“Down, Vivian, down!” exclaimed Margaret Walton, as she entered the
breakfast room, from the lawn, and gracefully welcomed Mr. Vivian
Russell to the Hall. The dog had been named and presented to her father,
by our hero’s uncle, a short time before; and Vivian thought he had
never known the mimic of his own name, till now, when pronounced by that
sweet and playful voice. Margaret seemed to him lovelier than ever, in
her plain white robe, her color heightened by exercise, and a few wild
flowers, carelessly wound into the soft braids of her hair.
“Papa is a late riser, Mr. Russell, and we must wait breakfast for him;
but he will soon be down now—” as she spoke, she seated herself, and
began, with an arch, sidelong glance at Vivian, who could not repress a
smile—yes! actually began, to tear in pieces another of those
tormenting little notes!
“Hum!” said Vivian to himself, “the clandestine correspondence goes
swimmingly on, it seems. I will think of her no more.”
“Think of her no more!” He thought of nothing else all that day and the
next and the next; and each day with a more fervent and impassioned
devotion! She was so mild, yet so noble!—so tenderly beautiful! he half
worshiped her already. And yet those papers. He detested deceit from his
soul. Falsehood, equivocation, deception of any kind, from a child he
had been too proud to stoop to them; and here he was, irretrievably in
love with one who had evidently something wrong to conceal.
One day, the servant brought her a note—“From Sir George Elwyn, Miss.”
A smile dimpled her cheek as she read, and then it shared the fate of
many that had gone before it, and the bits were preserved as usual in
the little basket by her side.
“This then,” thought Vivian, “is the secret! This Sir George, confound
him! is the lover—the beloved!” And for three whole days after this
wise conclusion did our hero sulk in silent misery; and for three whole
days did the wondering Margaret weep, when alone, for his waywardness,
and, when in his presence, laugh more gaily than ever, or curl her sweet
lip, in maiden pride, at his moody replies to her attempts at
conversation.
The third day was the sabbath, and as they walked home from church, a
fine-looking young man passed on horseback, and bowed, with an air of
“empressement,” to Miss Walton and her father. “He’s a confounded
handsome fellow! don’t you think so, Vivian?” said Mr. Walton.
“Who, sir?” said Vivian with an abstracted air.
“The young man, who just passed, Sir George Elwyn. He is to dine with
us, to-day.” Vivian started at the name and gazed earnestly at Margaret,
who, of course, blushed as was her wont. That blush decided him. “I was
right!” he exclaimed internally, and making a hurried excuse to leave
them, he hastened by a shorter path to the house—wrote a note, in
which, disclaiming dissimulation, he only begged his kind host to
forgive his abrupt departure from the Hall, left it on his
dressing-table, mounted his horse, and galloped back to town, thinking
himself the most miserable fellow in existence.