CHAPTER XIII.
| Men will woo the tempest, And wed it, to their cost.—Passion Flowers. Then fly betimes, for only they Conquer love that run away.—Carew. |
Morton had been for some time of opinion that he had better leave New Baden; yet still the philosophic youth staid on,—a week longer,—a fortnight longer,—and still he lingered. It would be too much to say that he was in love with his handsome, dare-devil cousin; but his mind was greatly troubled in regard to her—shaken and tossed with a variety of conflicting emotions. The multiplied and constantly changing phases of her character, its strong but utterly ungoverned resources, its frankness, enthusiasm, detestation of all deceit or pretension, and, in spite of her wildness, a deep vein of womanly tenderness which now and then betrayed itself, all conspired to keep his interest somewhat painfully excited.
One evening he left the crowded piazza of the hotel, and, intending to flirt with solitude and a cigar, walked towards a rustic arbor, overgrown with a wild grape vine, and standing among a cluster of young elms at the foot of the garden. As he drew near, he saw the gleam of ladies' dresses, and found the seats already occupied by Miss Fanny Euston and two companions. Morton knew them well, and joined the party. As neither the affected graces of the one companion nor the voluble emptiness of the other had much interest in his eyes, he directed his conversation chiefly to Fanny. In a few minutes the two girls exchanged glances, rose, and alleging some pretended engagement, returned to the hotel, bent on making this casual interview assume the air of a flirtation.
Morton and his companion sat for a moment in silence.
"We are cousins—are we not?" said the former, at length.
"At least they would call us so in the Highlands."
"Then give me a cousin's privilege, and allow me to be personal. Are you not out of spirits to-night?"
"Why do you think me so?"