Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

I.

ANNIE AT THE CORNER:

FROM A WINDOW.

THE HISTORY OF A HEART.

AM not a married man, and I do

I not think that all my lady acquaint

ances are angels; consequently, I am a miserable old bachelor.

There is absolutely no doubt upon the subject, I am informed by my friends; and so, because I think that something more than the want of wings distinguishes the fair from the other class, and because I spend my life in a suit of apartments, undisturbed by the musical laughter of children-for these reasons, as I have said, I am a crusty, musty, miserable old unmarried misanthrope.

I have been substantially notified of the fact more than once, by Miss Tabitha Ringgold, who lives in the handsome house opposite; and though I am charitable, my friend, I should not be surprised if that fair lady were, at the present moment, directing her private spy-glass into my chamber from behind her white curtain, a corner of which is, I perceive, slightly raised: I would not be at all surprised if Miss Tabitha were there, looking through the open window here, and lamenting the failure of science to discover ear-trumpets, such as might be used to catch a distant conversation.

Miss Tabitha often arranges herself in her best finery, and leans from the window, with nods and smiles, and silent invitations to come in, when I chance to pass. I do not accept these invitations often, as you will understand, if you listen further; but sometimes I do go over, and take a hand at whist in the small parlor; in consequence of which, I am considered, I believe, an admirer of Miss Tabitha, and more than once my cynical and discourteous bachelor companions have gone so far as to declare, that Miss Tabitha has long been engaged in the pleasing occupation of setting her maiden cap at me and my six per cents. Of course I do not give any credit to these scandalous jests and rumors, and I invariably reprove Bob when he gives utterance to them. There is, of course, no truth in the charge, and I'm glad of it. I regret to say that, even if there were not

other objections, I would not solicit the honor of a matrimonial alliance with Miss Tabitha-my affections being engaged.

Ah! do you start a little? Do you look at me with astonishment, and ask, with your eloquent eyes, if I am not uttering a pleasant jest? I engaged— you seem to say with a change of the pronoun--I, the incorrigible old bachelor, the woman-hater, the misanthrope, the miserable, disagreeable, outrageous, old curmudgeon! My affections engaged, when the utmost inquisition of feminine curiosity eternally on the watch, has never discovered the least loop to hang a report upon? Well, my dear friend, perhaps there is some ground for surprise, and your astonishment is not singular. My engagement is certainly not exactly what the world would call binding -and yet it binds me. Such things must frequently result in a matrimonial alliance between the man and the woman

at least sometimes: now, my engagement will not probably have any such termination. Gossips talk about Corydon, when he goes constantly to visit Chloe, in glossy patent leathers, a flowery waistcoat, hair elegantly curled, and a perfumed handkerchief gently waved in a diamond-decorated hand. They talk a great deal about that young man, and the talk rises into a hubbub, when the watchful eyes perceive the youth finally emerging from the mansion of his love, with beaming eyes, and nose raised high aloft with triumph, while Chloe sends a golden smile toward him as he goes, from behind the curtain of the drawing-room. The gossips, I say, talk about Corydon's engagement for a month thereafter; but the most inveterate and ferocious tattle never occupies itself with my little affair.

I never speak of it, and the object of my affections preserves silence, too; and not even Miss Tabitha suspects our little arrangement. If I tell you all about it now, good friend of many years, I do so, because 'tis scarcely loyal to our friendship to have aught of reserve; but, above all, because my burden of thought and feeling cries aloud for utterance.

I linger on the threshold-let me lin

ger a moment longer yet, and ask you, if I have never seemed eccentric to you? Often in passing to your counting-house, you send me a friendly nod as I lean from my window in the sunshine; and, doubtless, you go on to your arduous toils, thinking what a happy fellow I am to afford to be idle, when you and your whole establishment will all day be struggling to balance the books of the firm. You honestly consider me idle at such moments: my friend, I am never busier. You think me solitary: I am surrounded by companions. The street may be wholly deserted; the public square yonder may not tempt a single child to enjoy its green sward and shadow-Miss Tabitha even may be busy at her invisible toilet, and her window deserted-yet I am not alone.

When the real figures of actual, living personages appear, however, they do not, by any means, disturb my reverie. I am not at war with my kind, but often find in the forms of men, women, and children what pleases me, and heightens the zest of my recollections.

