From Jest to Earnest | Page 4

Her naturally energetic
and mercurial nature had been cradled among the excitements of the
gayest and giddiest city on the continent. A phlegmatic uncle had
remarked to her, in view of inherited and developed characteristics,
"Lottie, what in ordinary girls is a soul, in you is a flame of fire."
As she sat at the table, doing ample justice to the substantial viands, she
did appear as warm and glowing as the coals of hard-wood, which,
ripened in the sunshine, lay upon the hearth opposite.
The bon-vivant, Julian De Forrest, found time for many admiring
glances, of which Lottie was as agreeably conscious as of the other
comforts and luxuries of the hour. They were all very much upon the
same level in her estimation.
But De Forrest would ask no better destiny than to bask in the light and
witchery of so glorious a creature. Little did he understand himself or
her, or the life before him. It would have been a woful match for both.
In a certain sense he would be like the ambitious mouse that espoused
the lioness. The polished and selfish idler, with a career devoted to

elegant nothings, would fret and chafe such a nature as hers into almost
frenzy, had she no escape from him.
There would be fewer unhappy marriages if the young, instead of
following impulses and passing fancies, would ask, How will our lives
accord when our present tendencies and temperaments are fully
developed? It would need no prophetic eye to foresee in many cases,
not supplemental and helpful differences, but only hopeless discord.
Yet it is hard for a romantic youth to realize that the smiling maiden
before him, with a cheek of peach-bloom and eyes full of mirth and
tenderness, can become as shrewish as Xantippe herself. And many a
woman becomes stubborn and acid, rather than sweet, by allowing
herself to be persuaded into marrying the wrong man, and then by not
having the good sense to make the best of it.
Alas! experience also proves that, of all prosaic, selfish grumblers, your
over-gallant lover makes the worst. And yet, while the world stands,
multitudes will no doubt eagerly seek the privilege of becoming mutual
tormentors.
Lottie thought Mr. De Forrest "very nice." She liked him better than
any one else she had met and flirted with since her school-days, during
which period of sincerity and immaturity she had had several acute
attacks of what she imagined to be the "grand passion." But as the
objects were as absurd as her emotions, and the malady soon ran, its
course, she began to regard the whole subject as a jest, and think, with
her fashionable mother, that the heart was the last organ to be consulted
in the choice of a husband, as it was almost sure to lead to folly. While
her heart slept, it was easy to agree with her mother's philosophy. But it
would be a sad thing for Charlotte Marsden if her heart should become
awakened when her will or duty was at variance with its cravings. She
might act rightly, she might suffer in patience, but it would require ten
times the effort that the majority of her sex would have to make.
Her mother thought that the elegant and wealthy Mr. De Forrest was
the very one of all the city for her beautiful daughter, and Lottie gave a
careless assent, for certainly he was "very nice." He would answer, as
well as any one she had ever seen, for the inevitable adjunct of her life.
He had always united agreeably the characters of cousin, playmate, and
lover, and why might he not add that of husband? But for the latter
relation she was in no haste. Time enough for that in the indefinite

future. She loved the liberty and year-long frolic of her maiden life,
though in truth she had no idea of settling down on becoming a matron.
In the mean time, while she laughed at De Forrest's love-making, she
did not discourage it, and the young man felt that his clear
understanding with the mother was almost equal to an engagement to
the daughter. He welcomed this country visit with peculiar satisfaction,
feeling that it would bring matters to a crisis. He was not mistaken.
By the time they were sipping their coffee after dessert, the promise of
the leaden sky of the morning was fulfilled in a snow-storm, not
consisting of feathery flakes that fluttered down as if undecided where
to alight, but of sharp, fine crystals that slanted steadily from the
north-east. The afternoon sleigh-ride must be given up, and even the
children looked ruefully and hopelessly out, and then made the best of
in-door amusements.
Miss Marchmont gathered her guests around the parlor fire, and fancy
work and