I cannot pretend to deny that I am interested in the girl.Alone, unprotected, as I have seen so many young girls left in boarding-houses, the centre of all the men's eyes that surround the table, watched with jealous sharpness by every woman, most of all by that poor relation of our landlady, who belongs to the class of women that like to catch others in mischief when they themselves are too mature for indiscretions, (as one sees old rogues turn to thief-catchers,) one of Nature's gendarmerie, clad in a complete suit of wrinkles, the cheapest coat-of-mail against the shafts of the great little enemy,--so surrounded, Iris spans this commonplace household-life of ours with her arch of beauty, as the rainbow, whose name she borrows, looks down on a dreary pasture with its feeding flocks and herds of indifferent animals.
These young girls that live in boarding-houses can do pretty much as they will.The female gendarmes are off guard occasionally.The sitting-room has its solitary moments, when any two boarders who wish to meet may come together accidentally, (accidentally, I said, Madam, and I had not the slightest intention of Italicizing the word,) and discuss the social or political questions of the day, or any other subject that may prove interesting.Many charming conversations take place at the foot of the stairs, or while one of the parties is holding the latch of a door,--in the shadow of porticoes, and especially on those outside balconies which some of our Southern neighbors call "stoops," the most charming places in the world when the moon is just right and the roses and honeysuckles are in full blow,--as we used to think in eighteen hundred and never mention it.
On such a balcony or "stoop," one evening, I walked with Iris.We were on pretty good terms now, and I had coaxed her arm under mine,--my left arm, of course.That leaves one's right arm free to defend the lovely creature, if the rival--odious wretch! attempt, to ravish her from your side.Likewise if one's heart should happen to beat a little, its mute language will not be without its meaning, as you will perceive when the arm you hold begins to tremble, a circumstance like to occur, if you happen to be a good-looking young fellow, and you two have the "stoop" to yourselves.
We had it to ourselves that evening.The Koh-inoor, as we called him, was in a corner with our landlady's daughter.The young fellow John was smoking out in the yard.The gendarme was afraid of the evening air, and kept inside, The young Marylander came to the door, looked out and saw us walking together, gave his hat a pull over his forehead and stalked off.I felt a slight spasm, as it were, in the arm I held, and saw the girl's head turn over her shoulder for a second.What a kind creature this is! She has no special interest in this youth, but she does not like to see a young fellow going off because he feels as if he were not wanted.
She had her locked drawing-book under her arm.--Let me take it,--Isaid.
She gave it to me to carry.
This is full of caricatures of all of us, I am sure,--said I.
She laughed, and said,--No,--not all of you.
I was there, of course?
Why, no,--she had never taken so much pains with me.
Then she would let me see the inside of it?
She would think of it.
Just as we parted, she took a little key from her pocket and handed it to me.This unlocks my naughty book,--she said,--you shall see it.I am not afraid of you.
I don't know whether the last words exactly pleased me.At any rate, I took the book and hurried with it to my room.I opened it, and saw, in a few glances, that I held the heart of Iris in my hand.
--I have no verses for you this month, except these few lines suggested by the season.
MIDSUMMER.
Here! sweep these foolish leaves away, I will not crush my brains to-day!
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!
Not that,--the palm-tree's rustling leaf Brought from a parching coral-reef!
Its breath is heated;--I would swing The broad gray plumes,--the eagle's wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud, A long-stemmed lily from the lake, Cold as a coiling water-snake.
Rain me sweet odors on the air, And wheel me up my Indian chair, And spread some book not overwise Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
--Who knows it not,--this dead recoil Of weary fibres stretched with toil, The pulse that flutters faint and low When Summer's seething breezes blow?
O Nature! bare thy loving breast And give thy child one hour of rest, One little hour to lie unseen Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!
So, curtained by a singing pine, Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine, Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay In sweeter music dies away.
