CHAPTER II.COURTSHIP
Onemorning 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 thereforelost 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 andmelody; 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 usualkindly 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 browBright with intelligence—”
“Her glossy hair was braided o’er a browBright with intelligence—”
“Her glossy hair was braided o’er a browBright with intelligence—”
“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. CaptainEdward 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 hersome 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 motherwould 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 imaginewhyI did not love so charming a young fellow, and adding, that ‘lovebeforemarriage 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 softhair, “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 ofennui. 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.