Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 71, No. 438, April 1852
There was nothing very luxurious or effeminate about Frank's rooms, though they were in a very dear street, and he paid a monstrous high price for them. Still, to a practised eye, they betrayed an inmate who can get through his money, and make very little show for it. The walls were covered with coloured prints of racers and steeple-chases, interspersed with the portraits of opera-dancers – all smirk and caper. Then there was a semicircular recess, covered with red cloth, and fitted up for smoking, as you might perceive by sundry stands full of Turkish pipes in cherry-stick and jessamine, with amber mouthpieces; while a great serpent hookah, from which Frank could no more have smoked than he could have smoked out of the head of a boa constrictor, coiled itself up on the floor; over the chimney-piece was a collection of Moorish arms. What use on earth, ataghan and scimitar, and damasquined pistols, that would not carry straight three yards, could be to an officer in his Majesty's Guards, is more than I can conjecture, or even Frank satisfactorily explain. I have strong suspicions that this valuable arsenal passed to Frank in part-payment of a bill to be discounted. At all events, if so, it was an improvement on the bear that he had sold to the hairdresser. No books were to be seen anywhere, except a Court Guide, a Racing Calendar, an Army List, the Sporting Magazine complete, (whole bound in scarlet morocco, at about a guinea per volume,) and a small book, as small as an Elzevir, on the chimney-piece, by the side of a cigar-case. That small book had cost Frank more than all the rest put together; it was his Own Book, his book par excellence; book made up by himself – his Betting Book!
On a centre table were deposited Frank's well-brushed hat – a satin-wood box, containing kid-gloves, of various delicate tints, from primrose to lilac – a tray full of cards and three-cornered notes – an opera-glass, and an ivory subscription ticket to his opera stall.
In one corner was an ingenious receptacle for canes, sticks, and whips – I should not like, in these bad times, to have paid the bill for them; – and, mounting guard by that receptacle, stood a pair of boots as bright as Baron Levy's – "the force of brightness could no further go." Frank was in his dressing-gown – very good taste – quite Oriental – guaranteed to be true India cachmere, and charged as such. Nothing could be more neat, though perfectly simple, than the appurtenances of his breakfast-table; – silver tea-pot, ewer and basin – all fitting into his dressing-box – (for the which may Storr and Mortimer be now praised, and some day paid!) Frank looked very handsome – rather tired, and exceedingly bored. He had been trying to read the Morning Post, but the effort had proved too much for him.
Poor dear Frank Hazeldean! – true type of many a poor dear fellow who has long since gone to the dogs. And if, in this road to ruin, there had been the least thing to do the traveller any credit by the way! One feels a respect for the ruin of a man like Audley Egerton. He is ruined en roi! From the wrecks of his fortune he can look down and see stately monuments built from the stones of that dismantled edifice. In every institution which attests the humanity of England, was a record of the princely bounty of the public man. In those objects of party, for which the proverbial sinews of war are necessary – in those rewards for service, which private liberality can confer – the hand of Egerton had been opened as with the heart of a king. Many a rising member of Parliament, in those days when talent was brought forward through the aid of wealth and rank, owed his career to the seat which Audley Egerton's large subscription had secured to him; many an obscure supporter in letters and the press looked back to the day when he had been freed from the gaol by the gratitude of the patron. The city he represented was embellished at his cost; through the shire that held his mortgaged lands, which he had rarely ever visited, his gold had flowed as a Pactolus; all that could animate its public spirit, or increase its civilisation, claimed kindred with his munificence, and never had a claim disallowed. Even in his grand careless household, with its large retinue and superb hospitality, there was something worthy of a representative of that time-honoured portion of our true nobility – the untitled gentlemen of the land. The great commoner had, indeed, "something to show" for the money he had disdained and squandered. But for Frank Hazeldean's mode of getting rid of the dross, when gone, what would be left to tell the tale? Paltry prints in a bachelor's lodging; a collection of canes and cherry-sticks; half-a-dozen letters in ill-spelt French from a figurante; some long-legged horses, fit for nothing but to lose a race; that damnable Betting-Book; and —sic transit gloria– down sweeps some hawk of a Levy, on the wings of an I O U, and not a feather is left of the pigeon!
