THE DIAMOND EARRINGS. 1850s

THE DIAMOND EAR-RINGS.

BY E. W. DEWEES. 

A more beautiful girl than Florence Finley in her eighteenth year it would be difficult to imagine. Her fine figure, tall and graceful, gave her a noble aspect, and her face was lovely to look upon, with its perfect features, and rich coloring. The bright tint of her glowing cheeks contrasted charmingly with the dark fringe which shaded her dear blue eyes—with the white pearly teeth, and with the rich brown of her luxurious braided hair, which crowned her graceful head with a glorious coronet of nature's bestowing. Though full of life, and almost wild with the exuberance of her yet untamed spirits, she yet possessed an innate dignity, and a kind of regal bearing, which made one think how nobly she would have filled the station, had fortune made her a queen. One could not but imagine how the loyalty and devotion of a nation would have been called forth by a being so bright and beautiful, and how, in stirring times, she could have swayed all hearts, at will, by the magic of her grace and spirit. But far from regal was the sphere in which this queenly creature was placed by fortune. Though of a good family, a series of misfortunes had placed her parents in very narrow circumstances, just as Florence was growing up to womanhood. Then came the painful struggle to keep up appearances—to maintain a footing in society, which is one of the most unhappy results arising from poverty. The daily shifts—the petty privations—the vexatious restraints which straitened circumstances ever entail, especially upon those who associate with those more affluent, were keenly felt by our young and sensitive heroine. She was at this time just entering society under the guardianship of her aunt, Mrs. Eldon, a woman of wealth and fashion. Her mother had resigned her own duty as chaperon, for the double reason, that her failing health rendered the duties of society irksome to her, and from an economical motive which I will explain. Quite unable in their reduced circumstances to provide a new and suitable evening outfit for her daughter, Mrs. Finley considered that only by adapting to that end, the remnant of her own once elegant wardrobe, could the deficiency be supplied. There had been great consultations with mantua-makers, great turning, and cutting, and refitting, and retrimmings, before our heroine's simple and limited outfit was complete. Very deficient was it at best, and Florence unfortunately did not know that with youth and such beauty as hers she needed no other adornment. True, she could not but see that she was greatly admired and courted; but she felt that she did not meet her companions quite on equal terms, and the fact mortified her, as only a very young person could be mortified, by such a circumstance. Florence's constant companion was her cousin, Helena Eldon, a lively, thoughtless girl about a year older than herself, and though incapable of the mean feeling of envy, our heroine was often compelled to contrast her own simple toilet with her cousin's rich and tasteful attire. It chanced that toward the end of Florence's first winter, Mrs. Eldon made her daughter a present of a very elegant set of jewels. These ornaments she was to wear, for the first time, on the occasion of a very splendid ball, to be given by Mrs. B-, which it was supposed would be the last large entertainment of the season. On the morning of the important day, Helena carried her necklace to the jeweler's to have some slight change made in its mode of fastening. Florence accompanied her. She was just at that age when girls have a perfect passion for jewelry, and her eye eagerly scanned the brilliant treasures displayed on every side. The salesman seeing her delight in his wares, called her attention to a pair of very beautiful diamond earrings, which he took from a case, and desired her to try on. Florence full of girlish delight flew to a mirror which stood near, and having thrown aside her hat, clasped the glittering jewels in her ears. Even she herself was startled and delighted with the brilliant effect they lent to her bright and glowing beauty. A blush mantled her cheek as she acknowledged her own loveliness, and felt a wish rising in her heart that one could see he: she was looking then. But though there cannot be a doubt but thea a true novel-hero would have done his indisputable duty, by appearing at this most evidently appropriate moment, real life lovers are not always so well-trained, and do not take their cue so readily; and in this case it chanced the young gentleman who had been honored by Florence's with was several miles away, engaged in some prosaic occupation not at all to the point Perhaps I should have mentioned sooner young D'Ebreuil, a gentleman of French parentage, who alone, of all Florence's admirers, had succeeded in touching her fancy, if not her heart. Others night cause her eyes to sparkle, and her cheek to blush by their flattering homage, but he only had power to make her heart beat as he approached, or cause it to thrill when he spoke. Florence yet stood muring before the mirror, when her cousin, who had been occupied till then, came up to her and uttered an exclamation of surprise and admiration. Florence started, and then laughing joyously in innocent exultation at her own beauty, whispered to her cousin, "Oh, Helena, how I should like to wear these for only this one night!" "Should you?" said Helena, in good-natured sympathy, "well, let me see if it cannot be managed." She paused a moment, and