THE ASSEMBLY.—SIR FRANCIS’S FIRST OVERTURES TO MARY STEVENS.—THE
BREAKFAST SCENE.—AND THE HONOUR DECLINED.
Sir Francis Varney, as soon as he reached his hotel, changed his
habiliments, and sought the Frasers, whom he found ready for the
assembly, and somewhat fearful he was not coming; but he easily excused
himself on the score of illness, and then they persuaded him to remain
at their abode, and they would all do so too; but at the same time Sir
Francis insisted that his indisposition was but temporary, and he would
rather visit the place, as it was a ball night.
Thus persuaded, they agreed, and the five of them proceeded to the
assembly rooms, where they amused themselves as fashionable people
usually do. They danced, and were highly delighted with the place,
which was certainly of a very superior description, contained the very
_elite_ of the Bath visitors, and appeared to advantage.
The wealth and beauty to be found in the room would have caused many a
heart to bound with rapture, whether it was the miser’s or the lover’s;
for both could there find that which gladdened them most, gold and
beauty—wealth and youth; each could gloat his eyes on that he held
dearest.
“Did you ever witness a scene like this?” said Sir Francis Varney, as
he led Miss Stevens to a seat, and handed her refreshments. “Did you
ever behold one in which was collected so much beauty and youth?”
“There are many happy faces,” said Mary Stevens.
“And hearts, too, I hope,” said Varney.
“I hope so, too,” replied Mary.
“There are several here who have never been to a ball before; ’tis
their _debut_ in life, and a fine and lovely commencement it is; and
if all their future years should be such a round of pleasure and gaiety
as this, they needs must be happy.”
“I am sure they must. People here seem to wish to make each other
happy.”
“And if they strive in heart, they must succeed in doing so, and in
making themselves happy too.”
“No doubt they do.”
“And you, Miss Stevens, would you not make yourself happy when you make
others happy?” inquired Sir Francis Varney.
“I certainly do feel happy when I am an instrument in the hands of
another doing good, and seeing it really gives others happiness.”
“That is one of the noblest ends of life.”
“And one which you, Sir Francis, have pursued to some purpose. You
ought to be happy, if any man can claim happiness.”
“I am, in one respect; but when there is a great void in life, which
has to be filled—when that void is in the affections, can it be
surprising that sorrow and grief are there?”
“I cannot give you an answer, because I have no knowledge of such an
existence; had I, it would be otherwise; but I cannot say yea, or nay.”
“Well,” said Sir Francis, “it is so; that void is in my heart; and,
before I saw you, I felt it not; but now,” he paused, “but now I feel
it—feel it deeply, and I shall ever do so unless—but I hardly dare
say more—my heart will never again know sorrow, and never again feel
tranquil. Wants and wishes have sprung up which, until now, have
never presented themselves in the shape of possibilities, much less
probabilities, and which now are realities.”
“This is a strange conversation, Sir Francis.”
“It is, Miss Stevens, and I feel it to be so; but, unfortunately, I
have a certain difficulty to overcome, which, perhaps, accident, more
than courage, will enable me to break through. But, to speak plainly,
before I saw you, the whole world was alike to me; I cared not for one
more than another; but, now the world has new charms, I have new hopes
and wishes. God knows if they are to be dissipated, like the morning
mist before the glories of the rising sun. Love has made sad havoc in
my heart; and to love and despair is the bitterest lot humanity can
fall into. Man can bear all that adverse fate may entail upon him; but
that saps at the foundation of the superstructure, our love of life,
without which, society could not hold together; and, with disappointed
love, there is no love of existence.”
“Indeed, Sir Francis, I regret to hear it.”
“Will you prevent it?”
“I cannot now answer you any such question, if I were inclined to do
so—I have not the power. See, Sir Francis, there is another set.”
“Will you dance?”
“No; I do not think I will dance any more to-night; but I shall be glad
to rejoin my sister and brother.”
“I will lead you to them, with pleasure; but will you allow me to name
this matter to Captain Fraser?”
“I have no right to dictate to you, Sir Francis,” said Mary, with
evident embarrassment, “much less would I do so, or endeavour to do so
to one to whom I owe so much; and yet I fear it will be fruitless.”
“There, yonder, are your friends.”
As Sir Francis spoke, he pointed to another end of the room, to
which he was leading her, and which was occupied by many of the
most fashionable and beautiful; they also had to pass down a lane
of fashionables who were occupying seats, having been fatigued by
dancing—many not having danced at all, but come to keep watchful and
Argus eyes upon the sons and daughters whom they brought with them.
These, at least, noticed them—all eyes were fixed upon them, and Sir
Francis, certainly with an air of triumph, led the beautiful Mary
Stevens towards her friends, who were gazing at them with attention.
[Illustration: Sir Francis leads Mary to her friends.]
