THE STORY OF A HANDKERCHIEF. ERE they husband and wife, or brother and sister? WE It was certain that he looked quite young for a married man, and that she looked altogether too young for a married woman. Moreover, there was a frolicsomeness in their manner to each other, a child-like gayety in the way they chased along the beach and splashed each other with pebbles, which all failed to accord with our grave Anglo-American notions of matrimonial modes of felicity. great chapeau of his father, and pulling at the skirts of the Emperor of Austria, who, resting his hands and knees upon bags marked "English subsidies," is supporting the several persons who are assisting Louis XVIII. to win the prize of the crown at the top of the pole. The little son says, "Do, mamma, make grandpapa leave all these folks to themselves." The emperor, with Alexander of Russia astride his neck, says, "If I leave them they will fall upon me. The Emperor of Russia, holding in his hand a scroll marked "Maritime Ascendency," says, with a look of great satisfaction, "Behold my work!" On the shoulders of the Russian stands the King of Prussia, who says, "I'll take what I can get.' Upon his bent back is Wellington, with a drawn sword, from whose pock-don, Connecticut) could not tell what to make et protrudes a paper with the words, "Plans for campaign for 1816-1817." Upon his shoulder sits fat old Louis, reaching up and touching the crown, and crying out, "Support me, or I fall!" He carries on his back a cross, a bottle of holy water, a bull of absolution, and a huge bag marked "Claims of the emigrants," or the royalists who had been compelled to leave France during the revolution and the empire. From Louis is flying the imperial eagle, signifying the army of France leaving the king. On the other hand, he was blonde and she was brunette, he was tall and she was little. The people at the Pequot House (New Lon of this couple until they had examined the hotel register, and found them set down as "Mr. and Mrs. Fred Van Curler, New York city." Meantime Mr. and Mrs. Fred Van Curler went on frolicking without regard to the scrutiny to which they were subjected, or to any thing but the getting as much fun as possible out of their summer play-spell. At last, tired with romping, they seated themselves on a rock by the sea-shore and commenced a jovial prattle. Fred laughed at the smallness of the sum, so disproportioned to New York ideas of what constitutes wealth, and so indicative of his wife's country simplicity. Near the foot of the pole stands the Duke "Oh dear! I wish I was rich," cried this litof Orleans and his wife. The latter says,tle dot of a Mrs. Van Curler, throwing back her "Ah! you will never get the crown, or an heir ringlets from her round, hot face. "I wish I to it." A little in the background stands John had fifty thousand dollars." Bull, with money-bags, saying, "Come, take my money; that's what all this fun means. Well, that Mounseer Shatterbrain pleases me most. He seems maddest of 'em all, and well he may, for he keeps Louis's conscience." Further to the left, in front, is a French and an English diplomatist in accord; and in the distance is seen the pope on a high pole, swinging his tiara in great glee, and paraphrasing the words at the execution of Louis XVI., "Son of Louis, ascend to heaven;" and adds, "You can do no good upon earth." Below are scenes of martyrdom; fires, and the St. Bartholomew massacre. This print was privately circulated in Paris. When Napoleon was secured at St. Helena Europe drew a long breath of relief, and enjoyed a long day of tranquillity. Yet it continued to have troubled dreams, for the Spectre from Elba-the Ghost of Napoleon the Great -haunted France and the courts of other kingdoms for many years. The nephew can not imitate the uncle in this. Even the corporeity of Napoleon the Less in exile does not disturb any body's repose. Napoleon the Great gave France order, strength, beauty, and solid renown. Napclcon the Less, aspiring to imitate him even in details, corrupted, disordered, and weakened France, and dimmed her military glory. The first empire will always be remembered with admiration; the second empire will be contemplated with pity for its victim, the French nation. "Buy "And what would you do, Mrs. Van, if you had fifty thousand dollars?" he asked. the United States and adjacent oceans ?" "I was going to say I would keep this up all the year round. But I wouldn't. I would just keep house. I would have my own house, and keep it. What better can a woman do? But come, Master Freddy, what would you do?" "Oh, I would write a big book. I would commence my history of Venice." Here he tipped her jockey hat over her eyes, and she retorted by pulling his hair. "By Jove!" almost groaned an old bachelor who surveyed these antics, "that girl isn't precisely handsome, but she's awfully taking. I wish I had such a one in my hair.' Here he thought of the bald spot on his crown, drew a decent sigh over the memories of perished days, took a cigar-case from his pocket, and soothed himself with a smoke. It is a jolly thing to be only twenty-four, and not to look more than twenty-one. It must also be a jolly thing to have a