Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

I looked at her as she laid her head back against the curtains. My nonchalance was as striking as hers, and – as genuine! We were no children to be awkward in any event. I took her hand; it was a glowing pulse – and mine? She wore one of those curious little cabal rings; there were the Hebrew characters for Faith, traced as with a gold pen dipped in melted pearls on black enamel. My seal was an emerald, Faith also, impaled. I snatched it up and laid it by the ring on her hand. She smiled – such a smile! intensest sympathy, deepest! Could it be? to love the same old symbols, the same weird music? I caught her close, and bent over her lips. The gold hair waved over my shoulder; the great, glittering eyes foamed into mine, then melted and swam into deep, quivering seas of dreams. I whispered, 'Zoe mou!' Oh, the quick, golden whisper, the flash of genial heartiness, the daring – oh, how tender! 'Sas agapo.' I held her off, radiant, glowing, fragrant, and Bertha's dress rustled up the stairs.

Henrietta stooped to pick up the seal, which had fallen; she balanced it on the tip of her finger – the nervy Titan queen! and drew Bertha down by her side on the sofa. It was growing dark.

'I must be off, girls, and get your camelias. What will you have, Bertha? a red or a white, you've a moment to decide?'

'Neither, Len; I do not go.'

'Why, Bertha? Oh! I remember, it is your anniversary,' and I kissed her.

'And you, princess!' I turned to Henrietta.

'Only roses, good my liege.'

What was the opera that night? Pshaw! what a rhetorical affectation this question! as if I could ever forget! Die Zauberflöte, and it rang pure and clear through my thrilled heart. It followed me around to Van Wyck's, where I found Henrietta and Fanny. A compliment to madame, a German with mademoiselle, and home again. A great light streamed out of the drawing room. I pushed the door open. With a cry of joy, Fan rushed into the arms of the grave, fair man who put Bertha off his knee to welcome her. Nap, who had followed us in, for a moment stood transfixed, and Henrietta, more quiet, stood by their side, saying: 'Here is Harry, Fred, when you choose to see her.' And he did choose, her own brother, whom she had not seen for three years!

'Come in, Nap,' I said. 'Fred Ruyter.'

'Nap and Fanny,' I whispered; Fred smiled invisibly.

And Bertha? Oh, you know, of course, that she's Bertha Ruyter, and that Fred is her husband, just home from six months in Rio, and exactly a year from his wedding night! Oh, Lionardo! what mellow, transparent, flowing shades drowned us all that night!

'Harry,' I said, the next morning, before I went down town, as I lounged over her sofa, 'you have my emerald?'

'Yes!' and her bright face turned up to mine.

'You will keep it, and take me also, dear?'

'Ma foi! oui,' was the sweet, smiling reply.

'I'm not quite ugly enough for a Vulcan, I know; but after a while, if you are patient, who knows? What sayest thou, Venus?'

'I will try you, bon camarade.'

'Your hand upon it, Harry.'

She gave it; I kissed the gold hair that waved against my lips. Fanny rushed impetuously upon us, with half-opened eyes, and stifled us with caresses.

'Such a proposal,' said she musingly, after she had returned to her wools and beads, '14° above zero!'

'And the Polyphemus, Fanny?'

'Is for Nap,' and Fanny blushed and laughed. She was wondering if that great event, an 'engagement,' always came about in so prosaic a way. But looking at Bertha, I caught the bright, long, gravely humorous gleam from her dark eyes, and walked upon it all the way down to Exchange Place.

Adieu, little Beatrice; my story hath at last an ending. Keep the little hands and little heart warm for somebody brave by and by. Go shining about and dancing, and smiling, Hummingbird; may sweetest flowers always bloom around you; may you dwell in a fragrant rose garden of your own, mignonne! Adieu.

ETHEL.

FITZ FASHION'S WIFE

Take the diamonds from my forehead – their chill weight but frets my brow!
How they glitter! radiant, faultless – but they give no pleasure now.

Once they might have saved a Poet, o'er whose bed the violet waves:
Now their lustre chills my spirit, like the light from new-made graves.

Quick! unbind the braided tresses of my coroneted hair!
Let it fall in single ringlets such as I was wont to wear.

Take that wreath of dewy violets, twine it round their golden flow;
Let the perfumed purple blossoms fall upon my brow of snow!

Simple flowers, ye gently lead me back into the sunny years,
Ere I wore proud chains of diamonds, forged of bitter, frozen tears!

Bring the silver mirror to me! I am changed since those bright days,
When I lived with my sweet mother, and a Poet sang my praise.

My blue eyes are larger, dimmer; thicker lashes veil their light;
Upon my cheek the crimson rose fast is fading to the white.

I am taller, statelier, slighter, than I was in days of yore: —
If his eyes in heaven behold me, does he praise me as before?

Proudly swells the silken rustle – all around is wealth and state, —
Dearer far the early roses twining round the wicker gate,

Where my mother came at evening with the saint-like forehead pale,
And the Poet sat beside her, conning o'er his rhythmed tale.

As he read the linked lines over, she would sanction, disapprove:
Soft and musical the pages, but he never sang of love.

I had lived through sixteen summers, he was only twenty-one,
And we three still sat together at the hour of setting sun.

Lowly was the forest cottage, but the sweetbrier wreathed it well;
'Mid its violets and roses, bees and robins loved to dwell.

Wilder forms of larch and hemlock climbed the mountain at its side;
Fairy-like a rill came leaping where the quivering harebells sighed.

Glittering, bounding, singing, dancing, ferns and mosses loved its track;
Lower in it dipped the willows, as to kiss the cloudland's rack.

Soon there came a stately lover, – praised my beauty, softly smiled:
'He would make my mother happy,' – I was but a silly child!

Came a dream of sudden power – fairest visions o'er me glide —