32 “ ”
BEAUTIES AND BEAUTY.
large fortune in leather, lived in fine style.’ I did not care, the sweet girl was not spoilable. I found the mansion. ‘Miss Eudora,’ the servant said, ‘was out; no, ill—indisposed.’ I did not like his tone, he was lying, I thought; but vent back to my lonely room.
“I called again, ‘Was it Mr. Wilson? Yes, she was in. I could walk to the parlor.’ There ie such a difference in houses. As Dr. P-—— observed, the other day, there are some, inte which, if you lift the roof off you cannot force the light, and air, and sunshine; if you crowd them with people, you cannot make any two feel near each other; if you make them resound with voices and clang of instruments, you cannot have mirth or music. Other houses there are, very bare of luxuries, the inmates lead laborious lives, with cares, and losses, and sorrows falling thick upon them; yet they are free and content, glad and thankful—the sunshine that pierces their little window falls straight into a loving, rejoicing heart—the song of bird, or ripple of brook, their grateful spirits seize, and echo, and mag- bify, till their lives are filled, and overflow with harmonies. Now, the home of Eudora Stanmore was magnificent, but it wanted the home-charm. There seemed a mildew in the air, the mirrors did not look as if they had ever reflected happy faces, all was cold and calm as a cathedral. But t was in the state-parlor I waited, and the chilly November weather might have added to this gioom. She appeared, the school-girl, grown a woman, a city belle, yet fascinating as ever, and far lovelier. I did not like the elaborateness of her dress, the thin, flounced, furbelowed fabric, evidently just assumed, and in which she shivered ws she entered the gloomy room. ‘She was glad to see me,’ she said; ‘wasn’t I glad to see her so improved?’ her eyes said, and there was some- thing fascinating in the question. She conversed with a fluency and appropriatene„“ss of which I had not supposed her capable, of old times and new, of country and city life, of city pleasures, theatre, opera, parties, walks, rides, drives; and when I turned to city duties, met me there again, with topics of philanthropy, taste, science, art: even passing questions of politics and law this young girl handled with consum- mate skill.
“But I felt that same mildew about her speech, it was learnt for an occasion and retailed for display, it had not the sweet spontaneousness of her talk in other days. We did not seem open- ng our minds to each other, but playing at a game with printed cards; yet, I thought this rarely a defect of education, I should not wish her perfect, I could mend allin time. She smiled on me, that was plain; I could love her, oh, to distraction!
“I went a third time, still on a cold November day. A child was on the door step. She said, ‘Sister Eudora was et home, ob, yes, I could go in. She would lead me—they had such a famous boudoir, and Dora was having seven dresses cut. I needn’t wait, she knew Dora would see me, she had heard her tell ber mamma as much.’
“I followed, wondering how often this seven- fold replenishment, of dress must occur along the future, in order to keep my beauty beautiful.
“I had blundered in following the child—it was all wrong, unpardonable, but I stood at the boudoir door as one spell-bound; such a chaos of disorder, and, yes, dirt, as overspread the fine tapestry carpet! Two sewing-women sat among chests and trunks pulled at all possible angles; and open drawers and boxes, heaps of cloth, rib- bon, papers, flowers—so far I could have for- given; but on a rug directly in front of the fire, amidst rubbish of which she made a part, gat my divine Eudora, pale and peevish, her hair braided away from her forehead in most unbe- coming fashion, and eyes red from the last night’s dissipation. Her dress was a silk, all frilled along the skirt, but soiled, and minas one sleeve, while remains of the other lingered—cut off slant- wise at her elbow—lI have a good memory. Some visions make a very dazzling, deep impression. Cousin, I left her there, reading a novel, and have never seen her since. The child, with a child’s quick instinct, saw that we were wrong, and led me away whispering, ‘Don’t ever, ever tell of it, sister would be so angry, she would throw # candlestick at me as she did at Nora when’—I hushed her, I had enough of family secrets.
“That love went out like a candle in my heart. Winning Eudora, I should have won beauty at the expense of everything beautiful in life—yes, that love went out like a candle. I thought of my pleasant bachelor home, my own neat room with stocks of cigar-boxes, the India matting half covered by the heavy rug, of the books and easy chair, and the fire-place wide enough for me, and the pleasant confusion of papers, tools, smoking-cap, boot-jack—a hundred things on which I could lay my hand at an instant’s thought. I resolved to return to Milford.
“One last call I had to make: it was on an old friend. You smile, ay, it was on Susan Gladstone, my best wife! She had grown homely who was never beautiful; she had a care-worn look for her family were poor, and struggling to re- tain a fine old mansion in the suburbs. But I could not slight an old acquaintance in adver-