then whispered, "Leave it to me, and you will see what a nice plan I hove formed." She then turned to the salesman, and desired him when he sent her necklace home that afternoon, to also send the ear-rings for her mother to see, intimating she might perhaps become the purchaser. When they left the store, the unscrupulous Helena remarked, "Of course yon understand my project, coz?" Florence professed ignorance. "Why you little goose, do you not see—I shall take care to receive the jewels myself this afternoon. Mamma will not be at home, so I shall desire that the ear-rings be left till to-morrow. In the meantime, yon, my little princess, shall wear them this evening, and neither you, nor I, nor the jeweler, nor the ear-rings be a bit the worse for it." "But cousin," began Florence, quite startled. Helena interrupted her gaily, "But me no buts, Flory dear; let me manage it all for you, and yon will see no harm will come of it. I always was a famous manager, and have thought of everything. Mamma, you know, is not to accompany us to-night on account of her headache, and old Mrs. M-, who is to matronile us, will never even see the ear-rings, she is so blind. A pair of diamond ear-rings will not be worn out by once wearing; they can be sent back early to-morrow morning, and no harm done to any one; so cousin mine be convinced, and consent to look your loveliest tonight." Florence was not convinced. She was not in the least imposed on by her good-natured cousin's reasoning. She was perfectly conscious that the action she contemplated was highly improper and wrong. But she was strongly tempted; tempted both by her childish and foolish, but ardent desire to wear the ornaments, and the wish to look her best in the eyes of him she most desired to please. Enough, she yielded to temptation, and consented to wear the ear-rings. Everything occurred as Helena had conjectured ; she received the jewels herself from the hands of the jeweler's boy, and when she and her cousin were safe in the dressing-room at Mrs. B-'s, (where the ball was given) she clasped the glittering jewels in Florence's delicate little ears, and exulted in her Splendid management." Florence was dressed very becomingly in a white silk made (I must be candid) of her mother's wedding dress. Her beautiful hair without ornament, was wound round her small head, which seemed almost too heavily laden with its burden of rich braids. Her neck and arms were bare—nothing relieved the extreme simplicity of her toilet but a bouquet, which Helena had presented to her, and the superb ear-rings, which, rather out of keeping with the rest of her dress, glittered in her ears. Still they added an inconceivable brilliancy to her appearance. Excitement had lent a brighter bloom than common to her soft cheek; her clear eyes were more than usually lustrous, and altogether she had never looked so superbly beautiful. Ere long she was joyously taking her part in the dance, forgetful of her ornaments, and unconscious of the remarks, both admiring and ill-natured, which they elicited. She was wholly occupied in enjoying the gay scene, and in wondering if Mr. D'Ebrenil were never coming. What magnetism was it by which she knew the exact moment when he at length entered the room? She had not even glanced toward the door, but a sudden flush on her cheek, and an increased animation of manner were not unobserved by her partner, though ho little guessed the cause. She knew, too, though she did not turn her head, that he had come and placed himself near her—that he was watching her. She suddenly became very gay—very gracious to her partner, who, greatly flattered, redoubled his assiduities. Toward the close of the quadrille, Florence ventured to steal a timid glance at Mr. D'Ebreuil, his look denoted everything she wished—admiration—jealousy—love. Her eyes sunk beneath his, and an exulting smile she could not repress stole about her mouth. Perhaps it was a feminine artifice to conceal the meaning of that involuntary smile which made her look up again, and bow and smile to Mr. D'EbreuiL Another moment brought him to her side. His looks, his voice, his manner all indicated the most intense inward excitement It was plain that the strong citadel of his heart, which had so long held out, had surrendered, and at discretion. Florence was very happy, and her joy spoke in every feature of her face, and seemed to irradiate her whole being. At parting Mr. D'Ebreuil detained her hand a moment in his, and whispered with peculiar emphasis, "I shall see you to-morrow." The morrow came—but how different a one from what poor Florence had anticipated. In her joyous excitement the night before, she had forgotten to remove the jewels from her ears on leaving Mrs. B-'s. On her arrival at home, she found to her consternation that one of them was gone; lost, whether in the ball-room, in the carriage, or in the street she knew not, but it was gone. She passed a sleepless night, and early next morning hastened to her cousin to tell her of her mishap. Helena had the carriage searched, and sent inquiries to Mrs. B-'s without success. Our heroine returned home in deep distress, and seeking her parents, made to them, with many tears, a full confession of her fault and its consequences. Mr. and Mrs. Finley were overwhelmed. The value of the lost jewels was such as to preclude the idea of their paying for them without absolute ruin—but worse even than this, was it to feel their confidence in their beloved child shaken. While this troubled consultation was pending, Mr. D'Ebreuil