THE BALL
THE COUNTRY BALL--A POETICAL PEER--BLANCHE’S PARTNERS--SMILES
AND SCOWLS--MAMMA’S ADVICE--THE GENERAL’S POLITICS--THE MAJOR’S
STRATEGY--“HOME”--THE DREAMER--THE SLEEPER--AND THE WATCHER
Bustle and confusion reign paramount at “The Kingmakers’
Arms”--principal hotel and posting-house in the town of Guyville. Once
a year is there a great lifting of carpets and shifting of furniture
in all the rooms of that enterprising establishment. Chambermaids
hurry to and fro in smart caps brought out for the occasion, and
pale-faced waiters brandish their glass-cloths in despair at the
variety of their duties. All the resources of the plate-basket are
brought into use, and knives, forks, tumblers, wine-glasses, German
silver and Britannia metal, are collected and borrowed, and furbished
up, to grace the evening’s entertainment with a magnificence becoming
the occasion. Dust pervades the passages, and there is a hot smell of
cooking and closed windows, by which the frequenters of the house are
made aware that to-night is the anniversary of the Guyville Ball, a
solemnity to be spoken of with reverence by the very ostler’s
assistant in the yard, who will tell you “_We_ are very busy, sir,
just now, sir, on account of _the ball_.” Tea-rooms, card-rooms,
supper-rooms, dancing-rooms, and cloak-rooms, leave but few apartments
to be devoted to the purposes of rest; and an unwary bagman, snoring
quietly in No. 5, might chance to be smothered ere morning by the heap
of cloaks, shawls, polka-jackets, and other lady-like wraps,
ruthlessly heaped upon the unconscious victim in his dormitory. The
combined attractions of steeple-chasing and dancing bring numerous
young gentlemen and their valets to increase the confusion; and, were
it not that the six o’clock train takes back the Londoners and
“professionals” to the metropolis, it would be out of the power of
mortal functionaries to attend to so many wants, and wait upon so many
customers.
That tall, pale, interesting-looking man in chains and ringlets has
already created much commotion below with his insatiable demands for
foot-baths and hot water. As he waits carelessly in the passage at
that closed door, receiving and returning the admiring glances of
passing chambermaids, you would hardly suppose, from his unassuming
demeanour, that he is no less a person than Lord Mount Helicon’s
_gentleman_. To be sure, he is now what he calls “comparatively
incog.” It is only at his club in Piccadilly, or “the room” at
Wassailworth, where he and the Duke’s “own man” lay down the law upon
racing, politics, wine, and women, that he is to be seen in his full
glory. To give him his due, he is an admirable servant, as far as his
own duties are concerned, and a clever fellow to boot, or he would not
have picked up seven-and-thirty pounds to-day on the steeple-chase
whilst he was looking after the luncheon and the carriage. We
question, however, whether he could complete his toilet as
expeditiously as his master, who is now stamping about his room
reciting, in an audible voice, a thundering ode on which he has been
some considerable time engaged, and elaborating the folds of his white
neckcloth (old fifth-form tie) between the stanzas.
Lord Mount Helicon is a literary nobleman; not one of
“Your authors who’s all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink;”
but a sportsman as well as a scholar, a man of the world as well as a
man of letters; given overmuch to betting, horse-racing, and
dissipation in general, but with as keen a zest for the elegances of
literature as for those beauties of the drama to which he pays fully
more attention, and one who can compute you the odds as readily as he
can turn a lyric or round a flowing period. Had his lordship
possessed a little more common sense and a slight modicum of prudence,
forethought, reflection, and such plebeian qualities, he need not have
failed in any one thing he undertook. As it was, his best friends
regretted he should waste his talents so unsparingly on versification;
whilst his enemies (the bitter dogs) averred “Mount Helicon’s rhyme
was, if possible, worse than his reason.” Being member for Guyville
(our readers will probably call to mind how the columns of their daily
paper were filled with the Guyville Election Committee’s Report, and
the wonderful appetite for “treating” displayed by the “free and
independent” of that town during their “three glorious days”)--being
member, then, of course it is incumbent on him to attend the ball; so
after a hurried dinner with Lacquers, Sir Ascot, Major D’Orville, and
sundry other gentlemen who _live_ every day of their lives, behold him
curling his red whiskers and attiring his tall, gaunt form in a suit
of decorous black.
“Deuced bad dinner they give one here,” said his lordship to himself,
still hammering away at the ode. “Wish I hadn’t drunk that second
bottle of claret, and smoked so much.
When the thunders of a people smite the quailing despot’s ear,
And the earthquake of rebellion heaves--
No, I can’t get it right. How those cursed fiddlers are scraping! and
either that glass maligns me, or I look a little drunk! This life
don’t suit my style of beauty--something must be done. Shall I marry
and pull up? Marry--will I! Bow my cultivated intellect before some
savage maiden, and fatten like a tethered calf on the flat swamps of
domestic respectability. Straps! go down and find out if many of the
people are come.”
“Several of the townspeople have arrived, my lord; but few of the
county families as yet,” replies Straps, whose knowledge of a member
of parliament’s duties would have qualified him to represent Guyville
as well as his master. Lord Mount Helicon accordingly completes his
toilet and proceeds to the ball-room, still mentally harping on “the
thunders of a people,” and “the quailing despot’s ear.”
The townspeople have indeed arrived in very sufficient numbers, yet is
there a strong line of demarcation between their plebeian ranks and
those of “the county families” huddled together at the upper end of
the room. Britannia! Britannia! when will you cease to bring your
coat-of-arms into society, and to smother your warm heart and sociable
nature under pedigrees, and rent-rolls, and dreary conventionalities?
When you do, you will enjoy yourself all the more, and be respected
none the less. You will be equally efficient as a chaperon, though the
trident be not always pointed on the defensive; and the lion may be an
excellent watch-dog, without being trained to growl at every
fellow-creature who does not happen to keep a carriage. His lordship’s
business, however, lies chiefly with those, so to speak, below the
salt. Voters are they, or, more important still, voters’ wives and
daughters, and, as such, must be propitiated; for Mount Helicon, we
need scarcely inform our readers, is not an English peerage, and my
lord may probably require to sit again for the same incorruptible
borough.
So he bows to _this_ lady, and flirts with _that_, and submits to be
patted on the shoulder and twaddled to by a fat little man, primed
with port, but who, when not thus bemused, is an influential member of
his committee, and a staunch supporter on the hustings. Nay more, with
an effort that he deserves infinite credit for concealing with such
good grace, he offers his arm to the red-haired daughter of his
literally _warm_ supporter, and leads the well-pleased damsel,
blushing much, and mindful “to keep her head up,” right away to the
county families’ quadrille at the top of the room, where she dances
_vis-à-vis_--actually _vis-à-vis_--to Miss Kettering and Captain
Lacquers.
That gentleman is considerably brightened up by his dinner and his
potations. He has besides got his favourite boots on, and feels equal
to almost any social emergency, so he is making the agreeable to the
heiress with that degree of originality so peculiarly his own, and
getting on, as he thinks, “like a house on fire.”
“Very _wawm_, Miss Kettering,” observes the dandy, holding steadily by
his starboard moustache. “Guyville people always make it so hot.
Charming _bouquet_!”
“Your _vis-à-vis_ is dancing alone,” says Blanche, cutting short her
partner’s interesting remarks, and sending him sprawling and
swaggering across the room, only to hasten back again and proceed with
his conversation.
“You know the man opposite--man with red whiskers? That’s Mount
Helicon. Good fellow--aw--if he could but dye his whiskers. Asked to
be introduced to _you_ to-day on the course. Told him--aw--I couldn’t
take such a liberty.” Lacquers wishes to say he would like to keep her
society all to himself, but, as usual, he cannot express clearly what
he means, so he twirls his moustaches instead, and is presently lost
in the intricacies of “La Poule.” We need hardly observe that
manœuvring is not our friend’s forte. Blanche’s eyes meanwhile are
turned steadily towards the lower end of the room, and her partner’s
following their direction, he discovers, as he thinks, a fresh topic
of conversation. “Ah! there’s Hardingstone just come in--aw. Why don’t
he bring his wife with him, I wonder!”
“His wife!” repeated Blanche, with a start that sent the blood from
her heart; “why, he’s not married, is he?” she added, with more
animation than she had hitherto exhibited.
“Don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the dandy, glancing down at his own
faultless _chaussure_; “thought he was--aw--looks like a married
man--aw.”
“Why should you think so?” inquired Blanche, half amused in spite of
herself.
“Why--aw,” replied the observant reasoner, “got the married _look_,
you know. Wears wide family boots--aw. Do to ride the children on, you
know.”
Blanche could not repress a laugh; and the quadrille being concluded,
off she went with Cousin Charlie, to stagger through a breathless
polka, just at the moment the “family boots” bore their owner to the
upper end of the room in search of her.
Frank was out of his element, and thoroughly uncomfortable. Generally
speaking, he could adapt himself to any society into which he happened
to be thrown, but to-night he was restless and out of spirits;
dissatisfied with Blanche, with himself for being so, and with the
world in general. “What a parcel of fools these people are,” thought
he, as with folded arms he leant against the wall and gazed vacantly
on the shifting throng; “jigging away to bad music in a hot room, and
calling it pleasure. What a waste of time, and energy, and everything.
Now, there’s little Blanche Kettering. I _did_ think that girl was
superior to the common run of women. I fancied she had a heart, and a
mind, and ‘brains,’ and was above all the petty vanities of flirting,
and fiddling, and dressing, which a posse of idiots dignify with the
name of society. But no; they are all alike, giddy, vain, and
frivolous. There she is, dancing away with as light a heart as if
‘Cousin Charlie’ were not under orders for the Cape, and to start
to-morrow morning. She don’t care--not she! I wonder if she _will_
marry him, should he ever come back. I have never liked to ask him,
but everybody seems to say it’s a settled thing. How changed she must
be since we used to go out in the boat at St. Swithin’s; and yet how
little altered she is in features from the child I was so fond of.
It’s disappointing!” And Frank ground his teeth with subdued ferocity.
“It’s disgusting! She’s not half good enough for Charlie. I’ll never
believe in one of them again!”
Well, if not “half good enough for Charlie,” we mistake much whether,
even at the very moment of condemnation, our philosopher did not
consider her quite “good enough for Frank”; and could he but have
known the young girl’s thoughts while he judged her so harshly, he
would have been much more in charity with the world in general, and
looked upon the rational amusement of dancing in a light more becoming
a sensible man--which, to do him justice, he generally was.
Blanche, even as she wound and threaded through the mazes of a crowded
polka, skilfully steered by Cousin Charlie, who was a beautiful
dancer, and one of whose little feet would scarcely have served to
“ride a fairy,” was wondering in her own mind why Mr. Hardingstone had
not asked her to dance, and why he had been so distant at the
steeple-chase, and speculating whether it was possible he could be
married. How she hoped Mrs. Hardingstone, if there should be one, was
_a nice person_, and how fond she would be of her, and yet few people
were worthy of _him_. How noble and manly he looked to-night amongst
all the dandies. She would rather see Mr. Hardingstone frown than any
one else smile--there was nobody like him, except, perhaps, Major
D’Orville; he had the same quiet voice, the same self-reliant manner;
but then the Major was much older. Oh no--there was nothing equal to
Frank--and how she _liked_ him, he was _such_ a friend of Charlie; and
just as Blanche arrived at this conclusion, the skirt of her dress got
entangled in Cornet Capon’s spur, and Charlie laughed so (the
provoking boy!) that he could not set her free, and the Cornet’s
apologies were so absurd, and everybody stared so, it was quite
disagreeable! But a tall, manly figure interposed between her and the
crowd, and Major D’Orville released her in an instant; and that deep,
winning voice engaged her for the next dance, and she could not but
comply, though she had rather it had been some one else. Frank saw it
all, still with his arms folded, and misjudged her again, as men do
those of whom they are fondest. “How well she does it, the little
coquette,” he thought; “it’s a good piece of acting all through--now
she’ll flirt with D’Orville because he happens to be a great man here,
and then she’ll throw him over for some one else; and so they ‘keep
the game alive.’” Frank! Frank! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!
* * * * *
In the meantime, Lord Mount Helicon must not neglect a very important
part of the business which has brought him to Guyville. In the pocket
of his lordship’s morning coat is a letter which Straps, who has taken
that garment down to brush, in the natural course of things, is even
now perusing. As its contents may somewhat enlighten us as well as the
valet, we will take the liberty of peeping over that trusty domestic’s
shoulder, and joining him in his pursuit of knowledge, premising that
the epistle is dated Brook Street, and is a fair specimen of maternal
advice to a son. After the usual gossip regarding Mrs. Bolter’s
elopement, and Lady Susan Stiffneck’s marriage, with the indispensable
conjectures about “ministers,” a body in whose precarious position
ladies of a certain age take an unaccountable interest, the letter
goes on to demonstrate that
“it is needless to point out, my dear Mount, the advantages you
would obtain under your peculiar circumstances by settling
early in life. When I was at Bubbleton last autumn (and Globus
says I have never been so well since he attended me when you
were born--in fact, the spasms left me altogether), I made the
acquaintance of a General Bounce, an odious, vulgar man, who
had been all his life somewhere in India, but who had a niece,
a quiet, amiable girl, by name Kettering, with whom I was much
pleased. They have a nice place, though damp, somewhere in the
neighbourhood of your borough, and I dined there once or twice
before I left Bubbleton. Everything looked like _maison
montée_; and from information I can rely on, I understand the
girl is a great heiress. Between ourselves, Lady Champfront
told me she would have from three to four hundred thousand
pounds. Now, although I should be the last person to hint at
your selling yourself for money, particularly with your talents
and your position, yet if you should happen to see this young
lady, and take a fancy to her, it would be a very nice thing,
and would make you quite independent. She is prettyish in the
‘Jeannette and Jeannot’ style, and although her manner is not
the least formed, she has no _prononcé_ vulgarity, and would
soon acquire our ‘ways’ when she came to live amongst us. Of
course we should drop the General immediately; and, my dear
boy, I trust you would give up that horrid racing--young
Cubbington, who has hardly left school, is already nearly
ruined by it, and Lady Looby is in despair--such a mother too
as she has been to him! By the by, there is a cousin in our
way, but he is young enough to be in love only with himself,
and appeared to me to be rather making up to the governess!
Think of this, my dear Mount, and believe me,
“Your most affectionate mother,
“M. MT. HELICON.
“P.S.--Your book is much admired. Trifles _raves_ about it,
and your old friend Mrs. Blacklamb assures me that _it made
her quite ill_.”
Primed with such sage counsel, his lordship determined to lose no time
in “opening the trenches.” After enacting sundry duty-dances, by which
he had gained at least one prospective “plumper,” he accordingly
“completed the first parallel” by obtaining an introduction to General
Bounce, which ceremony Captain Lacquers performed in his usual easy
off-hand style--the introducer shouting into each man’s ear his
listener’s _own_ name, and suppressing altogether that of his new
acquaintance, an ingenious method of presenting people to each other
without furthering their intimacy to any great extent. The General,
however, and the member had known each other previously by sight as
well as by name, the former having voted and spoken against the latter
at the past election, with his peculiar abruptness and energy; but
Mount Helicon was the last man in the world to owe an antagonist a
grudge, and being keenly alive to the ridiculous, was prepared to be
delighted with his political opponent, in whom he saw a fund of
absurdity, out of which he promised himself much amusement.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, my Lud,” said the General, standing
well behind his orders and decorations, which showed to great
advantage on a coat tightly buttoned across his somewhat corpulent
frame--“Don’t like your politics--what? never did--progress and all
that, sir, not worth a row of gingerbread--don’t tell _me_--why, what
did Lord Hindostan say to me at Government House, when they threatened
to report me at home for exceeding my orders? ‘Bounce,’ says his
Excellency--‘Bounce, _I’ll see you through it_’--what? _nothing like a
big stick for a nigger_. _Stick!_ how d’ye mean?”--and the speaker,
who was beginning to foam at the mouth, suddenly changed his tone to
one of the sweetest politeness, as he introduced ‘My niece, Miss
Kettering; Lord Mount Helicon.’ A second time was Frank Hardingstone
forestalled; he had just made up his mind that he would dance with
Blanche only _once_, sun himself yet _once_ again in her sweet smile,
and then think of her no more--a sensible resolution, but not very
easy to carry out. Of course he laid the blame on her. “First she
makes a fool of D’Orville,” thought he, “a man old enough to be her
father--and now she whisks away with this red-bearded radical--to
make a fool of him too, unless she means to throw over Charlie; and
who is the greatest fool of the three? Why, you, Frank Hardingstone,
who ought to know better. I shall go home, smoke a cigar, and go to
bed; the dream is over; I had no idea it would be so unpleasant to
wake from it.” So Frank selected his hat, pulled out his cigar-case,
and trudged off, by no means in a philosophical or even a charitable
frame of mind.
There was a light twinkling in the window of his lodgings over the
Saddlers, some three hours afterwards, when a carriage drove rapidly
by, bearing a freight of pleasure-seekers home from the ball. Inside
were the General and Blanche, the former fast asleep, wrapped in the
dreamless slumbers which those enjoy who have reached that time of
life when the soundness of the stomach is far more attended to than
that of the heart--when sentiment is of small account, but digestion
of paramount importance. Age, as it widens the circle of our
affections, weakens their intensity, and although proverbially “there
is no fool like an old one,” we question if in the present day there
are many Anacreons who--
“When they behold the festive train
Of dancing youth, are young again;”
or who, however little they might object to celebrating her charms “in
the bowl,” would, for “soft Bathylla’s sake,” wreathe vine-leaves
round their grizzled heads. No: Age is loth to make itself ridiculous
in _that_ way; and the General snored and grunted, heartwhole and
comfortable, by the side of his pretty niece. How pretty she looked--a
little pale from over-excitement and fatigue, but her violet eyes all
the deeper and darker from the contrast, whilst none but her maid
would have thought the long golden brown hair spoiled by hanging down
in those rich, uncurling clusters. She was like the pale blush rose in
her bouquet--more winning as it droops in half-faded loveliness than
when first it bloomed, bright and crisp, in its native conservatory.
The flower yields its fragrance all the sweeter from being shaken by
the breeze. Who but a cousin or a brother would have gone on the box
to smoke with such a girl as Blanche inside? Yet so it was. Master
Charlie, who danced, as he did everything else, with his whole heart
and soul, could not forego the luxury of a cigar in the cool night
air, after the noise and heat and revelry of the ball. As he puffed
volumes of smoke into the air, and watched the bright stars twinkling
down through the clear, pure night, his thoughts wandered far--far
into the future; and he, too, felt that the majesty of a sad, sweet
face had impressed itself on his being--that she had been watching him
to-day through his boyish exploits--and that her eye would kindle, her
cheek would glow, when military honours and distinction were heaped
upon him, as heaped he was resolved they should be, if ever an
opportunity offered. To-morrow his career would begin! To-morrow, ay,
even to-day (for it was already past midnight) he was to embark for
the Cape; and scarce a thought of the bitterness of parting, perhaps
for ever, shaded that bright, young imagination, as it sketched out
for itself its impossible romance, worth all the material
possibilities that have ever been accomplished. So Charlie smoked and
pondered, and dreamed of beauty and valour. We do not think he was in
very imminent danger of marrying his cousin.
Perhaps, were he inside, his flow of spirits would only disturb the
quiet occupants. Blanche is not asleep, but she is dreaming
nevertheless. With her large eyes fixed vacantly on the hedge-row
trees and fences, that seem to be wheeling past her in the carriage
lamp-light, she is living the last few hours of her life again, and
seeing their past events more clearly, as she disentangles them from
the excitement and confusion amongst which they actually occurred. Now
she is dancing with Lacquers or Sir Ascot, and wondering, as she
recalls their commonplace chatter and trite remarks, how men so
insipid can belong to the same creation as “Cousin Charlie,” or
another gentleman, a friend of his, of whom, for the first time in her
life, she feels a little afraid. Now she laughs to herself as she
recollects Cornet Capon’s agony of shyness, and the burning blushes
with which that diffident young officer apologised for tearing her
dress. Anon she sees Major D’Orville’s commanding figure and
handsome, manly face, while the low musical voice is still ringing in
her ear, and the quiet deferential manner, softened by a protective
air of kindness, has lost none of its charm. Blanche is not the first
young lady, by a good many, who has gone home from a ball with a
flattered consciousness that a certain gallant officer thinks her a
“very superior person,” and that the good opinion of such a man is
indeed worth having. The Major was “a dangerous man”; he betrayed no
coxcombry to mar the effect of his warlike beauty and chivalrous
bearing. He never “sank” the profession, but always spoke of himself
as a “mere soldier,” whilst his manner was that of a “finished
gentleman.” He had distinguished himself, too, on more than one
occasion; and the men all had a great opinion of him. Woman is an
imitative animal; and a high reputation, especially for courage,
amongst the gentlemen, goes a long way in the good graces of the
ladies. Add to these the crowning advantage, that the Major, except in
one instance of which we know the facts, came into the unequal contest
with a heart perfectly invulnerable and case-hardened by intercourse
with the world, and a selfishness less the result of nature than
education. When a man, himself untouched, makes up his mind that a
woman _shall_ love him, the odds are fearfully in his favour. Blanche
_liked_ him already; but if “in the multitude of counsellors there is
safety,” no less is there security in the multitude of admirers; and
ere the Major’s image had time to make more than a transient
impression, that of Lord Mount Helicon chased it away in the mental
magic-lantern of our fair young dreamer. He had taken her in to
supper; and how pleasant he was! so odd, but so agreeable--such a
command of language, and such a quaint, absurd way of saying
commonplace things. Not so bad-looking either, in spite of his red
whiskers; and such a beautiful title! How well it would sound! and
Blanche smiled at herself as the idea came across her. But a handsome,
manly fellow leaning against the wall was looking at her with a stern,
forbidding expression she had never seen before on that open brow, and
Blanche’s heart ached at the vision. Mr. Hardingstone was surely very
much changed; he who used to be so frank, and kind, and
good-humoured, and to lose no opportunity of petting and praising the
girl he had known from a child; and to-night he had never so much as
asked her to dance, and scarcely spoken to her. “What right had he to
look so cross at me?” thought the girl, with the subdued irritation of
wounded feelings; “what had I done to offend him, or why should I care
whether I offend him or not? Poor fellow, perhaps he is in low spirits
about Cousin Charlie’s going away so soon.” And Blanche’s eyes filled
with tears--tears that she persuaded herself were but due to her
cousin’s early departure.
Like the rising generation in general, Charlie was a great smoker. His
ideas of “campaigning” were considerably mixed up with tobacco, and he
lost no opportunity of qualifying for the bivouac by a sedulous
consumption of cigars. He dashed the last bit of “burning comfort”
from his lips as the carriage drove into the avenue at Newton-Hollows.
Protracted yawns prevented much conversation during the serving-out of
hand-candlesticks. Good-nights were exchanged; “We shall all see you
to-morrow before you go, dear,” said Blanche, as she disappeared into
her room; and soon the sighing of the night wind was the only sound to
disturb the silence of that long range of buildings, where all were
sunk in slumber and repose--all save one.
At an open window, looking steadfastly forth into the darkness, sat
Mary Delaval. She had not stirred for hours, and she might have been
asleep, so moveless was her attitude, had it not been for the fixed,
earnest expression of her dark grey eye. One round white arm rested on
the window-ledge, and her long black hair fell in loose masses over
the snowy garments, which, constituting a lady’s _déshabillé_, reveal
her beauties far less liberally than the costume she more inaptly
terms “full dress.” Mary is reasoning with herself--generally an
unsatisfactory process, and one that seldom leads to any definite
conclusion; sadly, soberly, and painfully, she is recalling her past
life, her selfish father, her injured mother, the hardships and trials
of her youth, and the ray of sunshine that has tinged the last few
weeks with its golden light. She never thought to entertain folly,
madness, such as this; yet would she not have had it otherwise for
worlds. Bitter are the dregs, but verily the poison is more than
sweet. And now he is going away, and she will never, never see him
again; that fair young face will never more greet her with its
thrilling smile, those kindly joyous tones never more make music for
her ear. To-morrow he will be gone. Perhaps he may fall in action--the
beautiful brow gashed--the too well-known features cold and fixed in
death: not if prayers can avert such a fate. Perhaps he will return
distinguished and triumphant; but in either case what more will the
poor governess have to do with the young hero, save to love him still?
Yes, she may love him _now_--love him with all her heart and soul,
without restraint, without self-reproach, for she will _never_ see him
again. On that she is determined; their paths lie in different
directions, like two ships that meet upon the waters and rejoice in
each other’s companionship, and part, and know each other no more. It
was foolish to sit up for him to-night; but it is the last, _last_
time, and she could not resist the temptation to wait and watch even
for the very wheels that bore him home; and now it is over--all
over--he will never know it; but she will always think of him and pray
for him, and watch over Blanche for _his_ sake, and love him, adore
him dotingly--madly--to the last; and cold, haughty, passionless Mary
Delaval leant her head upon her two white arms, and sobbed like a
broken-hearted child.
We wonder if any man that walks the earth is worthy of the whole
idolatrous devotion of a woman’s heart. Charlie was snoring sound
asleep, whilst she who loved him wept and prayed and suffered. Go to
sleep too, foolish Mary, and pleasant dreams to you: “Sorrow has your
young days shaded;” it is but fair that your nights should glow in the
rosy, fancy-brightened hues of joy.