Such was my position now.
There was Mr Mawley visiting at Mrs Clyde’s house some half-a-dozen times a week, for all I knew to the contrary—and of course I imagined the worst—and having endless chances and opportunities of conversing with my darling, in the morning, at noontide, and at night; while poor, wretched I had to content myself with a passing bow and smile when we chanced to meet abroad, or I should happen to see her dainty figure at the window as I promenaded past her house.
You say I ought to have considered myself lucky to get even that slight modicum of notice?
But I did not so consider myself. I was not by any means contented. Where did you ever find a lover worth his salt who was?
To tell the truth, I was horribly jealous of Mawley. He was not at all a bad-looking fellow; and, with all his dogmatic tone and love of argument, had a wonderfully taking way with ladies. Besides, his connection with the Church gave him a considerable pull over me—girls are so impressionable, as a rule, with regard to nice young curates, that they generally have the pick of the parish! Really, all things considered, I’m very much afraid that I had not that kind Christian feeling and charity in my heart towards Mawley that the vicar had enjoined in his Christmas sermon. I did not regard the curate even with that reverence which his Oxford waistcoat should have inspired. I believe that at that particular time I looked upon him with somewhat of the same feeling with which the homicidal Cain regarded his brother Abel about the sacrificing business.
Then, there was Horner, too, who was generally looked upon as an “eligible” person, having a respectable position of his own in addition to considerable expectations from his rich uncle, as I told you before. I could see that Mrs Clyde encouraged him. He was always going there, and frequently walking out with them also. I saw him, and it made my heart bitter. One evening, I met him in full costume, with an opera-glass slung round his shoulders, just before he reached their door. He told me that Mrs Clyde had asked him to accompany her daughter and herself to Covent Garden and share their box. They would have waited a considerable time, I thought, before they would have been invited to share his! I watched them drive off, and I went home mad. It was getting too grievous for mortal to bear.
The house felt suffocating to me that evening. I could not stop in. I determined to go and call on my old friend Miss Pimpernell, and see what she could do to cheer me up.
“My dear boy,” she said, as I entered the parlour, where she sat darning the vicar’s socks by the light of a moderator lamp, which stood on a little table close beside her. “My dear boy, what is the matter with you? You look quite haggard, and like a wild man from the woods! Have you had your tea yet? I can ring for some in a moment.”
“No, pray don’t, thank you,” I answered. “Miss Pimpernell,” I continued, in a determined voice, “I have had tea enough to-night to last me for a twelvemonth! I can’t bear this any longer. You must introduce me to Mrs Clyde. I have never been able as yet to make her acquaintance, and I want to go to her house as Horner does, and that fellow Mawley.”
“Hush, my dear boy!” she said, in her soothing way, as if she were stroking me down the back like she stroked her tabby Tom—one of the mousiest and most petted of cats. “You should not speak so of a clergyman, my dear Frank. Think what the vicar would say if he heard you!”