gcls_courant_010 2

74 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.
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CHAPTER II.
Blanch had a cousin who lived quite near her, and
frequently spent her evenings at our house. Maria
Haughton was a remarkably pretty girl, gay, heedless,
fond of dancing, fond of all amusements, and entirely
opposed in disposition, to the haughty woman who en-
dured, rather than enjoyed her society. Maria feared
her Cousin, yet in her constant intercourse, evinced a
species of admiring awe. Her father was Blanch's
uncle, and she had a brother about fifteen years of age,
whose delicate health prevented his attending college.
His father feared the curriculum would be too arduous,
and being very wealthy, engaged a tutor to take charge
of his education. The gentleman selected was Harvey
Young, my college chum, and intimate friend. He had
held an exalted post, as instructor in the College at
which he graduated; but the confinement impaired his
health, and he resigned his chair and took the position
of tutor. In intellect he was unsurpassed, and his eru-
dition and classical attainments were remarkable in one
so comparatively youthful. He was my junior, but at
the time of which I write, must have been at least thirty
years old. He had been a student from his childhood;
was pale and handsome; poor and proud. Of course, as
my old and intimate friend, and Ralph Haughton's tu-
tor, he was frequently at the house. Especially during
the winter evenings, he came and sat with me; now van-
quishing me in chess; now reading from the mighty
"thunder roll" of Homer, and anon discussing collegiate
life. I shall never forget the hour when he first saw
Blanch. It was a rainy evening, and I was laying on
the sofa in the library, when a servant ushered him in.
Blanch was sitting at a table near, with a celestial map
before her, and a geometrical treatise in her hand. She
was distinguished by delicacy of taste, and in her style
of dress. I never heard her speak of the fashions, un-
less Maria forced her to do so; yet her toilet always dis-
played faultless taste and forethought. Her father was
wealthy, and she constantly wore the most costly mate-
rials. She always dressed in either white or blue. I
once asked her why she restricted herself in the choice
of colors, and she answered:
"I can wear nothing but blue; I prefer it. Edgar,
blue is a consecrated color. Azure, in its absolute signifi-
cance, represents truth divine, and the spiritual form of
man. When Vischnon, the supreme God of the Indians,
represents the last degree of regeneration, he is of a
deep blue color. Krischna, as the incarnation of truth
divine, is colored azure; the priests of Saturn wore blue
vestments; azure was the symbol of Eternity, and of
human immortality, and consequently became a mortu-
ary color. In China, blue is appropriated to the dead;
blue is the symbol of the soul after death. I have read
that in a manuscript of the tenth century, Jesus is rep-
resented in the tomb, bound by blue fillets; there are
two attending angels, one has a blue aureole, and violet
mantle, symbols of the passion and death of Christ. Ed-
gar, Jupiter Ammon was blue. In cosmogonies, divine
wisdom creates the world. God, the Creator, is always
colored blue. In Egypt the supreme God was painted
blue; in China, Heaven is the supreme God; and in
Christian symbolism, the azure vault is the mantle which
veils divinity; Edgar, blue is a consecrated color."
This is one of many strange whims, gleaned from the
books she pored over. On the evening to which I have
alluded, she wore a blue silk dress, opened at the throat,
and trimmed with some costly, exquisite lace. Her
hair was drawn in rippling folds over her high, pure
forehead, and coiled at the back of the head, under a
blue and gold netting. From this netting, fringe and
tassels of blue and gold, fell upon her neck. The short
flowing sleeves exposed her beautiful arms, on which
were clasped bracelets of turkois. As Harvey entered,
she looked up, and their eyes met. I saw him start
slightly, and a faint glow tinged his face. I presented
him; she bowed distantly, and without moving a mus-
cle, again fixed her eyes on her map. She seemed to
forget his presence, and before long, left the room for
some book she needed. When the door closed behind
her, he passed his hands across his eyes, and sighed.
"Blanch is beautiful; eh, Harvey?"
"She is unlike any one I have ever seen. She real-
izes my ideal of the Iduna of Scandinavian Myths."
Soon after, he said "good night," and left me.
From this day they met frequently, and despite his
self-imposed restraint, and affectation of proud indiffer-
ence, I soon saw that Harvey loved her. He was a man
of iron will, and strong nerves, yet, when she approached
him, I could see his haughty lips tremble, and knew
that his great heart was throbbing fiercely. Days and
weeks went by; I watched them both with deep anxiety.
Blanch was much as usual; I could discover no change
in her deportment or appearance. Among her numer-
ous suitors, was one, whom the world believed she
would accept. He was considerably older than my
Cousin, and was her father's partner. Mr. Murray was
a widower, and had occupied an important diplomatic
post, in an European court. He was an astute politician,
and aimed at a re-appointment to some position of dis-
tinction. That he intended to marry Blanch, if possible,
I had seen for some time; and to my great chagrin it
was equally evident that my uncle favored his suit.
