THE MATCHLESS ONE:

A TALE OF AMERICAN SOCIETY, IN FOUR CHAPTERS.

PROLOGUE.

Ah, the misfortune of being wealthy, the misery of being handsome, the disadvantage of a divine moustache and a dimple in the chin, the affliction of having wavy hair and dark eyes, the forlorn condition of a man who is very clever, who never makes a bad joke, who is such "good company," such a "jolly dog," such a "happy creature" and "fortunate fellow"! Oh the calamity of possessing a romantic country-seat and fine horses!—the ill-starred luck of a person who is always finding a moon that shines beautifully, a sun that is never too hot, long walks that cannot be too long, and drives that are "so delightful"!

I am the unhappy victim of a fate which in spiteful mood gifted me beyond my fellow-men. I might have had my share of enjoyment in the world, as mediocre people have, but my perfections are in my way at every turn, continually marring my prospects. A superficial observer might think that these advantages would have the contrary effect—that I should be more fortunate than others—but my story will prove my assertion. Take, for example, my difficulties as a "marrying man." I will relate my experience during the past three years, and you can judge for yourself.

CHAPTER I.

My good mother (may Heaven reward her!) often advised me to marry betimes. "Marry early in life, my dear Charles," she would say, "but marry a woman worthy of you."

In her solicitude my mother foresaw the difficulty of the task she had set before me. She had known and admired me from childhood, and of course appreciated my worth. I remember her sad but affectionate gaze as she spoke, and I, unconscious of the future, smiled to reassure her. With the simplicity inseparable from great natures, I did not value the treasures I possessed. I was as the poet before he has touched his lyre—as the sculptor ere he has found his marble. Since then the years have brought knowledge. My eyes have been opened by the actions of those around me—by the admiration I excite whenever I appear; by the respect with which I am listened to when I speak; by the warmth with which I am welcomed wherever I visit. I could produce many examples to illustrate my gradual awakening, but they would be irrelevant to my subject.

I earnestly desired to fulfill my mother's wishes, and as soon as it seemed proper after her decease I set out on my quest as on a pilgrimage. The task which requires from most men some six weeks' or three months' time, perhaps a few moments snatched from business or a few evenings of ball-room devotion, has cost me three years' labor, and it is not yet accomplished. But I suppose it is easier for other men to find some one worthy of them.

I had read the poets: I had conceived an ideal of a faultless creature, and with the enthusiasm of youth I sought for a woman to worship as a star—one whom I should adore—one far above me, from whom it would be honor to win a smile, and—and all that sort of thing. Alas! I found they smiled before I could make my first bow at an introduction. At first I blamed the poets—thought they had been mistaken—had not studied human nature; but the truth gradually dawned upon me. The fault was mine! The imagination of man had not been able to create a hero of fiction like myself: in fact, had authorship attained such a triumph, the most fastidious maiden would have been obliged to fall in love at first sight, thereby spoiling many a fine three-volumed romance and heroic cantos innumerable. How ruinous would the possession of perfection such as mine have been to the chivalry of the Middle Ages!

I do not think any less of the ladies for the ease of my conquests: I know how impossible it is for the poor dears to resist my charms; but oh the happiness of mediocrity!

I was occupied for a whole season searching for the being whom I called my star. My fancy was so pleased with the idea of basking in her radiance, I had so fully persuaded myself to be guided by her light to all things great and high, I had learned to think of her with so much devotion, that I could not give up my hope of finding her somewhere. I went to all the popular summer-resorts in turn, meeting only disappointment. The star type of girls did not seem to be the mode that season: I could see no trace of her I came to find. Though saddened, I was too young to despair: in my usual clear and sensible manner I thought the matter over. After all, I reflected, I suppose I can find a woman worthy of me who is not a star. I doubt not the poets were sincere in their civility to persons of the other sex. The exaggeration arose from the absence of any really superior man with whom to compare them. They seemed stars in contrast with the existing male species: I had not yet appeared.

Another summer found me renewing my search with unabated vigor, but this time on a different basis, having determined to lay romance aside—to seek for nothing above me—to be content with an equal. If with her I should not be ecstatically happy—if our ménage would not quite rival that of Adam and Eve in the garden of Paradise—yet a certain amount of modern bliss might be extracted from the companionship of an agreeable woman who could appreciate and sympathize with my tastes and be my friend through life.

