“Hear it!” ejaculated the other, “why it’s the town talk.”
“But who is she—is she rich, or beautiful? Something she must be beyond the common to win him. Who are her relations? What—”
“Stop, stop—how shall I wade through all these questions. What an inquisitor you’d make! but I acknowledge that for once your curiosity is laudable. First, as to who she is? She is the daughter of some miserable low family, remarkable for nothing but their poverty. Second, what is she? A country school-teacher, who spends her days in teaching a set of insufferable children their ab-abs. Is she a beauty? Don’t know, deponent saith not. She sings well though, and you know music was always Fred’s hobby—he says he abominates this fashionable singing.”
“Well, but you haven’t told me her name.”
“Ah, that’s the horrible part of the thing. Listen while I try to pronounce it, and then say wonders will never cease. The name of this captivator, this charmer of ‘the greatest match in town,’ is—Delleparetta Hogg! Do but think of his asking, in his bland voice, Miss Hogg, to favor him with a song!”
“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the other, after a moment’s silence, for he had seemed struck dumb with amazement; and then the hopeful conversationists burst into such a roar of laughter as quite drowned the noise of the crash with which Alfred Livingstone’s hand was brought down on his writing-desk, making in its descending progress the most dreadful marks on his paper, which, in their confusion and blackness, perhaps resembled closely the color and confusion of his thoughts at that present moment.
Now be it known that this unfortunate name of his lady-love had been the sorest of all points with Alfred Livingstone, Esq. Indeed, it had instituted a series of doubts in his mind which were there agitated for a long time, before he arrived at the brave conclusion that he would marry her, name and all—that is, supposing he could win her consent. But to be jested with by his city friends, and in his circle, on such a subject, the very thought was insupportable. He had hoped with all his heart that her name would never elapse till he introduced her, to the envy of all the town, as Mrs. Livingstone.
But now it was all over; his love was not proof against such a trial—such a mortification he thought it—for her name was a most indisputable fact, a tangible thing on which his friends and enemies might harp to his continual agony. There was but one remedy—a desperate one it was—but there was no other remedy, or way of escape. It took him not long to concoct and despatch that letter which he had meant to fill with kind and loving words. Poor Delle, she never quite understood that cruel epistle; but there was one thing about it she could sufficiently comprehend, that all was passed that ever could pass between her and Alfred Livingstone.
The next morning the elegant Mr. Livingstone laid his hand, and heart,(?) and fortune, and name, at the feet of the most accomplished and brilliant “belle of the season,” which, I scarcely need say, when it was held in consideration, that he was “the greatest match in town,” was without hesitation accepted.