CHAPTER XXVI.

THE LOVE ANGEL.

“She is soft as the dew-drops that fall From the lips of the sweet scented pea; But then when she smiles upon _all_! Can I joy that she smiles upon _me_?” MACKENZIE.

Our dear Sophie, with her quiet adaptiveness, had easily and gracefully passed from rustic life into city life, into naval life, without losing any of her individuality. Her country every-day dress of brown stuff was now changed for a brown satin, her seal-skin shoes for patent morocco slippers, and her muslin collar for one of fine lace. Her smooth brown hair, instead of being knotted into a neat twist behind her head, was arranged in a beautiful braid.

The inevitable knitting-needles _had_ to be plied, in sad old hall or in gay new state room; they were a part of Sophie, and she could as well have dispensed with her fingers; they were necessary to keep time with the music of Sophie’s serene temperament—only now they knit silken nets and purses instead of woollen socks. This was all the change you could perceive in Sophie, looking at her half across the cabin; but if you went and sat down beside her, you would then see that her eye was bright, her cheek lively, and her lip fresh, with an inward and emanating joy. She sat quiet enough in her cabin, with Rosalia seated on a cushion by her side. Rosalia loved cushions and low seats, where she could sit and loll upon Sophie lazily and lovingly, like a petted baby-girl, as she was. And Sophie loved to have her there with her golden hair floating over her lap. Sometimes, tired of repose, Rosalia would bring out her portfolio or sketch book, embroidery frame or guitar, or pursue some of the thousand occupations by which girls contrive to destroy time. These were during the morning hours before it was time to dress for dinner, where Captain Wilde received daily, several of the officers. They (Sophie and Rosalia) were quiet enough, yet Captain Wilde seemed to be haunted with a fear that some hour he should wake from a dream, and find his happiness vanished into thin air, by the number of times while on deck, that he would come to the gangway, and looking down upon his treasures, exclaim gladly, “Oh! you are there!”

Most frequently Gusty May made a third in the cabin, his impetuous mirth rattling along like thunder, and then suddenly smothered with a sigh like a big sough of wind in the sails, and sometimes darkened by great clouds between his eyes and nose that threatened rain; nay, sometimes as he looked at Rosalia’s serene joy the rain-drops would gather in his eyes—though I have an idea that Gusty would have challenged any man who would have told him so.

Sometimes when the weather was inviting, Sophie and Rosalia, attended by Captain Wilde or Gusty May, or both, would visit the city.

Time glided swiftly away. Two weeks of Gusty’s visit were over, but three weeks remained before he would have to go to sea, and the clouds daily gathered thicker over the Gusty sky, when one day the young midshipman who had been appointed to take the post poor Gusty coveted so much, came on board for the first time. It was not in Gusty’s large, generous, and trusting soul, to be easily jealous, neither was it in his human nature to look indifferently upon the young officer, who, during his own absence, was to fill a post near the person of his beloved, so ardently desired by himself. The staff of officers on board the ship was small, consisting of Captain Wilde, Lieutenant Graves, a married man, solemn and repulsive as his name, a little freckle-faced midshipman, and now this new officer, this young passed-midshipman, this _Misther_ Murphy, as Gusty maliciously emphasized his title, what was he going to look like? Gusty wished in his heart that he might be knock-kneed and cross-eyed. Alas for Gusty! Mr. Murphy, Mr. Patrick Murphy O’Murphy, a Southerner of Irish descent—stood six feet six inches in his boots! had the handsomest leg, the broadest shoulders, the fullest chest, the blackest whiskers, and the whitest teeth, in the service. Alas for Gusty! it was too much! he filled right up! he could have sobbed, gushed out, liquidated, deliquesced, fallen upon and overflowed the shoulders of the first friend that came in his way, but for his self-esteem that striking up through all this softness, stiffened and sustained him! Poor Gusty! he was in the briers until he could hear what Rosalia thought of “Mister Murphy,” yet he had an invincible repugnance to name him to her, and to ask her in so many words, what she thought of “Mr. Murphy”—_no!_ _thumb-screws_ would not have wrung such a question from him! nevertheless he must arrive at her opinion of “Mr. Murphy,” or die. Mr. Murphy had been presented to the ladies about half an hour before dinner, and had dined with the Captain. After the ladies had retired from the table and while the gentlemen still lingered over their wine, Gusty slipped away and followed them into the cabin. Sophie was away somewhere. Rosalia was alone. He went up to her, sat down, and drew her on a seat by his side. After all sorts of a desultory, wild, and nonsensical conversation, he suddenly said to her:

“Rosalia, do you like handsome men?”

“Yes,” said Rosalia, calmly, “I like handsome folks.”

