CHAPTER IX.
FRANK IN REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES.
Little Rose Blanche throve apace; but Cecil's painting proceeded slowly, and his mind was still more busy with those imaginary games in which his success was greater and greater every day.
Rose and Julius were in that feverish condition which is common to lovers, whirled amidst the bustle of marriage preparations.
Fevers are not usually enviable things; but that is a kind of fever which we all envy. The Present how crowded, how occupied, how intense! the Future, how radiant, how dream-peopled! The pulse beats, the brain is over-excited, the step is light (and the head also), the face wears an aspect of everlasting beatitude, the hand is generous, the whole man is in a dream.
Some people, indeed, "wondered" at the match; some very ill-favoured men couldn't, for the life of them, imagine what she could see in that ugly fellow: while others, less charitable (they were females), would be sorry to hint at anything illiberal, but they really did think that Rose Vyner, though a lively girl enough, and all that sort of thing, was scarcely the girl to make a good wife. But none of these opinions reached the ears of the parties concerned; and the circle of the Vyners, and the St. Johns was, with few exceptions, sincerely rejoiced at the approaching marriage.
One afternoon, while Cecil was laboriously painting, Frank Forrester knocked at his door.
"Not at home, sir," said the girl, resolutely.
"Bah!" said Frank, introducing his person into the passage.
"Indeed he is not, sir; and he's very particularly engaged."
"You see, my lily of Westminster .... for you are a lily, damn my whiskers!" said Frank, passing his arm round her waist, and kissing her smutty and reluctant cheek; "you see I understand perfectly well, that it is your business to say your master's not at home...."