pretty, good-tempered, gay little wife of twenty-one, who does not look more than eighteen. Perhaps it is not quite so gleesome to be a humble member of the New York press, writing odd scraps here and there for a precarious living, and vainly wishing one had time to work on a history or a novel. slap of it as it struck aloft, and the soft thud of it as it fell back on the carpeted floor. The culmination of horror was reached when, in response to her palpitating question, "Oh, darling, was it too hot?" an unfamiliar bass voice some abominable strange man's voice-shouted, "What the deuce does this mean?" Fred Van Curler, as improvident as the ma- | hurled against the ceiling. She heard the sharp jority of the scribbling race (but not, perhaps, more so than the worshipful human race at large), had married a girl as poor as himself, and so had made life "one demnition grind." Fortunate was it for him that he had chosen this girl from among the simple, unambitious, housekeeping, home-loving Dutch girls of his native county on the North River. His wife's sole grievance was that she could not keep house and do house-work. His sole grievance was that he could not give her a house, and write the history of Venice in it while she washed the dishes. To a couple who demand so little of this world let us wish all possible good fortune. After a delicious day, the first day that Fanny had ever passed by the sea-side, and therefore full of wonders to her-after this memorable day had gone brightly and sweetly to its sunsetting-came a whimsical and tormenting adventure, which proved to be pregnant with results. Fred Van Curler had only been asleep an hour or so when he was awakened by a malady to which he was subject. We will not name it; medical nomenclature is as disagreeable as medical potions. The Sairy Gamp mind must be satisfied with a hint or two. He was in a good deal of pain and in a little danger. Now this cheerful, serviceable dot of a Dutch wife was just the wife for such an emergency. Her little heart full of anxiety, but her little head as clear and ready as might be the biggest head that was ever modeled in plaster. She was slippered and dressing-gowned almost as soon as she was awake, and ready to fly over the world for remedies. The bell wouldn't ring; no use calling for servants down the dark entry. She looked out of the window, and saw a light in the kitchen wing; she would skip down there and make a mustard poultice with her own hands. "Oh, darling, promise me not to die before I get back!" she said, candle in hand. "Oh, darling, how it distresses me to see you suffer so! I'll only be gone a minute." She went; she reached the kitchen; she joyed in making the poultice; she wrapped it in one of her own old handkerchiefs; she was on her return, when the candle went out, leaving her in darkness. Never mind; she thought she knew the way to her room; moreover, every minute was precious while her husband was suffering. She groped and stumbled up stairways and along passages. A partially open door, and a faint, very faint, suffusion of light from a window within, showed her at last that she had reached her goal. Tossing the hot poultice from hand to hand, she rushed in, flew to the bedside of the patient, and with dextrous, nursing rapidity applied the medicament, saying, "There, darling! now you will be easier." To her amazement this wifely attention was responded to by a loud yell, while at the same time the poultice was snatched off and violently The awful truth flashed upon Fanny. She had poulticed somebody else's husband; she was in the wrong room. It was no place nor time for apologizing, nor even for shrieking. She flew into the passage and back to the stairway, her heart beating as if it would jump on to the floor and run away by itself, and the speed of her slippers hastened by the sound of a door furiously banged behind her. Of a sudden she guessed the cause of her error. She had not gone high enough by one story. "Oh, darling, what shall I do?" she exclaimed, as she at last rustled into her own room, slammed the door to, and locked it. "What is the matter?" asked Fred, wrestling with his spasm. Then came the story. Fred could not resist it. It was better than a ton of mustard poultices. Before he had done laughing at it he was cured by it. He shrieked and choked with laughter, pulling up in pure exhaustion and then commencing again. "You shabby thing!" protested Fanny, in one of her sweet-tempered pouts. "How can you laugh so when I was frightened to death, and there's no poultice, and the kitchen shut up?" "I don't want any," sobbed Fred. "I'm well. It's enough to cure any body. It would raise the dead." "You mean, shabby thing!" repeated Fanny; but as she was a mere trifle hysterical, she too presently fell a-laughing. The story was told over again, and these two children laughed themselves to sleep. In the morning Fanny's first words were: "Oh dear! he'll find it out. My name was on the handkerchief." "Oh! was it?" answered the boy-husband, and went off in a fresh paroxysm of merriment. "I wonder what he thinks of his treatment. I wonder if he's better." "Do "Don't be silly," implored Fanny. hurry! We must get away from