Chapter 8

Fair Ursula sits alone in an apartment which seems fitted up for the reception of some goddess. She is not weeping, but her dark eyes are humid with tears. An air of melancholy rests on her young face, like a shadow on a rose-leaf, while her little hands are folded despairingly on her lap. The hem of her snowy robe sweeps the rich surface of the carpet, from out which one dainty little foot, in its fairy slipper of black satin, peeps forth, wantonly crushing the beautiful bouquet which has fallen from the hands of the unhappy fair one.

Every thing in this inviting apartment is arranged with the most exquisite taste and elegance. On tables of unique pattern are scattered the most costly gems of art and _vertu_--choice paintings adorn the walls--flowers, rare and beautiful, lift their heads proudly above the works of art which surround them, and in splendid Chinese cages, birds of gorgeous plumage have learned to caress the rosy lips of their young mistress, or perch triumphantly on her snowy finger. Here are books, too, and music--a harp--a piano--while through a half open door leading from a little recess over which a _multaflora_ is taught to twine its graceful tendrils, a glimpse may be caught of rosy silken hangings shading the couch where the queen of this little realm nightly sinks to her innocent slumbers.

Eighteen summers have scarce kissed the brow of the fair maid, and already the canker worm of sorrow is preying upon her heart-strings. Poor thing, so young and yet so sad! What can have caused this sadness! Perhaps she loves one whose heart throbs not with answering kindness--perhaps loves one faithless to her beauty, or loves where cruel fate has interposed the barrier of a parent's frown!

No--her heart is as free and unfettered as the wind.

Ah! then perhaps her bosom friend, the chosen companion of her girlhood has proved unkind--some delightful project of pleasure perhaps frustrated, or, I dare say she has found herself eclipsed at Madame Raynor's _soirée_ by some more brilliant belle--no, no, none of these surmises are true, plausible as they appear! Then what is it? Perhaps--but you will never guess, and you will laugh incredulously when I tell you that poor, poor dear darling Ursula weeps because--because--

_She is an heiress!_

That is it--yes, weeps because she is the uncontrolled mistress of one hundred thousand dollars in houses, lands and gold, bright gold!

Poor little dear--looking upon fortune as a serious misfortune, and even envying those whose daily toil can alone bring them the necessaries of life; for, have they friends--they are true friends--there is no selfishness in the bond which unites them--while she, unhappy child that she is, owes to her rank and riches her thousand friends and the crowd of satellites worshiping before her! What a foolish notion to enter her little head! True, it is foolish. Lovers, too, in plenty sigh at her feet, and in the soft moonlight the air is tremulous with sighs and music, as from beneath her window steals the soft serenade. But Ursula curls her lip disdainfully, and orders her maid to shut out the sweet sounds. Ever that hateful gold comes between her and her lovers, and then she wishes her lot was humble, that she might be loved for herself alone!

Do you wish a portrait of the unhappy little heiress? Behold her then:

A perfect little sylph, resting on the tiniest of feet, with hands so charming that you would feel an almost irresistible desire to fold them caressingly within your own--the rich complexion of a brunette with the bloom of Hebe on her cheek--her hair like burnished jet--eyes large, lustrous and black--but (alas that there should be a _but_!) poor Ursula had an unfortunate cast in her left eye--in others words she squinted--yes, absolutely squinted!

Dear, dear what a pity!

Yet stop, don't judge the little heiress too hastily, for after all it was not a bad squint--indeed, if you knew her, you would say it was really a becoming squint, such a roguish, knowing look did it give her! Nevertheless, it was a squint, and poor Ursula, notwithstanding the bewitching form and features her mirror threw back, fancied this a deformity which cast aside all her graces. And here again the _gold_ jaundiced her imagination and whispered, "were it not for _me_ what a horrible squint you would have in the straight forward eyes of the world!"

When her parents died Ursula Lovel was but an infant, yet as tender and affectionate as parents had been the good uncle and aunt to whose love and guardianship she was bequeathed. They had no children, and gladly took the little orphan to their bosoms with pity and love--and Ursula required all their watchful care, for she was ever a feeble child, giving no indications of that sprightly beauty and perfect health she now exhibited. Then indeed the squint was truly a deformity, for her thin, sallow countenance only made it far more conspicuous.

