And far dearer to me, because others despise her,
That Moss-rose, all withered, lies next to my heart.”
“Rubbish,” growled Frank; “that any man in his senses should write such infernal nonsense, and then have the face to put his name to it! His moss-rose, indeed! and this is what women like. These are the coxcombs they prefer to a plain, sensible, true-hearted gentleman—put wisdom, talent, courage, faith, and truth in one scale, and weigh them against a soft voice, a large pair of whiskers, and varnished boots in the other—why, the boots have it twenty to one! and it is for this thoughtless, ungrateful, unfeeling, volatile, ill-judging sex that we are all prepared to go through fire and water, sacrifice friends, country, fame, position, honour itself! Blanche! Blanche is as bad as the rest, but I at least will no longer be such a fool. I have no idea of becoming a pis-aller—a substitute—a stop-gap—if this hair-brained peer should change his mind, and that warlike roué find some one he likes better than Miss Kettering. O Blanche! Blanche! that I had never known you, or having known you, could rate you at your real value, and give you up without a struggle!”
“How do you do, Miss Kettering? What a beautiful day!” Only the last sentence of the foregoing, be it observed, was spoken aloud; Frank had just schooled himself to the point of separation for ever, when the door opened and Blanche entered, looking so exactly as she used, with the same graceful gestures, and the same kind smile, that her empire was, for the moment, completely re-established; and although she, too, had meant to be very reserved and very distant, she could not forbear greeting her old admirer with all the cordiality of bygone days. These young people loved one another very much; each would have given the world to pour forth hopes, and fears, and misgivings, and vows, and reproaches, and pardons, into the other’s ear, but the lip will tremble when the heart is full, and they got no further than “How do you do?” and “What a beautiful day!” Blanche was the first to regain her composure, as is generally the case with a lady, perhaps from her being more habituated to losing it—perhaps from her whole training being one of readier hypocrisy than that of man. Be this how it may, the deeper water, when stirred, is longer in smoothing its ruffled surface; and whilst the lover’s lip shook, and his heart beat, the girl’s voice was steady and tranquil, though she dared not trust herself, save with the commonplace topics and every-day conversation of society. They tried Chiswick—the new singer—the Drawing-room—Lady Ormolu’s ball—the opera—and the Park; this last was tender ground, and Blanche coloured to the temples when Frank hesitated and stammered out (so different from his usual manly, open address) that he “thought he had seen her yesterday, and her horse was looking remarkably well. By the by, was she not riding with——”
“Major D’Orville,” announced the polite footman, with the utmost stateliness; and our handsome hussar made his appearance, and paid his respects to Miss Kettering in his usual self-possessed and dignified manner, contrasting favourably with poor Frank’s obvious embarrassment and annoyance, now heightened by the intrusion of so unwelcome a visitor at such an unlucky moment. A few seconds more might have produced an explanation, a reconciliation—possibly a scene—but that cursed door-knocker could not be still, even for so short a space; and Mr. Hardingstone was once more at a dead-lock.
And now began another game at cross purposes, which, though not uncommon amongst ladies and gentlemen who are of opinion that “two form pleasanter company than three,” is, nevertheless, a dull and dreary recreation when persisted in for any length of time. It is termed “sitting each other out,” and was now performed by Frank Hardingstone and the Major in its highest perfection. But here again the man of war had an advantage over the civilian. Besides the occupation afforded him by his moustaches, of which ornaments even D’Orville acknowledged the value in a case like the present, he was thoroughly at his ease, and consequently good-humoured, lively, and agreeable; whereas Frank was restless, preoccupied, almost morose. He had never before appeared to such disadvantage in Blanche’s eyes. But if he hoped to obtain her ear by dint of patient assiduity, and an obvious intention to remain where he was till dinner-time, he must have been grievously disappointed, for again a thundering knock shook the house to its foundations, and “Lord Mount Helicon” was announced by the polite footman, with an extra flourish on account of the title. His lordship greeted Blanche with the greatest empressement, nodded to the gentlemen with the most hearty cordiality, as though rivalry was a word unknown in his vocabulary, and settled himself in an arm-chair by the lady’s side with a good-natured assurance peculiarly his own.
“Do you ride to-day, Miss Kettering?” said he, with the most matter-of-course air. “I promised the General to show him my famous pony, so I have ordered ‘Trictrac’ (that’s his name) to be here at five—perhaps you’ll allow me to accompany you.”
Frank looked intensely disgusted: he had brought no hacks to town, and if he had, would never have proposed to ride with his lady-love in such an off-hand way. Even the Major opened his eyes wider than usual, and gave an extra twirl to his moustaches; but “Mount” rattled on, nothing daunted: “We shall have Lacquers here directly. I met him as I drove up Bond Street, coming out of Storr and Mortimer’s, and I taxed him on the spot with the accusation that he was going to be married. He couldn’t stand the test, Miss Kettering! he blushed—actually blushed—and tried to get rid of me by an assurance that he was very busy, and that we should meet again in the Park. But I know better; he’s coming here, I can take my oath of it. His hair is curled in five rows, and he never wears more than four, save for particular occasions. He is very fidgety about his ‘chevelure,’ ‘his chevalier,’ he calls it; and went the other night to hear ‘The Barbiere,’ as he himself acknowledged, ‘to get a wrinkle, you know, about dressing and shaving and all that.’”
Blanche laughed in spite of herself; and Frank, seizing his hat in ill-concealed vexation, bade her a hurried farewell, and rushed out of the house, just as the redoubtable Lacquers made his appearance, “got up,” as Lord Mount Helicon had observed, with the greatest magnificence, and fully resolved in his own mind to push the siege briskly with the heiress, and at least to lose no ground in her good graces for want of attention to the duties, or rather, we should say, the pleasures of the toilette.
Poor Frank was very wretched as he stalked down the sunshiny street, and almost vowed he would never enter that house again. He felt a void at his heart that quite startled him. He had no idea he was so far gone. For a time he believed himself really and utterly miserable; nor did the reflection that such a feeling was a bitter satire on his boasted strength of mind—on that intellectual training of which he was so proud—serve to administer much consolation. Like the ruined gamester, who