“Yes—has fine eyes.”
“Yes—and above all,” I added, laughing, “a most becoming moustache.”
“Oh! decidedly—I confess to a weakness for moustache; one may then be quite sure the man is no curate—eh! Mary?—But he talks too much, and evidently cares not for music.”
Like a couple of school-girls, we continued to chatter till near midnight, when, declaring I was half asleep, I playfully ejected the young lady by main force from my room, and was soon in the land of dreams.
A week passed, and our guest was to leave on the morrow. I had ceased to think about him, except as one of those common-place individuals, of whom the best description is, that “there is nothing in him.” He appeared much pleased with the society of his aunt, seeming greatly to prefer it to that of his cousin. I was therefore surprised, the last evening, to see him bending over Evelyn’s harp, and addressing her for some time in a low voice. I soon concluded he was explaining to her some of the delights of the hunting-field, or, perhaps, expatiating on the scarcity of game this season, and paid no further attention to them. Judge, then, how utterly amazed I was, to learn from Evelyn, that her cousin had proposed, and that she had not positively rejected him.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “you have not been half so foolish! No—I will not believe it; there must be some mistake. Repeat me the conversation, dear Evelyn.”
“Perhaps, Mary, you will smile at the originality of the affair. After many words about nothing, and ‘apropos’ to less, he suddenly said, ‘I think I shall sell out, and go abroad. Will you consent to come with me, and make me happy?’ Imagine my surprise.—What could I say, except that I did not know him sufficiently well, and that I would speak to my mother—always having understood that is the manner in which young ladies reply to proposals, unless they are really in love—which, of course, Mary, I am not. Now you know all that has passed. I shall, after consulting mama, make my definite decision; to-morrow, probably, will decide my fate.”
She left me, and I passed a sleepless night; for I perceived no promise of happiness for her, in so hasty an engagement. I sincerely trusted her mother would dissuade her from committing so sad a folly, and anxiously awaited the events of the coming day.
After breakfast, I saw poor Evelyn led into the drawing-room, like a lamb to the slaughter, by her mother, and left alone with the young man. Suspense was becoming unbearable, when, after about an hour had elapsed, Evelyn flew to my room, and flung herself into my arms:
“Oh, dearest,” she said, sobbing, “my only true friend, let me confide in you. Last night I went, as you know, to mama’s room, and told her all, adding that I did not love him, and felt no inclination to marry. She chid me, saying I ought to consider myself fortunate—that she could not imagine why I did not love so charming a young fellow, and adding, that ‘love before marriage was quite unnecessary, as every well brought up girl was sure to love her husband when once she had become a wife.’ My mother concluded by saying that if I were so silly as not to accept my cousin, she would take no further trouble to introduce me into society, and that I must make up my mind to live here all my life. So you see, Mary, I was in a measure forced to say, that if on further acquaintance, I could like him, I would be his wife.”