Mark Hurdlestone Part 15

"I have too much delicacy to reveal secrets, or to subject myself or him to your vulgar ridicule."

"I wish him luck!" said the Captain, turning over the leaves of Juliet's portfolio. "What the deuce does the girl mean? She has scribbled over all the paper. I hope she don't amuse herself by writing love-letters?"

"Do you think that I would suffer my niece to spend her time in such an improper manner? But, indeed, brother, I wish you would speak to Juliet (for she does not mind me) on this subject."

"On what subject--writing love-letters?"

"No, sir: something almost as bad."

"Well--out with it."

"She has the folly to write verses."

"Is that all?"

"All! Only consider the scandal that it will bring upon me. I shall be called a blue-stocking."

"You! I thought it was the author to whom persons gave that appellation."

"True, Captain Whitmore; but, as I help to instruct the young lady, ill-natured people will say that I taught her to write."

"Don't fret yourself on that score, Dolly; it will not spoil your fortune, if they do. But Juliet--I am sorry that the child has taken such whimsies into her head; it may hinder her from getting a good husband."

"Fie, Captain Whitmore! Is that your only objection?"

"Be quiet, Dolly, there's a good woman, and let me examine these papers.

If there is anything wrong about them, I will burn them, and forbid my pretty Julee to write such nonsense again. I know that the dear girl loves her old dad, and will mind what I say. How!--what's this? G.o.d bless the darling!"

'_Lines addressed to my father during his absence at sea._'

The old man put on his spectacles, and read these outpourings of an affectionate heart with the tears in his eyes. They possessed very little merit, as a poem; but the Captain thought them the sweetest lines he had ever read.

"Well, now, Dolly, is not that a pretty poem? Who could have the heart to find fault with that, or criticise the dear child for her dutiful love to me? I'll not burn that." And the old tar slipped the precious doc.u.ment into his pocket, to be h.o.a.rded next his heart, and to be worn until death bade them part, within the enamelled case which contained the miniature of his Julee's very pretty mother.

"It's well enough," said Miss Dorothy; "but I hate such romantic stuff.

It could have been written with more propriety in prose." And she added, in a malicious aside, loud enough to reach the ears of the fond father:

"Now his vanity's pleased with this nonsense, there will be no end to his admiration of Juliet's verses."

"Dorothy, don't be envious of that of which you are incapable."

"Me envious! Of whom, pray? A whining, half-grown chit, who, if she have anything worthy of commendation about her, first received it from me.

Envious, indeed! Captain Whitmore, I am astonished at your impudence!"

What answer the Captain would have given to this was very doubtful, for his brow clouded up with the disrespectful manner in which Aunt Dorothy spoke of his child, had not that child herself appeared, and all the sunshine of the father's heart burst forth at her presence.

"Dear papa, what are you about?" she cried, flinging her arms about the old veteran's neck, and trying, at the same moment, to twitch the paper out of his hand.

"Avast heavin'! my girl. The old commodore is not to be robbed so easily of his prize."

"Indeed, you must give the portfolio to me!" said Juliet, her eyes full of tears at finding her secret discovered.

"Indeed, indeed, I shall do no such thing, you saucy little minx! So, sit still whilst the father reads."

"But that--that is not worth reading."

"I dare say you are right, Miss Juliet," said the old maid, sarcastically. "The rhymes of young ladies are seldom worth reading. You had better mend your stockings, and mind your embroidery, than waste your time in such useless trash."

"It does not take up much of my time, aunt."

"How do you make it up out of your little head, Julee?" said the Captain. "Come and sit upon my knee, and tell the father all about it. I am sure I could sooner board a French man-of-war than tack two rhymes together."

"I don't know, papa," said Juliet, laughing, and accepting the proffered seat. "It comes into my head when it likes, and pa.s.ses through my brain with the rapidity of lightning. I find it without seeking, and often, when I seek it, I cannot find it. The thing is a great mystery to myself; but the possession of it makes me very happy."

"Weak minds, I have often been told, are amused by trifles," sneered Aunt Dorothy.

"Then I must be very weak, aunt, for I am easily amused. Dear papa, give me that paper."

"I must read it."

"'Tis silly stuff."

"Let me be the best judge of that. Perhaps it contains something that I ought not to see?"

"Perhaps it does. Oh, no," she whispered in his ear; "but Aunt Dorothy will sneer so at it."

The old man was too much pleased with his child to care for Aunt Dorothy. He knew, of old, that her bark was worse than her bite; that she really loved both him and his daughter; but she had a queer way of showing it. And unfolding the paper, he read aloud, to the great annoyance of the fair writer, the fragment of a ballad, of which, to do him justice, he understood not a single word; and had he called upon her to explain its meaning, she would, in all probability, have found it no easy task.

LADY LILIAN.

Alone in her tower, at the midnight hour, The lady Lilian sat; Like a spirit pale, In her silken veil, She watches the white clouds above her sail, And the flight of the drowsy bat.

Is love the theme of her waking dream?

Her heart is gay and free; She loves the night, When the stars shine bright, And the moon falls in showers of silver light Through the stately forest tree.

And all around, on the dewy ground, The quivering moonbeams stray; And the light and shade, By the branches made, Give motion and life to the silent glade, Like fairy elves at play.

And far o'er the meads, through its fringe of reeds, Flashes the slender rill; Like a silver thread, By some spirit led, From an urn of light by the moonbeams fed, It winds round the distant hill.

When sleep's soft thrall falls light on all, That lady's eyes unclose; To all that is fair In earth and air, When none are awake her thoughts to share, Or her spirit discompose.

And tones more dear, to her fine-tuned ear, On the midnight breezes float; Than the sounds that ring From the minstrel's string, When the mighty deeds of some warrior king Inspire each thrilling note.

"So there's a hole in the ballad," said the old tar, looking up in his daughter's blushing face. "Julee, my dear, what does all this mean?"

"It would be a difficult matter for Miss Julee to explain," said Aunt Dorothy.