THE BELLE OF NEWPORT.

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

———

It was the height of the season at Newport, and the long piazza of the Ocean-House was crowded with loungers. Suddenly a young man, with something of a foreign air, exclaimed —

“Heavens, Harry! what a divinity!”

He pointed, as he spoke, with his light cane to a young lady, who, having approached on the other side of the street, was now picking her way daintily across the dusty road. Her figure was one of unusual grace, and her step light and elastic. When she reached the pavé she glanced up at the piazza, but seeing a score of idle eyes fixed upon her, she dropped her veil, and advanced to the ladies’ entrance with a slightly hurried pace.

But the momentary exposure of her countenance showed that its beauty justified the general look of admiration. The eyes were lustrous and dark, a rich bloom mantled healthily on her cheek, and the fresh air blew freely to and fro her redundant curls of glossy raven hair; added to this the mouth was one of indescribable loveliness, around the dimpled corners of which Love himself seemed to lurk.

“By Jove!” said the gentleman who had spoken before, “I have seen no woman so beautiful in all my travels abroad. What eyes! they seem to look into one’s very soul. And such a step, free and graceful as a fawn’s, or rather like that of Diana, the maiden huntress, herself.”

“That, Derwent,” replied his companion, “is Miss Stanhope, the belle of Newport we call her; beautiful enough, to be sure, but only the companion to some rich Southern heiress.”

“And half the house, I suppose, is in love with her?”

“No, and yes,” replied Harry. “She has plenty of admirers, but no suitors; her friend, the rich Miss Arnott, though as ugly as a giraffe, carries the palm off from her.”

“I find my countrymen as mercenary as foreigners, though without half the excuse,” said Derwent. “However, they can’t be blamed. Take my own case, for instance. Here am I with just income enough to support myself, and no prospect of being able to marry unless I select a rich wife, or what is even worse, go to work in earnest at my nominal profession! In such a case, one must either remain single or look out for an heiress. It is well enough to talk of ‘love in a cottage,’ but what can two people accustomed to the luxuries of life do in a house no bigger than a dog-kennel, and with but one servant, a maid-of-all-work. However, you must introduce me to this Miss Stanhope, I may as well flirt with her like the rest.” Thus spoke Derwent, one of whose affectations was to seem worse than he was.

That evening accordingly saw Derwent numbered among the acquaintance of the belle of the season. She received him graciously, for in addition to a remarkably fine person, he had an air of high-breeding; while his countenance carried assurance of the owner being something more in both intellect and heart, than the ephemeral men of fashion around him. Indeed, Derwent possessed unusual ability, improved by book-study and travel. He talked to Miss Stanhope of England, and its lordly demesnes; of Paris, and its boulevards; of Germany, and the Rhine; of Italy, and her priceless works of art; of Greece, and her temples, even in decay the wonder of the spectator; and of Egypt, the parent of all, with her venerable Nile, her Luxor, her Philæ, and her pyramids, which though they have braved three thousand years, seem as if they will yet, in the minds of the awe-struck Arabs, conquer Time itself. Nor did he confine himself merely to these monuments of the past. He spoke of the manners, the religious and the social condition of the nations he had traveled among, from the starving operative of England to the free Bedouin of the desert. This style of conversation, so different from the empty small talk and insensate flattery with which her ears were usually greeted, arrested the attention of Miss Stanhope; for being of a cultivated mind herself, she not only appreciated what he said, but felt it as a compliment to be talked to thus. In a word, Derwent managed to monopolize her evening, and when the hour of retiring came neither imagined it was half so late.

“And so you were engrossed by the beauty the whole of last evening,” said Harry, as the friends sauntered to the billiard-room the following morning. “You had other listeners, however, than Miss Stanhope; and, let me whisper to you confidentially, have made quite a conquest in a certain quarter. Miss Arnott herself, it seems, heard you describe your presentation at St. James’, and was so charmed with your account of the queen, that she has asked to be introduced to you; a favor never bestowed on any gentleman before.”

“I forgot all about Miss Arnott, last night,” replied Derwent. “How does she look? Is she a woman of sense?”

“As for how she looks,” replied Harry, “here she comes with Miss Stanhope: you see her now, a tall, lean figure, with a face that might be pretty if it had a bit of expression. There, that slouchy, awkward figure, is worth just twenty thousand a year; while the one beside it, all grace, beauty, and vivacity, has not a cent. Whether Miss Arnott has common sense you must decide for yourself, for I intend to introduce you on the moment.”

Before Derwent had time to reply, the introduction had taken place, and Derwent been left dexterously to Miss Arnott, while his friend had contrived to monopolize her companion.

