A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.
Colonel Dacre thought it very wrong to swear, and always denied himself this relief upon principle; but this morning, when he opened his eyes full upon the clock, which had a jeering, jaunty way of pointing at nine, he certainly did feel as if an occasional indulgence this time must be a pardonable offense.
He sprang out of bed, and rang at once for the waiter. He was about to put some questions to him, when the man handed him a couple of letters, saying:
“I was told to give you them directly you woke, sir. Is there anything you want, sir?”
“Only have my breakfast ready in half an hour,” answered Colonel Dacre, with assumed indifference; and the moment the man had closed the door, he tore open the letter that lay uppermost in his hand.
It was from Lady Gwendolyn, and ran thus:
“Dear Colonel Dacre: La nuit porte conseil, you say, and the result is that I think it far better we should not meet. Pardon me if I have given you pain by this decision. One of these days you will thank me for having had the courage to deny you. I must mean to do what is right, for I cannot help telling you that this is the greatest sorrow of my life.
“Gwendolyn St. Maur.”
The second was from Mrs. O’Hara, and was quite as expressive in its way.
“Dear Lawrence: I see that you take Lady Gwendolyn’s part: her false, fatal beauty has glamoured you, poor soul! I must needs forgive you, for the sake of old times; but I should only worry you with my friendship, now that you have learned what it is to love, so that I may as well get out of your way quietly. If you ever want to see me again, I dare say you will be able to find me; but, in any case, I have too deep and affectionate a recollection of ‘auld lang syne’ to subscribe myself anything but