Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 15, No. 87, March, 1875

And after labor Love may charm away
What could not enter for the press of care.

But when thou'st bidden all this world good-night,
And enterest that which lies so close to mine,

Call me by name—-it is my angel's right—
And I shall hear thee, though I give no sign.

When morn undoes the high, white gates of sleep,
Pause, as thou comest forth, to speak to me:
It may seem vain, for silence will be deep,
But uttered wishes wait on prophecy.

And when some day far distant thou dost feel
That night and morrow will no longer come,
The pitying heart will let me then reveal
My presence to thee on the passage home.

    CHARLOTTE F. BATES.

THE MATCHLESS ONE:

A TALE OF AMERICAN SOCIETY, IN FOUR CHAPTERS

CHAPTER III

I was nearly asleep, though my thoughts were entertaining enough, when again footsteps entered the arbor below. This time the intruder did not pause. A woman's voice humming an air seemed to approach, and in a moment more a swift hand parted the bushes behind me, and Blanche Furnaval appeared. I was very much surprised, but stood up to make way for her, at the same time throwing aside my cigar.

"I beg your pardon," she exclaimed immediately, clearly as much astonished as I: "I did not know any one had found this pretty spot but myself."

"I think I know how to look for pretty things," I replied, gazing at her face, which was glowing from quick walking, though her breath came evenly through her parted lips.

"Do you never tire of making those silly speeches?" she asked, lifting her gray eyes candidly to my face. "Excuse me, you need not answer: I am very brusque. You see I did not expect to find any one here, and consequently left my company manners at home. I am sorry to have disturbed you," she continued, turning to go.

"Let us compare notes, Miss Blanche, and see to whom the rock belongs by right of discovery. Won't you be seated?" I said, making a place for her.

"I came to see the sunset," she replied after a moment's hesitation, "and if it won't incommode you I will stay. Should you not care to talk, please read on: I shall not mind. And won't you light another cigar? I have no objection to cigars in the open air, though I think them disgusting in the house."

"Thank you," I said as she sat down and I took another Havana for the one I had thrown away at her arrival. "Will you relate to me the manner of your discovery? I would rather not read."

"About two weeks ago," she began, looking over the landscape, and not at me, "I was sitting in the arbor below, and I heard Mrs.—well, a lady coming whom, to be sincere with you, I dislike. If I stayed, I knew she would have a long talk with me: if I walked on, she might call me back. I looked about in haste for a hiding-place. The bushes near me appeared as if I might get behind them: I pushed through, saw a little path, which I followed, turned round the base of a hillock, and found two rocks, upon which I raised myself with the help of a sapling. Then, carefully parting the branches, I saw this," waving her small hand that I might see it, but still not looking at me. "The sun was just setting; away down in yonder field the sorrel was as fire in its rays; a catbird was reciting a merry pastoral in the thicket beyond; two goats stood high on a bank, like satyrs guarding the place. You see why I come again."

"I have the right of discovery," I cried gayly: "I made the path and placed the rocks. I claim it, that I may lay it at your feet."

"Do you like it?" she asked, turning to me and laying a slight stress on "you."

"I told you I admired pretty things, and you know, Miss Blanche, I am a bit of a poet."

She smiled: "Ah yes; but do you really admire this?"

"Of course I do—think it dem foine."

She laughed outright—a laugh so gay that I joined her, though I could not tell why. "As for sorrel," I added, "you ought to see The Beauties: the fields are full of it, though the farmers don't seem to admire it much."

"Well, I am very fond of the sorrel," she replied, "with the clover-tops, the seed-globes of dandelion and the daisies by the water: it makes quite a bouquet in yonder field."

I looked at her to see if she was chaffing me: not at all—she was sober as a judge.

"Dem foine! I beg pardon, very nice indeed. How would you like to carry it to the ball this evening?"

"I never take anything to a ball that I care to have appreciated," she answered dryly.

"Aw! That is the reason you won't sing down there: isn't it, now? But, really, they thought it fine the other night—quite clever, I heard some of them say."

"Oh yes," with a weary smile that had a little contempt in it.

"Did that ugly little Italian know very much about singing? You seemed pleased with his admiration."

"That ugly Italian, as you call him, has heard some of the best prima donnas in Europe. He is poor, he is seedy—for his voice left him just as he was on the eve of success—but he was the only person in the room who could tell me that I sang as well as the greatest of them." Her voice quivered as she spoke.

"You are mistaken indeed, Miss Blanche," I said. "Any fellow there would have paid you the same compliment if you had given him a chance; but you were so confoundedly wrapped up in that Italian chap that you would not look at the rest of us."

"I don't care for the compliment," she said, cooling down directly: "I care for the truth. They don't know if I sing well or not."

"Then you only sing to be admired, Miss Furnaval?"

"I don't sing at all," she said, coloring.

"But you should sing."

"Why?" she asked.

"To please—to give pleasure to others."

"I don't care to please any one but myself."

"But that is not right, you know. Now, I try to please everybody."

"Do you always succeed, Mr. Highrank?"

"Yes, always; and though it's tiresome at times, I bear it. Last autumn you never saw anything to compare to it—in the country, you know. But it's my vocation, and I try to live up to it. People do wrong who have talents and do not use them. That is why I blame you, Miss Blanche."

"It is not worth the trouble. I have withdrawn my hand from market, and intend to please myself the remainder of my life."

"From what market? What do you mean?"

"I mean the matrimonial market, of course."

"Why won't you marry? if I may ask."