It was a lovely morning for walking. A shower the preceding evening had laid the dust, the sun shone without a cloud, and a cool breeze, laden with saline freshness from the sea, blew pleasantly past. The ladies were executing a long cherished determination to visit the cliffs on foot; and the two young men solicited leave to accompany them. In a few minutes Derwent had grown heartily tired of his companion. She was, he thought, the most insipid creature he had ever met. Yet, to do Miss Arnott justice, she was quite as interesting as most fashionably educated young ladies; but then Derwent could not help contrasting her with Miss Stanhope, whose playful wit, strong sense, and rich stores of reading rendered the penniless companion as fascinating as the heiress was dull. He was glad when, the cliffs being reached, his tête-à-tête was broken up. He had secretly resolved to be revenged on Harry, and accordingly luring Miss Stanhope off to look at the sea from a new point, he set out on his return, without going back for Harry and Miss Arnott, contenting himself with waving his hat for them to follow.

If Miss Stanhope detected his little stratagem, she was not displeased with it; and the walk back to the hotel comprised an hour of the sweetest enjoyment to Derwent. Though the beauty of Miss Stanhope had first attracted his attention, it was the qualities of her mind that now fascinated him; yet we will not deny that what she said received additional interest by falling from such lovely lips. In short, from that morning Derwent became the constant cavalier of Miss Stanhope; and this, notwithstanding the marked efforts which Miss Arnott made to attract him to herself. At last, the partiality of the heiress became so strong that she frowned openly on her companion whenever she saw Derwent and Miss Stanhope together—finally, the latter from some cause avoided his attentions, and left the field open to her more fortunate rival.

Whether, however, this was the result of Miss Arnott’s direct interference, or whether Miss Stanhope herself began to think Derwent only trifling with her, our hero had no means of discovering. For three or four days he bore the avoidance of his mistress with comparative patience, but when he found that she persisted in it, and was apparently not governed by any whim, he became almost mad with jealousy and despair. For the first time in his life he was really in love. He no longer thought of the comparative moderation in which he would have to live, if he married a woman without fortune; on his part he was now willing to make any sacrifice. After a sleepless night, he arose resolving to seek Miss Stanhope to offer his hand, when, on opening a letter that had been sent up to his room, marked “in haste,” he read the astounding intelligence that the bank in which most of his fortune was invested, had stopped payment, and that he was now comparatively a beggar.

Those who have never experienced the sudden loss of wealth, and who have never found themselves reduced, as it were in an hour, from a competence to poverty, know nothing of what Derwent suffered. For awhile he even forgot his love. He read and re-read his letter, but there was no mistake in the fact; he rang for the public papers, the announcement of the bank’s failure was there too. He paced his chamber, how long he knew not, until at last the door was thrown violently open, and Harry entered.

“What, in heaven’s name, is the matter?” cried his friend. “Have you forgotten your engagement to ride with me this morning? I waited till past the hour, and then came up and knocked at your door; you gave me no answer, though I heard you walking about like a mad lion in his cage; so I made bold to enter vi et armis, as a plea of trespass says. Now, don’t look as if you would eat me—but tell me what’s the row.”

Derwent had indeed glared at Harry like an enraged wild beast when the latter entered. He did not wish to be interrupted, much less by his mercurial companion; but, while Harry was speaking, he reflected how ridiculous anger would be, and hence, when the latter ceased, he advanced to the table by which Harry stood, and pushed the open letter, which contained the news of his ruin, to the intruder.

“Good God!” cried Harry, when he had perused it, “how unfortunate. I saw the failure of the bank in the papers, but did not know you owned any of the rascally stock. How came it, my dear fellow? I always invest in mortgages or ground-rents.”

“It was left there by my guardians, and since I came of age I have been abroad. I intended to change the investment, but left the business, with other things, till fall, intending to be here all summer. And what is worse, it is my entire fortune, except about five thousand dollars.”

“You shock me,” said Harry. “I did not think it was half so bad as that.” He paused, mused, and then said, looking up brightly—“However, Derwent, you are a lucky fellow yet. I have seen, for some days, that you have had half a mind to make love seriously to Miss Stanhope; now this blow will rescue you from that folly, for to marry on three hundred a year would be lunacy itself. Miss Arnott will have you, if you speak quick, so cheer up, it is always darkest just before the day.”

Derwent looked at his friend sternly, and was about to characterize the proceeding Harry advised as villainy; but he said nothing, only mournfully shaking his head.

