CHAPTER I.
"Report says that my queenly cousin is to lay aside her absolute sceptre, and submit to a lord and master," said George Mason, to his cousin, Emily Earl, as she took his arm for an evening walk.
"If you mean that I am to be married, that is a report which truth does not require me to contradict," said the young lady, in a tone adapted to repress the familiar manner of her companion. He had just returned from a long absence in a foreign land. His early youth had been passed in his uncle's family. He left his cousin a beautiful girl. He found her on his return a still more beautiful woman.
"I am very anxious," said he, with a slight change of manner, "to see the man who has drawn so splendid a prize. Is he like the picture you drew of the man you would marry, as we sat by the willow brook from the rising of the moon to its meridian? You remember that most beautiful night?"
"It is not desirable to remember all the follies of childhood," said Emily, coldly. Mason was silent. It was plain that they were no longer what they had been, brother and sister.
After walking for some distance in silence, Emily remarked, in a tone inviting conversation, "You must have seen a great deal of the world."
"I have had some means of observation," he replied, "but I have seen nothing to wean me from this spot, and from my friends here."
"Your friends are obliged to you for the compliment."
"I did not intend the remark as a compliment." Again there was an interval of silence. "I have been absent four years," said Mason, as though speaking to himself, "and I am not conscious of any change, so far as my feelings are concerned. The same persons and things which I then loved, I love now. The same views of life which I then cherished I cherish now."
"Experience and knowledge of the world," said Emily, "ought to give wisdom."
"I am so perverse as to regard it as wisdom to hold on to the dreams of our early days."
"Our views ought, it seems to me, to change as we grow older."
"I am not sure that we ought to grow old, so far as our feelings are concerned."
"You would engage in the vain effort to retain the dews and freshness of morning, after the sun has arisen with a burning heat."
"I believe the dew of our youth may be preserved even until old age."
"I am surprised that acquaintance with the world has not corrected your views of life. One would think that you had lived in entire seclusion."
"I am surprised that the romantic, warm-hearted Emily Earl should become the worldly-wise lecturer of her cousin."
"We had better speak upon some other subject. Had you a pleasant voyage homeward?"
"Yes. It could not be otherwise, when my face was toward 'my own, my native land,' and the friends so fresh in my remembrance."
A slight shade of displeasure flitted across Emily's features. She made no remark.
"Where is Susan Grey?" said Mason.
"She is dead."
"Indeed! She was just my own age. She was a single-hearted girl."
"She often inquired for you. You never fancied yourself in love with her?"
"No. Why that question?"
"She was under the impression that we were engaged, and seemed quite relieved when I informed her that she was mistaken."
"What has become of Mary Carver?"
"She is married, and lives in that house," pointing to a miserable hut near at hand.
"Is it possible?"
"Her husband is intemperate. It was a clandestine marriage—a love match, you know."
"Was her husband intemperate when she married him?"
"Not habitually so. He was so very romantic and devoted to her; so that, I suppose, she thought she could reform him."
"What has become of Mr. Ralston, your old friend?" admirer, he would have said, but he deemed it unwise.
"He is a lawyer here, in a small way. I believe they think of sending him to Congress."
"Is he married?"
"No."
"I thought he seemed to be attached to you; at least I hoped that he would become my cousin."
"I will answer your questions in regard to others—my own affairs do not require remark."
This rebuke, so unlike any thing he had ever received from his cousin, led him to fix his gaze upon her countenance, as if to make sure of her identity. There could be no mistake. There was the same brilliant eye, the same faultless features on which he had gazed in former years. A conciliating smile led him to resume his inquiries.
"Is Eliza Austin married?" His voice, as he asked this question, was far from natural, perhaps in consequence of the agitation which the rebuke just spoken of had occasioned.
"No; she lives somewhere in the village, I don't know exactly where."
"Do you ever see her?"
"Yes; she lives with her aunt, who sometimes washes for us, so that I see her niece occasionally."
"Why does she live with her aunt?"
"Her mother died soon after you went away."
"Eliza still lives in the village, then?" To this very unnecessary question his cousin bowed in reply. Few words more passed between them during the remainder of their walk.
"You do not stay out as late as you used to do," said Mrs. Earl, as they entered the parlor.
"We are no longer children," said Emily. Mason could scarcely repress an audible sigh, as those words fell from her lips. At an early hour, he repaired to his chamber.