I lean upon the sill of my window, and, thrumming idly with my fingers, scan the different wayfarers with smiling attention. I see my friend Dives with his jingling watch-seals, his creaking boots, his spotless shirt bosom, and his dignified look, go by to his warehouse, saluted respectfully by the heads of our two 66 first families"-the Scribes and Pharisees-who sometimes invite me to their palaces up town. And, as Dives disappears like a moving bank round the corner, I perceive Lazarus, with his maimed limbs, swinging himself by, on his hands, inserted in wooden glovesthe shadow of his low figure mingling with that of Dives. Of course I do not know Lazarus, as I move in good society yet I am glad to see him with his cheerful smile on his pale, thin face; and when he passes on this side of the street, I sometimes drop slily a piece of money into his bosom, and laugh to myself, as I draw back, fancying his puzzled expression. I related this incident at dinner, the other day, to my friend Dives and his guests; but he raised the question, whether such things were advisable, the public charities being amply sufficient for meritorious sufferers; while individual relief encouraged pauperism and idleness.

"But, my dear Dives," I said with a smile, " suppose the coin which I dropped bought some small articles for the children of Lazarus, and so gave them pleasure far greater than any I could have enjoyed by spending the money?"

"The principle in the thing," replied my friend, sipping his claret and shaking his head, "the principle is bad. As members of society, we are bound to observe the laws of society; and as, in a state of society, we must be governed by the rules and regulations of that society, so I think, as a member of that society, you were rather bound to have this individual sent to prison, as a vagrant on society, than to encourage him in what must eventually render it necessary to make an example of him for the good of society."

Those were the words of Dives; and, as my friend the Reverend A. Caiphas asked me at the moment to take wine, the discussion was not resumed. I am obstinate, nevertheless, and shall probably continue to outrage the rules and regulations of "society," if the whim seizes me, when Lazarus passes beneath my window.

I am running on pretty much at random, and shall not, at this rate, get to my story. But I take so much interest in my window observations, that I am led to weary you with them. A word more, and I shall get regularly to my

narrative.

Besides Dives and Lazarus, I see many other figures pass on the street. I see Strephon go by in the tightest boots, the finest kid gloves, and the glossiest hat, escorting Miss Almira, the daughter of old Two-per-cent; and I stand, or rather lean, in silent admiration of her gorgeous appearance, as she sails by, rustling in silks and satins, with a bird of paradise upon her bonnet. She has chosen to walk on account of the sunshine, and the great carriage, with its liveried driver and footman, rolls by, unoccupied. It is a pity that the poor girl yonder slinking round the corner, and looking so faint and weak, cannot ride a little in it; and I fancy Strephon might procure this favor for her, as the weak girl exchanges a look with him, which seems to indicate acquaintance. The three figures pass on, and disappear; but somehow, the look of the pale, weak girl dwells in my memory, and haunts me. Well, I weary you, good friend, and another

word ends my window pictures. In addition to the figures I have mentioned, my observant eyes descry the merry forms of children dancing over the velvet sward of the public squarerolling their hoops, playing by the fountain, and shouting at their play. Their sweet faces please me; and the bright eyes seem to make the day more brilliant, the deep blue sky of a softer azure. It is only in the afternoon that I see them, for in the morning they are at school.

One of them wears a blue dress, and a white chip hat, secured beneath her chin by a pink ribbon-and, thus accoutred, she passes, every morning, to school, directly opposite my window.

As I gaze, with my shoulders drooping, my fingers inveterately thrumming, my eyes half-closed, and my lips wreathed with smiles, a little sad, perhaps, in their expression, I see my little friend come tripping along by the row of elms, cased in their square boxes, and I am pleased to see her bright figure, lit up by the sunlight which dances on her curls, her straw hat, her checkered flag satchel, gaily swung upon the bare arm, and the little boots of crimson morocco, tightly fitting to her delicate ankles. I wait for her, and look for her appearance, and when she comes, I follow her with my eyes, as she arrives opposite, and then disappears round the corner. She is different from some other young ladies of my acquaintance, who pass on a similar errand. These latter look up as they pass, at my grizzled hair, my gray mustache, my carelessly thrumming fingers, and I know very well, that at such times, they are thinking who on earth the old fellow at the window can be; the curious old fellow, always leaning from the very same opening, in the very same way, and smiling as he beats his tattoo, with the very same idle and dreamy expression.