this place before breakfast. Come, Fred, we must. I won't ask you another favor for a year." "Very well," assented Fred. "We'll go to the next bathing-place. I dare say it will be nice enough." In an hour the two were on their way to the railroad station, the husband shaking occasionally with suppressed giggles, and the wife slyly punishing him with pinches. Meanwhile things went thus at the Pequot House: About eight o'clock a middle-aged, pursy, red-faced, eager-eyed gentleman made his appearance at the office, holding in his hand what looked like a wad of stained linen. "I should like to know what sort of a house you keep here," he said, in a wrathful voice, to the "gentlemanly proprietor." "Why, we keep a respectable house, I hope," returned that personage, with a natural stare of inquiry. "I don't see it, Sir," declared the stout gentleman. "Here's a pretty trick to be played on a boarder. Last night somebody got into my room and clapped a red-hot mustard poultice on to me. And there it is," he concluded, sternly holding out the wad of moist linen. "I don't know what the dickens it means," asseverated the amazed landlord, putting on his spectacles and staring at the poultice. "I -I-I'll see to it, Sir," he added, retreating a little as the mess was thrust nearer his nose. "If I can find out who did it I'll turn him out, Sir. By-the-way, let me look at that. Isn't it a handkerchief? Certainly it is a lady's handkerchief. And here's a name." "Lady's name?" quickly demanded the stout gentleman. "Let me have that poultice!" "Fanny Van Curler," read the landlord aloud, as he handed back the wad. "Fanny Van Curler-so it is," repeated the stout gentleman. "Who the deuce is Fanny Van Curler, and why the dickens did she mustard-poultice me?" "Some mistake, I reckon," suggested the host, beginning to grin. "Some mistake about the room, probably." The stout man glared at him. As he glared he seemed to grow incredulous and indignant. As last he said, "I don't see it in that light; I don't see it, Sir." "I don't know what else to make of it," meekly urged the landlord. "Gone! You don't mean to say-gone! Gone where ?" "How should I know? They drove to the station in time for the eight-o'clock train west." "Let me have my bill," gasped the stout gentleman. "There's the name-James F. Willard. Include the breakfast, Sir. No, Sir; never mind, Sir. I'll wait till the eighto'clock train to-morrow morning." "Ah! means to question the conductor," thought the landlord; but he made no remarks whatever, governed by the wise reticence of his class. Mr. James F. Willard was certainly a singular gentleman. He set a value upon that mustard poultice which was far beyond its commercial worth, and which might lead one to suppose that either he meant to extract some capital joke out of it, or else that he labored under delusions concerning it. During the day he kept it in his pocket, feeling of it occasionally to make sure it was there. Toward night it became somewhat stale. His neighbors at the supper-table perceived the fact. There were sniffing queries as to "that peculiar odor." Consequently he carried the handkerchief to the laundress of the hotel, and asked her to wash it. But so fearful was he of losing it that he staid by her during the whole process of rinsing, drying, and ironing. When it was handed to him, nicely folded, with the name of Fanny Van Curler on the outside corner, he solemnly placed it in an inner breast pocket, next his heart, and conferred upon the laundress the disproportionate reward of two dollars. "This is the most honored day of your life," he said, in a way which made Bridget grin and take him for a "funny ould gintleman." On the eight-o'clock train west was he next morning, furnished with a ticket through to New York. His only baggage was a very small traveling sachel, and an oblong box which evidently contained a guitar. It is to be supposed that he found the right conductor, and obtained some guiding information from him, for he left the cars at the sea-coast town of Guilford, and took the stage down to the Guilford Point House. "I do," insisted the stout gentleman. "I understand it now. That's the way they always go on, Sir. They're always after a fellow. It's a most delicate little attention; that's what it is, Sir. Who is Fanny Van Curler? I'll hunt her up if it takes me till doomsday." All this was uttered with such a curious air of eagerness that it was hard to say whether he were in jest or earnest, preposterous as were his suppositions and declarations. Resuming a quieter look presently, he turned over the hotel register until he found the entry, "Mr. and Meanwhile our two child-like and frolicsome Mrs. Fred Van Curler, New York city." Knickerbockers, far from suspecting the trouble "Who's that?" he demanded, sharply. that was journeying toward them, were having The landlord reflected a moment, and de-a jolly time. To people of their gay and concided that there was no harm in telling what he knew, it amounted to so little. "A young man and his wife who came here yesterday," he answered. tented natures one place furnished about as much happiness as another. Fred Van Curler could have but one vacation a year, and he