“Pshaw!” said Harry, “what foolish notions have come over you? Be a man, Derwent. I wish to heaven Miss Arnott would only have me; I like to talk to her companion well enough; and it’s pleasant, too, to dance with such a beautiful creature; but, egad, my two thousand a year would not go far toward supporting a wife.”

“I will be a man,” replied Derwent, with sudden energy, “I will not yield to this blow. There, Harry, good-bye for the present—I will join you in an hour.”

When the door had closed on his friend, Derwent said —

“Yes! I will be a man. All thoughts of Miss Stanhope must now be dismissed; the most delightful dream of my life is over. I must hereafter toil for my very bread. Well, let the storm rage—I can breast it!”

In this half defiant, half despairing mood, he concluded his toilette and went down stairs. His first visit was to the office, where he announced his intention of leaving early the next morning—“For since,” he said, “I must pull the oar, the sooner I begin the better.”

He hesitated whether to seek Miss Stanhope and tell her all, or to leave her without explanation. “I will say nothing,” at last he said. “She will hear of the cause of my departure soon enough; and even if she had thought of me, will then bless her good fortune which preserved her from marrying a beggar.”

He had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, however, when he met Miss Stanhope herself face to face. He had been sauntering up the street, his hands folded behind him, his whole air listless and dejected. He was taken by surprise, bowed to her with embarrassment, and then, after she had passed, remembering that she looked amazed at his manner, he turned about and joined her mechanically. He scarcely knew why he went back; and when he had done it, he was more embarrassed than ever. Miss Stanhope was the first to speak.

“Are you ill, Mr. Derwent?” she said, in a voice of sympathy, “you look so.”

The tone of kindness in which these words were spoken opened the flood-gates of his heart, and he could not resist the impulse to tell her how much he had loved her, and how he should cherish her memory, though fate had placed an insurmountable barrier between them. His words flowed in a torrent of burning eloquence. Unconsciously he and Miss Stanhope walked on, though they had long passed the hotel; and when he had concluded they were at the end of the street, on the wild, bleak common.

Not until he had told his tale, and a minute or two of silence had followed, did Derwent venture even to look at his companion. But, on doing so, he found she was scarcely less agitated than himself. She trembled visibly, and when, as soon happened, she turned to answer him, traces of tears were on her cheeks.

“Mr. Derwent,” she said, “I will be frank with you, for, in these matters, perfect frankness is a suitor’s right. I will not say that this declaration of passion surprises me, for, in spite of my having heard that you were insincere, I thought I saw in you a real esteem for me. It would be affectation for me to deny this. That I am shocked at your loss of fortune, I need not say; I feel too great an interest in you to do otherwise, and this interest I am not unwilling, you see, openly to acknowledge.”

She looked at him with such noble frankness, that Derwent, enraptured by so unexpected an avowal, could scarcely refrain from snatching her hand and carrying it to his lips. But he thought of the public common; and then he thought also of his poverty, and how idle all this was—so he remained motionless and silent.

“You tell me,” she continued, “that you are now almost a beggar; and that, therefore, you resign my hand. But, excuse me—for surely it is not unmaidenly for me to say this—are you doing right in acting thus? Is wealth necessary to happiness? Will not a sufficiency insure felicity if there is real love in the union? You have talents, and I hope, energy; if I thought otherwise I could not love you. You have also a profession, which you avow your intention of following. Pray do not misunderstand me—I do not wish to make myself a burden to you—but neither must you suppose that I am base enough to you, or sufficiently ignorant of what will constitute my own happiness, to refuse you because you are a poor, instead of a rich man. In a worldly view even a penniless lawyer,” she said, smiling, “is a very good match for the companion of a rich heiress.”

Amazement at this noble conduct had kept Derwent silent until now, but he could no longer remain quiet.

“And you are generous enough,” he cried, “to unite your fate with mine, if ever I grow rich enough to offer you a home?”

“I am not very exacting in my tastes, Mr. Derwent,” replied the fair girl, “and, therefore, shall be contented with what you would think a very humble home. The moment, therefore, that you can give me one, in which you will be willing to live yourself, that moment I will become your wife. But remember,” she added archly, “I am flesh and blood after all, and cannot live merely on love. I am willing, with that confidence which my affection inspires, to wait for you, and believe you will never seek me until you can support me; but that will not be long hence, if I judge your talents aright. And now never, never,” she added earnestly, “doubt again a woman’s single-heartedness in love.”

Derwent was equally bewildered and transported. In his wildest dreams he had never imagined Miss Stanhope as noble and generous as he now found her. He told her as much.

