Thus, then, stood the case; I was desperately, irremediably in love with this young girl; ready for any venture to win her, but uncertain how to commence an acquaintance, for I was not even among the privileged number of her visiters. We lodged under the same roof; we sat at the same table, though at different ends of it; but I knew no one of whom I could ask an introduction to her; and I felt, alas! that my position in life did not quite entitle me to enter the list of her suitors without such formalities as might smooth over a surprise. I was a painter; rising in my profession, it is true, and numbering many friends, but as yet, having fortune only in prospect. Mrs. Elwyn, for that was the name of the mother of my charmer, was independent, though not rich; and having in early life moved much in fashionable society, and been much admired, was very proud, and would scarcely have owned among her acquaintances one who depended on the labor of hands or head for a maintenance. Neither she nor her daughter ever entered the common drawing-room; and those of the lodgers who knew her slightly, spoke of her as distant and unsocial, except to the favored few whom she thought worth cultivating, on account of their possession of worldly advantages. She was precisely the sort of woman on whom I would never have wasted an act of courtesy, had she been the mother of any other daughter. But in the fair Gertrude there was such a bewitching unconsciousness of her own superiority, such an appealing eloquence in silence, to the sympathy of those around her—such an air of child-like humility, mingled with just enough of the graceful pride of woman, as completed the fascination her beauty had begun, and inspired one with a wish to please even her repulsive parent. I saw her not only at meals, but occasionally out of the house, at concerts or the Opera. To me she was the soul of the music, and the finest symphony of Beethoven would have been lifeless without her. At church I met her now and then, and sometimes walking; but Mrs. Elwyn never vouchsafed me the most distant bow of recognition. She seemed by intuition to guess my bold wishes and frown upon them. Gertrude was always modestly looking down; but at intervals the fringe of her blue eyes would be suddenly lifted, disclosing a world of witchery beneath, to be quickly veiled again, as if she knew she was transgressing. It was the evidence of this consciousness on her part that fanned my love continually into a brighter flame, and caused me to revolve various expedients to secure to myself the enjoyment of her society.
I thought of painting her picture as she sat embroidering at the window, and sending it as a present to the mother; but I lacked as yet, sufficient confidence in my talent for the art, in which I was but a student, and the terror of her condemnation, both of the artist and the lover, was too formidable to be encountered. A dread of her cold penetration prevented me also from putting in execution a cherished project; that of offering my services to teach the beautiful Gertrude Italian, which I knew she wished to acquire. The very day I had mustered up courage to resolve on the experiment, I heard that Mrs. Elwyn had hired a teacher—a dark-visaged, whiskered fellow, whom, from that moment, I wished in the dungeons of Spielberg.
Was there ever a more hopeless case of love; yet I was not unhappy, for I had the privilege of seeing her, unawed by fear of interruption; and my passion was not yet so encrusted with selfishness that it demanded more. I lived in the present, and hope colored the future with rosy light; even the feeling of disappointment was but momentary. I almost dreaded a change, though I knew this could not satisfy me long, and that a wilder, more impetuous, and less amiable stage was to follow. Already the first sweet, sparkling foam of the cup had been quaffed; beneath was that which bewilders the brain and steals away the senses.
I had been reading one night till past midnight—for strangely enough, I had a taste for novels after the beginning of the romance of my life—when my attention was arrested by hearing a carriage stop in the street before the door. Presently the bell rang, not very gently. A short pause, and it was again rung; while I was conscious of a twinge of sympathy for the late comer; for the night was piercing cold, and the wind came in hoarse blasts, rattling the window-panes, and sending a chill through the bones. The contrast offered by my snug apartment, with its crimson curtains and chintz-covered sofa, and the dying glow of the embers thrown on the Venetian rug, was peculiarly suggestive of ideas of comfort. I thought how hard it must be for the porter to be summoned out of his warm bed in the little chamber at the back of the court, and judged the applicant for admission at such an hour justly punished by delay.
Again, and again, and yet again sounded the bell, each time with a more prolonged and angry pull, as if the person at the door, with patience exhausted, was resolved to take the house by storm. A thought darted like lightning through my brain. I had seen Miss Elwyn that evening, in full dress, passing with her mother through the hall. They had gone to a party—they had returned late. I sprung to the window—threw it open; and sure enough, though it was too dark to distinguish any object, I heard with sufficient distinctness the shrill, complaining tones of the mother.
By good luck I was still dressed, and I lost not an instant. Snatching up the light, I hastened down two flights of stairs, to the front door. My heart beat; my breath came quickly; I felt as if the crisis of my life were at hand. I should meet her face to face; I should speak to her—should render a service that demanded acknowledgment, and might open for me a vista of happiness; I grasped the handle of the door, and with trembling hands unlocked and opened it; there was a rush of wind, and—my light was extinguished.
“You sleep like a night-watcher, sir!” screamed the angry voice of Mrs. Elwyn, as she pushed her way in. “To keep us standing half an hour in the cold! We might have caught our death! You deserve to lose your place; I shall make complaint of you in the morning, depend upon it.”
While she spoke, the daughter’s silken mantle brushed past me, and her gloved fingers pressed something into my hand. I had no time to explain; I could not have uttered a word; my breath seemed to forsake me, and my silly bashfulness held me motionless, as if chained to the spot. I stood there till the ladies had ascended the first flight of stairs—the mamma grumbling as she went—still grasping mechanically in my hand what the fair Gertrude had placed therein. Ere long, however, my self-possession returned; I ascended to my room, lighted the candle, and examined the gift. My beloved had presented me with half a dollar.
It was quite evident that both had mistaken me for the unlucky porter, at that time snoring in his dormitory; and that the gentle girl had bestowed the coin by way of consolation for her mother’s chiding. I kissed the piece of silver which had come from her hand, and was a token of the benevolence of her heart. A ray of hope gleamed from its polished face. The matter must necessarily be explained; the mistake must be rectified. This would lead to an interview; and I would trust fortune for the rest.
After due deliberation, I came to the conclusion that as the affair in some points wore a comical aspect, it would be best to present it in that light. I took my pencil and hammered out some poetry, which was to be sent with the half dollar to the fair donor. Under the veil of a sprightly and facetious effusion, I thought, more could be said, than in a grave note; and no offence could be taken at verses meant for a jeu d’esprit, describing the feeling experienced when the coin touched my palm, as “shocking”—which word terminated the line—imperative necessity called for a rhyme—it ran as follows: