Whether there be something inherent in the nature of things which
renders any object that man very much desires, thenceforth very
difficult to be obtained, or whether it be that, by a certain
perversity in man's nature, he only desires those things that _are_
difficult to be obtained, I can not tell; but one point is very clear
in every body's experience, that whenever we fix our heart upon one
particular object, and strive for it very ardently, however easy it
might seem before, we find a thousand difficulties and obstacles start
up upon our path, and overrule our wishes. Nevertheless, as there is
nothing upon earth half so tiresome--ay, and half so useless, too--as
a disquisition upon causes and effects, we will proceed with the
events which gave rise to the above sage observation, which, by
rights, should have followed this chapter as a corollary upon it,
instead of a sort of epigraph at its head.
The person who has figured before the reader during a long day's
journey in a stage-coach under the name of Burrel, entered the small,
neat house we have before described; and, after having considered
attentively with his eyes all the proportions and dimensions of the
little parlor which was to be his sitting-room, he seated himself
before the antique, and somewhat obscure mahogany table that it
contained, and addressed his servant--who had followed into the room,
together with the decent, respectable landlady--pronouncing those two
important, but somewhat laconic words, "Get dinner!"
The man bowed, and left the room without reply; and Barrel proceeded,
speaking to the landlady, who was beginning to fear, from certain
symptoms that she saw, that both master and man were equally
taciturn--"Well, my good lady," he said, "my man has doubtless
arranged every thing with you, and I hope you are satisfied with the
bargain he has made?"
"Oh, dear, yes, sir!" replied Widow Wilson, as the good dame was
denominated. "There was but one word to that bargain, I can assure
you."
"I suppose so," said Barrel, dryly, "if Harding concluded it. But tell
me--that is a beautiful park opposite the window; who does it belong
to?"
"Bless you, sir, that is Emberton Park!" replied the landlady, looking
unutterable things at Barrel's ignorance. "You must have heard tell of
Sir Sidney Delaware, Bart., of Emberton Park, surely?
"I think I have heard the name," replied Barrel. "What family has he!"
"Why, Lord bless me, sir! you came down with his own son," answered
the old lady, more and more surprised at her lodger's ignorance of
village facts, and beginning greatly to undervalue his understanding.
"Why, I saw the captain's head as plainly as possible when you got out
of the coach."
"Indeed!" said Burrell, with gravity not to be shaken; "and is he an
only child?"
"Oh, no, sir, no!" answered Mrs. Wilson. "Sir Sidney has a young lady,
too. Himself, his son, and his daughter--that is all of them, poor
people!"
"Poor people!" exclaimed Barrel; "I should think they were rich
people, with such a fine estate as that!"
"Ah, sir, things that show best are not always as they look!" replied
the good woman. "They are as poor as church mice, sir, and that's poor
enough. I wish to God they were richer--much good would they do! But I
have heard Lawyer Johnstone say, that, with all the fine estate, Sir
Sidney, when all is paid, has not four hundred a year of his own; and
gentility without ability is like a pudding without plums! Then there
is the captain's half-pay you know; and if they could let the house
and park, it might bring something more. They tried one year, and went
and lived at a cottage down at Sidmouth--but it did not let, and the
place was going to ruin--and so they came back; for, though there are
not many of them, yet two or three in a house are better than none at
all."
"That is very true," said Barrel; "very true, indeed; and now, my good
lady, see if my man has taken up the hot water to the dressing-room."
The good woman took the hint, and retired; and here it may be as well
to mention one or two circumstances which preceded the arrival of
Henry Burrel, Esq., at the neat little village of Emberton. These
circumstances were simply as follows:--Two days before that on which
we have thought fit to begin our tale, arrived by the coach--together
with four portmanteaus, four dogs, and a gun-case--the servant whom we
have seen waiting the traveler at the door of Mrs. Wilson's house.
After a few inquiries at the inn, all conceived in very laconic style,
he proceeded at once to Mrs. Wilson's, and, in words inexpressibly
brief, concluded a bargain for her apartments, as they were called,
for one month from that period, in the name of his master, Henry
Burrel, Esq. As soon as the important fact was generally known that a
gentleman possessing four portmanteaus, four setters, a gun-case, and
a man out of livery, was about to take up his residence for one month
in the village of Emberton, the wise may imagine the commotion that
was created. The object of his visit was evidently to shoot, otherwise
what could he do with four setters and a gun-case; but there were
various other matters to be ascertained by the young and old ladies of
the village; first, and foremost, whether the shooter might not be
shot by Cupid's shaft--next, whether he were rich--next, whether he
were young or old--next, whether he were a bachelor or a widower--and
next, whether he had ever been in India. All these points, with the
various branches into which they spread, were matters of consideration
to the three classes of ladies who inhabit a small country town;
namely, those who will not or can not marry at all, or any more--those
who will marry when it suits them--and those who, at any time, will
marry any thing or any body. However, not to enter into disagreeable
particulars, the surgeon and apothecary, well knowing the importance
of the case, the immense increase of influence he might acquire by
learning the whole facts, and all the concomitant advantages which
might thence accrue, was the first to watch the servant out of the
house, after the rumor had spread, and--accosting him in an easy and
familial way--to propound to him what the law people call leading
questions. But the servant was as taciturn and as guarded as a
thrice-convicted old Bailey witness is, or the embassador's private
secretary's valet-de-chambre _should_ be and nothing could the doctor
make of him. The lawyer tried him next, and then the innkeeper, but
all equally failed; and the consequence was, that at the hour the
coach was expected to arrive on the two subsequent days, all Emberton
was in a flutter. There were the Misses this and the Misses that, as
fine as--but there is no word for it--all taking their afternoon walk
along the line of road--and there was Mrs. the-other-thing, the fair
young widow, in such becoming weeds--buying some gray silk at the
mercer's opposite, which she found it necessary to examine by the
broader light of the street-door--just as the wheels came rattling
down the hill. The coach at length was seen to stop; and Burrel, who
had noticed no one on the face of the earth, but his own servant at
the door of Mrs. Wilson's, walked into the house as we have before
described, while the fact spread like lightning through the place that
the gentleman at Mrs. Wilson's was young, handsome, dark, tall, and
exquisite, and undoubtedly unmarried--for, by a peculiar test, or sort
of instinct, which heaven has bestowed upon womankind, among their
many other excellences, the fair sex have an extraordinary gift of
discovering whether any male thing be married or single, at the
distance of a hundred yards.
There was but one subject of conversation throughout Emberton during
the course of that evening. The old topic--the unhappy poverty of the
people at the Park, and the absurd pride which prevented them from
giving tea-parties, because they could not give dinners, with all the
little malice and tittle-tattle thereunto attached--was forgotten for
the time, and nothing was spoken of but Mrs. Wilson's lodger and his
silent man-servant. Indeed, the latter, with his extraordinary and
unaccountable taciturnity, divided with his master the anxious
curiosity of the two tea-parties given that evening; and one lady even
went so far as not to doubt that he was a foreigner, and could not
speak English, in proof of which she adduced his heavy black brows and
egregious whiskers--an argument which, combined with the man's
reserve, left one half of her hearers nearly convinced.
In the mean while, however, Henry Burrel sat down to his dinner, which
he concluded with an excellent appetite, and in perfect silence,
totally unconscious of the restless moments he was giving to the
tongues of Emberton. This state of meditation continued unbroken till
the cloth disappeared, and the silent servant, placing the inviolate
bottle of comet claret before him--a supply of which, by the way, had
been sent down to the coach-office ten days before, arguing, the
lawyers would infer, a predetermination to lodge at Emberton--was
about to retire, when he was arrested by his master's voice.
"Have you yet," demanded Burrel, musing, "made the inquiries I
directed you, Harding!"
"Yes, sir," replied the man, and was again silent.
"Where does he live, then--this Mr. Tims?" asked his master. "How far
is it from the village?"
"About a mile and a half, sir," answered Harding, "down a back lane at
the end of the park--a very retired place, but easily found."
"And what else did you discover!" continued his master, "I mean in
regard to the Delawares?"
"They visit no one, sir--in the village at least," replied the man,
"and receive no one."
"Do any of the family shoot?"
"None, sir; and they have often given leave to gentlemen staying at
the inn, for the mere asking."
"Very well," answered his master. "Now bring me my writing-desk, and
some books from the library--the greatest trash you can find."
The man disappeared, and returned with the desk, from which, while he
was again absent bringing the trash, in quest of which his master had
dispatched him, Burrel took out some notes and accounts, and
apparently went over the latter with the accurate attention of a man
of business. He then wrote a brief note, which he folded and sealed,
and, giving it to Harding on his return, bade him deliver it the next
morning early, and wait an answer. All this being completed, he took
up the first volume that had been brought him, cast himself back in
his chair, and skimmed the pages till bedtime.