“You flatter me more than I deserve,” she replied. “Life, in all circumstances, is a season of trial; wealth cannot secure immunity from trouble; and perhaps the happiest, after all, are those who labor for their daily bread, because their toil sweetens the meal. Nay, I am sure I shall love you more, because I shall think you more manly.”

Derwent parted from Miss Stanhope a different man from what he had been before the interview. It was not the knowledge of her love merely which had worked the change in him, but it was the discovery that he had thought the human heart more selfish than it is, that he had doubted the existence of a generous affection.

They parted that evening. Miss Stanhope, though she pledged herself to Derwent, stipulated that he should not accompany her to the South, but that he should at once begin the practice of his profession.

“You may write to me,” she said, playfully, “and I will answer, and we shall then see, from the punctuality of the answers, which loves the most. Next year I shall probably come North again with my cousin, and be assured I will let you know of my arrival the instant we are established at the hotel in New York.”

Derwent had now an object for which to struggle, and nobly did he labor for the great end he had in view. The fall and winter he devoted to assiduous study, taking no relaxation except what was necessary for health, visiting nowhere; his sole solace being a weekly letter to Miss Stanhope. Her replies still breathed unabated affection. High as was the estimate he had placed on her abilities, they fell short of the reality as he discovered by this correspondence, and proud was he that such a woman was some day to be his wife.

Nor did that day appear far distant. His knowledge of European languages brought him several foreign clients, whom other lawyers were unable to converse with; and one of these clients placed a case in his hands which he won, and which from the large claim at risk, as well as from the abstruse points of law involved, brought him much reputation. His business increased so fast that he wrote to Miss Stanhope:

“Congratulate me, I have gained the first move in the game, and am now considered a hard-working lawyer; I am already able to offer you a home, but let us wait another year that we may be certain.”

And she replied—“I have placed my fate in your hands, and rejoice to find you all I hoped. Dear Derwent, you are more precious to me now than if worth millions, since you have shown that you are something more than an idler.”

About a month after Derwent received this letter, a note was brought to him, the superscription of which was in the handwriting of his mistress. He opened it with emotion, for he knew from it that she had arrived in New York. The delicate little missive contained but three lines:

“Come to me: I am in New York; my present home is No. — , Union Square.”

“Who does she, or rather Miss Arnott, know in Union Square?” he said. “I expected to be summoned to the Astor or the Irving.” He thus soliloquized as he drew on his gloves.

It does not take an expectant lover long to walk two miles; so Derwent found himself, in half an hour, at the door of a magnificent mansion, on which he saw, with bewilderment, the name of “Stanhope.” Just as he had rung the bell an elegant private carriage drove up, and Miss Stanhope herself stepped out. He looked for Miss Arnott to follow, but she did not. His mistress was quite alone. The servant obsequiously bowed, and showed the way into the drawing-room, whither, first giving her hand to Derwent, Miss Stanhope led our hero, his amazement increasing as a strange, wild suspicion, which the name on the door had first suggested, grew stronger within him.

His affianced bride laughed musically at his perplexity; and leading him to a tête-à-tête said, as she laid her hand fondly on his shoulder:

“Are you astonished? Will you believe me when I tell you that all this is mine? You have thought me a pattern of frankness, dear Derwent, yet I have been deceiving you for a whole year; making you work, when I had enough for us both. But I wished to test you; and now that I have found you even more than I hoped, and that I love you better than ever, you will not,” she continued, looking up archly into his face,—and, truth must be told, positively kissing him—“disown me, even though I am co-heiress with my cousin, in my own right, to twenty thousand a year.”

How would you have acted reader? We will tell you how Derwent did; he took the beautiful creature in his arms, and blessed her over and over again. Blessed her, not for her fortune, but for her having taught him to rely on himself, and not to live the idle life of a mere man of fortune.

“And you will still follow your profession, and win an even greater name?” said his lovely mistress, her fine eyes kindling with enthusiasm. “I want a husband I can be proud of, and I know I have found such a one in you.”

Derwent made the promise, and she continued —

“As a girl, I wished to be loved for myself rather than my fortune; and my scheme of going to Newport, as my cousin’s poor companion, was the result of that desire. There I found one whom I felt had but one fault, and that was idleness. There I found you preferring the penniless girl to the rich cousin. But I saw you wasting your fine powers away in a life of mere fashion, and was hesitating whether I ought not to strive against my increasing affection, when your ruin”—she hesitated, and then added quickly, blushing roseate over face, neck, and bosom—“but you know the rest.”

Derwent has now no superior as an orator, and has declined a nomination to Congress, because even higher honors are open to him. His wife loves him more devotedly than ever, and is still as beautiful as when known as the Belle of Newport.