I employed my second summer in looking for a sympathetic woman, with the intention of making her my wife. May I never see such a hard-working, distracting season again! Not that such women were hard to find—they were only too plenty: at one time I had six who were devoted to me. One sympathized with my love of music; we sang duets together in the evening; it was delightful, for I need hardly say that I sing as I do everything else—remarkably well. Another sympathized with my sketching propensities. We rambled in the woods together with boxes and colors. I found it charming. "Nothing amateurish" about my style, Miss Pinklake said. A third sympathized with my taste for horses: my restive Nero was the "sweetest pet" she ever saw. (My groom says, "He's the divvil hisself, Muster Charley.") With her I rode in the afternoon. She told me—Miss Vernon, you know her? brunette, deuced pretty—she said one day, when we were taking a canter together, "I can believe those wonderful stories of the Centaurs when I see you ride, Mr. Highrank." She had a pleasant voice, and such a figure! I had almost decided to propose to her one day, and was even thinking of the words I should use, when the pale Miss Anabel Lee came walking along the road by us, looking like a fairy, her hat hanging on her arm filled with wild flowers, and her dress looped with ferns. As she passed she raised her beautiful blue eyes to mine, and at the same time—it might have been chance—she pressed a bunch of forget-me-nots to her lips. I remembered I had an engagement to walk with Miss Lee on the beach that night: there was a lovely moon—we talked poetry. It was Miss Annie Darling who said I "waltzed divinely." Miss Annie laid her hand on one's sleeve when she talked to one, mutilated her fan with various tappings on a fellow's shoulder for being naughty, as she called it ("naughty" meant giving her a kiss in a dark corner of the verandah), said saucy things to the snobs, and used her eyes. She walked with the Grecian bend. When I had a serious fit there was young Miss Carenaught, who was plain and read the reviews, spoke sharply against fashion, and knew a man of my education "must despise the butterfly existence of the surrounding throng." Sometimes she would invite me to go with her to catch beetles and queer insects—"not that she needed my help," she would say, "but my intellectual society was indeed a treat in this crowded desert."

All this was very agreeable, but also very perplexing. At the end of the season I found myself as far from making a choice as ever. If I indulged one taste at the expense of the others, I should become a less perfect man; nor could I decide in which of my pursuits I needed sympathy the most—music, painting, dancing, riding, reading. Alas! could I find one woman congenial in all my moods I would marry her immediately. Wearied by the attentions of so many, I yet feared an imperfect life spent with but one. I saw that I had made another mistake, and retired to my country-seat, "The Beauties," to recruit.

I know there is a modern idea that women are the equals of men (the poets, you remember, thought them superior), and many may consider it odd that I did not find it so. I do not wish to offend. To those who hold that opinion I modestly suggest my unfortunate superiority as the probable cause of my failure. I do not blame the ladies, be it understood.

Again I sat down to plan and reflect. I looked mournfully on the past and less hopefully on the future. The obstacles were beginning to dishearten me, but even after a second failure I dared not relinquish my quest: my mother's wishes must be fulfilled. A woman worthy of me: behold the difficulty! What course of action should I now pursue?

At last I had a flash of brain-light on the subject. I would look for the purely good, rejecting the intellectual entirely. I would plunge into the country and seek a bride fresh from the hands of Nature, a wild flower without fashion, guile or brains—one who in leaving me free to follow my own pursuits would yet adorn my life with charms of the heart—a heart that had known no love but mine.

It was in the most beautiful month of autumn that I made this resolve, which I lost no time in putting into execution. I wrote to my old college friend, Dick Hearty, that I would spend a month with him: he had often invited me to visit him in the country. I counted on doing enough love-making in that time to win my wild rose, and at my return I would bring home my bride. I reasoned that in those unsophisticated regions, in the shadow of the virgin forest, the trammels of long courtship and other fashionable follies are unknown: heart meets heart as the pure woodland streams meet each other and become one.

Before I set out I gave a dinner-party at The Beauties to announce to my gentleman friends the joyful event. At the dessert I rose and proposed the health of my future bride.

"And may it be years before she arrives at The Beauties!" mumbled Percy Flyaway when they had drunk the toast.

"I hope you will all welcome her at a grand reception here in—about a month or six weeks." I remembered just in time that I had best not fix a date, as something might intervene.

A storm of questions, exclamations and remarks ensued.

"Lovely?"

"As fair as poet's dreaming."

"Die Vernon?"

"Not for Joe!"

"The Soprano?"

A shake of my head.

"Anabel?"

"No."

"Who is she?"

"Let us drink her health again," said one, getting thirsty, and fearing in the excitement the bottle would not be passed.

"Tell us all about her," cried another.

"Gentlemen," said I seriously when the noise had slightly abated, "you know I am a deuced good fellow."

"Hear! hear!" they cried.

"That you are!" said Percy.

"Well, I am going to get a deuced good wife."

"Congratulate you, old fellow!"

"Do you think of going up in a balloon for a wedding-trip?"

They all came around me, clinked their glasses with mine, shook hands with me, and drank my health, her health, the health of my mother-in-law, and any other toast that would serve as an excuse for emptying a glass.

"I say, will she cut rough on us chaps?" asked Percy in a plaintive voice as the hubbub subsided.

"Gentlemen," cried I, waving my hand, "my wife that is to be is an angel."

"Wish she would stay in heaven!" muttered Percy.

"What I mean by an angel is a perfect woman."

"Worse still," said the irrepressible Perce. (By the by, the wits had nicknamed him "Perce sans purse," because he was poor, you know, but he was a good fellow, quite.)

"Gentlemen, let me explain."

"Hear! hear!"

"I have been looking for a wife for the past year: I have thought much on the subject, for I think it an important one."

