Ten Thousand a-Year. Volume 1.

by Samuel Warren

Sits she crown'd
Beneath a pictured dome?
But there Ambition keeps his ground,
And Fear and Envy skulk around;
This cannot be her home.

III.

Will she hide
In scholar's pensive cell?
But he already hath his bride:
Him Melancholy sits beside—
With her she may not dwell.

IV.

Now and then,
Peace, wandering, lays her head
On regal couch, in captive's den—
But nowhere finds she rest with men,
Or only with the dead!

To these words, trembling on the beautiful lips of Miss Aubrey, was listening an unperceived auditor, with eyes devouring her every feature, and ears absorbing every tone of her thrilling voice. It was young Delamere, who had, only a moment or two before Miss Aubrey had commenced singing the above lines, alighted from his father's carriage, which was then waiting at the door to carry off Lord De la Zouch to the House of Lords. Arrested by the rich voice of the singer, he stopped short before he had entered the drawing-room in which she sat, and stepping to a corner where he was hid from view, though he could distinctly see Miss Aubrey, there he remained as if rooted to the spot. He, too, had a soul for music; and the exquisite manner in which Miss Aubrey gave the last verse, called up before his excited fancy the vivid image of a dove fluttering with agitated uncertainty over the sea of human life; even like the dove over the waters enveloping the earth in olden time. The mournful minor into which she threw the last two lines, excited a heart susceptible of the liveliest emotions to a degree which it required some effort to control, and almost a tear to relieve. When Miss Aubrey had quitted the piano, Mrs. Aubrey followed, and gave a very delicate sonata from Haydn. Then sat down Lady Lydsdale, and dashed off, in an exceedingly brilliant style, a scena from the new opera, which quickly reduced the excited feelings of Delamere to a pitch admitting of his presenting himself! While this lowering process was going on, Delamere took down a small volume from a tasteful little cabinet of books immediately behind him. It was Spenser's Faery Queen. He found many pencil-marks, evidently made by a light female hand; and turning to the fly-leaf, beheld the name of "Catherine Aubrey." His heart fluttered; he turned towards the piano, and beheld the graceful figure of Miss Aubrey standing beside Lady Lydsdale, in an attitude of delighted earnestness—for her ladyship was undoubtedly a very brilliant performer—totally unconscious of the admiring eye which was fixed upon her. After gazing at her for some moments, he gently pressed the autograph to his lips; and solemnly vowed within himself, in the most deliberate manner possible, that if he could not marry Kate Aubrey, he would never marry anybody; he would, moreover, quit England forever; and deposit a broken heart in a foreign grave—and so forth. Thus calmly resolved—or rather to such a resolution did his thoughts tend—that sedate person, the Honorable Geoffrey Lovel Delamere. He was a high-spirited, frank-hearted fellow; and, like a good-natured fool, whom bitter knowledge of the world has not cooled down into contempt for a very considerable portion of it, trusted and loved almost every one whom he saw. At that moment there was only one person in the whole world that he hated, viz. the miserable individual—if any such there were—who might have happened to forestall him in the affections of Miss Aubrey. The bare idea made his breath come and go quickly, and his cheek flush. Why, he felt that he had a sort of right to Miss Aubrey's heart; for had they not been born, and had they not lived almost all their lives, within a few miles of each other? Had they not often played together?—were not their family estates almost contiguous?—Delamere advanced into the room, assuming as unconcerned an air as he could; but he felt not a little tried when Miss Aubrey, on seeing him, gayly and frankly extended her hand to him, supposing him to have only the moment before entered the house. Poor Delamere's hand slightly quivered as he felt it clasping the soft lilied fingers of her whom he had thus resolved to make his wife: what would he not have given to have carried them to his lips! Now, if I were to say that in the course of that evening, Miss Aubrey did not form a kind—of a sort—of a faint—notion of the possible state of matters with young Delamere, I should not be treating the reader with that eminent degree of candor for which I think he, or she, is at present disposed to give me credit. But Kate was deeply skilled in human nature, and promptly settled the matter by one very just reflection, viz. that Delamere was, in contemplation of law, a mere infant—i. e. he wanted yet several weeks of twenty-one! and, therefore, that it was not likely that, &c. &c. &c. And, besides—pooh!—pooh!—'t is a mere boy, at College—how ridiculous!—So she gave herself no trouble about the affair; exhibited no symptoms of caution or coyness, but conducted herself just as if he had not been present.

He was a handsome young fellow, too!——

During the evening, Mr. Delamere took an opportunity of asking Miss Aubrey who wrote the verses to which he pointed, as they lay on the piano. The handwriting, she said, was hers, but the verses were composed by her brother. He asked for the copy, with a slight trepidation. She readily gave it to him—he receiving it with (as he supposed) a mighty unconcerned air. He read it over that night, before getting into bed, at least six times; and it was the very first thing he looked at on getting out of bed in the morning. Now Miss Aubrey certainly wrote an elegant hand—but as for character, of course it had none. He could scarcely have distinguished it from the writing of any of his cousins or friends;—How should he? All women are taught the same hard, angular, uniform style—but good, bad, or indifferent, this was Kate Aubrey's handwriting—and her pretty hand had rested on the paper while writing—that was enough. He resolved to turn the verses into every kind of Greek and Latin metre he knew of—

In short, that here was a "course of true love" opened, seems pretty evident: but whether it will "run smooth" is another matter.

Their guests having at length departed, Mr. Aubrey, his wife, and sister, soon afterwards rose to retire. He went, very sleepy, straight to his dressing-room; they to the nursery—(a constant and laudable custom with them)—to see how the children were going on, as far as could be learned from the drowsy attendants of the aforesaid children. Little Aubrey would have reminded you of one of the exquisite sketches of children's heads by Reynolds or Lawrence, as he lay breathing imperceptibly, with his rich flowing hair spread upon the pillow, in which his face was partly hid, and his arms stretched out. Mrs. Aubrey put her finger into one of his hands, which was half open, and which closed as it were instinctively upon it, with a gentle pressure. "Look—only look—Kate!" softly whispered Mrs. Aubrey. Miss Aubrey leaned forward and kissed his little cheek with an ardor which almost awoke him. After a glance at a tiny head partly visible above the clothes, in an adjoining bed, and looking like a rosebud almost entirely hid among the leaves, they withdrew.