CHAPTER III.
“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.
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