My little friend of the blue dress and white chip hat does not treat me quite so cavalierly. As she passes, every morning, she raises her blue eyes, and smiles in the most winning way, nodding her head in token of recognition, and thus causing a profusion of brown curls to ripple around the brightest cheeks in the world. Having thus indicated the pleasure she experiences in seeing me smiling and well, my little friend kisses her hand, laughing, and tripping on more rapidly, to make up

for lost time, vanishes round the corner, singing "Lucy Neal," or "Lily Dale," or some other melody dear to the hearts of organ-grinders.

This brief and flitting exchange of friendly attentions, between myself and the child, takes place every morning, and, when she disappears, I close my window, and leaning back in my favorite chair, the red velvet yonder, light my old meerschaum and ponder. I generally remain thus, silent and motionless, for an hour before I commence reading the newspapers, over whose contents it is my habit to growl and vituperate.

I am going now to tell you what I think about in these morning reveries, and to explain the circumstances which attended my engagement, which engagement unfortunately interferes with any matrimonial views in connection with my friend, Miss Tabitha. I see that the corner of her curtain has fallen, and so we are entirely to ourselves.

II.

THE SCHOOL GIRL.

I reached the age of twenty-five without ever having been in love.

I do not deny, that two or three times I had fancied myself smitten by the charms of young ladies, with pretty lips and rosy faces. I am sure, however, that I by no means loved them, and that, simply because their smiles or frowns neither pleased nor grieved me in any considerable measure-an excellent test, in my opinion, and one which quite satisfies me.

I tranquilly pursued my daily occupation, which was that of a clerk, with a moderate salary, in the house of Wopper & Son, now dissolved; and after my routine in the counting-house, generally spent my evenings in strolling about and reflecting upon my prospects. I was an orphan, and there were very few congenial companions at the house where I boarded, so I was left pretty much to myself, and was not embarrassed in the selection of amusements, by any one's suggestions.

Thrown thus upon my own resources, I looked around for something to interest and occupy my mind, and I found this object of interest in a girl whom I met regularly every morning at the corner yonder, where my present little friend disappears on her way to school.

The figure of the maiden of old times was not unlike my little friend's to-day; but the former one was much less gaily clad; her face was covered with a green veil, and she was olderabout seventeen.

Regularly every morning, after breakfast, as I went to Wopper & Son's, with the punctuality of a clock, I met my friend coming round this corner, and the encounter became an expected pleasure, which I could not forego. I knew nothing of the girl, except that she, doubtless, liked blue tints, which everywhere appeared in her cheap and simple clothing. She generally walked with her head down, conning a school-book which she held beneath her green veil, and for some time she never encountered my eyes with her own.

At last, as we went by each other at the same hour every morning, and as my dress was seldom altered in those days, she noticed me, and we would exchange looks. Then I saw her, with her veil raised, come around the corner looking for my familiar figure, then we exchanged glances of half recognition.

Things had reached this stage, when, one day, as I was coming up to dinner, and just as I was crossing the street, half-way down the square yonder, by the little wooden house, my attention was attracted by a scream; I raised my head quickly, and at the same moment saw the breast of a horse strike the form of a girl within two paces of me. I was an active young fellow then, and with a single motion of my hand caught the animal by the bit, forced his foaming mouth backward, and with the other arm supported the girl, who was near fainting. The horse was ridden by an urchin who could not manage him, and galloping down the street he had nearly crushed the girl.

She now half leaned upon my arm in an attitude of terror and weakness, and a glance at her countenance told me that she was my friend of the corner. I need not say that the circumstance did not displease me; and when she came to understand that her deliverer, as the romance writers say, was the owner of the face so familiar to her, too, I don't think she was less pleased than myself.

I asked where she lived; and she replied, in a hurried and timid tone, that the little wooden house you see yonder was her mother's, and that she was re

turning thither from school. I offered her my arm with that simplicity and sincere respect which sprung then, as it springs now, from my admiration for a pure woman, young or old; and, leaning upon the arm, the girl reached her mother's, and, in the same timid tone, asked me to enter.

I was very glad to obey, and found myself in a small apartment, very poorly and cheaply furnished, but with an air of respectability and neatness about it, which indicated taste and refinement in the occupants. In one corner sat an old lady in a black bombazine dress, busily knitting, which operation she followed with eyes covered with large spectacles.

The old lady looked very much frightened when the girl related her adventure; and the expression of gratitude upon her thin countenance, when my part was described, remains with me even now, as one of my most delightful recollections.

