CHAPTER III.
CONTAINING SOME CONFESSIONS NOT INTENDED FOR THE PUBLIC EAR.
Miss Marcia Sandford, after breakfast, was sitting in her chamber with her widowed sister-in-law, who had come to spend a few months with her late husband's family. The widow no longer wore the roses of youth, but was yet on friendly terms with Time; indeed, so quietly had their annual settlements passed off, that it would have puzzled any one not in their confidence to tell how the account stood. The simplicity of her dress, the chastened look, and the sobriety of phrase, of which her recent affliction was the cause, might have hinted at thirty-five; but when her clear, placid eye was turned upon you, and you saw the delicate flush deepening or vanishing upon a smooth cheek, and noted the changeful expression that hovered like a spiritual presence around her mouth, it would have been treason to think of a day beyond twenty. She had known but little of Marcia, and that little had shown her only as a lover of dress and of admiration, besides being capricious to a degree unusual even in a spoiled favorite.
A musical soirée was under consideration. Marcia was a proficient upon the harp and piano, and, as she had heard that Mr. Greenleaf, the handsome painter, as she called him, was a fine singer, she determined to practise some operatic duets with him, that should move all her musical friends to envy.
"You seem to have taken a strong liking to this Mr. Greenleaf, Marcia."
"Yes, Lydia," replied the beauty, "I do like him, exceedingly,—what I have seen of him. He will do—for a month or so. People are frequently quite charming at first, like fresh bouquets,—but dull and tame enough when the dew is off."
"But you can't have a new admirer, as you have fresh flowers, every day."
"That's true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true."
"What a female Bluebeard you are!"
"Wouldn't you, now, like to meet some new, delightful person every day? Consider how prosaic a man is, after you know all about him."
"I always find something new in a man really worth knowing."
"Do you? I wish I could. I always look them through as I used to my toys. I never cared for my 'crying babies,' after I found out what made them squeak."
"I am afraid the comparison will hold out farther than you intended. You were never satisfied with your toys until you had not only explored their machinery, but smashed them into the bargain."
"But men stand it better than toys. If they get smashed, as you say, they heal wonderfully. I sometimes think, that, like lobsters, they can repair their injuries by new growths,—fresh claws, and fins, and feelers."
"Complimentary, truly! but I notice that you don't speak of vital organs."
"Hearts, you mean, I suppose. That is an obsolete idea,—a relic of superstition."
"But how many of these broken idols have you thrown aside, Marcia? Have you kept account?"
"Dear me! no! Why should I?"
"It would be interesting, I think, to a student of social statistics, to know how many engagements there are to one marriage, how many offers to one engagement, how many flirtations to one offer, and how many tender advances to one flirtation."
"Oh, Lydia! Love and Arithmetic! they never went together. I leave all calculations to my wise and busy brother. I like to wander like a hummingbird, that keeps no account of the flowercups it has sipped out of."
"Let us reckon. I can help you, perhaps. I have heard you talk of half a dozen. There is Colonel Langford,—one."
"Handsome, proud, and shallow. Let him go!"
"There is Lieutenant Allen,—two."
"Fierce, impatient, and exacting. He can go also. I had as lief be loved by a lion."
"Next is Mr. Lanman,—three."
"Wily, plausible, passionate, and treacherous. He is only a cat in a new sphere of existence."
"Then there is Denims,—I am not sure about the order,—four."
"Rich, vain, and stupid;—there never was such a dolt."
"But you kept him for a longer time than usual."
"Yes, rather; but he was too dull to understand my ironical compliments, or to resent my studied neglect."
"Jaunegant makes five."
"Oh, the precious crony of my brother Charles! The best specimen of the dandy race. The man who gives so much love to himself and his clothes, that he has none to spare for any one else. But, Lydia, this is tedious; we shall never get through at this rate. Besides," with a mock-sentimental air, "you have not been here long enough to know the melancholy history,—to count the wrecks that are strewn along the coast, where the Siren resorts. Let me take up the list. Corning, who really loved me, (six,) and went to sea to cure the heart-ache. I heard of him in State Street a month ago,—with a blue shirt and leather belt, and chewing a piece of tobacco as large as his thumb. He seemed happy as a king."
