, who is now in difficulties, when I tell you this, you will concur with me in thinking my Edward Graham the most noble and generous youth in the world.

"Only a week before his departure we made our arrangements; for before that time Ned had never spoken to me of love – and I never heard of his broaching the subject to any one else, did you? In three years he is coming back again. By that time we shall have become settled, and have learned to love our new home. What farmers we shall be! Then Ned will join us in Wisconsin – and who says we shall not be a happy family there? And that Flory Cleveland will not prove herself quite tractable and human, although people have dared and presumed to call her a 'desperate flirt?'

"So, my dearest, I have given you a true history of my coquetting (?) life, with the exception of those tragedies you are acquainted with already. Frank Blake died, it is true, but never for a moment have I reproached myself with his death. He was 'found drowned,' so the verdict of the coroner's jury ran; but have none others been ever 'found drowned,' than men who were in love? I am not jesting, or speaking lightly now. Heaven knows the subject is far too fearful to jest about! Could they who have seemed to delight in calling me little better than a murderess, but know what bitter, bitter hours I have passed writhing under their 'scorpion tongues,' they would, I think, be satisfied. I tell you again, my friend, Frank never treated me more kindly, or considerately, or justly than he did that day when I told him I could not love him as he deserved to be loved, though I must ever bear toward him the utmost respect and the kindliest feelings. And when Tom Harding made that incident a theme for newspaper gossip, I wonder Heaven had not blasted the right hand that dared to write such things!

"You know how afterward I went to Frank's home – to his widowed mother. She, too, turned in horror from me when I told her who I was, and why I had come so far from my home in search of her. Go to her now, my friend, and she will tell you that she attaches to me no blame. Even the agonized, heart-broken mother believed me, when I told her all that had transpired between her son and me. She knows, as you know, and as I know, that I never won the affections of her son intentionally, for the purpose of adding one more name to my list of conquests.

"And of that other, whose name I will not write – he who died in the convict's cell – my friend, had I aught to do with that man's crimes? The brutish madness with which he heard my refusal of his suit – his dreadful downward course afterward; oh, can unreturned love be the instigator of such crimes? Had he not been a reckless youth ever; disliked of all the village boys, whose friendship, even his wealth and good family could not buy for him? If I would not wed a villain such as he, where rests the blame? Oh, surely not with me! I did not make that festering, sinful heart of his, nor did I lure him on to hope that I would ever wed him. If love is heaven, what were life with him!

"I cannot write more —non sum qualis eram! yet the sun shines brightly on me still as in my childhood, and the future is full of hope. If I have cleared myself of the imputation of the folly and heartlessness some have laid to my charge, it is well; I cannot think that my proceedings have been very dreadful, or sinful; they did not frighten honest-hearted, noble Ned Graham.

"And after this, when you see a woman whose conduct to you is quite unexplainable, and full of mystery, listen, dear friend, and bid those around you listen a little more earnestly, to the voice of human love and Christian charity; and trust me, the number of women who have the power to act long in direct opposition to all the better impulses of woman's nature, is surprisingly small.

"If your trust continues in me still unshaken, as in the days gone by, come ere long to Wisconsin, and I will insure you a husband of the 'free soil,' who shall bear as little resemblance to our faithless George, as my Ned does – and a home in the wilderness, this glorious wilderness.

"God bless you, love – good bye! – ."

"I have not yet obeyed the call of my friend to the far west," now her happy home. Do you think it advisable that I should place myself in the hands of such a – ; but first let me ask you,

Do you think Florence Cleveland was a coquette?

And —is this once prolific topic yet exhausted?

I cannot conclude this discourse, "my hearers," without repeating to you a song, which appeared some years ago in "Graham." It is by Miss Barrett. Has it ever yet been "set to music?" if not, I would advise some composer to neglect no longer so beautiful an effusion. And when the deed is done, let every lady learn the song, and every gentleman stand by and listen to it humbly. Here it is.

На страницу:
8 из 15