Page:Peterson Magazine 1869B.pdf/468

 ANNETTE

LYLE'S

CHRISTMAS

GIFT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " DORA'S COLD, " ETC., ETC., ETC.

ANNETTE LYLE walked up the broad flight of steps that led to Mr. Samuel Johnson's handsome mansion at Riverview, and pulled the silver knob of the door-bell with so tremulous a hand that the faint vibration of the wire gained no attention, at first, in the servants' hall below.

While she waited at the door, the sound of gay voices attracted her, floating across the lawn, from the side of the house. She looked around. Where the velvet turf was rolled smoothest in that direction; where the shade; fell softest from the tall elms and maples, a party of ladies and gentlemen were playing croquet.

The steel hoops that gleamed like silver, the gayly-colored balls and mallets, the gayer toilets, the bright faces, the fun, the frolic, the animation of the players riveted Annette's attention like a spectacle from fairy-land. She rang again and again, but still no servant came. At last the game was concluded, and one of the ladies, the winner, looked up. She was a remarkably pretty girl, in whose blonde hair, dressed high and curled, a scarlet bow fluttered, a la Pompadour, matching the trimmings of her Paris dress. Flitting back- ward and forward without rest or cessation, laughing, quarreling, jesting, chattering, in dulging in a dozen outside flirtations, and pay ing little heed to the game itself till the moment of action arrived, it was easy to see that her success, at the last, was owing chiefly to her partner.

He seemed to think so, too, as he stood lean ing on his mallet, laughing quietly at the jokes and compliments of the rest. He was a tall, fair young man, with keen blue eyes and blonde whiskers ; well- shaped, and with much easy grace of manner-the son, or rather the step- son, of the house-for his mother, a handsome widow, had married the rich Mr. Johnson while he was a boy at college, and it was fancied he would be the heir, as he was the partner and favorite of that magnate.

Mrs. Dean was a lady of aristocratic tastes and connections- her plebeian husband had none; she filled his house, therefore, with her own friends, and arranged it according to her own fancies. When her son came home from his university and law studies abroad, he found it a beautifully ordered palace, on which as much wealth had been spent by the reluctant Mr. Johnson in ornamenting, as by his predecessors in building it.

Charles Dean, who knew nothing of the process of these reforms, beheld the result with satisfaction. His fine taste was gratified by the surroundings of his mother's beautiful home, his pride in her was increased by seeing her grace and magnificence as mistress of the mans ion. But he had accepted nothing from Mr. Johnson, till a junior partnership in the firm gave him a right in his house. But when he、 took upon himself the drudgery, that always falls to the youngest of a professional firm, he no longer hesitated to live at his mother's. Meanwhile the house was filled by that mother  with pretty cousins of high estate, among whom it was very pleasant to spend his leisure hours;  and it was one of these, Violetta Villars by  name, very proud of her alliterative title and Parisian education, who claimed his attention now. "Some one is wanting up there," she cried, touching his shoulder and pointing to Annette. "It must be Myra Jones arrived very late- we will go and see."

She went, Mr. Dean followed slowly. A little nearer, her woman's eye resting on the cheap, black dress and dusty boots of the stranger, Violetta fell back; and Charles Dean, relieved from the fear of meeting his antipathy, Miss Jones, went forward more briskly to do the honors of his mother’s house.

Are the servants out, or has no one attended  to you?” he inquired, in a tone and manner naturally courteous and gentle. ‘Pray, come in  and rest,” he added, leading the way without   ceremony, ‘and I will tell my mother you are here.”

It does not matter,” she stammered, flushing painfully under this unaccustomed politeness,  and confusedly accepting the chair he offered.

“I am the plain seamstress,” looking at him   with her shy, beseeching eyes. Charles Dean glanced curiously at the speaker. All her beautiful hair fell about her face. It was dark, luxuriant, short and curling; she wore it turned back over a comb, the ringleted