CHAPTER XXVIII.
AN UNLOOKED-FOR LOVER.
“And yet this tough, impracticable heart Is governed by a dainty-fingered girl.” —Rowe.
“There is a pleasure in being mad, Which none but madmen know.” —Dryden.
Judge Lawless was pacing up and down the floor of his study with rapid, excited strides, his brows knit, his face flushed, his hands clenched, his teeth set, his whole look, attitude, and bearing, speaking of deepest, intensest excitement. When in profound or troubled thought, he had a habit (many have) of talking to himself unconsciously; and now he muttered, between his teeth:
“I am going mad—I am mad—bewitched—bewildered! To think that I, at my years, should fall in love like a boy of eighteen. I, who fancied I had outlived all such rubbish. But, oh that girl! that glorious girl! that angel of beauty! that transcendently radiant creature! that lovely, bewildering enchanting, intoxicating Erminie! Good heavens! how the very thought of her sets my head whirling! that electric Erminie! with her angel-smile and irradiated face! Who could help loving her? Not I, certainly, and yet it is only one short week since her return home. Oh, that I could win her to love me! Oh, to possess that love-angel! Oh, Erminie! Erminie!” And breathing out his very soul in the syllables of her name, he sunk into a chair, and leaned his throbbing head on his hand.
Judge Lawless had all his life computed himself as a grave, self-possessed, dignified gentleman; excessively proud, excessively unbending, and so calm and unimpassioned that it seemed a matter of doubt whether he was made of common flesh and blood or cast-iron. But now, at the mature age of five-and-forty, all his pride and dignity blew away, like a whiff of down on a blast, at the first glimpse of Erminie Germaine’s fair, sunshiny, blooming young face; and here he was, now, making a downright fool of himself—as many another old gentlemen has done, is doing, and will continue to do, while the world goes round. Forgetting that he was nearly treble her age, forgetting his high position in the world and her lowly one, forgetting he was far more likely to be some day her father-in-law than her husband, forgetting everything, in a word, but that her beauty had turned his brain, Judge Lawless sat down to reflect on the best course to pursue in the present somewhat unsatisfactory state of affairs.
Judge Lawless was, as I told you, a grave, calm-pulsed gentleman, who considered himself as good, not to say considerably better, than any other man in the world, and held in the profoundest contempt the little corner of the world in which he lived, and its quiet, hum-drum inhabitants. Therefore, he heard Pet boisterously relating the arrival of Mr. and Miss Germaine with the greatest indifference, and without the remotest idea of ever giving either of them another thought beyond a cool caution to Pet not to associate too freely with people of “that set”; but when, the next morning, riding past the Old Barrens Cottage on his way to Judestown, a vision met his eyes of such dazzling beauty that involuntarily he stood stock-still to gaze, Judge Lawless found that the only one in the world worth thinking of was one of “that set.” There stood Erminie at the gate, in her trim, spotless muslin morning-dress, with her snowy linen collar and cuffs, looking as fresh, and pure, and fair, as the beautiful form they draped. The morning sunshine flashed in her shining, waving, thick, soft hair, gilded the roses on her cheeks, kindled a brighter light in the large, soft, violet eyes, and lay like a friend’s kiss on the full and rounded lips. Judge Lawless was spellbound, enchanted, bewildered, bedeviled, to use his own phrase. In all his life he had never seen so dazzling a beauty—in all his life he had never expected to see anyone half so lovely again; and there he stood, gazing upon her like a man in a dream, quite unconscious that the young lady, whoever she was, might think this prolonged stare very strange, to say the least of it. But she did not think it very strange at all. She recognized him, of course; and thinking he was merely trying to identify her, she pushed open the gate, and came out to him with a blush and a smile, and, being always a little awed and afraid of his stately grandeur, held out her hand to him with a girlish timidity quite charming.
“I suppose you have forgotten me, sir,” she said, lifting the irresistible violet eyes to his face. “I am Erminie Germaine.”
“Little Erminie? Why, how pret—a—I mean, how well you are looking!” he said, taking the hand she offered, and holding it a much longer time than was strictly necessary. “Who would ever think! Why don’t you come over to Heath Hill some time, Miss Germaine?”