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 cannot 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 parlour 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 Burrel 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 Burrel 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 Burrel's ignorance. "You must have heard tell of
Sir Sidney Delaware, Bart. of Emberton Park, surely?"
"I think I have heard the name," replied Burrel. "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 plain as possible when you got out
of the coach."
"Indeed!" said Burrel, 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 Burrel; "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 plumbs. 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 Burrel; "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 traveller at the door of Mrs. Wilson's house.
After a few enquiries 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 that inhabit a small country town; namely,
those who will not, or cannot, 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 anybody. 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 rumour had spread, and--accosting him in an easy and
familiar 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 ambassador'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 grey 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, amongst 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 manservant. 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 meanwhile, 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 enquiries 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
despatched 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 bed-time.
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 perfectly at
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, sir," 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
am 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 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 towards
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 a 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 honour 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 bed-time." He replied, however, according to the letter of
the law of civility, "Mrs. Darlington does me a great deal of honour,
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 honour Burrel declined,
replying quietly, that he would prefer riding; and, after one or two
faint efforts towards discovery of all the hidden things appertaining
to the young traveller, 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 travelling
companion, was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mansion, and
the brother and sister walked on directly towards one of the smaller
doors in the park wall, and, passing through, turned their steps
homewards. They proceeded, however, in silence; for there was
something evidently in their rencontre 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 towards 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 splendour 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 room, 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 favour--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 Honourable
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 amongst the dead, and two or three we could name
amongst 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 hidden 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, travelled 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 that 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 encumbrances 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 towards womanhood, that Sir Sidney Delaware felt most severely
that he had committed an error. His son, he thought, had an honourable
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 connexion 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 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
rencontre 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 very charming to you, Blanche?"
Miss Delaware replied, that her brothers acquaintance had not
appeared either quite so handsome or quite so fascinating in his
shooting-jacket as her brother had described him in his travelling
costume,--"But at all events," she added, "his appearance savoured
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.