+COURTSHIP+
ONE morning at breakfast, on opening the letter-bag, Mrs. Dale announced
to her husband that her nephew, Captain Travers, of the *** Lancers, had
just returned from India, and proposed paying them a visit at Christmas.
Had the Vicar been a devout Catholic, he would doubtless have crossed
himself, as it was he gave a kind of holy groan, and rolled up his
forehead, as he was wont to do when any very obstinate sinner was
mentioned. The lady, however, pressed her point, and at length a
reluctant consent was given, together with the expression of a
despairing hope that the visit of this probable child of Satan might
eventually “be blessed” to the saving of his soul. Mrs. Dale, whose
piety was by no means so lively as that of her husband, was only too
happy to have an occasion for arraying herself in some of the elegant
new dresses she had surreptitiously procured at the nearest town. She
therefore lost no time in answering the gallant captain by letter that
they would be delighted to welcome him to Warenne Vicarage. I perceived
that Evelyn was much preoccupied by her cousin’s projected visit; our
life was so monotonous that any change was welcome, and a young and
dashing officer of cavalry could not fail to be an acquisition to our
very limited and somewhat dull clerical circle. Frequently I interrupted
her day dreams, begging her not to imagine she was about to meet her
“beau ideal”—the hero of her young imaginings—or she would surely be
disappointed. With a bright blush she would reply, “You know, dear Mary,
how high is my standard of perfection, and that I hope never to marry
unless I meet one I can not only love, but respect and revere above all
created beings. Yet,” she added with a sigh, “how in this isolated spot
may I ever hope to meet with such a man? unless indeed,” smiling archly,
“my gallant cousin prove to be my own true knight,” and springing
lightly across the room to her harp, she would commence singing, in a
rich contralto voice, Mrs. Norton’s exquisite ballad, “Love not, ye
hapless sons of clay,” or perhaps one of Moores’ delicious national
airs.—She was one of the few gifted individuals who have “tears in the
voice,” so deep was the pathos, so intense the feeling, she threw into
both words and melody; like Orpheus, she might have charmed even the
rocks. Thus passed the days till Christmas time drew nigh, with its
promise of turkeys, roast beef, mince pies and plum puddings. Mrs. Dale
“on household thoughts intent,” spent many an hour in superintending the
preparation of mince meat, sausages, and other delicacies, for country
folks make all these luxuries at home. Of course your humble servant was
pressed into the service, but our heroine, who detested the details of
the “ménage,” (for which she was always and with reason scolded by her
mother), continued to practice her harp and her singing, and to write
her foolish, romantic thoughts in her journal, utterly heedless of all
sublunary matters, and alike inattentive to the maternal rëproofs and to
the more gentle remonstrances of her Mentor. At length the long-expected
and anxiously desired day dawned bleak and cheerless in appearance, but
fraught with sunshine to the now cheerful party at the Vicarage. Our
usual two o’clock dinner was postponed to the hour of half-past five to
suit the more aristocratic habits of the young officer. Even Mr. Dale
fetched from the cellar a bottle of his oldest port, and the whole house
wore an air of unaccustomed festivity. Precisely at half-past four, the
roll of a carriage and a loud ring at the door-bell, announced the much
desired arrival. The usual kindly greetings over, the visitor was
ushered to the guest-chamber. I had just completed my toilet, and
wishing to ascertain if Evelyn had done the same, entered her apartment.
I was quite struck by her extreme beauty. She was robed in an
exquisitely-fitting dinner costume of blue silk, which suited well with
her delicate features and bright but soft complexion. A scarf of white
tulle was gracefully flung around her shoulders, I may add, in the words
of Byron,
“Her glossy hair was braided o’er a brow
Bright with intelligence—”
And one camelia from the green-house, of the softest pink, reposed on
her rich and wavy tresses. I do not think that Evelyn was then aware how
very lovely she was, and this unconsciousness of effect greatly enhanced
her charms. “How nice you look, dear Mary,” were her words, as she
placed her arm within mine and we descended to the drawing-room. Mrs.
Dale was already there, looking very handsome in a dress of black satin,
her dark hair in short curls under a pretty cap of blond and flowers.
She was still a remarkably fine woman, and had she been less stout,
would by no means have looked her age. A few moments and our newly
arrived guest entered, ushered in by the Vicar. Captain Edward Travers
was a young man of gentleman-like manners and prepossessing appearance.
He was dressed in the height of fashion, which in England means a
well-cut coat, white waistcoat, an irreproachable neck-tie, and
well-fitting polished boots. As the captain shook hands with us, his
smile displayed a fine set of teeth—his eyes likewise were good, and
altogether, my first impressions respecting him were agreeable. An
evangelical curate completed the party, and to Evelyn’s horror took her
in to dinner—the principal guest, of course, being seated at the right
hand of the lady of the house. Dinner passed off; and shortly after the
removal of the cloth the ladies retired, and the gentlemen remained to
finish their wine—a remnant to my mind of the barbarous ages.