"Solomon!" said Perce out of his wine-glass.

"Now, a good wife must be a refined, gentle, kind, loving, beautiful woman, with no nonsense about her."

"Amen to the last clause!" cried Bear de Witt.

"You have found her?" asked Percy, absently watching the sparkling bubbles rise one after the other in his glass.

"Ah—aw—I will bring her home," I answered, evading the question—"my love, my bliss, my delight!"

"He is awful spoony on her," said Bear in a disgusted tone.

"He is tipsy," whispered Percy as I sat down with a tremor in my voice and wiped my eyes with a napkin.

Then Perce began to lecture me in an injured tone: "I say, it is really too bad of you. I should not have believed it if you had not told us yourself. To go and get married like any fool of a fella' that hasn't forty thou' a year, like any common man—it's too rough."

"I know it, Perce," I replied, "but we superior people must set an example—the world expects it of us. The only question is, how to make a proper choice."

I remember very little after, except that the lights shone dimmer through the cigar-smoke, that there was much noise from popping corks, and occasionally a breakage of glass, and I think I made another speech. Next morning I awoke with a very robust and well-defined head-ache.

A few days later I started for the back-woods, with Wordsworth packed in my trunk, he being the writer most congenial to my present state of mind. Once seated in the cars, I looked with pleasure on each pastoral scene as it came into view, and gazed at the milkmaids while thinking romantically of my love. I took a nap, and awoke respectfully pressing the handle of my portmanteau and murmuring a proposal to my wild flower.

It was late when I arrived at the little village near which my friend resided, and I resolved to spend the night at the modest inn of the place. The gay singing of birds, mingled with the ringing of Sunday bells, caused my drowsy eyes to open on the morrow. A happy thought came to me as I lay enjoying the delightful freshness of all around me: "I will go to church: my little Innocence will be there. I know she is pious. As unconscious as the birds, and with as sweet a voice, she will, like them, be praising her Maker this bright morning."

I began to dress, looking each moment from the window with the hope that she might pass by. The street was quiet—no one to be seen. Presently, from a house near, tripped two pretty girls, and I eagerly came forward to see them. "If it is not my rose herself," I thought, "it maybe some relation—cousin, sister, friend: I am interested in the whole town since she lives here." The girls came nearer. They walked without affectation: you could imagine that the spirit of Modesty herself had taught them that quiet demeanor. Suddenly they looked up and saw me. Am I Mephistopheles, to produce such a dire effect? They looked down, they simpered, they laughed a laugh that was not natural: their voices grew louder.

"Did you see him?" said one.

"So perfectly lovely!" said the other.

"I wonder who he is?" remarked the first.

"My fate," I muttered as I turned away.

After breakfast I sallied forth, humming "Pure as the Snow." Taking a reconnoissance of the town, I came to a pretty house with woodbine-covered porch, and a slender figure at the window.

"I will not startle her with a rude glance," thought I, for I could see without appearing to look. As my step resounded the figure turned.

"Oh, do come here, Jessie! Who can he be?" said the slender figure to some one inside.

I raised my eyes slowly, and my hat. "Could you tell me the way to Mr. Hearty's?" I asked, not thinking of any other excuse for speaking to her.

Blushing, she told me.

"And might I ask you," looking beseechingly at her as a person who might be my future wife—"might I ask you to give me one of your roses?"

"Take as many as you like," she said courteously.

"I would rather you gave me one," with a smile.

She hesitated for an instant, then quickly plucked a bud from the side of the open window, threw it to me and ran away.

"I shall find my Rose later," sighed I.

I sauntered on to church, a pretty little building of mossy gray stone, and seated myself on a shady bench under the elms to watch the people assembling.

Ye gods! could it be? Here were last summer's styles, airs and grimaces, served up as it were cold. I could pick out bad copies of each girl I had flirted with the past season. You remember Florence Rich at The Resort?—here was her portrait in caricature. Florence was the vainest girl I ever knew, and showed it too. But she was vain of herself. This country Florence was vain of a new silk that I would have taken the odds she was wearing for the first time. She looked as if she were saying with every rustle, "Admire me!" though of course she wasn't, you know. She was constantly arranging her bracelet or smoothing her glove, and looking on this side and that to see if any one was observing her. By this means she gave her admirers the benefit of her full face, showing both earrings; then of her profile, showing one earring and her curls; and then of the back of her head, showing her fall bonnet. Her little black veil ended just where her nose needed a shade. It is needless to mention that she looked at me as she passed and gave me a smile à la profile, which was ostensibly aimed at a pale young man near the church-door.

On they came, looking like the remnants of my summer's feast—the supper after my season's dinner—stale and repelling to my satiated palate. On entering I saw the ghost of "the Soprano" at the head of the choir, with less voice and more affectation. The same glances of envy that had been shot from angry eyes at The Resort I now saw passing between angry eyes here. The church was full of imitations of this kind, or were they only inferior originals of the same type?

