The amulet: A novel

by Charles Egbert Craddock

“He has the promise of becoming a fine officer, and it irks me to check and bait him. He means for the best.”

“Dear Brother, we might be massacred every one, if the service proceeded on such indulgence to negligence. The rules and regulations must be observed. The Articles of War ought to be as sacred as the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion.”

“True—true—very true—” assented “dear Brother,” for who could gainsay her.

She was in earnest hope that for a time no more would be said of the handsome marplot. So serious, indeed, did she deem his interference that now that it was removed her spirits mounted high, her wit sparkled, her flabby, pallid cheek flushed, and her microscopic eyes glimmered and twinkled among her wrinkles. So distinct was her sense of carrying all things before her that she did not notice at first the change in Mervyn’s manner when he called in formal fashion to pay his respects to his recent host and the ladies of the household. The transformation was complete—no longer mild, pale, docile of aspect. He held himself tensely erect; his face was flushed; his eyes glittered with a light not altogether friendly, even when he turned them upon the beautiful Arabella. He had not forgotten—he promised himself he would never forget—the lure by which the artful duenna had made him believe that he himself was the beloved one of the gypsy’s prophecy, for which the delighted girl had added a gratuity for pure good will. His cheek burned when he remembered that Raymond—nay, all the fireside group—had perceived his agitation, his joyful tremor, yet a degree of vacillation, and alack, his coxcombical prudery lest one or the other should openly speak his name. He recognized the whole of the wily aunt’s scheme to put it into his mind that if he were not in love with Arabella he might well be, and was thought to be. The treacherous anti-climax, by which Arabella had interfered to spare his blushes,—her protestation of adoration of the drawing-master who, he was persuaded, was fictitious,—had a peculiar bitterness in being deemed a necessity. Yet in thus thwarting his obvious expectations and self-consciousness he had been rendered ridiculous in the eyes of Raymond,—who seemed actually to have the temerity to contemplate a competition with him for Miss Howard’s favor,—and openly and signally punished for his self-conceit. They thought too slightingly of him—to play with him thus. He was neither to be managed by the adroit old tactician nor flouted by the imperious young beauty. He was remembering his worldly consequence, which he generally had the magnanimity to forget,—his expectations, as heir of his grandfather’s title and estates, for he was the only son of his father, years ago deceased. He had summoned all his instinct for the social conventions, since he was too young to have learned worldly wisdom from experience, and was very definitely asserting himself in a restrained and incidental fashion. Under no coercion would bluster be practicable for his temperament.

He was talking of himself—of himself, continually, and Mrs. Annandale beamed upon him with the most intent solicitude, and Miss Arabella’s charming hazel eyes expressed a flattering interest. Her pride, too, had been cut down—was it indeed true that nobody who was anybody would care for her?

His grandfather was much on his lips to-day—recent letters had brought the home news; naught of great moment, he said, eying not the lovely girl but a clouded cane which he poised with a deft hand, be-ringed with some costly gauds that he was not wont to wear. There had been a storm. Some timber was down in the park. His grandfather grudged every stick.

“Of course. Trees are such beautiful objects,” said Arabella, consciously inane, struggling against an embarrassment induced by his manner and all unaware of a cause for a change.

“Fairly good-looking, I suppose; but I have seen several here—in the wilderness. Not a rarity, you know.”

“Oh, you sarcastic boy!” cried Mrs. Annandale, visibly out of countenance, and sending her niece a side glance of exhortation and upbraiding.

“Even the mere outline is fascinating to me,” said Arabella. “I often spend hours in delineating merely the tree form in sepia. It is such an apt expression of the idea of symmetry.”