At Last | Page 6

expression. In
temperament and sentiment; in capacity for, and in demonstration of
affection, she suited Frederic to the finest fibre of his mind and heart.
He, for one, did not carp at Aunt Rachel's declaration that they were
intended to spend time and eternity together.
Still, Mabel Aylett was not a belle, and Rosa Tazewell was. Callow
collegians and enterprising young merchants from the city; sunbrowned
owners of spreading acres and hosts of laborers; students and
practitioners of law and medicine, and an occasional theologue, had
broken their hearts for perhaps a month at a time, for love of her, since
she was a school-girl in short dresses. Yet there had been a date very
far back in the acquaintanceship of each of these with the charmer,
when he had marvelled at the infatuation which had blinded her
previous adorers. She was "a neat little thing," with her round waist, her
tiny hands and feet and roguish eye--but there was nothing else
remarkable about her features, and in coloring, the picture was too dark
for his taste. Why, she might be mistaken for a creole! And each critic
held fast to his expressed opinion until the roguish eyes met his directly
and with meaning, and he found himself diving into the bright,
shimmering wells, and drowning--still ecstatically--before he reached
the bottom whence streamed the light of passionate feeling, striking
upward through the surface. What her glances did not effect was done
by her dazzling smile and musical voice.
As one of her victims swore, "It was a dearer delight to be rejected by
her than to be accepted by a dozen other girls--she did the thing up so
handsomely! And yet, do you know, sir, I could have shot myself for a
barbarous brute when I saw the pitying tears standing upon her lashes,
and heard the tremor in her sweet tones, as she begged me to forgive
her for not loving me!"
Those she had once captivated never quite rid themselves of the
glamour of her arts; remained her trusty squires, ready to serve, or to
defend her always afterward.
Aunt Rachel, intent, during the short pause, upon the movements of the
servant who was setting the smoking breakfast upon the table, glanced
around when all was properly arranged, to summon the two to their
places--but something in Rosa's attitude and countenance held her
momentarily speechless. Mabel still bent over her roses, in smiling

interest, and Frederic Chilton was watching her--but not as the third
person of the group about the beaufet watched them both between her
half-closed lids, her black brows close together, and the glittering teeth
visible under the curling upper lip.
"She looked like a panther lying in wait for her prey!" Mrs. Sutton said
to her niece, many months later, in attempting to describe the scene.
"Or like a bright-eyed snake coiled for a spring. The sight of her sent
shivers all down my spine."
Her interruption of the tableau sounded oddly abrupt to ears used to her
pleasant accents.
"Come, young people! how long are you going to keep me waiting?
Breakfast is cooling fast!"
"I beg your pardon, Auntie! I did not notice that it had been brought
in," apologized Mabel, drawing back, that Frederic might lift the loaded
salver carefully to its place upon the board.
As they were closing about this, they were joined by Messrs. Barksdale
and Branch, Miss Tabb delaying her appearance until the repast was
nearly over, and meeting the raillery of the party upon her late rising
with the sweet, soft smile her cousin-betrothed admired as the
indication of unadulterated amiability. The breakfast-hour, always
pleasant, was to-day particularly merry. Rosa led off in the laughing
debates, the play of repartee, friendly jest, and anecdote that incited all
to mirth and speech and tempted them to linger around the table long
after the business of the meal wag concluded.
"This is the perfection of country life!" said Frederic Chilton, when, at
last, there was a movement to end the sitting. "But it spoils one
fearfully for the everyday practicalities of the city--a Northern city,
especially."
"Better stay where you are, then, instead of deserting our ranks
to-morrow," suggested Rosa, gliding by his side out upon the long
portico at the end of the house. "What does your nature crave that
Ridgeley cannot supply?"
"Work, and a career!"
"You still feel the need of these?" significantly.
"Otherwise I were no man!"
"You are right!"
Her disdainful eyes wandered to the farther end of the portico, where

Alfred Branch, in his natty suit of white grasscloth, plucked at his ebon
whiskers with untanned fingers, and talked society nothings with the
ever-complaisant Imogene.
"Come what may, you, Mr. Chilton, have occupation for thought and
hands; are not tied down to a detestable routine