The breakfast table was laid out by the neat hands of Mrs. Wilson,
exactly at eight o'clock the next morning--the white table-cloth, the
jug of rich yellow cream, the two smooth rolls, somewhat browner than
the same article of food in London, but doubtless much more the
children of the corn--all bespoke a comfortable country breakfast; and
when, in about half an hour after, Burrel descended in shooting guise,
he looked round with that air of satisfaction which a man feels, after
a long London season, on waking and finding himself really in the
country. The hot water, not in the accursed lukewarm urn, but in a
kettle hissing hot from the fire, was brought in by Mrs. Wilson; but
in about ten minutes Harding himself appeared, and, with his usual
silence, presented his master with an answer to his note of the
evening before. It ran as follows, and explains both itself and the
one to which it replied:
"Emberton Park, Wednesday Morning.
"Sir Sidney Delaware is happy to have the power of affording Mr.
Burrel any gratification; and begs to say, that he is at perfect
liberty to shoot over any part of his property with the exception of
the grounds in the immediate vicinity of the house, the game on which
he wishes to preserve."
"Hum!" said Burrel, shaking his head as he read the note. "Whom did
you see, Harding?"
"A maid-servant, air," replied the man, "and the old gentleman
himself."
"Did he say nothing about calling on me!" demanded Burrel; "or being
happy to see me!"
"Nothing, sir," replied the man; and, with an injunction to get his
gun ready, and see that the old lady did not give the dogs any thing
to eat before they went out, his master dismissed him.
"We must find some means," said Burrel to himself, when the servant
was gone; "but I'm afraid it will be more difficult than I
thought--but the young man will call, of course."
Now, though it would be very easy to look into the mind of Henry
Burrel, Esq., as he there stands pondering, with his hand leaning on
the table, yet it may be better to pursue him a little farther ere we
take such a liberty, and see him set forth upon his shooting
expedition, in the course of which he approached as near to the
mansion of Emberton Park as he decently could. His expedition was
solitary, however; and if he expected or hoped to meet any of the
family, he was disappointed. No one did he see but an occasional
shepherd, and a hedger and a ditcher; and at three o'clock he returned
home, with nothing to repay his walk but ten brace of birds.
The following morning it was no better; but Burrel seemed resolved
upon another line of conduct, and, at the risk of seeming to intrude.
he called at the house itself as he passed, and, on finding that its
owner was from home, left a card with his compliments and thanks for
the permission which had been granted him. "They will perhaps think me
a presuming coxcomb," he thought; "but I care not." The next day, in
crossing the fields with his dogs and his gun as usual, he suddenly,
met his stage-coach companion, Captain Delaware, with a young lady
leaning upon his arm, whom, from a certain family likeness, he at once
concluded to be the sister of his acquaintance. Her dress was as plain
as possible; but the model was good, and no one could have doubted
that she was a lady, though it is probable that the walking-dress of
the mercer's daughter at Emberton was, beyond comparison, more
fashionable--in price. Her figure was extremely good, though, Heaven
be praised, not at all sylphlike; and all that Burrel remarked was,
that she was a very pretty girl, and had a very pretty foot. Her
brother stopped for a moment; and with a countenance in which various
emotions, strangely mingled, of pleasure and pain, called up an
eloquent glow, he hoped that Burrel had met with good sport,
introduced him to his sister, Miss Delaware, and then, in a manner
somewhat abrupt and embarrassed, bade him good-by, and turned away.
Burrel walked on with his gun under his arm; and for a minute, as he
did so, he bit his nether lip, and his brow slightly contracted. The
moment after, however, he laughed, lightly murmuring, "Well, I must
have recourse to the old miser, after all, though I hate his
instrumentality;" and, turning on his heel, he sauntered back toward
his own abode.
He was suffered to enter in peace; but his Manton was scarcely laid on
the table, and his dogs given into the charge of his servant, when, to
his horror and astonishment, Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon of the village,
was announced, and a smart, dapper little man, of pale and gentlemanly
aspect, made his appearance. Burrel was cool and civil; for it was a
part of his code to be civil to every one till they were insolent;
and, after the usual symphony concerning the weather, Mr. Tomkins
proceeded to the chief motive of his visit.
"He had always," he said, "proposed to call upon Mr. Burrel as soon as
his manifold occupations would permit; but he had that day been
charged with a commission, which gave so much additional pleasure to
his proposed visit, that he, of course, determined to pay it
immediately. The fact was," he added, "that he had that morning been
visiting Mrs. Darlington, the lady to whom that beautiful house and
those sweet grounds upon the hill belonged, and who, having heard of
Mr. Burrel's arrival in Emberton, though she could not, of course,
call upon him herself, had begged the identical Mr. Tomkins, then
before him, to say how much pleasure she would have to see him, if he
would do her the honor of dining with her on the following day."
She was a widow lady of a certain age, Mr. Tomkins implied, who had
all her life moved in the best society, and was the most charming and
good-tempered person in the world--"Draws beautifully; has a great
taste for music; sees a good deal of company at her house, where the
cookery is excellent; does a great deal of good, and takes a vast deal
of interest in every thing that is doing in the village."
"What a disagreeable person!" thought Burrel. "Nevertheless, I may as
well amuse myself with her and hers, as walk about these fields from
breakfast till dinner-time, or read these idiotical romances from
dinner till bedtime." He replied, however, according to the letter of
the law of civility, "Mrs. Darlington does me a great deal of honor,
my dear sir," he said; "and I will do myself the pleasure of accepting
her invitation, which I will notify to her forthwith by my servant.
Pray, how far may be her house?"
"Oh, not above five miles, certainly," replied the worthy chirurgeon.
"Five miles!" said Burrel; "that is a tremendous way to roll in any
thing but a cabriolet after eating. I shall certainly die of an
indigestion if I trust myself to a hack post chaise in a state of
repletion."
The man of medicines grinned at what in his ears sounded something
very like a professional joke, but assured Burrel, at the same time,
that his apprehensions were vain, for that Mrs. Darlington's
invitations always implied a bed at her house.
"That alters the case," replied Burrel; "for I expect some horses down
to-night, and will ride over, and dress before dinner."
The doctor, who felt that a vast accession of dignity would accrue, if
he could expose himself to the wondering eyes of Emberton, in close
companionship with the young and fashionable stranger, proposed to
drive him over in his pony chaise; but this honor Burrel declined,
replying quietly, that he would prefer riding; and, after one or two
faint efforts toward discovery of all the hidden things appertaining
to the young traveler, the surgeon, finding that the conversation
began to fall continually to the ground, took the hint, and retired;
and Burrel proceeded to change his shooting-dress for one better
suited to the town.
Leaving him, however, to make this alteration, and to send off his
answer to Mrs. Darlington's invitation, we shall now beg leave to
follow home Captain Delaware and his sister; and, as every thing in a
tale like the present should be as clear as possible, without the
slightest mystery or absurd concealment, shall explain a few things
that may have hitherto appeared strange in the conduct of that family.
The spot at which Burrel had that morning met his traveling companion
was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mansion, and the
brother and sister walked on directly toward one of the smaller doors
in the park wall, and, passing through, turned their steps homeward.
They proceeded, however, in silence; for there was something evidently
in their rencounter with Burrel unpleasant to them both, nor was that
unpleasant sensation, perhaps, relieved by the aspect of their
paternal dwelling, or the grounds that surrounded it. Without entering
into the painful details of a family's decay, it is sufficient to say,
that the whole place bore the character--not of neglect--but of means
incompetent to ward off the constant, unremitting, insidious assaults
of time. They passed a temple in the park, which had been built in
imitation of some famous specimen of Grecian architecture, and now
came nearer still to the original by its decay. A large mass of the
frieze had fallen and over the green and disjointed steps the brambles
were shooting their long thorny arms. The path itself, too, which
wound on toward the house, was half overgrown with grass; and where an
effort to hoe it up had been begun, it had speedily been abandoned,
from the necessity of employing the man in some more useful service.
The mansion, too, more than half closed, had about it all--not the
aspect of ruin, for it had by no means reached that pitch--but a look
of desertion and of poverty which contrasted painfully with the
splendor of the original design.