I learned afterward that the girls of the town were divided into two classes—the followers of Miss Loude, who was fast and flashy, and the imitators of Miss Weighty, who affected the quiet style, did not visit indiscriminately, and was considered "stuck up" by the townspeople, being the daughter of a retired grocer. During the service they all looked at me. Some who were of the Loude school did it openly: those after the Weighty pattern peeped clandestinely over their prayer-books, through their fans, or between their fingers when praying. The more clever would use strategy, shivering as if in a draught of air, and looking around in my direction to see if a window were open, while the mammas eyed me steadily through spectacles.

"I might have known it," I thought, exasperated: "'tis the same everywhere, unless I should go to a country where the people are blind."

Dick Hearty, who was there with his sisters, came up after the service and spoke to me. "Looking well, old fellow!" he said, as if I was not sick of looking well. "Let me introduce you to my sisters."

His sisters were of the fast and flashy school. Both of them fell in love with me before I left, though I tried hard to make myself disagreeable, not thinking it right to disappoint them, being a friend of the brother, and all that. But unless I wear a mask I cannot prevent such accidents. I hope they will get over it in time. They were deuced nice girls too, but more like peonies than wild roses.

Well, as I was saying, Dick introduced me, and insisted on taking me home with him at once. I already began to fear for the success of my object, but could not turn back at the very beginning of the promised land; so I went with him.

It would be tiresome to tell of all the flirtations and adventures I had while there, or of all the girls who devoted themselves to me. Like skillful leaders, Miss Loude and Miss Weighty set the example to their imitators—an example which none were slow to follow. Indeed, it seemed as if the struggle consisted in seeing who should be first at my feet. I averaged half a dozen conquests daily: Dick's house was overwhelmed with lady visitors, and it was usually love at first sight with them all. A second interview was sufficient to win the most intractable. Not that I cared to win: I was fatigued with victory—my laurels oppressed me. I began to wish, like that nobby old emperor, Au—I used to know his name—that all womankind had but one heart, that I might finish it with a look, and then turn my attention to more important matters.

Once I thought I had found her. At one of the picnics given in my honor I saw a sober, pretty little thing, with rosy cheeks and chestnut hair, who looked intensely rural. I fancied I should like to talk to her alone for a while, and took her to a spring that was just in sight of the dancing platform, thinking she would be too timid to go far away from the others. I found her very sweet and bashful: I could desire nothing more so. She blushed at each word she said, and made some very innocent remarks, unfettered by the grammatic rules that restrain less ingenuous people. Hoping to put her at her ease, I talked about the country, the beautiful views, and all that.

"If you like lovely views," she said shyly, "I can show you one."

"I shall be most happy to see it," I replied.

To tell you of the walk that the treacherous innocent took me, of the rocks we climbed and the marshy brooks we crossed, and the two hours she kept me at the work! Her stock of conversation was exhausted in the first ten minutes, and I was too angry to be civil. Two hours of such silent torture man never underwent before, and yet when we returned tired, with the perspiration rolling down our faces, I actually overheard her tell one of her companions that it had been "a delightful walk, I was so agreeable." Just my luck! And that walk made her a belle! After it all the country beaux flocked around to pay her attention, and she looked upon them as Cinderella might have viewed her other suitors after the prince had danced with her at the ball. Disgusting!

Dick came to me after a while and said, "Charley, you are so stunning in that velvet coat that all the girls are in love with you."

"I know it, Dick," I said in a complaining voice—"I know it. It always happens just so. Think it's the coat? I would take it off in a minute if I thought it was." Then I added with a burst of confidence, "Dick, 'tis the same with everything I wear: the fascination is in myself. I would do anything to lessen it, but I can't."

"You are a jolly joker," replied Dick with a tremendous slap on my back, as if I had said something very funny. I am often witty when I don't mean to be.

But why continue a history which was the same thing day after day? I stayed in the country more than three weeks. Though doubting, I was conscientious, and left nothing undone to gain my end. The task bored me far more than my sympathizers did in the summer. Indeed, any of those friends were bewitching in contrast to the girls I now met, and had one of them dropped in on me during that tiresome period I think I should have forgotten nice distinctions and made serious love to her, sure of finding more pleasure in having a single taste in common than in having none at all.

I believe country-people are even more egotistic than the dwellers in cities. I sometimes found myself at the most isolated farm-houses looking for my Rose. The men I met there invariably thought they knew all about the weather and religion, politics and farming; the women were convinced they had every kind of knowledge worth having, and that what they did not know was "new-fangled" and not worth a pin; and their daughters believed that they were beauties, or would be if they had fine clothes to dress in. How people can be so mistaken as to their capacity is a mystery to me.

During my stay I came to the conclusion that I would rather press a soft hand than a hard one; that I would rather see a tasty toilette than beauty unadorned; that shy manners are anything but graceful; that the useful and the beautiful are not likely to be found in the same person; and that girls, like articles de luxe, should be carefully kept. I like to recall that well-bred, unconscious air of Miss Haughton; I remember Miss Darling as a model of deportment: why, she could do the naughtiest things in a less objectionable manner than that of these girls when acting propriety.