In the evening, Evelyn and myself played duetts on the harp and piano.
She also sang to my accompaniment various pretty ballads, both English
and German. Meanwhile Captain Travers talked much—too much, I thought,
during the music—to Mrs. Dale; and at ten precisely the entrance of the
servants for family prayers put an end for that day to our occupations.
On retiring, Evelyn sought my room. “Well, Mary,” said she, “what think
you of my cousin?”
“He appears pleasant and good natured,” said I. “And you?”
“Oh! all I know is, that you need not imagine I have found my ideal
knight.”
“He is, however, good-looking?”
“Yes—has fine eyes.”
“Yes—and above all,” I added, laughing, “a most becoming moustache.”
“Oh! decidedly—I confess to a weakness for moustache; one may then be
quite sure the man is no curate—eh! Mary?—But he talks too much, and
evidently cares not for music.”
Like a couple of school-girls, we continued to chatter till near
midnight, when, declaring I was half asleep, I playfully ejected the
young lady by main force from my room, and was soon in the land of
dreams.
A week passed, and our guest was to leave on the morrow. I had ceased to
think about him, except as one of those common-place individuals, of
whom the best description is, that “there is nothing in him.” He
appeared much pleased with the society of his aunt, seeming greatly to
prefer it to that of his cousin. I was therefore surprised, the last
evening, to see him bending over Evelyn’s harp, and addressing her for
some time in a low voice. I soon concluded he was explaining to her some
of the delights of the hunting-field, or, perhaps, expatiating on the
scarcity of game this season, and paid no further attention to them.
Judge, then, how utterly amazed I was, to learn from Evelyn, that her
cousin had proposed, and that she had not positively rejected him.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “you have not been half so foolish! No—I
will not believe it; there must be some mistake. Repeat me the
conversation, dear Evelyn.”
“Perhaps, Mary, you will smile at the originality of the affair. After
many words about nothing, and ‘apropos’ to less, he suddenly said, ‘I
think I shall sell out, and go abroad. Will you consent to come with me,
and make me happy?’ Imagine my surprise.—What could I say, except that I
did not know him sufficiently well, and that I would speak to my
mother—always having understood that is the manner in which young ladies
reply to proposals, unless they are really in love—which, of course,
Mary, I am not. Now you know all that has passed. I shall, after
consulting mama, make my definite decision; to-morrow, probably, will
decide my fate.”
She left me, and I passed a sleepless night; for I perceived no promise
of happiness for her, in so hasty an engagement. I sincerely trusted her
mother would dissuade her from committing so sad a folly, and anxiously
awaited the events of the coming day.
After breakfast, I saw poor Evelyn led into the drawing-room, like a
lamb to the slaughter, by her mother, and left alone with the young man.
Suspense was becoming unbearable, when, after about an hour had elapsed,
Evelyn flew to my room, and flung herself into my arms:
“Oh, dearest,” she said, sobbing, “my only true friend, let me confide
in you. Last night I went, as you know, to mama’s room, and told her
all, adding that I did not love him, and felt no inclination to marry.
She chid me, saying I ought to consider myself fortunate—that she could
not imagine _why_ I did not love so charming a young fellow, and adding,
that ‘love _before_ marriage was quite unnecessary, as every well
brought up girl was sure to love her husband when once she had become a
wife.’ My mother concluded by saying that if I were so silly as not to
accept my cousin, she would take no further trouble to introduce me into
society, and that I must make up my mind to live here all my life. So
you see, Mary, I was in a measure forced to say, that if on further
acquaintance, I could like him, I would be his wife.”
“My poor darling,” said I, smoothing her soft hair, “better bear your
present troubles than blindly rush into, perhaps, far greater sorrow.”
“Mary,” replied Evelyn, “do not think me childish, but I cannot endure
this methodistical house. Besides, I long to see the world—to go to
balls, the opera, theatres. Better to be really unhappy than die of
_ennui_. The stormiest sea is surely superior to a stagnant pool.
Besides, he is really fond of me. You should have seen how his hand
trembled.”
I ventured to interrupt her here, and to suggest that the hand
occasionally shook at breakfast, also, when there was no apparent cause.
“For shame, Mary,” she said, (though I do not think she then understood
my fears,) “indeed I feel certain he adores me. I shall be petted, and
spoiled; I will do my duty, and try to make him happy. Oh! I will be a
model wife.”
Tears had already given place to smiles and dimples, on the face of my
sweet friend, and the hope of a happier future had brought light to her
eyes, and renewed bloom to her cheek. I could not find it in my heart to
dash her joy, so I twined my arms around her, reiterating my fervent
wishes for her happiness, and adding, that whether for weal or woe, she
would ever find a firm friend, and a loving sister, in Mary Mildmay.
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