It matters very little how or why--though the arrangement was made by the simplest process imaginable--but after dinner, Henry Burrel found himself seated, in the far part of the room, with a sofa-table, and innumerable books of drawings and prints upon it before him, and by the side of Blanche Delaware. It is wonderful what stepping-stones prints, and drawings, and annuals are to pleasant conversation, even though the first be not quite so well handled as the pictures of Prout or Stanley, and the latter contain nothing half so beautiful as Liddell's "Lines upon the Moors."
Burrel had managed his approaches well, though he did it unconsciously. He first stooped over the book of drawings that Miss Delaware was examining, to look at one of those fair Italian scenes where the long sunshine seems to stream forth from a spot beyond the picture, and pour onward, till one can absolutely see its wavy softness skip from point to point in its advance. He then spoke a few words, in a quiet, every-day tone, upon Italian scenery. Miss Delaware said that she had never had an opportunity of visiting Italy, but had often heard her brother speak of it, with all his own wild rapture. Burrel instantly took up the topic of her brother, well knowing that it was one, round which that tender-footed thing, a woman's heart, could play at ease; and while he spoke of Captain Delaware, he glided quietly into the vacant place by her side, and proceeded with a conversation which was destined to wander far and wide before it ended.
There was a kindly gentleness in Burrel's tone as he began, a sort of dreamy enthusiasm, slightly touched by a more gay and laughing spirit, as he went on, together with a general leaven of the gentlemanly feeling that springs from a noble heart, softening and tempering the whole--which, united, addressed to Miss Delaware the most flattering compliment that woman can receive, by showing that he knew her to be worthy of very different conversation from that which he held with any one else. Such conversation is the adulation of respect, esteem, and admiration, expressed but not spoken.
Burrel's words were uttered with no particular emphasis--his eyes, fine and expressive as they were, gave no peculiar meaning to his sentences--the vainest beauty that ever grew old and ugly, could never have persuaded herself that he was making love to her; and yet Blanche Delaware could not but feel that there was a charm in the manners of Henry Burrel, which might turn the head of many a one with a heart less cold and indifferent than her own. A cold and indifferent heart in a girl of nineteen! Ye gods! Such, however, she fancied it to be; and, consequently, she talked with Henry Burrel of poetry, and painting, and beautiful scenes, and sweet music, and noble deeds, and generous feelings, and all those whirling spots of brightness that dance unconnected through the sunshine of enthusiastic minds, with all the ardor of innocence and youth, and unblighted feelings, and never dreamed of its becoming any thing more. Mrs. Darlington, for her part, had soon perceived that Burrel and Miss Delaware were deep in what seemed interesting conversation. She did not pretend to divine what might happen--she prognosticated nothing; she took no notice, and let things take their course--but she carefully abstained from giving any interruption; and, by a few slight but skillful turns, prevented their little _tête-à-tête_ from being broken in upon so soon as it otherwise would have been.
It was Dr. Wilton, who, in the simplicity of his heart, dissolved it for the night; for, after having been talking earnestly for a few minutes with the little surgeon of Emberton, about some of his poor parishioners who were sick, his eye met that of Blanche Delaware, as she still sat beside Burrel on the sofa, and it lighted up for a moment with a glance of gay meaning, that called the blood into her fair cheek. Burrel marked it all; and the next two answers which Miss Delaware made to what he was saying, were sufficiently _à travers_ to show him that the conversation, on her part, at least, rolled no longer at its ease. To prolong it, under such circumstances, would be a crime, as he well knew; and therefore he soon furnished her with an excuse to join Mrs. Darlington.
The evening then proceeded as such evenings usually do, partly in music and partly in idle gossip. Some stupid people played at whist; and at ten o'clock the carriages of those who returned home were announced. Dr. Wilton, who lived at twelve miles distance, and Blanche Delaware, who lived at five, remained with Mrs. Darlington and Henry Burrel; and the worthy clergyman, who felt himself in some degree bound to prove his former pupil as charming as he had depicted him, took care to lead the conversation to those subjects on which he well knew Burrel would shine.
He did shine, too, but without striving to do it; and the evening wore on, for another hour, as pleasantly as moments could fly. There is something in the last hour of the day, if it have been itself a happy one, which seems to concentrate all the pleasant things of the past. It is like a fine evening sky, calm and sweet, and full of rays, that are all the rosier because they are the last.
I do not know whether it would be fair or proper to follow Blanche Delaware to her bed-room, and investigate what were her thoughts while she was undressing and falling asleep; but as no such considerations forbid with regard to Burrel, we may for a moment intrude upon his privacy, first premising, that the door of his room opened very nearly at the top of the great staircase, the landing-place of which formed a sort of balustraded gallery, with a corridor running to the right and left. His first thought, as he sat down for his silent servant to pull off his shoes and stockings, it must be allowed, was of Blanche Delaware, and he internally pronounced her a very charming girl. "It is not her beauty," he thought, "though she is very beautiful; but it is that freshness of mind, that fine unsophisticated heart, whose rapid emotions, sparkling up unchecked to that sweet face, and animating every movement of that fair form, give a thousand graces and lovelinesses that art could never reach. One might very well fall in love with such a girl as that. I must take care what I am about."
With this resolution to take care, Burrel would have dismissed the subject; but still he thought of Blanche Delaware a good deal more than was necessary; and, after having detained his servant full half an hour longer than usual; went to bed, thinking of her still.