I discovered some facts regarding wild roses. Their petals are few and faded, and their thorns many and sharp. Their scanty green foliage will always remind me of a calico gown. Take my word for it, and don't ever go to the trouble of seeking one. Give me a full-blown damask rose. What care I if it was nursed in a hot-house or if its beauty is due to the gardener's care? I thank the gardener and take the rose. Or give me a half-open sulphira, with suggestive odors and soft curving leaves, passion-pale in tint, or a gorgeous amaryllis produced by artful development, clothed like a queen in state, bearing erect her magic beauty. No more wild roses for me!

CHAPTER II.

I had been at Breezy Brook, that beautiful summer resort which you all know, about a month: it was now July, and nothing had happened worth relating since my arrival. During the past winter I had not been idle—attending parties, balls and operas without number, but without success. This summer I made up my mind to be tranquil and to let events take their course, for, as Fortune had given me every other good, she would no doubt in time provide me with a good wife. I had therefore every reason to be patient.

I was in an unsociable mood one afternoon; so, taking a cigar and book, I sauntered up the mountain. There is an arbor halfway to its top, and I have a lounging-place near by, where the roots of an old tree make a comfortable nest just above a steep precipice, and the place is hidden from intruders by rocks and foliage. 'Tis a discovery of mine I pride myself upon, and I go there when I want to collect my thoughts and enjoy my own company.

Hardly had I made myself comfortable in my retreat when I heard voices in the arbor below. It was Mrs. Fluffy and her sister, Mrs. J.K.B. Stunner. I knew them in a moment, though they were not visible. Panting for breath, Mrs. F. invited the other to take a seat: she was very stout and soon tired. The sisters were examples of opposite schools of art. Mrs. Stunner, dark, hard and sharp-faced, was a widow with all her daughters "well settled" in life—i.e., married to wealthy husbands—and was considered "fortunate" among the matrons. Mrs. Fluffy was soft and florid, without an angular point, physically or mentally: much younger and prettier than her sister, she was always spoken of as "poor Mrs. Fluffy," though she was not badly off that I could see. She had two daughters "out" this season, and a third casting longing looks in the same direction.

Thinking they would move on shortly, as the arbor was only a halting-place for people walking to the summit, I lay snug and waited. Presently the widow, among other commonplaces, began to discuss the young ladies at The Brook.

"By the by, Sarah," she said, "I don't see that your girls are doing much this season: I really must say you do not seem to manage well at all. You may be playing a very deep game, but I can discover no signs of it, and there is little that escapes me in such matters."

"Oh, Jane!" panted Mrs. F., "if you only knew the trouble of having two daughters 'out' at once!"

"As if I didn't know!" snuffed Mrs. Stunner.

"True, true," replied Sarah in a conciliatory tone. "But you seemed to have so little anxiety."

"Seemed!" echoed the Stunner contemptuously. "Of course I seemed, and the difficulty it required to seem! Do you think I was so witless as to let my manoeuvres be seen? I wonder at you, Sarah!"

"Well, well," said the other, yielding the point, "I know you have a talent for such things, and can manage well, but I don't know what to do."

"I—should—think—you—did—not," replied her sister, tapping the ground slowly with her foot.

"What have I done that you should speak like that, Jane?" asked the meek Sarah, bridling up.

"Tell me," answered Jane after an ominous silence that was quite thrilling, "where is Eva at this moment?"

"Oh,", replied Sarah with a sigh of relief, "she is walking with Mr. Hardcash. You introduced him at the last ball."

"I introduced him to dance with, not to walk with," said Jane severely.

"Goodness me, sister! what's the difference?"

"She asks me 'What's the difference?' Are you a child? Why, just the difference between dancing and walking."

From the pause that followed I knew that Mrs. F. was looking with both her round eyes, intent on seeing it. I suppose she did not succeed, as her sister continued, emphasizing each word clearly, "Mr. Hardcash has not a penny," as if that at once explained the knotty question.

"Why did you introduce him if you don't approve of him?" asked Mrs. Fluffy, with a feeble attempt to throw the blame on her sister.

"Have I not told you? In a ball-room girls need plenty of partners—plenty of men about them. It makes them look popular and fascinating, and if the gentlemen are handsome and stylish-looking, so much the better. Mr. Hardcash is just the size to waltz well with Eva—he shows her off to advantage—but he is not a man to encourage afterward. She should not be seen walking or talking intimately with a gentleman who has less than ten thousand a year." Mrs. Stunner delivered this ultimatum with the tone of a just judge who will hear of no appeal.

"How can I know how much the gentlemen are worth?" said Sarah pettishly.

"It is your duty as a mother to discover it," replied the virtuous widow.

"But how?"

"The visitors' book will tell where a man is from; you can easily get acquainted with some old lady or gentleman from the same place; and—"

"What! and ask about them!"

"Nonsense! Speak of them, praise them if you wish, and let the others talk: you have only to be an interested listener" (here I could imagine Mrs. S. smiling grimly), "and you can soon hear enough. For instance, commence in this way: 'Fine fellow, Mr. T. from your part of the country.' As a general rule the old gentleman will then give you his whole history. Another time you may say, 'What a pleasant young man that Mr. B. is! but rather inclined to be wild, eh?' If he is you will soon know it. You can also cross-question the man himself. Speak of a little girl he has at home: if he blushes he is netted already, and lures are useless. See how he eats his dinner: that is a good test to judge his position by; not that a few gaucheries will matter if he is very wealthy—for a judicious mother-in-law can soon correct them—but for every impropriety he should have a thousand added to his income. Such things are so intolerable in a poor man!"

"I don't think Eva would obey me if I did interfere in her affairs," objected Mrs. Fluffy.

"Her affairs, indeed! It is your affair. Of course you want a son-in-law who can keep a comfortable house for you to live in. You have brought up Eva badly, Sarah, and there is one thing I must tell you about her—she is entirely too familiar and sisterly with gentlemen."

"She has a great many beaux," interrupted Mrs. F.

"It is one of her worst faults," continued Jane, not listening to her. "If a girl gets into those sisterly habits with a man, it will never come into his head to marry her. She may be his chief confidante; he will talk of his lady-love to her, and she may end by being first bridesmaid at his wedding, but nothing nearer. I don't approve of it. One of my maxims is, that a man ought not be well acquainted with the girl he is to marry until the ceremony is performed."

"Well, you cannot disapprove of Laura," said Mrs. Fluffy, trying to turn the conversation. "I left her in her room reading."

"'Disapprove' of her? The word is not strong enough for my feelings. Neither of your girls has the least bit of common sense; but I don't wonder, with such a mother! A girl who gets a reputation for being learned and saying brilliant things might just as well give up matrimony altogether. Men are either afraid of them or detest them: gentlemen don't like to puzzle their brains over a witticism, nor do they admire chaffing that is beyond their comprehension. Courtship should be made easy. My Jane was clever, and vexed me a great deal in consequence, daughters of that kind are so unmanageable: give me the most stupid in preference. It is pleasant to a husband to feel his superiority, to look down on his wife. The mediocre is the girl I take most delight in. There are so many mediocre men that they are sure to get suited without giving you much anxiety."

"Jane," exclaimed Mrs. Fluffy with a burst of admiration, "you are so clever I wonder you ever were married. Did Mr. Stunner appreciate that kind of women?"

"La! no. I had the sense to conceal my talents. Take my word for it, superior people as a class are never liked, unless they do as I did—conceal it, conceal it."

"I am glad I was not born talented: I fear I could not succeed in hiding it as you do." Mrs. F. was too stupid for sarcasm, else I should have thought—

"Now be frank with me, Sarah," broke in Mrs. Stunner, scattering my thoughts: "who is paying attention to Eva now?"

"Well," replied the other, appearing to recollect, "there is Mr. Rich: he asked her to ride with him."

"More than once?"

"No, not more, but it was only day before yesterday."

"Ah! he may ask her again: once means nothing. A gentleman may ask her for pastime, or to make some one else jealous, or out of good-nature, but to a girl properly brought up once is a chance—it is a good start." (Mrs. S.'s late husband was fond of racing.) "It rests entirely with her to make the once twice, the twice thrice, and so on; for if she is amusing and don't talk love, he will be sure to ask her again."

"'Don't talk love'? Why, Jane, you surprise me! I thought that was the proper thing to do."

"Just where people mistake. The most stupid man can talk love if he feels love. Let girls be agreeable, sweet and charming, but without especial effort to appear so, and when gentlemen are captivated they will do their own love-making."

"Dear me!" was the reply.

"Yes, I protest against young ladies throwing themselves at the head of every marriageable gentleman they see. They should think of the effect it will have."

"But they are so unworldly that they don't think of effect," said Mrs. Fluffy.

"Humph!" ejaculated the widow in a tone of incredulity.

"You seem to have a very poor opinion of women, Jane."

"They want to marry, all of them: you admit that, don't you?" asked Mrs. Stunner severely.

"I think not," objected Mrs. F. in a feeble voice. "There is Miss Furnaval: they say she has refused—"

"Then," interrupted her sister, not heeding her, "if they want to marry, why not take the proper means? It is inconceivable to me how women, after thinking about it all their lives, blunder into it in the end, just as if it was an entirely unforeseen event. A little good sense is requisite in everything, I think."

"They are not all anxious to marry," reiterated Mrs. Fluffy, gaining courage: "there's Miss Furnaval—"

"A great example to give one!" remarked her sister contemptuously. "She is making a fool of herself as fast as she can. Among all the young ladies who marry badly, the fascinating ones prosper the worst. No girl can refuse a good offer with impunity: a day of reckoning will come. Society has its laws, which must be obeyed: if not, gare! Mark my words," continued Mrs. Stunner solemnly: "Miss Furnaval has some outlandish un-society principles, and practically they will not work. Why, she is quite as well contented talking to a poor man as to a rich one, and she is always encouraging worthless, amusing, handsome fellows—talented men, instead of men whose position dispenses with the necessity of their having brains. Those fellows she has about her are the pests of society. If you hear of a runaway match, you may be sure it is with one of them; if a daughter is obstinate, you may be sure some ineligible jackanapes has prompted her to it. Blanche will end badly. She will fall in love with one of them some day, and finish by marrying him."