To the eye of Miss Delaware and her brother all this was customary;
but yet it struck them both, after their meeting with Burrel, perhaps
more forcibly than it had ever done before; and there was something
like a sigh escaped the lip of each, as, opening the large door, they
passed on into what had once been a splendid vestibule. The day was a
sultry one, and the door of a rooms entering immediately upon the
hall, was open when Captain Delaware and his sister entered. The step
of Miss Delaware, as she walked on, caught the ear of some one within,
and a voice, in the tone of which there was the slightest possible
touch of impatience, was heard exclaiming, "Blanche, is that you, my
love?"
The young lady, followed by her brother, immediately turned her steps
into the fine old library from which the sound proceeded, and found
reading, at a small table near one of the long, many-paned windows, a
person who--however contrary to rule--deserves a more particular
sketch of his mental and corporeal qualities, and of his previous
history, than we may find it convenient to give of any other person
connected with this book.
Sir Sidney Delaware had set out in life a younger son. His father, Mr.
William Delaware, had been a man of great talents, and very little
common sense, who, by the help of his abilities, and considerable
family influence, had been raised to offices in the state, conferring
large revenues, which he squandered profusely. Mr. William Delaware,
however, kept up the appearance of a man of fortune; and as his uncle,
the then possessor of Emberton Park, was unmarried and advanced in
life, his prospects were admitted on all hands, even by Jews and
money-lenders, to be good. Be it remarked, nevertheless, that though
he was the direct male heir to his uncle's property, there were two
other persons who more than equally shared in his uncle's favor--his
own first cousins, and equally the nephews (though by the female
line), of the Sir Harcourt Delaware who then held the lands of
Emberton. These were Lord Ashborough and his brother, the Honorable
Henry Beauchamp. However, he did not let any thing disturb him, but
continued to live splendidly and well--gave his eldest son a
commission in a crack regiment of cavalry, and sent his second son,
Sidney, to Christ Church.
At Christ Church there were two or three peculiarities observed in
Sidney Delaware. With his scholastic education we shall have nothing
to do, being no scholars ourselves. The first of these peculiarities
was an uncommon degree of accuracy in paying his bills, and living
within his income; and his elder brother was wont to say, that Sidney
was so sick of seeing nobody paid at home, that he was resolved to pay
every one to the uttermost farthing. The next trait remarked by his
fellow-collegians was his extraordinary good-nature; for was any one
in difficulty or distress, Sidney Delaware would help them to the very
utmost of his power, though in many instances he was known to hate and
contemn the very men he assisted; and the third quality was a talent
for satire, and a faculty of vituperation, which might have been
envied by Gifford among the dead, and two or three we could name among
the living.
The secret of his character, perhaps, was the combination of an
extraordinary sensibility of the absurd, with a high and severe moral
feeling. He studied for the church, however; and as he did so, many of
the injunctions of that divine book, to which his mind was naturally
turned continually, appeared so contrary to the asperity of his
sarcastic disposition, that he determined to make a powerful effort to
restrain the bitterness of speech and writing to which he had before
given way. Time and years, too, had their effect, and the biting
satire that used to hang upon his lip remained bidden in silence, or
only broke forth casually, when he was off his guard. He tried to
banish from his heart that feeling of contempt and scorn which he
experienced whenever any thing mean, or false, or base, met his eyes;
and perhaps the very good-natured facility with which he could be
induced to assist any one, might spring from an apprehension lest the
scorn he felt for all that was pitiful in others, might affect his own
actions, and render him uncharitable himself. His elder brother died
before he himself was ordained; and, on the persuasion of his father,
he abandoned his purpose of entering the church; traveled for several
years, and then studied for the bar. His next step was to marry, and
he was a widower with two children at the time his father succeeded to
Sir Harcourt Delaware. The baronet, however, in dying, had given to
his two nephews, Lord Ashborough and Mr. Beauchamp, who had been very
constant in their attentions, a far larger share of his fortune than
he left to him who was to inherit the baronetcy; and thus, the latter,
having counted largely on his future fortune, found himself more
embarrassed than relieved by the death of his uncle. The estate that
was left to him was also entailed by the will of the last possessor;
and his only resource to free himself from the most pressing
difficulties, was to engage his son to join him in raising money upon
annuity. Sidney Delaware consented with a heavy heart, and the money
was borrowed, much against his will, from his father's cousin, Lord
Ashborough, between whom and the young heir of Emberton a quarrel had
previously taken place, of a nature not likely to admit of
reconciliation. For the pitiful sum of twenty-five thousand pounds,
the estate of Emberton was charged with an annuity of two thousand per
annum; and scarcely had that sum been swallowed up by his father's
debts, when Sidney Delaware succeeded to a splendid name and a ruined
property.
