“For that very reason,” replied Meta, laughing heartily at my fright and astonishment, “you are just the very one; and that is why I have selected you. This paragon lover of mine dislikes ceremony as much as I do. He is perfectly unexceptionable; when I tell you his name, you will admit that he is. If he had addressed Tettie, I know she would have had him—that is, if the rich Mr. Folwell had not come in the way; but, thank Heaven, he did not want Tettie!”
“Then why do you need any assistance, Meta?” I asked, in a perplexed tone.
“Because we wish to have our courtship perfectly unsuspected,” she answered. “Charles Morris—there, you see I have made no bad selection—Charles is a little embarrassed just now; some unfortunate speculations and business matters entangle him. Our engagement may last a year, and I never could endure hearing Aunt Margaret announce with such self-complacency, that her niece, Miss Meta Hallowell, was engaged, actually engaged, here, at the commencement of her first season. If we were to be married now, within a month or so, I would endeavor to bear it, but to bear it at every dinner-party, every morning visit, and every soirée, would surely kill me, and put an end to all Charles’s prospects of future happiness. Our plan is this, to keep perfectly quiet until his affairs are en traine, then announce our intention of marriage to Tettie and Aunt Margaret, just immediately before the ceremony, and thus avoid all talk and interference. But poor Charles says he cannot exist without seeing me once in a while as a lover, so with your permission we will chance to meet here now and then. I know he has a calling acquaintance with you—there lies his card uppermost on your card-basket.”
“Yes,” I replied. “He called yesterday. I did not know his call was intended to prepare the way for such a momentous affair as this.”
“But you will help me, Enna, pet, will you not?” said Meta, coaxingly. “There is no impropriety in it, prude”—and I consented. It was wrong, I know; mysteries and concealments rarely turn out well, and are always injudicious; but I was very young, entirely my own mistress, for my dear old father and Aunt Mary fancied I had the judgment of a woman of forty; and, moreover, I could not refuse any thing to dear Meta. I had not liked Mr. Morris heretofore; true, he was, as Meta had said, “perfectly unexceptionable,” being a young merchant of good standing in society, and having the reputation of some wealth. I knew very well that there was no fear of Mrs. Hunsdon objecting to him; but to me he had always seemed too bland, too artificial; he never, by any chance forgot himself; then I had heard a gossiping story about him, although I did not respect the source from whence it had proceeded, still it had prejudiced me against him. I had been told by a scandal-loving connection of ours, that Mr. Morris, a year before, had addressed a Miss Wilson, and would have eloped with her had not her friends interposed. This Miss Wilson was an ugly, red-haired heiress, with little brains, excessive vulgarity, but an immense estate. She was entirely out of the set of his associates, and if he had addressed her, it had been from mercenary motives. But now that I heard Meta’s account of her engagement with him, I dismissed Kate Holton’s story from my mind as a contemptible gossiping falsehood, which I should have been ashamed of listening to, and endeavored to find him as agreeable and good as dear Meta said he was.
During the ensuing winter, Meta and Mr. Morris met repeatedly at our house. We rarely received company in the evenings, therefore, they were always sure of being undisturbed. It was my father’s custom to retire early, and my good Aunt Mary is by nature unsuspicious and innocent as a child. She and I would sit in the library, sewing and knitting, listening to Meta’s merry talk; then, after Mr. Morris would join the circle, I generally proposed music, which made an excuse for Meta and her lover to go into the drawing-room, which opened on my library. Meta was a good musician, she played very finely, and had a beautiful voice. I used to declare the music sounded better from the library; so by this little piece of management on my part, the lovers were left together. After a few pieces, the music ceased, and for an hour or more their low, murmuring conversation would come soothingly on my ear like the sound of sweet melody. I used to smile as I would look around me. We would have made a pretty picture if that sweet music of loving voices could have been made visible on the canvas. I was the only observing, conscious one of the circle, for dear Aunt Mary was as unconscious as Zoe and Flirt, the little hound and pet kitten that napped comfortably on either side of the library fire. My aunt in her large easy-chair and reading-stand before her, while her knitting-needles fairly flew, would be completely absorbed in some work of fiction, her greatest delight, never dreaming that a real love-story was progressing under her eyes. She has always been an inveterate novel reader, this same Aunt Mary; but I must say for her, that this taste, so pernicious to many, preventing them from performing their daily duties with interest, making real life tame for them, has had no bad effect upon her—a more industrious, excellent woman never breathed; and it has often amused me that, although she dotes upon love-stories on paper, and can follow patiently and unwearyingly the written account of the most intricate romance, love in real life possesses but little interest for her. She breathes a different atmosphere while reading—seems in another state of existence, which completely vanishes so soon as the book is laid aside; and she takes up life and life’s duties in the most matter-of-fact, conscientious manner imaginable. I often wonder what she does with all the love stories she reads, for she never makes use of them in every day affairs; and even when a real little bit of romance which has taken place in actual life is pointed out to her, she is entirely wanting in sympathetic appreciation, regarding it as quite absurd.
The winter passed quickly on. The only event of moment that occurred was Meta’s rejection of Mr. Lawson. How Mrs. Hunsdon stormed, and the haughty Mrs. Folwell lectured, and I could not help regretting it myself—Mr. Lawson was so gentlemanly, so good. I knew it would have been far better for Meta to have loved him; his influence over her impressible nature would have been so beneficial; and when by chance once or twice I met him in company with Meta, and noticed his serious, grieved countenance, my conscience felt smitten, and in sadness I would compare him with Charles Morris, the comparison being any thing but flattering to the latter.
The spring opened upon my pair of lovers, who were still as adoring as ever. One thing I do remember as strange, and at the time it annoyed me, although I felt at the time as we do in dreams, not able to express or even realize the actual annoyance. Although Mr. Morris knew, could not help knowing, that I was fully aware of his engagement with Meta, he never once spoke openly about it to me, never hinted at it; and two or three times, when other unavoidable engagements prevented Meta from joining him at the appointed time, and on his coming in the evening, I would hand him Meta’s note of excuse, containing a love poulet for him, he would read it without remark, and, to my surprise, stay the accustomed time, entertaining Aunt Mary and myself as if he had come for that purpose. That clever authoress, Mrs. Grey, makes one of her heroines express an opinion, that certainly does apply to such men us Charles Morris. She says, “I have the highest opinion of men’s honor amongst themselves, but you may depend upon it, there is very little in the case where we women, with our interests and affections are concerned.”
The traveling season came on; and Mr. Morris promised to meet Meta at the fashionable watering-place she was going to with her aunt and Mrs. Folwell; but the season passed without his doing so—business, he said, had prevented him; and when Meta returned in the fall, she looked pale, dispirited and unhappy.
“I could not hear from Charles,” she said, “without exciting suspicion. Had you been in town, Enna, he would have written through you; but as it was, I had to pass the weary season without any intelligence from him. Nine unhappy weeks have they been, and truly, I think, even the horror I used to have of Aunt Margaret’s fuss and bustle over my engagement, has almost vanished. I think I could bear with it better than this misery of silence and separation.”