“Dreadful! that is, of course, great pleasure. Now, dear young lady, I want you to be my leech.”
“La! Sir Arthur; we don’t live in such times, you know;” and Agatha was delighted.
“As I am determined to offer this hand with all my heart in it—when I say all my heart I mean my title—to a young lady whom you know, and I believe very much respect—as upon that resolution I am a perfect rock—when I say a rock, I mean I am hard upon being happy—why then—”
“I see exactly what you mean, Sir Arthur,” said Agatha, to the rescue.
“That’s delightful. That’s a true woman who, when a man has only half a meaning, supplies the other half. It’s that that makes the full circle of the wedding-ring. When I say the wedding-ring, of course I mean”—
“I know,” cried Agatha quickly.
“Well, dear Miss Pennibacker, will you undertake the cure, for the lady you are best acquainted with?”
“I’m sure I—I’d do anything in such a case to serve any lady. But hadn’t I better call mamma? She’s a beautiful surgeon! Oh, what a leech she’d have been in those sweet old times. Yes, I’d better call mamma;” and, like a startled antelope, the maiden bounded from the room.
Sir Arthur Hodmadod, left to himself, incontinently walked up to a mirror. It was, at the worst, his old resource. To him a looking-glass was capital company. It always brought before him the subject he loved best; a subject he never grew tired of; a subject that, contemplate it as he would, like every other truly great work, revealed some hitherto undiscovered excellence. Thus, in a very few seconds, Sir Arthur was so intently fixed upon the well-known, yet ever new production before him; was so profoundly satisfied with the many merits appealing to his impartial judgment, that he heard not the door open; heard not the soft footsteps of two ladies.—Sir Arthur, in the intensity of his study, was wholly unconscious of the approach of Miss Monica Pennibacker and her very recent, and very fast friend, Miss Candituft. Monica was about to break in upon the grateful meditation of the baronet, when Miss Candituft raised her eloquent forefinger. This gesture was followed by nods and smiles; and Monica, with sudden knowledge of their mysterious import, jerked her head, and laughed in answer; and without a word, but with a huge enjoyment of the jest, quitted the ground.
Sir Arthur is still at the glass, and Miss Candituft sinks upon a sofa. The cold, calm face of the lady very nearly approached the face of the gentleman in the mirror; nevertheless, so fixed was he upon his subject, that the intrusion failed to rouse him. Miss Candituft caught the reflected features of the baronet; and though she felt all the force of their vacancy; though she thought she despised that handsome mask of man more than ever; she felt stir within her remorseless thoughts of vengeance. In that stern moment, she fixed the Baronet’s fate. He, poor victim! with all his soul on tiptoe walking the outline of his right whisker, he knew not what awaited him.—He knew not that behind him, sat a weak woman who had determined to snatch him from himself; to carry him away, whether he would or not; to hurry him to a venerable edifice; and then and there rivet on him a chain for life. And this, it is our faith, is a sentence often passed in silence on the unsuspecting sufferer: a sentence pronounced in self-confidence in play-house boxes, in ball-room corners; possibly, even in cathedral pews. The judge, all outward smiles and tenderness, has thoughts of a life-long sentence at heart. How beautiful that it should be so! To our imagination how much more delicious the simple, balmy flower, when we know that it smiles so sweetly, and to all appearance so unconsciously of the wedding-ring gold, so very deep below.