was announced. He desired to see Mr. Finley. Florence's heart beat fast, and the Mood mounted to her brow as she laid her hand on her father's arm as he was leaving the room, and said with a great effort, "Father, tell him of what has just occurred— if—if it should prove to be his right to know." While her father was absent from the room Florence lay on her mother's bosom, weeping as though her heart were breaking, and whispering to herself, "It is all over—it is all over!" She rose and stood erect as her father returned. She did not ask a question, but her face, ashy pale, and her eyes fixed inquiringly on him, spoke for her. Mr. Finley put his arm round her, and replied gently, "Yes, my child, he came to make proposals for you—but—I did as you desired, and he has withdrawn them." Florence's head sunk heavily on her father's shoulder. He perceived that she was fainting, and carried her to the sofa. In a few moments, however, she revived under her mother's care, and sat up. "Has he gone?" she asked, when she had recovered her recollection. "No, my dear," answered her father, "he desired to speak with you. But I will go and tell him you are not well enough." "No, no," cried Florence, "I shall be better in a moment; I will see him." She rose, and bathed her eyes and aching head; smoothed her disordered hair, and went down stairs. She was very pale when she entered the room, but at the sight of her lover one single feeling overpowered her—shame—burning shame, to feel how she had lowered and disgraced herself in his eyes. She sank upon a sofa, covering her face with her hands. In spite of the stern coldness in which Mr. D'Ebreuil had wrapped himself, he felt himself yielding too much to the softening influence the sight of Florence's deep distress and humiliation excited. He took a turn across the room to refortify his principles, and then paused opposite to her, said, "Pardon me, Miss Finley, I have given yon the pain of this interview in the hope of being useful to you." After a pause, he continued in some embarrassment, "your father has informed me of this—unfortunate affair. It would be a pleasure—a consolation to me to render yon such aid as lies in my power. I apprehend your father's circumstances would render it inconvenient for him to repair this loss. Fortunately my means are such as to make the requisite sum a trifle to me—make me forever grateful by allowing me to assume this debt as my own." "Never, sir, never!" cried Florence, raising her bowed head with a look of pride, and even, resentment. "Do you think I have no feeling of delicacy—(propriety—left?" "Far from it," said Mr. D'Ebreuil, "but I beg of you to view this matter calmly and dispassionately, and I think you will accept my offer." Florence made a gesture of impatient dissentMr. D'Ebreuil continued, "Your father, as you know, is unable to meet this demand-" "He would make any sacrifice for me," said Florence, bursting into* tears—"sell the furniture—anything." "Would it be right to allow this?" asked D'EbreuiL " Consider that your father is already struggling with difficulties—he is growing old, and your mother's health is delicate—would it be right to involve them in privations—perhaps sufferings, for your fault; would it not be more just for you to sacrifice your pride, as an atonement—a punishment, if you will, for your error? For myself," he added, after a pause, "believe me, I wish only to be your friend in this matter —your disinterested friend." Florence noted and understood the emphasis placed on the word "disinterested"—but even while she suffered from the stern pride, which scorned contact with even the shadow of dishonor; it but exalted the more in her estimation him who would not deign to fix his love unworthily. She even trembled when she saw his eye rest pityingly upon her, lest he should relent—had he done so, he would have fallen immeasurably in her opinion—so strange a thing is woman's heart After a long silence, during which a severe struggle was going on in Florence's breast, the turned to Mr. D'Ebreuil and said frankly, "Mr. D'Ebreuil, I thank you for your offer, and accept it; not as a gift, but a loan, which I shall make it my duty religiously to discharge. Let it be merely a matter of business between us. The rest you will arrange with my father." She was gone, leaving D'Ebreuil in a state, of mind which ho^himself was far from understanding. Of a highly sensitive and chivalric nature, the very idea of anything dishonorable shocked and revolted him. He was of that disposition that he would have torn his own heart out had he found in it a base thought. He was ill prepared then to brook the discovery that the being he had enshrined as some goddess in his inmost heart, was but a foolish girl, guilty of vanity and imprudence at least, if not dishonor. His confidence in her purity, her integrity, was shaken. In the first shock and revulsion of feeling he sternly resolved to abjure her—to cast her utterly from his heart. But to a man of true feeling even the ashes of a dead passion are sacred. The woman he has once loved can never be to him as another. He must respect her—defer to her—serve her for the sake of what has been. These were D'Ebreuil's thoughts till Florence appeared. Yet when he saw her, every feeling was moved by her beauty, her distress—her deep humiliation. Something within him whispered, "She is a true and noble woman, notwithstanding the fault she has committed—she loves you— pardon her, and take her to your heart"—but the impulse was resisted—whether