225
LYDIA’s HUSBAND.
One night, at a sort of literary and artistic
reunion, she was sitting with resigned patience
beneath the flood of raptures poured upon her
by one of her husband's admirers, trying hard
not to look bored, and to smile in the proper
place, when she was startled by a slight bustle in the adjoining rooms.
“Mrs. Warner must have come," said her companion; “I heard that she was to be here to-night. Have you met her, Mrs. Havens?”-
Lydia had not. Who was she?
“Surely you know. She writes under the signature of ‘Stella’--such genius, so much; soul!"
Lydia remembered having taken up, a few days before, a volume of poems, entitled “Soul Pinings,” in which transcendentalism and second-hand French morality struggled for supremacy with much that was even graceful and beautiful: and she looked round with some curiosity for the approach of Mrs. Warner
Before long she heard her husband’s voice, and then a little female shriek of delight by way of response.
“Here—your wife here, Mr. Havens? Take me to her-How I long to know her! What a soul she must have for you to have chosen her! I should like to sit at her feet and drink in the inspiration which I know must beam from her eyes.’
Before Lydia could recover from her astonishment, Guy appeared, looking a little embarrassed, yet delighted, and upon his arm leaned the poetess. She was a woman above the medium height, thin, with long curls banging about her face, and shading a pair of beautiful eyes better tutored than ever eyes were before. In spite of her affectation, her little cries of rapture, there was an inexpressible charm about her, and even the nonsense she talked was rendered so unintelligible by the beautiful language in which she clothed it, that, with most people, it passed for brilliant conversation; men always admire what they don’t understand.
“This is happiness, indeed.” murmured the poetess. “Ah! Mrs. Havens, this is too much bliss to meet in the same evening, your gifted husband and his household angel. Do you know what I called him long before I ever saw his face?—-‘ Raphael.‘ And you, oh! I can find no name sweet enough. How you must dote on that inspired creature! How the genius flashes from his eyes!"
She paused, at last, for breath; and Lydia sank back, completely overpowered, staring at Guy in a sort of bewildered amazement. The poetess seated herself upon a low ottoman at Lydia’s feet, and sat looking up into her face with a tender admiration, while several of the other guests, who were also worshipers at the shrine of transcendentalism, gathered round to watch the movements of their high priestess.
“You have been out of town for some time, I believe, Mrs. Warner?" said Lydia, desirous of breaking the silence.
“Don’t call me by that cold name!" pleaded the lady, clasping her hands pathetically; “pray do not put me so far away from your heart; call me Stella, as all do who love me."
“Is that your name?" Lydia asked.
Mrs. Warner hesitated; in truth, her parents had christened her Jerusha, softened by her into Jane, and finally dropped for the euphonious title of Stella.
“It is the name by which my partial friends call me," she said, “Come here, Mr. Havens, and bid your wife take me to her heart."
This was intended metaphorically, but Guy looked puzzled, and unable to decide whether the woman was the most fascinating, or the most ridiculous creature he had ever met.
“How happy I am to see you two together!" continued Stella; “how I have dreamed of this hour—
‘Two souls with but a single thought, Two hearts that beat as one?"
If Lydia had spoken her thought, it would have been far from complimentary, and she wondered what Guy’s might be. He was seated by Mrs. Warner, and she was talking to him of art, really conversing well: even Lydia was forced to acknowledge that, though she had already taken an unaccountable dislike to the woman.
“Your wife’s portrait—you are painting it!" Lydia heard her exclaim. in answer to some remark of Guy’s, and she was seized with another spasm of delight; “I shall never rest until I have seen it—Raphael painting the angel of his life-journey! Willi?- Shflll I can FOR?” She cried, rushing up to Lydia and seizing both her hands.
“I can find no name sweet enough!”
“You are very kind," replied Lydia, very quietly, “but I am quite satisfied to be called Mrs. Havens."
The poetess appeared slightly confused; and the group of worshipers seemed shocked by such worldly reserve; even Guy looked as if he thought such enthusiasm deserved a different reception. In a moment, the lady had returned to Guy’s side, with one of her little bird-like hops, and was discoursing volubly of life abroad.
“There one truly lives," she cried; “the soul is free to speak, like summons like, and souls which have a true aflinity for one another, are
