"I have only a headache," replied Adeline, who was too English not to have acquired the common excuse.
"Maria!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, suddenly addressing her sister, "I declare, there's Mr. St. John! Where can he have been walking to in this heat?"
Adeline turned and saw him, a thrill of rapture rushing through her veins. They returned his greeting, and drove on.
Where can he be walking to t She surmised--that it was but to obtain a glimpse of her as their carriage passed. She was no longer pensive: a heightened colour shone in her cheek, a brilliancy in her eye: her spirits rose to exultation, and she went the rest of the way as one on fairy wings.
They sank again ere the evening was half over, the long, tame, spiritless evening. To others it might seem gay; but not to her: her heart was far away, and she only cared that it should end and the morrow be nearer. No singing, after his voice, brought music to her ear; the dancing was no longer the dancing of other days.
The next day was the birthday of Mademoiselle de Beaufoy; a fête always kept with much ceremony. A dinner was to be given in the evening, and M. de Castella was expected to arrive for it from Paris. In the course of the day a note was handed to Adeline, its handwriting bringing a wild flush of pleasure to her cheeks. It was from Mr. St. John, stating that he was called to Odesque to meet a friend, who would be passing through it on his way to Paris, and he did not know whether he could return for dinner. It was only a short note, worded as a brother might write to a sister; yet she hung enraptured over its few lines, and held it to her heart; she almost cried aloud in her excess of ecstasy; and stealthily, her cheeks a rosy red, and her face turned to the darkest corner of the room, she pressed to her lips its concluding words--"Frederick St. John." The first letter from one we love!--what an epoch it is in life! It stands alone in memory; the ONE letter of existence; bearing no analogy to the stern real ones of later years.
The return of Signor de Castella, after an absence, had once been a joyous event to Adeline. Now, she looked forward to it with indifference. It was not that she loved her father less; but other feelings had grown tame in comparison with this new passion that absorbed her. The day wore on, however, and the Signor did not come.
The guests arrived, all save one, and dinner would be announced immediately. Adeline was waiting and hoping for Mr. St. John: but she waited in vain. How inexpressibly lovely she looked in her evening dress, with the rose-flush of excitement on her cheeks, some of those guests remember to this day. A strange, sick feeling of expectancy had taken possession of her; she scarcely knew what was passing. Questions were addressed to her, which she answered at random, scarcely hearing their purport. Was another evening to pass without seeing him?
A sudden opening of the door. The servant threw it wide upon its portals. Adeline caught one glimpse beyond it, and heard the man's words:
"Monsieur de Saint John." For those French servants always put in the "de" when speaking of him.