was determined to get the utmost possible fun out "What's the style of the lady?" of it; and his kitten of a wife was thoroughly "About eighteen, small, dark, dark eyes, like-minded. I doubt whether any two Angloblack ringlets." "I've seen her," said the stout man, with three or four satisfied nods. "I've noticed her, and she's noticed me. Are they at breakfast?" The landlord was being questioned too much. He looked exultant as he replied, "They have gone." Saxons of American raising could have plucked half as much joy from trifles as these two American Hollanders. Of course the remembrance of the nocturnal adventure helped along the merriment. It affected Fred Van Curler much like a dose of laughing-gas. It threw him every now and then into a spasm of giggling; it laid him out | which he sprang, he was good-natured, jovial, on the grass, and tickled him roundly. He laughed over it until his wife got impatient, and pouted out good-natured protests. "You shabby thing!" she exclaimed. "I wish you wouldn't go on so about that horrid blunder. It was the clumsiest, ugliest, wretchedest scrape that ever I got into. I think it's awfully mean in you to keep giggling at it." Even as they talked thus Mr. James F. Willard was gazing at them. It must be remembered that they did not know him from Adam. Not even Fanny Van Curler could suspect that here was the man whom she had medicated. He passed and repassed them unnoticed; he halted near them, and stared at them intently; he got behind Fanny, and winked, one might say, vociferously. He was certainly a very curiously behaved gentleman, considering his respectable years and stoutness. That night the moon was lovely. Fred and Fanny, dazzled with the to them novel beauties of the sea-side, sat late at their window looking out upon the gleaming waters. It was nearly midnight, and all was still in the grounds of the hotel, when, from the shadow of a tree beneath the window, rose an unmelodious bass voice, accompanied by a caterwaulish twanging upon a guitar. "Oh!” cried Fanny, always as pleased as a child with a new incident, even if it was only a new noise. "Oh! a serenade! Somebody is being serenaded. Fred, come to the window, quick! Oh, such a funny voice!" Here the words became audible. ny voice brayed forth as follows: "O loving flame! O heavenly fire! But fond of jokes, and not grimly fastidious as to "Round and round we go and blow; Back and forth we dance and prance; Here's the high and there's the low; Let the jack and game advance." We are sorry to say that at this point of the entertainment Fred seized the water-pitcher, with the intention of letting fly, pottery and all, at the head of the terpsichorean melodist. "Oh, don't!" implored Fanny, to whom, as to every good wife, her husband's wrath was terrible. "Ah, don't kill him! Tell him to go away." Mollified by a half embrace of a round arm, Fred contented himself with calling out of the window: "Here, you Sir! I, for one, don't like The fun- your music! Won't you have the kindness to stop it ?" I ask no sweeter, happier lot Than mustard poultice piping hot." Imagine Fanny's dismay at the last line; she absolutely made a grimace like a scared child. Fred looked at her with the air of a man whose first impulse is to laugh, but whose next thought is that a joke is being carried too far, and that he is justly called upon to be indignant. Too much astonished to utter a word, they were still staring at each other when the singer roared into this felicitous chorus—a marvel of poetical perspicuity: "Round and round we go and blow; Back and forth we dance and prance; Let the jack and game advance." "Don't you like it ?" answered the voice, in a tone of wonder. "What do you think of the words?" "I think they are very impertinent," replied Fred, who was not as angry as he supposed he ought to be, being considerably puzzled by the absurd good faith and simplicity of the serenader. "You don't say so!" exclaimed the voice. "They are my own.” A moment's consideration of this statement brought Fred's wrath once more to pitcherthrowing point. "Now see here!" he shouted, grasping the pluvious missile-surely a fine combination of the moist and the solid, a means of attack fitted to dismay the most antagonistic temperaments" now see here! If you don't clear out I'll smash your skull open-and water your brains!" he could not help adding, with half a smile. In reply to this complicated threat there was a rush of stumbling steps from beneath the win"Oh, isn't it mean? isn't it hateful?" chat- dow, and the man of song and dance disap*tered Fanny, with a quick, sharp, pattering ut-peared with a haste which seemed like a preterance, very unlike New England talk, or the generality of Anglo-Saxon talk, but frequently enough heard among our North River Hollanders. Next morning, nervous from a bad night's Fred also was annoyed. Like the race from sleep, and bristling down his entire spine with arranged item of the performance, reminding one of the flying exit of a "nigger minstrel" at the close of his special sensation. a sense of insult, Fred made search for his tormentor. No use; nobody had seen any body else harnessed to a guitar. As for Mr. James