People should be more guarded what they say before children. One good old lady by a careless remark instilled into the mind of little Ursula a jealousy and distrust, which, but for the good sense maturer years brought to bear against such early impressions, would have rendered her unhappy for life. Propped up by pillows, she sat at a small table amusing herself by building little card houses, and then seeing them tumble down with all the kings and queens of her little city, when she heard her name mentioned in accents of pity by an old lady who had come to pay her aunt a morning visit.

"She is very plain--is not she? What a great misfortune that her father should have left her so much money! Poor thing, it will only prove a curse to her, for if she lives she will doubtless become the prey of some fortune-hunter."

Now what was meant by "fortune-hunter"--whether some giant or horrid ogress--the little girl could not tell, but that it was some dreadful thing waiting to devour her because she had money, haunted her mind continually. She was a child of fine capacity, and at school generally ranked the highest in her class--how many times her envious mates would say: "Well, well, it is a fine thing to be rich--it is your money, Miss Lovel, makes you so much favored--our teachers are both deaf and blind to your foibles!" What wonder, then, poor Ursula began to distrust herself, and to impugn the kindness of her teachers and friends, who really loved her for her sweet disposition, and were proud of her scholarship.

But don't think that she has been hugging such unhappy thoughts to her bosom ever since, because you have just found her lamenting that she is an heiress!

You shall hear. As childhood passed, health bloomed on her cheek, and shed its invigorating influence over the mind, and it was only when something occurred to arouse the suspicion of early childhood that she indulged in such feelings. She was intelligent and accomplished. Sang like a bird, painted to nature, and danced like a fairy. But there was something more than all this which contributed to her happiness--it was the power of doing good--a power which she possessed, and, through the judgment of her aunt, practiced. This excellent woman had taught her that money was not given her to be all lavished on self--that it was her duty, and ought to be her delight, to loose her purse-strings to the cries of the poor, and to scatter its glittering contents through the homes of the needy. And this did Ursula do--and was rewarded by the blessing of those she had relieved, and the happy consciousness of having mitigated the sorrows of her fellow mortals.

But now this particular evening when you have seen little Ursula drooping under the weight of gold which Fortune it appears has so thanklessly showered upon her, she has met with an adventure which brings before her with all its tenacity the impression so early engendered. And now, as she sits there so sad and sorrowful, she is sighing to be loved for herself alone, and wishes her lot had been humble, that she might trust to professions, and not be forever reminded of that wealth which she fears will always mask the sincerity of those around her.

Silly little girl! She would even exchange all the elegancies and luxuries of life to feed on love and roses!

This unlucky evening she had shone as the most brilliant belle in the crowded assemblage of the fair and fashionable whom Madam Raynor had gathered into her splendid rooms. Tired at length with the gay scene around her, she had strolled off alone into the conservatory, and leaning against a pillar watched from a distance the giddy whirl of the waltz--the waving of feathers, the flashing of jewels, and the flitting of airy forms through those magnificent apartments. A few moments before she left the crowd, she had observed a stranger of very dashing air attentively regarding her, and then joining a friend of hers appeared to request an introduction. But young Allan was just about to join the dance, and ere it was finished Ursula had stolen away.

While engaged as before described, she observed the same gentleman leaning on the arm of Allan strolling toward the conservatory. Concealed by the shadow of a large orange-tree, they passed her unobserved--they then paused in their walk, when Ursula suddenly heard her own name mentioned, and then the following conversation unavoidably fell on her ear:

"Why she squints, Allan!"

"Well, what of that--those that know her best never think of it."

"Pardon me, I consider it a very great defect, and slight as this blemish appears in Miss Lovel, her money could never blind me to the fact if I knew her ever so well."

"I do not mean to imply," answered Allan, "that being an heiress renders the blemish imperceptible--no, it is her truly amiable disposition, her goodness, and engaging manners which makes her so beautiful to her friends."

"O, a pattern woman!" cried the other, "worse yet!"

"What do you mean by a pattern woman?"