for good or evil the reader will see. Mr. Finley having been prevailed upon by Florence's entreaties to accept the proffered aid, everything was easily and quietly settled, the ear-rings were paid for, and the affair kept secret. The expense incurred was six hundred dollars. A few days later, Florence, having obtained the reluctant consent of her parents, accepted the situation of governess in a family who resided in the South. Henceforward commenced a new life for our heroine. Away from home and friends, surrounded by unloving strangers — confined to irksome duties—placed in a subordinate and dependant position, she found much to try and discourage her. But she carried within her the true spirit, and the trials she met did but perfect and exalt her character. One idea, more than all others, sustained poor Florence. She fully believed that Mr. D'Ebreuil no longer entertained any feeling for her but that of contempt for a silly, unprincipled girl; but a noble ambition inspired her. With no hope of ever regaining it, she would be worthy of the love she had once inspired. Though she should never see Mr. D'Ebreuil again, never hear his name mentioned, she would make herself, and prove herself worthy to have been his wife So only could she recover her self-respect At the end of a weary year, Florence found that she had laid by of her earnings the sum of three hundred dollars—half of the whole debt. She determined, for fear of accidents, and to show the sincerity of her intentions, to forward this sum at once to her creditor. She did so in such formal business terms as she could devise. In due time she received a receipt as formal, and probably more correct than her epistle. Its cold brevity chilled poor Florence's lonely heart—perhaps she had expected some few words of friendly encouragement and approbation. But this formal epistle proved to her that Mr. D'Ebreuil had ceased to take any interest in her, even as an acquaintance. She went about her duties with a face a shade paler—eyes a little more languid; but excepting this, there was no change, except that she was more gentle and patient than before. A few days afterward, as Florence was sitting toward sunset, looking from her window upon the western sky, a servant came to inform her that a gentleman desired to see her in the parlor. The last letters from home had informed her that she might expect a visit from her father; she flew down stairs in impetuous haste to meet him, and found herself face to face with D'Ebreuil. Greatly discomposed and agitated by the unexpected meeting, Florence struggled hard to preserve at least the semblance of composure, but was ill able to undergo the ordeal of the scrutinizing glances with which D'Ebreuil was regarding her. She strove to free her hands from his detaining grasp, that she might turn away her tell-tale face. " I thought you were my father," said Florence, feeling that something must be said. The strange remark remained unanswered— perhaps unheard, for D'Ebreuil began to speak of other things. His tongue seemed gifted with a strange eloquence, as he spoke of love deep and earnest, which had stood the test—the trial of waiting in patience till the beloved one had been able to do herself the justice of proving her nobleness and worth. He told her how he had longed on their last interview to clasp her to his heart and comfort her; but had restrained his feelings, in*the conviction that the time would come when he would woo and win her, not as an erring child to be forgiven, but as a woman, purified and ennobled, to whom his reverent homage would be due. Florence listened to words which fell sweeter than music on her ear, with every pulse thrilling with love and joy. Yet when D'Ebreuil urged her to return home at once, ,preparatory to their speedy union, he met with an unexpected difficulty. Florence, with an obstinate adherence to matter-of-fact, persisted that the debt was but half cancelled; that she had set her heart on discharging it m to to —that nothing could, or should divert her from a resolve so firmly taken. In vain her lover besought her to be reasonable—to consider that all he had would soon be her own—and assured her she had fully and amply asserted her honor; Florence clung to her fancy, partly from a perversity innate in woman —partly because she feared her penance was incomplete—partly, perhaps, to enjoy the luxury of making her lover feel her power. Three interminable months passed away; and what D'Ebreuil's persuasions could not achieve, the wearisome details of daily duties, now grown doubly irksome, had accomplished. How could our poor heroine attend to recitations—add up sums, and feel a proper interest in the children's answers when she asked them in French or German whether they had their books or hats?' while she was thinking all the time about Aer last letter, or wondering when the next would come? When therefore a new, and most eloquent and indignant appeal against her absurd and cruel resolution afforded her an opportunity of retracting with honor, she deemed it best to yield with a good grace. Her joyful reunion with her family was but the prelude to another parting. Fortunately, however, she was not called upon to follow her husband^to a distance; but residing near her beloved parents, and happy in the love and respect of him to whom her whole heart was given, Florence lived to prove, both as wife and mother, the nobleness and purity of her character, notwithstanding the youthful folly to which she was tempted by a pair of brilliant ear-rings.