Hard, cold, selfish; with no love for anything but fame
and money; I sometimes smiled at the thought of his
winning my Cousin. He was marked in his attentions,
and constantly visited at the house. Blanch seemed as
utterly abstracted and indifferent as ever, yet I noticed
that she engaged in literary discussions with Harvey,
with a zest she rarely manifested. Did she suspect his
love for her? I could not tell. Unlike all others who
approached her, he expressed his opinions boldly, no
matter how antagonistic they might be to her favorite
doctrines. Sometimes he met her arguments with deli-
cate, yet caustic irony; no one had ever dared to address
her thus. Occasionally I feared his sarcasms were too
pointed, and would offend her. But during all those
weeks when Harvey strove to oppose and irritate her, I
could perceive no emotion of any sort. If he ridiculed
her, she smiled quietly, haughtily, if they differed on
weighty questions; she laid her views before him, calm-
ly, carelessly. He was a man of giant mind and de-
termined will, and I knew he was endeavouring to break
the sea of ice which surrounded her; to rouse her to
some display of passion. Perhaps she was aware of his
intention, certainly she thwarted him. I was warmly
attached to him, and knew that now, for the first time
in his life, his proud and passionate heart was no longer
his own. He grew moody, but came to the house more
frequently. My uncle suspected the truth; I saw that
to such a union he never would consent. Murray, too,
looked upon Harvey as a rival, and more than once
sneered at his presumption. Blanch studied on by mid-
night lamps, and if she had been a statue, could not
have seemed more completely indifferent to both gentle-
men. As winter came on, my health grew very feeble,
I rarely left my room. One night Harvey sat by my
bedside, reading aloud an old Greek tragedy. It was
the evening of a great fetè, and Mr. Murray was waiting
in the parlor, to take Blanch to the party. Presently
the door of my room opened, and she entered, arrayed
in evening costume. The dress was blue satin, with an
over-skirt of rich white lace. The matchless arms and
shoulders gleamed like ivory, as she came forward and
stood by my pillow. I thought I had never seen her so
superbly beautiful; yet she was as colorless as snow, ex-
cept her firm delicate crimson lips. In her hair she wore
ornaments of gold and terkois, representing fuschias,
which hung so low as to touch her polished neck. She
bowed to Harvey, who silently bowed in return. Lay-
ing her slender fingers on my forehead, she said:
"How are you to-night, Edgar?"
"Not well, Blanch, but Harvey will take care of me
in your absence. You are late, are you not?"
"Yes, as usual. I defer it as long as possible, you
know. I wish I could stay and listen to that tragedy,
but I promised to go; good night."
She withdrew her soft fingers from my brow, and
turned away, but her fan had fallen at her feet. Har-
vey stooped to pick it up, and as he handed it back, their
hands touched. His pale, grand face, flushed to crim-
son; but not even the tint of a sea-shell crept into her
cheek. She raised her splendid mesmeric eyes, and for
an instant they looked at each other. The wonted cold
smile curved her lips, then she inclined her head and
merely said, as she walked away, "thank you."
There was silence for some moments, and as the
sound of the carriage died away, Harvey averted his
face.
I knew that he was struggling for composure, and
seizing the opportunity, put my hand on his arm, and
asked:
"Harvey, why don't you tell her you love her?"
He turned around almost fiercely and shook off my
hand. "Edgar, what put that ridiculous nonsense into
your head?" "Murray is a formidable rival," I an-
swered, without heeding his words. He sprang up and
strode across the floor, once or twice, then paused beside
me.
"It is needless to deny that I love her: she is the
only woman I ever knew who could stir my pulses and
make my heart bound like that of a frightened child. I
have scorned myself for this weakness; have struggled
to crush out this love; but for once in my life I am no
longer master of myself. When she comes near me, I
lose my reason, my will, my manhood. When she raises
her fascinating eyes to mine, as she did just now, and
looks at me, with that haughty smile on her lips, I can
with difficulty keep my arms to my side. I am con-
stantly tempted to clasp her to my heart, and tell her of
the power she wields. Love her! love her! No, Edgar;
it is a blind madness. It is an insane idolatry. Had I
the wealth of the Rothschilds, I would give it all to take
her little dimpled hands in mine. Were the universe
mine, I would give it to fold her in my arms and lay her
peerless head upon my bosom. Why don't I tell her I
love her? You are more insane than I! Shall Harvey
Young, a poor Professor, an humble tutor, aspire to the
hand which foreign ministers covet? Ha! she is too
proud, too ambitious. Her father fears me; well he
may; for she loves me. Aye, Edgar, loves me. Fortune
could not wring a confession of it from her; but I know
it. Do you suppose I could bear to meet her if it were
not so? And I will be revenged, though it costs me
dear. She knows I love her; she does not need to be
told. You saw her icy smile a moment since. She
looked down into my soul, and saw her own worshiped
image there. Yet she is too proud, too aspiring, too
ambitious to encourage me, too much afraid of her own
heart to trust herself with me. She may give her hand
to William Murray, but her heart will not go with it.
She may lean on his arm, and bear his name; but I swear
to you, Edgar, that my image shall fill her heart! She
tortures me now, and she knows it; but she, too, shall
feel."
There was a demoniac light in his flashing eyes, which
startled and pained me; but before I could reply, he took
his hat and left the house. When Blanch came to see
me the following morning, I saw that something had
occurred to annoy her. There was a blue vein on her
forehead, which stood like a cord, and her lips were com-
pressed resolutely. She talked calmly about various
things, and after a little, left me. Subsequently I
learned that William Murray offered her his hand, on
their return from the party. She coldly rejected him.
Her father was terribly incensed; upbraided, pleaded,
remonstrated. She was firm, smiling all the while at
the thought of being Murray's wife. Murray went to
Washington on political business, (it was rumored to ob-
tai a foreign appointment,) and spring glided into sum-
mer. Harvey visited me as regularly as ever; he never
alluded to Blanch, nor could I elicit any confidence. She
maintained her imprenetrable indifference, and seemed
more than usually absorbed in her studies. One even-
ing we sat together in the library; I was writing a let-
ter, she was reading her favorite Frederick Von Har-
denberg. Maria Haughton, Ralph, and Harvey Young
came in. Conversation became general. Harvey was
more entertaining than usual; he kept up an animated
discussion with Maria and myself, and seemed totally to
forget Blanch's presence. She looked on and listened.
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