Mary thought herself somewhat awkwardly situated, and knew not how
to release herself; and also felt that any attempt of the kind would
really be as ungracious as it would be ungrateful, and so resigned
herself.
A few yards more, and then she was once again in the company of her
friends, but not released from Sir Francis, for he seated himself by
her side with the ease of one who was well accustomed to their society,
and of those around him.
“Well, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser, “you have not been unnoticed
in the ball-room. You have created quite a sensation; your dancing is
superior, and your tall figure has set you off.”
“You mistake, Mrs. Fraser; the object of such general attention was no
other than your beautiful sister—my fair partner.”
“Don’t make her vain.”
“That, indeed, would be a misfortune; but she has such an excellent
capacity of mind, that she runs no danger of such a misfortune; but
even were it not so, there would be much excuse.”
“You are flattering, Sir Francis.”
“Not I, I assure you. How do you find yourself?”
“I am getting fatigued. My recent journeys must plead an excuse for my
weariness at such a time and in such a place as this.”
“I am not surprised at this, considering how you have been riding about
for many days past. Would you choose to retire to-night, and remain
later on another occasion?”
“I think,” said Captain Fraser, “it may be as well. What do you say, my
dear?”
“I am quite willing.”
“And so am I,” said Mary. “Indeed I would much sooner we left early—if
midnight can be called early.”
“It is much past that hour now.”
“Then I think we are decided upon going.”
“Very well,” said Sir Francis; “then I will obtain a carriage for our
use, and then we shall retire to our homes.”
“If you please, Sir Francis.”
Varney then rose, and went out for the purpose of procuring what was
wanted, and, by the aid of a little silver, he soon obtained what he
desired, and then returned to inform his friends of the success of his
mission.
They then left the ball-room, and proceeded at once to enter the
carriage, which was so placed that they could at once enter without any
inconvenience; and they soon gained their hotel, and, after a slight
repast, they separated.
• • • • •
It was late next morning when Sir Francis Varney entered the room in
which he usually took breakfast with the Frasers; but, though late, he
only met Captain Fraser.
“I am afraid, Captain Fraser,” said Varney, “I have kept you all.
Perhaps the ladies are gone out?”
“No, no; they have not yet come down. Indeed, had you been in five
minutes earlier than this, you would not have found me here.”
“Well, I know not the reason, but I slept well myself. To be sure,”
said Sir Francis, “I did not fall readily to sleep, and that may
account for it.”
“Indeed! and do you not sleep sound?”
“Usually—I may say, generally; but sometimes some reflections keep the
mind actively employed against one’s own wishes.”
“They do so, Sir Francis. I have myself found that to be the case; but
I am sorry my female folks do not come down.”
“Nay, nay, Captain Fraser, do no wish that on my account. I am rather
pleased they are not down than otherwise.”
“Indeed, Sir Francis!”
“Yes,” replied Sir Francis, “as it leaves me an opportunity of saying a
few words to you, Captain Fraser, upon a subject that concerns myself
nearly and deeply.”
“You amaze me, Sir Francis.”
“I had hoped you might have had some guess at it, Captain Fraser, as it
would have helped me through my task; for my heart almost fails me when
I think of the possibility of want of success—my want of nerve is not
habitual.”
“I can depose to so much, Sir Francis; you showed courage, and nerve,
where courage and nerve were most wanted.”
“Ah, well, Captain Fraser, If I had been brought up to your noble
profession, I should have been better able to make an impression; but
I will do my best; but the subject is a grave one, as it relates to my
feelings toward your sister-in-law, Miss Mary Stevens.”
“Indeed, Sir Francis!”
“Yes, Captain Fraser. I, who have passed through so many ordeals of
beauty, have at last been compelled to bow before the shrine of beauty.
I am a devoted and humble admirer of Miss Stevens’s charms and virtues.”
“Well, Sir Francis?”
“I now beg your permission to visit her, and be accepted in your family
in the character of one who ardently wishes and desires to become a
member of it by means of an union between myself and that young lady.”
“Personally, Sir Francis, I have the greatest pleasure in hearing you
say so much.”
“Then I am likely to be fortunate.”
“So far as my approbation, and my consent are concerned, Sir Francis,
you certainly are successful; but, according to the vulgar proverb,
as one swallow makes no summer, so one individual’s consent is not
decisive where two are required to concur.”
“Certainly, Captain Fraser. I was not wishing to put the young lady
aside; but having your consent, I may go on to endeavour to obtain the
happiness I so much look forward to—but I may count upon your good
offices?”
“You may, most certainly.”
“And your amiable lady?”
“Yes, I think I may say she will unite with me in using all due means
of aiding you in your wishes—but here she is.”
At that moment, Mrs. Fraser entered the apartment, and advancing to Sir
Francis, offering him her hand and saying,—
“Sir Francis, how do you do this morning? I am afraid I have kept
you—ah, I see you are alone with Captain Fraser—where is my sister?”
“Mary has not yet come down,” said Fraser.
“Ah, we are both late, I think.”
“I am, madam; but you have come at a right moment.”
“Have I? Why do you reckon it so?”
“Because I was just at that moment speaking of you, and here you are;
so that I can speak to you, which is much better.”
“Well, so it is—but what is it about?”
“Your amiable and lovely sister.”
“Ah, that is what you men always say—it is just what Captain Fraser
said to me.”
“Then may I hope for a like success?”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Fraser, doubtfully.
“Why, I was saying to Captain Fraser, if he could obtain your aid in
my behalf in an attack upon your sister’s heart. I have been unable to
hold out any longer—I am deeply and desperately in love.”
“Well, that is a very dangerous disorder, and I must see what Mary can
do to console you in your affliction.”
“You will indeed deserve my best thanks if you will do so; and, should
success crown our efforts, how deep a debt of gratitude will mine be to
you.”
“How much are we not yours already?”
“But my whole happiness will be through your efforts.”
“Oh, no, no; remember, you said but just now it was my sister you meant
to wed, and not me.”
“Good God! how could you imagine I had any such profane thought?”
“Ha! ha! Sir Francis, I must see what I can do with Mary; but, she
comes—another of the _dramatis personae_.”
Mary Stevens at that moment entered the room, and felt most abashed at
finding all eyes rivetted upon her without speaking, and she advanced
towards the fire, having made an inclination to Sir Francis, saying, as
she came down,—
“I fear I have been the means of keeping you waiting. I am sorry you
did so; but I was really not aware of the hour.”
“Nor were we,” said Mrs. Fraser; “and it appears we have all been late,
save Sir Francis, who, like a true knight, has been at his post, I
don’t know how long before I came down myself.”
“Nay, don’t you listen to any charges, Miss Stevens. I have been here
but a very short time, though I ought to have been here earlier.”
“It is fortunate then you did, Sir Francis, and I am relieved of the
charge of detaining breakfast to an unusual hour.”
“It matters but little when it is had, so long as it is to be had when
it is wanted. What say you, Sir Francis?”
“I believe that the grand object of all our wishes and wants, is to
have what we want when we want it. An eastern potentate could not be
better served, or more powerful, or richer, than to be able to say so
much.”
“You are his equal.”
“I am in some things certainly,” replied Sir Francis; “but I want an
empress, and thus, you see, I am dethroned and rendered powerless by a
few words.”
“You can obtain even that.”
“Not exactly; for she whom I might choose might refuse to become mine;
then, I am a weary wanderer upon earth’s surface—I am no longer one
among men; but a mere existence, moving about without filling any
allotted position.”
“This is very doleful, Sir Francis,” said Mary; “if you say much more,
you will spoil your appetite for breakfast.”
“Mary, that is a cruel cut, you did not mean it, I dare say; but it is
a sufficient rebuke. I must come to plain speaking, and at once hope
you recollect the subject upon which I spoke to you in the ball-room
last night.”
“I do, Sir Francis; it would be affectation to say I did not.”
“Well, I have sought Captain and Mrs. Fraser’s permission to endeavour
to win those smiles and good wishes, that I so much desire should be
mine.”
“You can never deserve less than good wishes from me,” said Mary
Stevens; “you cannot have less, I am too deeply indebted——”
“There, now, pray permit me to interrupt you. I must not hear any more
of that; I did my duty on that occasion——”
“Occasions!”
“Well, occasions; and I hope no gentleman, having the power, would have
done otherwise; and if so, I have only done what others would have done
under the same circumstances—a very ordinary act indeed.”
“You are making less of it than it deserves, were it only for our
sakes.”
“I see you won’t entertain my wishes seriously; but, recollect, what is
sport to you is death to me—the affections of a blighted heart cannot
weigh lightly when the evil is consummated.”
“Do not think, Sir Francis, I wish to evade or to slight any wishes
you may form; as far as I am concerned, they are a great honour to me;
but I am yet too young, and averse to anything of the kind yet to feel
justified in seriously entertaining such matters as those you allude
to.”
“That, indeed, must be a mistake; you are not too young. Let me hope
that you will not refuse to allow me the satisfaction and pleasure
of your company; that would indeed be a greater misfortune than could
otherwise happen to me to be deprived suddenly of that, I assure you.”
“Certainly I cannot feel otherwise than gratitude to you, Sir Francis,
and derive that pleasure in your society which others feel, and which
all your friends must experience; but we will say no more upon this
subject, except that I have given as serious and positive an answer as
I can.”
There were many other observations made during breakfast-time to
much the same effect, but it is unnecessary to record them, and the
breakfast passed off as pleasantly as possible, under the circumstances.