"If Miss Furnaval loves one of that kind of gentlemen, I don't see why she might not be happy with him."

"You don't see anything, Sarah. You don't see the nose on your face, though I see 'tis a very big one. I will make it evident to you. He will be poor, Blanche is rich: if she gives him her money, he will spend it. Never having had any of his own, he won't know how to take care of it. If, on the other hand, she don't give it to him, he will think she does not care for him—will get jealous, likely take to drink: your clever man always does. They will quarrel; then her clever husband will use his clever tongue to tease her, and his clever brain to thwart and provoke her—which a stupid man would never think of doing—and, worse than all, she will never get the least chance to have her own way in anything."

"Poor Blanche! I pity her," sighed Mrs. Fluffy.

"I don't, in the least," snapped the other. "Such an example will serve to make other girls more sensible. Only you take it as a warning to your own Eva."

After quite a long silence, in which I suppose Mrs. Fluffy was considering, she said pathetically, "I wish you would tell me what to do with Eva."

"Marry her as soon as possible," was the prompt and decided reply. "It is her second summer 'out,' and she should at least be engaged."

"I can do nothing. What do you advise, Jane?"

"In the first place, stop her being with such gentlemen as Mr. Hardcash."

"Eva is so high-spirited," groaned Mrs. Fluffy, "I fear she would not listen to me."

"You mean obstinate, Sarah. Tell her seriously that she has had two very gay seasons—that you can't afford another—that she must make up her mind now. Then think over all the most eligible gentlemen you know, and cultivate their acquaintance."

"Couldn't you help me, Jane?" asked the other timidly. "I shall not know what to do."

"Let me see," continued Mrs. S. in a musing tone. "If you had a country-house you could manage better. Elderly gentlemen are usually pleased with domestic attractions, and there are many little attentions that you and Eva could show them which in any other position would look like courting them. Then there would be no danger of competition. Indeed, if a pretty girl has a gentleman all to herself for a week or two at a romantic country-house, a wedding is sure to follow. But there must be no jarring, fretting, bad cooking or any household ill whatever—no talk of poor servants or dishonest grooms: everything must be couleur de rose."

"Jane, it appears to me you are talking very silly," said Mrs. Fluffy, glad of a chance to attack her superior sister. "You know I have no country-house, and I can't buy one just to marry Eva and Laura from."

"I merely said if you had. I thought you might be pleased to hear my theory," replied Mrs. Stunner stiffly, "The next best thing for you is to have a parlor here, get up picnics and drives, make card-parties with suppers—gentlemen so like to eat!—and do not spare expense when you have a good investment in view. You can limit the invitations to two or three gentlemen who are especially eligible: make these some little compliment, such as 'You will come of course—our little party would not be complete without you.' Contrive that they take care of the girls, and you can entertain the others. Occasionally include some young ladies in your evenings, so that the world may not say you are afraid of them, but don't let them become intimate."—Here Mrs. Stunner paused for breath.

"It sounds easy enough," said poor Mrs. F. dolefully.

"It is not easy at all," sharply replied her sister, "but if we manage well we sha'n't have to go through with it more than one summer."

"Then you will help me?"

"I suppose I must sacrifice myself for the good of the family," said the Stunner in an heroic tone, "but you must let me have my own way entirely."

"Oh yes, Jane—certainly. I am so much obliged!" replied Mrs. Fluffy with effusion.

"Then it is not necessary to explain my plans further: I shall be there and will manage."

"But whom do you think we should invite, Jane dear?" asked Mrs. F. anxiously.

"You spoke of Mr. Rich. I approve of him: I know he has twenty thousand a year. Yes, he shall be one."

"I am afraid Eva won't like him," Mrs. Fluffy timidly remarked.

"Eva shall not interfere with my plans, and don't you commence with such nonsense as liking and disliking; I won't have it," retorted Mrs. S. in a louder voice than she would have used had she known I was so near.

"But there might be some nicer gentleman just as wealthy, might there not?" suggested the weak sister.

"There is David Todd, with thirty thousand a year: I wonder if he would suit the dainty Eva?" said Mrs. Jane, sneering.

"I think she would like Mr. Highrank to be invited," observed pink Mrs. Fluffy, waiving the question.

I sat up and listened attentively when I heard my own name mentioned, not forgetful of the adage that listeners hear no good of themselves, but of course I had nothing to fear.

