Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/442

 BUILD

UP

WALL.

411

each admiration of boyhood and youth may call forth a passing feeling, it is evanescent, and passes like a ripple on deep water. But when the depths of these waters are stirred by the hurricane of real, earnest, true love, it is no subject for jeers: but if not calling for a return, it at least merits sympathy and comfort,” and he let his voice fall into a low, tender cadence.

Mrs. Dayton felt uncomfortable. The laughing response which rose to her lips died there. She longed to tell him her belief in his doctrine. They were going slowly, quietly along, each oc- eupied with his own thoughts, when the scream of a locomotive startled the horse, and he dashed forward at a full gallop.

There was a rush, a crash, and they were on the road side—the horse a mangled corpse, the carriage thrown violently back several feet, Mr. Cooke insensible on the grass, and Mrs. Dayton on the other side of the road, uninjured.

Mrs. Dayton sat up, and with a nervous, hysterical laugh called her companion’s name. He did not answer. She went to his side. He was still white, insensible, and she thought him dead. With a wild cry she raised his head to her breast, calling his name, ‘‘Horace, dear Horace,” and begging him to look at her. Then she looked round for help. There was no house in sight. Mrs. Dayton was not a woman to spend many, moments in useless grief. She soon recovered her presence of mind. Her vinaigrette full of  salts was hanging to her belt, and she drew out the cork and tried its effect. Her companion was only stunned, and in a few moments he was able to feel her hand on his brow, hear her voice in his ear. He kept perfectly still, his eyes closed, and his breathing low. The most delicious ecstasy was holding him quiet. The low, sweet voice, but which would never before speak one word of preference for him, was now saying,

“Horace, dear Horace, speak to me once more.” Then there fell upon his face a tear.

He faintly opened his eyes. The next instant he regretted it, for he found his head on the grass, and Mrs. Dayton at least five feet from him.

“Are you hurt?” she said, quietly.

Had he been dreaming? Was this the voice that said Horace, dear Horace?

He sat up. He was not hurt, only stunned, and in a few moments he stood beside her. Her veil was down, and he could not see her face. “How are we to get home?” she asked, pointing to the dead horse and broken carriage. Her voice trembled now, and the wind blew aside her veil. Her eyes bore traces of weeping.

Horace forgot his wager, forgot their awkward predicament, forgot everything but his love, and he poured it forth in broken, passionate words. Her heart throbbed high with ecstasy, for she wa he was too great an adept in the art of flirtation rself, not to be able to- distinguish the voice of real feeling. Yet as he went on, the scene with Mrs. Harrington occurred to her, and she stifled back the eager welcome her heart gave his words, and said coldly,

‘‘Enough, enough, Mr. Cooke. I am sorry to cause you the loss of a thousand dollars, but Mrs. Dayton cannot accompany the Saratoga party as Mrs. Cooke.”

Stung to the quick, Horace stood silent for a moment. Then in a low voice he said,

‘I was an impertinent fool. Can you ever forgive me?”

‘‘On one condition,” she said, smiling.

Name it,” was the eager reply.

“That you pay your wager, own yourself beaten, and do not address one word of love to me until we return from Saratoga.”

“‘The first two I agree to, but the last is very hard,” he replied, taking her hand.

How are we to get home?” she said, abruptly.

‘We must walk to the nearest house, and then hire a carriage.”

Now I will not tell you, reader, what they said in that long walk, but I know Horace paid his wager, confessed himself beaten, and bore the banter of his companions with great philosophy. How the last clause was kept I know not, but early in the following fall, Mrs. Dayton became Mrs. Horace Cooke.

BUILD

UP

T H E

W A L L.

BY HRS. A!. ll. II I N E B.  Two friends there were, who ever shared Each other’s care and pleasure, For whom when grief: no longer spared, Love ﬁlled the sinking measure. Their wishes, dreams, ambitions, one, One prayer their spirits making, That they might have, when night came on, One sleep and one awaking. A foolish thing, that forth again A look, a word had driven, Made with-r distance and more pain Than death each tie had riven; What though their paths be gloomy all, And each a weary rover? Build higher still the angry wall, Let neither one look over. 