Griefs and disappointments had impaired his health, had broken his
spirit and crushed his energies; and, dwelling almost in solitude, he
had given himself up to the education of his children, forgetting that
a time would come when the acquaintances which he was losing every
day, would become necessary to his children in the world. In
bitterness of heart, too, he often thought that his friends were
neglecting him, when in fact he was neglecting them; and exclaiming,
"Donec eris felix, multos numerabis amicos!" he shut his doors against
the world, believing that his poverty would meet with nothing but
contempt.
As time wore on, however, he found that he erred in not exerting his
abilities, in order to remove the incumbrances which his father had
incurred. His son grew up and entered the navy, and half the interest
of a small sum, which had been his wife's fortune, afforded sufficient
to maintain the boy in that service. But it was when his daughter also
grew toward womanhood that Sir Sidney Delaware felt most severely that
he had committed an error. His son, he thought, had an honorable
profession, and, by his own high merits and activity, was making rapid
progress. At the death of Lord Ashborough, too, the annuity which
swallowed up almost the whole rents of his estate would lapse, and his
heir would have enough. But Lord Ashborough was scarcely an older man
than himself; and when he gazed upon his daughter, and saw her growing
up with all her mother's beauty and grace, with every quality fitted
to charm and to attach, and at the same time remembered that she was
to live cut off from society, during all those brighter days of youth
and hope which lie between sixteen and five-and-twenty, he would have
given his right hand to have recalled the years which, by active
exertion, he might have employed to remove the difficulties that held
him down. Now however, he felt, or persuaded himself, that it was
impossible to seek society. He could not mingle with persons in his
own rank of life upon an equality, and he would not mingle with any
other class, or, with them in any other manner. Few of these old
friends existed for him, on whose generous feelings he could
fearlessly rely, and feel certain, from a knowledge of their nature,
that no thought even would ever cross their minds, which could have
wounded him if spoken. Thus, he had no old channel of communication
with the world still open, and pride, rendered irritable by
disappointment, as well as the circumstances in which he was placed,
prevented him from seeking any new connection with society. Could he
in any way have given his son and daughter the means of mingling with
the world, while he himself shunned it altogether, he would have
snatched eagerly at the opportunity; but that of course was out of the
question, and day went by after day, and found them all in the same
situation.
Such was still the case, at the time of my present tale; and when Miss
Delaware and her brother entered the library in which their father
was, as usual, driving away thought by reading, they found him seated
near the open window with Pope's Essays in his hand. His hair, which
had once been dark brown, was now nearly white--in fact, much whiter
than his years would warrant. Yet, though the body was in some degree
broken _curis et laboribus_, still temperance and fine air had done
much to counteract even grief. His countenance was florid, his eye was
clear, and he appeared a hale healthy man, though looking six or seven
years older than he really was.
Long conversations being, like love and marriage, excessively tiresome
to every one but those concerned, a summary of what followed will be
better than a chapter; and it is quite sufficient to say, that the
rencounter of the brother and sister with Mr. Burrel soon became the
principal topic of conversation. Captain Delaware, whose loves were
very first-sighty, dashed at once into such an encomium of his stage
coach companion, that an arch smile, at this pouring forth of his
well-known enthusiasm, played for a moment on the lip of Blanche
Delaware. Her father, however, looked grave, and said he was sorry
that they had met him at all. "This young man," he went on, "seems to
be a person of fortune and station, whom, in happier times, we might
have been delighted to see; but you are well aware, William, that
under our present circumstances, it is perfectly impossible to invite
a man of horses and dogs, and guns and servants, to this house. Did he
seem so charming to you, Blanche!"
Miss Delaware replied, that her brother's acquaintance had not
appeared either quite so handsome or quite so fascinating in his
shooting-jacket as her brother had described him in his traveling
costume,--"But at all events," she added, "his appearance savored
nothing of arrogance or presumption."
"Alas! my dear Blanche," said her father, "you do not know what a man
of the world is. Every point in the situation of a poor gentleman is
painful, but none so much so, as the having to endure the compassion
of fools and puppies."
Captain Delaware turned to the window, and after looking out for a
moment or two left the room. Blanche remained, but dropped the
subject, and it was no more resumed.