12
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
being a great favourite with the stranger, ven- tured to take greater liberties with him than any other person. “I have a strong notion, friend L—, that you are palming off some imaginary divinity upon us, and that you really never knew what it was to be in love after all. Who ever heard of such a name, except ina sonnet! I'll lay my life too, that no Amanda ever equalled the flesh-and-blood charms of our own Elizas, Annas, and Margarets. Come, come—sweep away these airy fancies from your brain;—you have still time enough left—and I yet hope to dance at your marriage.”
These words, apparently so harmless, seemed to produce a strange impression upon the stran- ger. He made a sudden movement, as if to in- terrupt the young man. “Dance!” he exclaim- ed, while his cheek grew pale, and a deep air of melancholy settled on his brow as he proceeded. “The charms of which ye speak are, indeed, nothing to me; and yet I do bear within my breast an image, which neither your realities nor your imaginations are likely soon to equal.” He looked around him, for a moment, with a glance in which pride seemed to mingle with compassion; then the look of triumph passed away, and his countenance resumed its usual mild and tranquil expression.
“Convince us then of the fact,” said the per- severing young man—“draw out that black iband from your breast which has so often awa- = kened my curiosity, and Jet us see the fair one
who is attached to it.”
L— glanced his eye with an enquiring gaze upon the company, and perceiving curiosity and attention depicted in every countenance, he said —“Be itso!” He pulled out a plain gold case from his bosom, which he loosened from the riband, and opened it with a slight pressure.
A pfifiature of a female presented itself to viey,in which, though the delicate features were not regularly beautiful, every one who beheld them felt at once that there lay some deep and irresistible attraction. A halo of grace and dig- nity seemed to surround the figure. The fresh- ness and truth of colour in the cheek, the speak- ing lustre of the eye, the sweet and natural smile that played upon the lip, the clustering chesnut hair which fel! in long ringlets around a counte- nance mild as angels wear, the simplicity of the ~ white robe in which the figure was arrayed—all
seemed to show that the picture must be a por- trait; and yet there was about it a céFtain strange visionary and almost supernatural expression, which made the spectator doubt if such an image could represent reality. The miniature was handed round the table. Every one gazed on it with delight.
“And her name is, or was, Amanda?” re- sumed the young man who had first addressed
stranger; “ so far well—her Christian name t least is no secret.”
“No,” replied L———; “and yet I could perchance call her by seven others, each as pl ata hers as the last, for she bore
m—”’
“All!” said the young man, interrupting him with a smile.
“Yes, all!” repeated L——, gazing steadily on the plctars, which had now come back into his hand—“all!—and yet my intended bride, whom this portfait represents, bore but one!”
“This, then,” said the landlord, “is the por- trait of your intended bride. 1 begin now to re- member something faintly of the story.” .
“It is—and it is not,” said L——, sighing. “I can answer only,” said he, as he perceived the growing astonishment of the company, “in words which must appear enigmas to you all, though, alas, they are none to me.—But let us change the subject. Dark sayings, without ex- planation, disturb good fellowship, and we have not met to-night to entertain each other with melancholy stories.”
“For my part,” said the landlord, “1 should desire nothing better. Iam sure, my dear L——, you will not now refuse to give us some expla- nation as to some events in your life, of which I have a dim recollection of having heard. I re- member faintly, that a report of your intended marriage was suddenly succeeded by the intelli- gence of your having set out on a journey to the south to visit a sick friend. When you did at last return, you mixed no longer with general society; and even in the smaller circle of your friends, you have been silent on many subjects, on which they have refrained from questions, only lest the sympathy which would have prompt- ed their enquiries should be mistaken for mere . curiosity.”
“My silence,” said L——, with another en- quiring glance at the company, “has arisen, not from want of confidence, but from the dislike I felt at the idea of attracting observation, as one who has been the sport of events so extraordinary, that he who has experienced them is gure to be looked upon by his fellow men either as a niraculous be~ ing, a visionary, or—a liar. None of the threedy-
world while I live in it. The eyent to which you allude has, in fact, nothing i t of a supernatural character; viewed in its” ic aspect, it is one unfortunately not very uncommon, and I there- fore make no further demand on your forbear- ance but this, that I shall not be made the subject of impertinent curiosity; with the exception of my name, you are welcome to Communicate it to any one whose understanding and power of judgment are not aieenely lim to what falls within five senses; for though
these ible ag they g may appear to some, are Cc of a natural expla nation, the tone which I feel I must adopt in their narration must be not only a melancholy one, but tedious, perhaps, and repulsive, to those whose hearts acknowledge no sympathy with any higher world than that of sense. All,
had better go at once. I have given them warn-
ing.”
None rose, however; and L——, closing the