“Pshaw! that is just like you. Who is the handsomest man now you ever saw in your life, Rosalia?”

“Oh! _Captain Murphy, certainly_—far the handsomest person I ever saw in all my life!”

“The d—l! I said so—Irish bog-trotter.”

“Oh, don’t use profane language, dear Gusty, please.”

“_Captain_, indeed, you simple girl—_he’s_ no captain!”

“Ain’t he? I thought he was; indeed he _looks_ like one.”

“Oh, he looks like a prince, a king, an emperor, a demi-god, don’t he? Ain’t he like Apollo Belvidere, now?”

“Yes, I think he is,” said Rose, quietly, “just my idea of the Apollo.”

“Set fire to him!” blazed Gusty.

“Oh! don’t swear—please don’t”—pleaded Rose. “Why do you not like him, dear Gusty? _I_ do, I like him, and I am sure you ought to like him _because I do_—and you ought to be kind to him because, poor fellow! look at his melancholy blue eyes—”

“Oh! his melancholy blue devils!”

“Oh! Gusty, hush!” said she, softly, putting her hand on his lips.

“But this is too trying! I be _whipped_ if it ain’t! I do believe the devil has taken my affairs under his own particular care! but I won’t put up with it! I be _whipped_ if I do! I’ll call this fellow out!”

“Call him where?”

“Call him _out_! fight him! thrash him! jump through him—crush him—grind him—down into an ink spot, and then erase him!”

“What has he done to you, Gusty, that you hate him so, and he so beautiful, too?”

“Done to me!” snapped Gusty. “Oh, Rose, shut up! you are such a fool!”

This was too much for Rosalia—she had been growing softer every instant, and now melted into tears. Then Gusty’s indignation turned upon himself, called himself a barbarian, a brute, a monster, and begged Rosy to knock him down. Rose dried her morning dew tears and smiled again just as Sophie entered. A week passed away, and now but two weeks remained of the visit. A week, during which Gusty had contrived to circulate around his sun so rapidly and constantly as to prevent the comet Murphy from crossing his orbit. Still he was very unhappy in the idea of leaving his treasure unguarded—had serious thoughts of throwing up his commission—when one day on deck the young passed-midshipman, whom, by the way, he had treated very coldly at all times, placed himself by his side, and drawing his arm within his own, began to promenade the deck, saying,

“Come, my fine fellow! I know all about it, and may be can do something for you. Wilde told me all about it—your love—and hopes, and disappointments, and everything. Now, I am going to perpetrate a real Irish blunder—going—what do you think—_to sea in your place_, and to let you stay here with this sweet girl—easy—easy, man! steady! so! hear me out. My father is a senator from the state of ——, is a particular friend of the Secretary of War. I have written to him to get our appointments reversed. Hush! hush! no gratitude, my _dear_ fellow, it is all selfishness—_Irish_ selfishness!” and his blue eyes and white teeth shone radiantly in the kind smile he turned upon Gusty, and Gusty, oh! his emotion, his joy, gratitude, and remorse, is _unreportable_!—no, not to be set down against him! At last, to moderate the raptures of his gratitude, blue eyes and white teeth assured him that _he_ wished (blue eyes, &c.,) particularly to visit the port of ——, whither the ship to which Gusty had been appointed, was bound, and that therefore he _had_ a selfish reason for his seeming generosity. Later in the week, Gusty became the repository of a love-confidence from Midshipman Murphy. At the end of the week the appointments were reversed. Mr. Murphy was ordered to the Mediterranean, and Mr. May appointed passed-midshipman of the good ship Rainbow.

These orders were received early one morning. In the afternoon Gusty and the young Irishman were on deck together. They were great friends, you may rest assured. The following conversation occurred. Rosalia had just left them. She had been conversing with Gusty with all her usual calm and guileless affection.

“It does me good to think that you will remain here with that sweet girl, May.”

“You’re a good fellow, Murphy. God bless you.”

“And you’re a _happy_ fellow, May. God _has_ blessed you.”

“Happy! yes, by Jove! I only wish you knew how devilish ‘happy’ I am,” said Gusty, with a bitter sneer.

“Why, what is the matter? jealous again, another rival?”

“Oh, no! it is not that.”

“What is it then?”

Gusty had one great failing, an inability to keep his troubles to himself, a propensity to melt like a snow-drift in the sun at the first sympathy that shone on him.

“She is very fond of you,” said Mr. Murphy.

“Yes! that is just exactly what troubles me.”

“Come! you are very reasonable!”

“Oh! for the Lord’s sake don’t make fun of me! _don’t_! It is no jesting matter!”

“Poor fellow! how he is to be pitied because a sweet girl annoys him with her love.”