I will not lengthen out the description of this scene, when, for the first time, I made the "speaking acquaintance" of Annie Claston. Her mother was the widow of a poor clergyman, and managed, as I afterwards learned, by close and rigid labor and economy, to supply the wants of the little household, and send Annie to school. The girl had protested, almost with tears, against this, declaring that she was old enough to help her mother, and not be a burden; but the old lady still preserved her ideas about training and education, and Annie was forced to submit.

We

The acquaintance thus auspiciously commenced, was not suffered to languish. More than ever, I had an object of interest to occupy my thoughts, and soon it began to occupy my heart. I now looked more eagerly than ever to see Annie at the corner; and I think I may add, that judging from the bright expression of her countenance, she was also pleased at our meetings. generally paused a moment to exchange a clasp of the hand, and a few words and smiles, and then we passed on. I do not know that she thought of me again until we met next morning; but I am very certain that her image never left my thoughts for fifteen consecutive minutes throughout the day. Old Wopper, more than once, had occasion to ask me if I was asleep, and whether the

pile of goods would be shipped if I only stared them out of countenance; and I think, if my imagination had been a photographic medium, the ledgers of the firm would have been covered with ten thousand pictures of a young girl in a blue dress, with curls on her neck. These pictures would have pleased most persons more than the entries; and this introduces a brief outline of Annie.

She had deep blue eyes, brown hair, a complexion as white as snow, and lips as crimson as carnations-I have never seen any so red. A delicate pale rose tint touched the centre of each cheek, and the expression of her countenance was the perfection of modesty. Look! here is her miniature, taken long afterwards, from a pencil sketch I made, and the likeness is excellent. that you see I have not painted a figure of my imagination, I will proceed.

Now

A few days after the accident, I called one evening, with a beating heart, at Annie's mother's-with a beating heart, I say for those "long, long thoughts," as the poet says, and our regular meetings had suddenly, in a single night, as it were, blossomed into love.

I was warmly received by mother and daughter, who, with the simplicity and confiding sincerity of elevated nature, did not doubt for an instant that I was what I seemed. I spent an evening, every moment of which appeared to me a separate and perfect world of happiness, and when I returned to my poor chamber I leaned my head upon my hand, and remained lost in thought for an hour, and when I lay down, I dreamed of her, and woke thinking of the girl, and trying to ask God to bless and protect her. I am not ashamed of that prayer, friend of years, and do not doubt that it rose to the throne of the Almighty. Let what will happen-let things look as they may-I bow my head and submit myself, as a child, to Him who rules us, and sends the sunshine or the storm, as He wills.

I will not lengthen out this portion of my brief story either, but get on to the end of it. For some months I continued to visit Annie, almost every evening now; and as I met her as of old, at the corner yonder, her beauty and goodness filled my life, as it were, and riveted those chains which her loveliness and purity had bound me with. I loved her with all the deep and earnest passion of my nature, and she saw that I did, and

was too innocent and destitute of art to feign indifference. I had, at the end of the time I have mentioned, the unspeakable happiness of knowing that I was as dear to her as she was to me; and, now, looking back through a life of many decades, I recall no sensation approaching in blissful intensity of happiness that first throb of rapture, upon finding that the lovely and pure-hearted girl had dowered me with the whole affection of her nature. I think God

gives us on this earth few purer or happier emotions, and I humbly thank Him for this gift to me, His unworthy crea

ture.

I was Annie's accepted lover.

III.

TWO RIVALS.

With the exception of three or four elderly ladies of the neighborhood, reduced in circumstances, like Mrs. Claston, no one visited at the house to which I so regularly bent my way, but a young man named Lackland.

He was the son of a wealthy merchant, who had formerly been a parishioner of Annie's father, in the country, and his acquaintance with the young girl had commenced accidentally at a small evening party in the neighborhood. Lackland was about my own age, and might have been called handsome, but for the weak and irresolute expression of his lips, and the lurking and uneasy glance of his eye-characteristics which he vainly tried to conceal beneath a laughing and careless

manner.

From the first moment of his meeting with Annie, he fell in love with her, as completely as was possible with him, and as his father's wealth was placed, in a great measure, at his disposal, he understood the advantage which the circumstance gave him, and used it.

I will tell you in a moment how he managed to impress upon the young girl the possession y himself of exactly what I lacked-ar abundance of money. I will say first, hat the young man dressed in the most splendid fashion; that his equipage was in the finest taste, and that every trait of his manner, down to the most unconscious movement, showed that he was accustomed to the highest and most fashionable society.

Nevertheless, he did not advance in the opinion of Annie, or her mother, and I had, what to a lover is the pro

« AnteriorContinuar »