A Leap-Year Romance [pp. 211-222]

APPLETONS' JO URNNAL.
phere was kept singularly pure and bracing by an
all-pervading censorship, sometimes as rigorous and
outspoken as a woman's indignations, and sometimes
as subtile as feminine tact.
The beginning of our story takes us back to late
one evening during the Christmas holidays in I872.
Mrs. Elmore had opened the spacious double parlors of her summer-home-in which she had been
detained from her usual winter season at the hotel
in the city, by the sickness of an only son-for the
entertainment of the Springtown Literary Club.
The exercises, which consisted of a conversation on
Dante's "Vita Nuova," led by a young college professor, and a representation of scenes from "As
You Like It," had been unusually well attended
and interesting. The guests had slowly taken their
departure in a pelting storm of mingled snow and
rain that had suddenly arisen since they had assembled. When the door had closed after the last goodnight, Mrs. Elmore pushed a large easy-chair before
the grate, and, languidly seating herself, summoned
her maid to bring a bottle of the choice cherry-wine
she had put up with her own hands five years before.
"And tell John," she added, "to go to Mrs.
Newell's at once, and say that Miss Josephine will
stay with me to-night."
Mrs. Elmore was a tall, large woman, with a decidedly Roman cast of features, and of commanding,
almost reginal manner, yet with a complexion as
fresh as a girl of sixteen, and with eyes and lips full
of tenderness and sensibility. She was the spoiled
only daughter of a well-to-do lawyer, whose name
had been quite prominent in the early political history of the State, the alternately teased and petted
sister of three older brothers, and was now the wife
of a rich old speculator, who had retired from business nearly a score of years before, when he married
her, a girl of seventeen. Always allowed to follow
her own capricious and adventuresome will, she had
acquired an unusually wide and varied experience as
a woman of the world; while her independent and
original ways and views in all matters within her
ken, domestic, social, and sometimes even literary or
political, to which it was her particular affectation to
call attention, had made her the centre of quite a
salon of admirers. The ceaseless and exuberant flow
of animal spirits which led her sometimes to make
ludicrous the foibles of others by good-humored
though rather too trenchant caricature, had sharpened the tongues of the village gossips against her;
but, in spite of this, it was more than whispered that
she was the trusted counselor of many a lovelorn
lad and lass, who were somehow led to pour their
secrets into her ear, and seek her sound, womanly
advice. If this was so, she did her kindly offices
silently, and kept her own counsels with perfect discretion. In short, she was by no means a vulgar
backbiter or an intriguing match-maker, whatever
Mrs. Grundy might surmise.
Before the maid returned, a young lady entered
from behind the curtain of the temporary stage in
the back-parlor, and seated herself on an ottoman
with the air of a familiar and consciously welcome
guest. She was dressed in the last hymeneal costume of Rosalind, and her face was still flushed from
the excitement of the evening's performance. Yet,
in spite of the hearty and well-merited applause she
had received, there was no look of triumph upon
her brow, but rather a trace of anxiety and even
pain. Without noticing this, Mrs. Elmore began:
"What foolish whim was it that made you try
to give up your part at the very last moment? You
look well in the costume of a page. The'mannish
air,' the'swashing martial outside,' become you admirably. You fit the description of the character
which is put into Oliver's mouth. You were just
born for a Rosalind, and she seems to me the very
crown jewel of all Shakespeare's womanly creations
-so delicate yet so resolute and independent, so
tender yet so noble. What ought a sensible girl of
princely breeding, suddenly thrown upon her own
resources, to do but find the man she loves, satisfy
herself that her affection is returned, and then let
him know she is ready? You had no such morbid
scruples about the part when you were a collegian;
for, if I remember aright, you have tried it before,
though with far less success. Still," she mused, " I
am not surprised, after all."
"It is no such foolish pride as that," replied
Miss Newell. " To be sure, I expected to feel more
awkward in such a character at twenty-eight than I
did at sixteen, though I felt far less so. But what
saddens me more and more every day is the thought
of Brother George's marriage in the spring. The
old home, that I have kept for him ever since poor
father's death, must be broken up. Our tastes were
similar, we read and studied together through college,
and I thought we should always live together. I do
not know what I shall do."
Her voice trembled, and her eyes were filled with
tears.
"Nonsense! I thought you abhorred sentiment,"
said Mrs. Elmore. "Your brother ought to have
married long ago, and you ought to be glad of a
chance to get away from Springtown at last. A sister's love should never make her jealous of a wife's.
I have not been surprised at what I have seen in
you to- night. The townsfolk who have known
you longest, and have always complained of your
cold, proud ways, were all struck with the warm,
loving manner in which you portrayed Rosalind's
love. Your brother would have been astonished
most of all had he seen you to-night."
There was no reply,'nd Mrs. Elmore continued:
"Now, Josie, I asked you to stay to-night, not
because I am afraid to be alone in Mr. Elmore's absence, and not because I forget your strange love of
walking in all kinds of bad weather, but because I
have something very plain and particular to say to
you. Professor Moors is in love with you. There!
don't smile, and don't look so scornful about it.
Poor fellow! It was really pitiful to see the timid
glance he gave you as he was describing so earnestly
Dante's growing yet hopeless passion. I was not
surprised. I have long suspected it. Your snug lit
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