“See here! now don’t! I can’t stand it. Love me? _Yes, she does._ She loves her old, poor blind nurse Cumbo—uncle’s Newfoundland dog, Juno, and _me_ about in the same proportion, and in the same manner.”

“Whew-ew-w!”

“_Fact_ I am telling you—listen now again. I have watched her—_have I not?_ She will caress _me_ right before her aunt’s face, freely and calmly as though I were her grandmother—then dropping her arms from around my neck, she will call Juno and caress _her_ with equal affection! and then my uncle, she always runs to meet him and throws herself in his arms when he comes! and yourself, you remember how she received you, with a gentle affectionate welcome, as though you were an accredited candidate for a share of her universal love.”

“Are you betrothed?”

“Certainly, these many weeks, and when I talk of marriage she blushes and smiles, it is true, but not with love! only with a bashful repugnance to make herself a prominent object of attention as a bride. Yet she tells me she loves me! Oh, yes, she loves me! and the next minute she will throw her arms around Juno’s neck and tell her she loves _her_! and with _equal fervor_. And if ever I complain to her that she does not love me, she weeps as though I did her an injury. Nearly three months have I spent in trying to kindle one spark, to touch one chord of responsive passion in her bosom. I have poured my whole soul forth at her feet, and she looks at me with her calm, sweet eyes, and wonders at me, I know she does, for a sort of Orlando Furioso, and drives me nearly distracted by insisting that she _does_ love me, when I feel that she does _not_, or even know what she is talking about. I would give my commission to see her blush, tremble, shrink when I caress her—the devil of it is that she loves me like a baby loves her grandmother, nor does she dream of, nor can I awaken her to any other love! Her affections, her caresses are freely bestowed upon man, woman, child, or beast alike. I have never seen her shrink with averted eyes from the eye or conversation of but _one_ man, and _that_ was not in the first part of their acquaintance, it was only just before they parted, and now that I recall it, great God! it comes up before me in a new light,” said Gusty, in his impetuosity forgetting to whom he was talking—“they were standing where we now stand. I was near them. He was speaking to her of unimportant matters, the names of the ships, &c., he was looking at her. I being on the other side of him could not see his eyes, but suddenly she raised _her_ eyes. I felt that she met _his_—her color came and went, her bosom rose and fell, then turning around she held her hand out to me, with her face averted. I drew it through my arm and carried her off for a promenade. That hour I quietly ascribed her disturbance to bashfulness or fear, but _now_ that I recall it in connexion with the subject of our conversation, a new, a dreadful light seems to break over it, but no! Oh, God! _that_ would be too dreadful!”

“But what man was this, then?”

Gusty had suddenly grown quite white, and now the color rushed into his face, crimsoning his brow, and swelling the veins like cords.

“What man was it, then, that possessed the power of agitating this calm beauty?”

“DON’T ask me!” broke forth Gusty, “I am mad! Oh, it is just madness now for me to dream such horrors! stay, let me hold my head! Murphy, don’t mind _me_,—I am crazy! the girl’s coldness has just set me beside myself!”

They were silent some time, and then Gusty, suddenly seizing Murphy’s arm, exclaimed,

“Murphy, forget all my raving, will you? I am a fool! I shall be jealous next of her embroidery frame!”

It was not so easy to forget his agitation during the half-confiding of the slight suspicion. The friends soon after separated.

Gusty went into the cabin. He found Rosalia happy over a pair of doves, a parting present left for her by Mr. Murphy.

“Oh, Gusty,” she said, “come look at my beautiful young doves—this white one is a boy, and his name is Snowflake, and this silver-grey one is a girl, and her name is Dewdrop!”

“Umph! two new claimants for a few of the infinitesimal atoms of your divided heart,” said Gusty, sitting down beside her. He was indisposed for conversation,—he was feeling too bitterly that the profound heart of the beautiful and gentle girl was still unmoved.

Girls who virtually pledge their affections where they cannot love, do not so often commit this grievous error from the authority and commands of parents or guardians, from the persuasion of friends, from ambition, or for convenience, as from a different, a more amiable, yet still more improper set of motives, inspired by benevolence and love of approbation—thus: A young girl, with the deeps of her heart yet undisturbed, becomes the object of an ardent admiration—her vanity is stimulated and gratified—she may even mistake this pleasure for affection, and from pure ignorance of her own and her lover’s nature, and of the misery she may bring upon herself and others, she continues to receive and encourage his attentions. His admiration deepens into love, then her pity is moved, and though she cannot return the affection, she cannot resist the suit, and the hand is bestowed without the heart. As far as my limited experience extends, I have reason to believe that benevolence, love of approbation, together with a want of firmness, mislead more girls into the formation of ill-considered engagements than any other set of causes whatsoever.