"Why, one of those shockingly amiable, running round into dark alleys, charity-dispensing beings--patting white-headed beggar boys, and kissing dirt-begrimed babies--who speak in soft, lisping tones of duty and benevolence--read the Bible to sick paupers, go to sewing meetings and work on flannel--and--"

"There, that will do, Fifield," interrupted Allan, "making some allowance, you have drawn Miss Lovel's character to the life. Shall I introduce you?"

"O certainly, a cool hundred thousand outweighs all my objections against pattern women--I could swallow a sermon every morning with the best grace in the world, and even were she as ugly as Hecate, I could worship at her feet, and wear the yoke for the sake of the golden trappings!"

The young men now passed on, leaving poor Ursula wounded to the quick by the heartless remarks of the fortune-hunter. She did not join the gay assembly again, but requesting a servant to call her carriage, immediately returned home. Now can you wonder at the cloud on her brow?

But see, even while we are looking at her, it is clearing away--like a sunbeam, out peeps a smile from each corner of her rosy mouth, and hark! you may almost hear her merry laugh as clapping her bands she exclaims--

"Yes, yes, I'll do it! What a capital idea--excellent, excellent!" Then rising and bounding lightly to the inner door she threw it wide, saying--

"Here, Hetty, I have something to tell you--come quick."

And at the summons a pretty young girl, seemingly about her own age, made her appearance from the chamber.

"There, Hetty, I am better now," said Ursula, "how silly I am to let the remarks of such a person have power to move me! But I have such a grand project to tell you--come, while you are platting my hair, and, in the words of that same amiable youth, taking off all these _trappings_, I will let you into my secret."

Hetty took the comb and thridded it through the long tresses of her young lady, which, released from the silver arrow so gracefully looping them on the top of her head, now fell around her nearly to the floor.

"Hetty," exclaimed Ursula, suddenly throwing back her head and looking archly at the girl, "Hetty, do you want to see your mother?"

"O, Miss Ursula," cried Hetty, the tears springing to her eyes, "indeed, indeed I do!"

"Very well, I promise you then that in less than a week you shall be in her arms."

"O, my dear Miss Ursula, do you really mean so?" said Hetty, bending over and kissing the glowing cheek of her mistress.

"Yes, I really mean so--but dear, dear, you have run that hair-pin almost into my brain--never mind--only be quiet now--there, sit down, and I will tell you all about it." There was a roguish expression on Ursula's face as she continued: "Yes, you shall go home, and what's more, Hetty, I am going with you, and mean to live with you all summer, perhaps longer."

"Why, Miss Ursula!"

"Yes I do. And now you must assist me--you must promise me not to reveal to any one, not even to your mother, that I am the rich lady with whom you live. Remember I am a poor girl--poor as yourself--a friend of yours come into the country for--for her health--ha, ha, ha, Hetty, look at me--you must contrive to make me look paler, or shall this be a _hectic_?"

"But, Miss Ursula--it will never do--you who have always had every thing so beautiful around you--you can never live in our humble way!"

"Try me, try me, Hetty--for I am determined to lest my own individual merits, and see how far they may gain me the love and esteem of others when unsupported by the claims of wealth. Let me see, Hetty, I must have some employment aside from helping you to milk the cows and feed the pigs. Ah, I have it!" she cried, springing up and turning a pirouette--"listen--I will be a _milliner_! you know, aunt thinks I have a great knack at cap-making--O excellent idea--I will turn milliner for all the farmer's wives and daughters far and near." And catching up her embroidered mouchoir she began folding it into a turban, and then placing it gracefully on her little head, she turned to the laughing girl: "See there now--is not it exquisite--why my caps and turbans will turn the heads of all the swains in the village. You shall have one first, Hetty--you shall set _your_ cap, and heigh-ho for a husband!"

"But your uncle and aunt, Miss Ursula?"

"O, I shall tell them candidly my project. They will laugh at me, I know, and try, perhaps, to dissuade me; but, after all, they will let me do as I please."

_Twelve_! chimed a beautiful Cupid running off with Time, which, exquisitely wrought in gold and pearl, stood on the dressing-table.

In a few moments Hetty had drawn the rose-colored curtains around the couch of her young mistress, and left her to dreams as rosy.