Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/239

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LYDIA%

HUSBAND.

not divided by the cold leaven of worldly preju- dices; here vre are so stern, so real, so matter- of-fact. Oh! it is so terrible, unnatural!”

Unnatural enough, Lydia thought, she was in all conscience; but, wisely repressing her con¬ victions, she moved into another room, and saw no more of the poetess until the party was breaking up.

“You see I have taken possession of your Raphael,” Mrs. Warner said, as they approached her; “he is to see me to my carriage, and then I will resign him to you. Do you know what he has promised?—to show me his pictures: and as his studio is in your dwelling, shall I not see you too?”

Of course Lydia could only reply that she should be at home, and pleased to see Mrs. Warner.

“Thanks—a thousand thanks! I could love you so much! I feel it already,” she whispered, and after insisting on an embrace, skipped off like an excited canary.

“Your wife is lovely,” she said, as Guy led her down stairs, “not beautiful, but charming: only so cold—I am quite afraid of her.”

“Oli! that iB impossible,” Guy said; “we shall hope to see a great deal of you.”

“Thanks, Raphael! And will she love me?

I cannot exist without affection—will she love me? Don’t let her be cold—your wife should be perfectly etlierial—a sunbeam—a dream! Forgive me: you will think me a wild, giddy creature, but I worship genius, and I do not know how to feign.”

“Then you must make one of your own adorers,” he replied, laughingly.

“Naughty man! But I cannot jest to-night:

I have been very sad ail day; only one thing brought me out this evening.”

“And that?” Guy said, as he placed her in the carriage.

Mrs. Warner leaned forward and raised her dangerous eyes to his face,

“Cannot you guess?” she almost whispered. “But good night; don’t let your angel wife be cold to me—good night.”

She drove away, leaving Havens completely bewildered by her fascinations, and he returned to Lydia more restless and impatient than she had ever seen him. He was loud in praise of Mrs. Warner, and his wife made no remark, confident that a very little time would serve to weary him of her society. t

The next day Mrs. Warner called, and Lydia was martyrized for several hours, and in truth, a little ashamed of Guy’s weakness. Mrs. Warner went into ecstasies over his paintings, and

made notes for an article which she promised to write, till between her praises and her beautiful eyes, poor Havens’ head was quite turned.

“And here you live like a nightingale and his mate,” she said. “I am sure you never stir from this enchanted room, Mrs. Havens.”

“Indeed, I am here very little,” Lydia replied; “during the day my household duties occupy me a great deal.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Mrs. Warner. “Don’t tell me you ever descend to such prosaic details; the companion of a child of genius should know nothing of that petty drudgery which occupies the common herd.”

“You will find me sadly common-place,” Lydia said, coldly. “I assure you I quite pride myself on my puddings.”

The poetess looked “unutterable things,” and at that moment Lydia was called away by the announcement of visitors whom Mrs. Warner would on no account see; she would look once more at those gems and steal quietly away.

“Strange that genius never weds with its like,” she said, with a sigh. “Ah, Raphael, your wife is an angel, and may you never learn what too many do, the horror of awakening to the consciousness that you are bound for life to one who cannot appreciate you.”

“I assure you, Lydia has a very true perception of the beautiful,” Guy said; “she seems cold-”

“Ob, no, no! I was not thinking of her—you are very happy! Would that it were in my power to render your bliss eternal. Ah, we have but a sorry let here, we poor song birds, and you creators of ideals like only to heaven! How little we are understood even by those dearest to us, how little they know of our real feelings!”

She paused abruptly, and threw herself into an attitude so full of grace, that Guy went into raptures; and before she left it was decided that he should paint her portrait.

“Bring your wife to see me,” she said, as she entered her carriage; “I want to love her for your—for the sake of your genius. Sunday evenings my friends often 4rop in—I never see ladies that night, and as you are married, I suppose I must lose you too. Ah, well, you will not regret it,” and with another flashing glance she drove away.

The acquaintance which Lydia had hoped would be transitory, grew into an intimacy that pained and displeased her. Under pretence of sitting for her picture, Mrs. Warner spent hours and hours in the studio, certainly much retarding Guy’s labors thereby, although he never