"More sensible than I thought Eva could be," the Stunner rejoined. "Forty thousand a year and entailed, so that he can't get through with it. I have observed him a good deal for several seasons, and I find that though he is such a fool, the sharpest girls can do nothing with him. When so many are after him I suppose no single one can have a fair chance. Yes, we will invite him, but I hope Eva will not think of falling in love with him unless he should propose. Indeed, I think a modest girl ought never to fall in love. It seems to me indecorous, at least before marriage—after, they can do as they like about it. You must warn Eva on the subject. If any other gentleman should ask for her, she must not refuse, because we could not count on Highrank making up his mind: I have an idea that he is too weak to form a resolution of any kind."

I thought the old woman must be bilious. "Me a fool!"—a philosopher rather. But I have always known that exalted worth is a fault in the estimation of narrow-minded people, who can't appreciate it. Little Eva has more sense—would like me to visit her: of course the poor child is in love with me. I wish I could tease that ridiculous old lady in some way. I have a confounded mind to run off with Eva. No, that, I fear, would please Aunt Stunner. But I am missing all her trash: better listen. It is really not worth getting heated over.

"The others I will see about," continued Aunt Jane. "It is very little consequence who they are. Only one thing: I won't have that Hardcash about: he and Eva have been entirely too much together."

"She is rough on Ned," thought I in ambush.

"I am afraid you won't be able to manage Eva, my dear Jane."

"Don't worry. When I have a duty to perform I go through with it. Let us walk on to the summit."

"Just as you like: I am sufficiently rested, and we can talk as we go."

There was a rustling of silk and a crunching of gravel, and all was quiet.

I lay there thinking for a long while: I wonder if my poor mother, were she living, would take as much trouble to procure me a wife as Mrs. Stunner is going to take to provide Eva with a husband. I wonder mothers don't help their sons to marry, and let their daughters help themselves. Girls are so much sharper about such things than men are. Everything is against us. I suppose women think they deceive us for our good, but they should continue to do so after marriage. 'Pon honor! I have seen the sweetest, most amiable girl turn as sour as could be a few months after the ceremony. The dressiest ones often get dowdy, the most musical can't abide music, the most talkative have the dumps. A man has no chance of judging how they are going to turn out. He is duped by the daughters, inveigled by their mothers, and, what is worse still, as soon as he is married they both undeceive him. It would not matter if a fellow was cheated if he never knew it, but that's where it hurts.

I shouldn't wonder if that pair of old plotters would catch me yet if I don't take care. I will tease them a bit, any way: I'll pay a deuced lot of attention to Eva, and keep the other fellows away. No man would try to win her if he thought I was serious.

Blanche Furnaval is an odd girl, I went on musing. They said she would end badly—hope she won't, though. Bewitching girl, but she don't seem to care if people admire her or not. I never can quite understand her. Once I wrote a few verses and gave them to her—compared her to an ice-covered stream, quiet on the surface, but all motion and tumult below. Well, she never even thanked me for them, though she said she liked that simile, it was so new. There was another couplet about her name—Blanche and snow and cold: when she read it she laughed and said, "Though my name means white, it does not mean cold. You know there are some white things that are very warm, Mr. Highrank—my ermine muff, for instance." But I made a clever answer. I said, "The muff looks cold, and so does Miss Blanche, but if I could be so fortunate as to touch the heart of either I might find warmth." "My muff has no heart," she answered, looking at me as if she did not understand. "And is its owner in the same condition?" I asked tenderly. (I make it a rule to speak tenderly to all girls, it is so sad for them to love me when I cannot return it.) "In a poetical sense I believe she is," she replied, "but for all practical purposes she has one that serves very well."

Sometimes she would be invisible for two or three days together: no one would see her, either at meals or at the evening ball. When asked what she had been doing, she would smile that sweet smile of hers and say she had been enjoying herself. She was very talented, but not a bit ostentatious. To give you an example: It was rumored that she had a wonderful voice, and though we had been begging her to sing for at least a month, she steadily refused to gratify us. One day there was a queer old Italian chap came to The Brook for his health. He looked like an organ-grinder, and had been once actually on the stage. Well, do you know she allowed him to be introduced to her, and talked to him with as much deference as if he had been a prince, when she ought not have spoken to him at all, you know; and in that gibberish, too, that no one can understand. One evening, after entertaining him for about an hour, she walked with him the whole length of the room, not noticing any one, though every eye was upon her. He sat down at the piano which stood in a corner, struck a few chords, and then, with no coaxing whatever, she sang; and such a song! Her gray eyes grew dark, and her voice quivered, deepened, expanded into a melody that made you think the heavens had suddenly opened. Every other sound ceased; the doors and windows were filled with eager faces; the dancers ended in the middle of a quadrille, and the band came in a body to listen. I saw one fat Dutchman holding his fiddle in one hand while he wiped the tears from his eyes with the other. When the song was ended the old Italian took both her hands in his and kissed them, talking at the same time with impossible rapidity; and she smiled and looked as happy as if she had won a prize, turning her back on every one else who wished to congratulate her. It showed how very odd she was. The next evening I asked her to sing, and she flatly refused without the least excuse, saying, "No: a refusal will be a pleasant novelty in your life, Mr. Highrank."

ITA ANIOL PROKOP.

[TO BE CONTINUED]