Yes; but there were other sounds––the low, sweet tones of women’s voices––inside the villa of Escondido. Two lovely matrons were sitting within that lofty saloon, hand clasped in hand, and gazing with glowing pride upon a lovely girl, who waved lithe as a lily on its stem before them.
It is about seventeen years since we last saw this charming trio. And now look at them, old bachelors, and tell me if, while old Time has been scraping the hair off your own selfish heads, and pinching the noses, too, of the ancient maids beside you, has not the scything old wretch spared these lovely matrons? Look at their rounded forms, those soft dimpled cheeks, and those bands of brown tresses, kissing the pear-shaped ears before they are looped up in one magnificent knot of satin at the back of the head. Look at them, you miserable old procrastinators, and then kneel down before the ancient damsels you have sneered at, even if they have the pelican gout and a crow’s-foot at the corners of their eyes! They are better than you are, any day; so bear a hand, send for the parson––and now stand back.
But come here, my young gallants, and take a peep at that Bordelaise demoiselle standing before those fair matrons. Strange to say, she is nearly a blonde, with large blue eyes, so very blue that––fringed with lashes that cast a shade over the cheek––they seem almost black. Then, too, that low, pure forehead, with great plaits of hair going round and round her elegant head like a golden turban, 233 and thin hoops of rings quivering in the pearl-tipped ears. Tall and waving in figure, as maidens are; with slim, arched feet, dimpled at the ankle; and round, tapering fingers too, with a wrist so plump and soft that no manacles of bracelets could press it without slipping off the ivory hand. Dressed she was in a light mousseline, coyly cowering in loose folds around her budding bosom to the slender waist, where, clasped by a simple buckle of mother-o’-pearl, it fell flowing in gauzy, floating waves to her feet. Look at her, my gallants, for she is Rosalie!
“They are coming to-day, my aunt; and Uncle Jules says that our dear old Captain Blunt has just arrived at Kingston, and is coming with them.”
“What else, my daughter?”
The girl held a letter before her face, maybe to hide a little blush which suffused her cheeks.
“Why, mamma, he writes that the spring-cart, with Banou, was to start overnight with the ‘traps’––that means trunks, I suppose––and that––”
“What, Rosalie?”
“That there is a handsome young officer, the nephew of Commodore Cleveland––merci, mamma! some of Uncle Jules’s nonsense!”
No such great nonsense, after all, mademoiselle, when your uncle Piron tells you to keep that fluttering little heart safe within your bodice, for there are thieves in blue jackets in the island of Jamaica. Strange, too, as she spoke––with her animated face, large blue eyes, and graceful, wavy figure––how much she resembled both those lovely women, with their darker coloring, who sat smiling sweetly upon her.