F. Willard, his appearance, if noticed at all, was irreproachable: no one could suspect such an abdomen of serenading or any other lightminded performance. How could any sane man suggest to himself that a sedate person of fifty odd, with a girth of four feet or more about the waistband, would go squalling and galloping about o' nights like a juvenile tomcat? Fanny wanted to make one more flight to evade her ungrateful patient. But Fred remonstrated: they could not afford to use up their little money and time op railroads; they must, he insisted, try it where they were for at least one more day. Then he kissed the handkerchief again, and tucked it away gently in his breast pocket. "I didn't mean it for you," burst out Fanny, as simply as an angered child, which, indeed, was what she was. "My husband was sick. I was taking care of him. I have nothing to do with you, Sir. I wish you would leave me." "Oh, don't say it wasn't for me!" gasped Mr. Willard, laying his fat poultice of a hand on his distressed bosom. "It was the most delicate little attention that I ever received in my life. It went straight to my heart. Oh, don't say it wasn't for me!" "Go away, Sir!" ordered Mrs. Van Curler, a little puzzled, but thoroughly outraged. "I won't talk to you." Instead of departing he turned and stared at Fred, who was now approaching. "Is that your husband ?" he asked, dropping his voice to an awful bass, as if he had let it down into a sepulchre. "Yes," answered Fanny, hoping to frighten him away. "He's as mad as a March hare," continued Mr. Willard, still in the same impressive bass. Fanny looked up in surprise, querying for the first time whether the stranger were out of his wits, for up to this moment the idea had been predominant with her that she was being causelessly insulted. During the morning they repaired to some rocks on the shore to watch the sunny rippling and swashing of the incoming tide. Discovering that she had left her parasol in the hotel, Fanny jumped up to go in search of it herself, after the self-helpful fashion of wives in our North River Dutchland. But Fred caught her, pulled her back, laughing, to her seat, and ran off after the missing necessary. Scarcely had he disappeared ere she was approached by an elderly gentleman with a ruby visage and a projecting waistcoat, who, for aught she knew, was the President of the United States, but who, as we are aware, was Mr. James F. Willard. Fanny's impression of him was that he was a fatherly old personage, a successful and Fanny's sole answer was to run to Fred, catch perhaps retired merchant or other man of busi-him by the arm, and drag him away. But the ness, who wanted to prattle with her about sea-young fellow had learned from a waiter that this side scenery, and with whom there would be was the man with the guitar, and his marital no harm in prattling. For the moment, pos- soul was bent on vengeance. sessed by the beauty of ocean, she had forgotten her mysterious tormentor. "Don't be alarmed!" exhorted the officious Willard. "He shan't hurt a hair of your precious head. I'll protect you." "Look here, Sir!" he called, breaking away from Fanny and advancing on the stranger. "I "I beg pardon, madame," said the stranger; want a word with you. You are the person who "is this Mrs. Van Curler ?" sang an impertinent song under my window." She had been so little time married that she "Impertinent! No, Sir!" declared the stout was still in a state of mind to be flattered by gentleman. "I wrote it myself. I wrote it in the sound of her matrimonial name and by the praise of that lady. I owe her a debt of gratititle of madame. She looked up with a small tude, Sir. I will pay it. I am hers, Sir; hers, smile of pleasure, and said, in her simple, kit-body and soul. You can't prove the contrary. tenish way, "Yes, Sir." "Then, madame," he continued, "I may have the satisfaction of believing that this is your property ?" He held up the very handkerchief-the wellremembered, detested handkerchief-the little, old, ragged handkerchief-which had contained the poultice. If Fanny did not suffer as many agonies as a dying dolphin, she turned as many colors. At first she stared, speechless; then she weakly stammered out, "No;" then she recovered her spunk and said, sharply, "Yes, Sir; give it to me." "Ah, madame, allow me to keep it," implored the stout gentleman, kissing the bit of linen. "It is to me a precious memento. Never shall I forget your attention. I am your slave forever." I defy you." As Mr. Willard here fell to dancing and snapping his fingers, Fred ceased his threatening advance, and muttered, "The man is mad." At this moment another personage joined in the dialogue. From behind a bowling-alley, which stood conveniently at hand, glided a stout young fellow in a coarse morning suit, who softly approached the stout gentleman and touched him on the shoulder. The latter turned short, stared at the new-comer, grinned in a sheepish style, and said, "Go way!" "Well, Mr. Willard, are you ready to go back?" was the smiling reply of assured authority. "No, I'm not quite ready," urged Mr. Wil"Here's a lady who requires my proI'm under the greatest obligations to I don't want to leave her." lard. |