Chapter 9

And now will you follow me to another scene--an apartment more spacious, and even more elegant, than the one we have just left, save that it savors more of the "sterner sex." For instance, we may see a brace of pistols, superbly mounted, crossed over the mantel-piece--a flute upon the table--a rifle leaning against the wall, and, I declare, fishing-tackle thrown carelessly down, all among those delicate knackeries so beautifully arranged on yonder marble slab--just like the men!

Reclining upon a sofa of crimson satin, wrought with gold thread, wrapped in an elegant dressing-robe, with his feet thrust into embroidered slippers, is a young man of very pleasing exterior, whom we should judge to be about five-and-twenty. The long, slender fingers of one hand are half buried in the rich mass of dark-brown hair which waves over his temples, the other, hanging over the back of the sofa, seems to partake of the disturbance of its master, for it beats and thrums the silken covering most unmercifully. See how he knits his fine brow, and now waves his arm menacingly in the air--what can be the matter!

Ah! you will laugh again when I tell you here is another discontented heir of wealth.

There! now he suddenly starts up as if distracted. "_Yelp_, _yelp_!" Ah! poor Fido! although your master seems evidently out of humor, he would not have kicked your beautiful spotted coat had he seen you! There, he caresses you--so fold back your long ears, and wag your tail complacently, while we hear what this impatient youth has to say, as he strides so rapidly hither and thither.

"Well, no doubt wealth is a very fine thing, if the world would let one enjoy it peaceably; but to be thus forever dined, and teaed, and courted, and flattered, and smiled at, and bowed at, and winked at, when, if it were not for my fortune, I very much doubt whether one of these, my exceeding good friends, would give me a dinner to save me from starvation. Why I had rather be the veriest boor that holds a plough, or a cobbler at his last, than to be, as Shakspeare says, 'the thing I am.' I am heartily sick of it, and could almost turn my back upon the world, and lead a hermit's life. To be always a mark for managing mothers, with great grown-up daughters; aimed at, like a target, by scores of black, grey, and blue eyes; to be forever forced to waltz with this one, and sing with another--and, ere I know it, find myself entrapped into a close _tête-à-tête_ with a third. I wish I _was_ married; then one-half at least of my troubles would be over--for I should shake off this swarm of female fortune-hunters! _Married_! ah! I wish I was! But where can I find one who will love me for myself alone, and not for the standing my wealth would give her? _Married_! ah! how delightful to come home and find a dear little wife waiting with open arms to welcome me, and the rosiest and sweetest of lips coaxingly pressed to mine; all my cares forgotten, all my vexations subdued by her soothing caresses and tender words. And then how enchanting as she warbles like a linnet for my ear alone; how enchanting to lean her bewitching little head on my shoulder, and inhale the balmy fragrance of her breath. O! I wish I was married!"

And now, so enraptured does this reasonable youth seem with the picture he has sketched, that not having any thing else, you see, to hug, he throws his arms most lovingly around himself. There, now he frowns again, and--hark what more he has to say.

"In fact, I am not sure I have a real friend in the world, for, gild a fool or a monkey, and mark what a troop of flatterers fawn around and follow admiringly at his heels! And as for choosing a wife, why, were I toothless, one-eyed, or deaf as a post, the magic of gold would transform me into an Adonis!"

Now stopping before a full-length mirror, he appears to console himself for such suppositions, by very complacently regarding his truly elegant figure and classic countenance.

A tap at the door, and an arch face, already shaded by the night-coif, peeps in.

"What, not yet gone to bed, brother--why what are you studying, to be up so late?"

"Studying human nature, Helen--a book with great pretensions to excellence, but--"

"Hush, hush, Frank! not a word more," exclaimed Helen, placing her little hand over his mouth, "not a word more--you read with defective vision! I proclaim the book of human nature to be charming, every page teeming with interest, every line traced by the hand divine, a lesson for a lifetime. Ah! Frank, remove the film of distrust from your eyes, and read this book as it ought to be read, therein you will find truth, goodness, and beauty!"

"Would I could think as you do, Helen. I tell you candidly, I am sick of the world as I find it, and would gladly give all my wealth and expectations to be sure there was one heart that truly loved me--loved me for myself alone."

"A very pretty theory, indeed! Well, you must get married, Frank; I see no other way to cure you--then you will have a dear little book of your own to study--a choice edition of human nature, traced by the feather of Cupid."

"Ah! the very thing I was thinking of; but tell me, Helen, where can I find that same beautiful work?"

"Where you please, brother--there is no danger that you can sue in vain; there is sweet Anna De Kay, roguish little Laura C----, the pensive Sarah--"

"O! don't mention them--pray don't name any more of these city belles!"

"Well, Frank, human nature is most lovely in the simplicity of country life--you must seek some village maid to grace the name of Leland."

"Helen," says Frank, taking her hand, and looking into the large blue eyes sparkling so mirthfully, "Helen, I tell you if I could find an amiable girl, brought up in all the beautiful simplicity of the country, no matter how unskillful in the world's ways--one who, ignorant of my wealth and standing, would unite her fate to mine for better or for worse--then, Helen, I could fall at her feet, and worship her as the star of my life and love."

"Pray, remember, my sentimental brother, ere you squeeze my hand so devoutly, that I am not your artless country maid," exclaimed Helen, laughing; then, after a moment's pause, she cries, gayly, "ah! I have it, Frank; you must masquerade a little, that's all--win your bride under false colors, as a sailor would say."

"Helen, you witch, you darling sister," says Frank, kissing her, "I will do it--yes, to-morrow I will set forth, like Coelebs, in search of a wife! Now you must help me farther with your lively imagination; you must choose me a profession to masquerade under. I must, of course, for the attainment of my object, sport the character of a poor gentleman, struggling with honest poverty to gain a livelihood. Come, what shall I be--school-master--singing-master--drawing-master--or--"

"O, the last, by all means!" interrupted Helen. "You will have such a fine opportunity of developing the tastes of your fair scholars--ha! ha! ha! Frank, methinks I already see thee helping some blushing milk-maid, with her pail, or, perhaps, leaning against a rail-fence, sketching her, as with bare feet and scanty skirt, she trips through the morning dew to feed her feathery brood."

"Well, you may laugh as much as you please," replies Frank, nothing daunted, "I am firm in my determination."

"And when, most romantic Coelebs, do you set forth?"

"To-morrow, or next day at furthest. We will talk this over again in the morning, it is too late now--so good night, dear Helen, and pleasant dreams!"

"Good night. Frank!" and gayly kissing her hand, Helen trips out of the room.

Frank Leland laid his head upon his pillow within the walls of a large brick mansion, where the hum of city life penetrated, even through the thick plate-glass and rich window-hangings. But a miracle; no sooner did soft sleep seal his eye-lids, than he found himself in Arcadian scenes--shepherdesses tripped gracefully before him with their flocks; beautiful maidens led him through flowery fields and shady groves; and the little birds _up_ in the trees, and the little romantic fishes _down_ in the brooks, all sang of love and happiness.