"I saw a kind of tobacco advertised as 'The Solace';—the name was given by some disappointed swain, I suppose."
"Probably," said Marcia, smiling. "Then there was Outrack, (seven,) who was so furious at the refusal, that he immediately married the gay Miss Flutter Budget, forty-five, short, stout, and fifty thousand dollars,—he twenty-six, tall, slender, and some distant expectations. I heard him, at a party, call her 'Dear'!"
"I don't think you get on any faster than I did. We shall have to finish the tour of the portrait-gallery another day."
"You are not tired? I wanted to tell you of several more. Yet I don't know why I should. I declare to you seriously, that I never before mentioned the names of these persons in this way, nor referred to them as rejected lovers."
"I have no doubt of it. It has seemed like a fresh, spontaneous confession."
"There is some magic about you, Sister Lydia. You invite confidence; or rather, you seem to be like one of those chemical agents that penetrate everything; there's no resisting you. Don't protest. I know what you would say. It isn't your curiosity. You are no Paulina Pry; if you were, precious little you would get from me."
"But, Marcia, let me return a moment to what you were saying. Did the reason never occur to you, why you so soon become tired of your admirers? You see through them, you say. Is it not possible that a lady who has the reputation of caprice,—a flirt, as the world is apt to call her,—though ever so brilliant, witty, and accomplished, may not attract the kind of men that can bear scrutiny, but only the butterfly race, fit for a brief acquaintance? Believe me, Marcia, there is a reason for everything, and, with all your beauty and fascination, you must yourself have the element of constancy, to win the admiration of the best and worthiest men."
"So, you are going to preach?" said Marcia, rather crestfallen.
"No, I don't preach. But what I see, I ought to tell you; I should not be a good sister otherwise."
"I'll think about it. But now for the musical party. I mean to send for Mr. Greenleaf, to practise some songs and duets. He is not a butterfly, I am sure."
"But, Marcia, is it well, is it right, for you to try to fascinate this new friend of yours, unless you feel something more than a transient interest in him?"
"How can I tell what interest I shall feel in him, until I know him better?"
"But you know his circumstances and his prospects. You are not the woman to marry a poor painter. You have too many wants; or rather, you have become accustomed to luxuries that now seem to be necessaries."
"True, I haven't the romance for love in a cottage. But a painter is not necessarily a bad match; if he doesn't become rich, he may be distinguished. And besides, no one knows what will happen from the beginning of an acquaintance. We will enjoy the sunshine of to-day; and if to-morrow brings a darker sky, we must console ourselves as we can."
"What an Epicurean! Well, Marcia, you are not a child; you must act for yourself."
Marcia made no reply, but sat down to her desk to write a note; and her sister-in-law soon after went to her own room.
During all this conversation, Mrs. Sandford was struck by the tone which the beautiful coquette assumed. Her words were aptly chosen, her sentences smoothly constructed; she never hesitated; and there was an ever-present air of consciousness, that left no conviction of sincerity. Whether she uttered sentiments of affection, or sharp criticism upon character, there was the same level flow of language, the same nicely modulated intonation. There was no flash of enthusiasm, none of those outbursts in which the hearer feels sure that the heart has spoken. Mrs. Sandford was thoroughly puzzled. Marcia had never been otherwise than kind; in fact; she seemed to be studiously careful of the feelings of others, except when her position as reigning belle made it necessary to cut a dangler. This methodical speech and unruffled grace of manner might be only the result of discipline. Truth and honesty might exist as well under this artificial exterior as in a more impulsive nature. But the world generally thinks that whoever habitually wears a smiling mask has some secret end to serve thereby. "I like this painter, Greenleaf," she soliloquized, "and I mean to look out for him. I am persuaded that Marcia would never marry him; and I think he is too sensitive, too manly, to be a fit subject for her experiments."