Yet Frank Hazeldean has stuff in him – a good heart, and strict honour. Fool though he seem, there is sound sterling sense in some odd corner of his brains, if one could but get at it. All he wants to save him from perdition is, to do what he has never yet done – viz., pause and think. But, to be sure, that same operation of thinking is not so easy for folks unaccustomed to it, as people who think – think!
"I can't bear this," said Frank suddenly, and springing to his feet. "This woman, I cannot get her out of my head. I ought to go down to the governor's; but then if he gets into a passion and refuses his consent, where am I? And he will too, I fear. I wish I could make out what Randal advises. He seems to recommend that I should marry Beatrice at once, and trust to my mother's influence to make all right afterwards. But when I ask, 'Is that your advice?' he backs out of it. Well, I suppose he is right there. I can understand that he is unwilling, good fellow, to recommend anything that my father would disapprove. But still – "
Here Frank stopped in his soliloquy, and did make his first desperate effort to – think!
Now, O dear reader, I assume, of course, that thou art one of the class to which thought is familiar; and, perhaps, thou hast smiled in disdain or incredulity at that remark on the difficulty of thinking which preceded Frank Hazeldean's discourse to himself. But art thou quite sure that when thou hast tried to think thou hast always succeeded? Hast thou not often been duped by that pale visionary simulacrum of thought which goes by the name of reverie? Honest old Montaigne confessed that he did not understand that process of sitting down to think, on which some folks express themselves so glibly. He could not think unless he had a pen in his hand, and a sheet of paper before him; and so, by a manual operation, seized and connected the links of ratiocination. Very often has it happened to myself, when I have said to Thought peremptorily, "Bestir thyself – a serious matter is before thee – ponder it well – think of it," that that same Thought has behaved in the most refractory, rebellious manner conceivable – and instead of concentrating its rays into a single stream of light, has broken into all the desultory tints of the rainbow, colouring senseless clouds, and running off into the seventh heaven – so that after sitting a good hour by the clock, with brows as knit as if I was intent on squaring the circle, I have suddenly discovered that I might as well have gone comfortably to sleep – I have been doing nothing but dream – and the most nonsensical dreams! So when Frank Hazeldean, as he stopped at that meditative "But still" – and leaning his arm on the chimney-piece, and resting his face on his hand, felt himself at the grave crisis of life, and fancied he was going "to think on it," there only rose before him a succession of shadowy pictures. Randal Leslie with an unsatisfactory countenance, from which he could extract nothing; – the Squire, looking as black as thunder in his study at Hazeldean; – his mother trying to plead for him, and getting herself properly scolded for her pains; – and then off went that Will-o'-the-wisp which pretended to call itself Thought, and began playing round the pale charming face of Beatrice di Negra in the drawing-room at Curzon Street, and repeating, with small elfin voice, Randal Leslie's assurance of the preceding day, "as to her affection for you, Frank, there is no doubt of that; she only begins to think you are trifling with her." And then there was a rapturous vision of a young gentleman on his knee, and the fair pale face bathed in blushes, and a clergyman standing by the altar, and a carriage and four with white favours at the church door; and of a honeymoon, which would have astonished as to honey all the bees of Hymettus. And in the midst of these phantasmagoria, which composed what Frank fondly styled "making up his mind," there came a single man's elegant rat-tat-tat at the street door.
"One never has a moment for thinking," cried Frank, and he called out to his valet "Not at home."
But it was too late. Lord Spendquick was in the hall, and presently within the room. How d'ye do's were exchanged and hands shaken.
Lord Spendquick. – "I have a note for you, Hazeldean."
Frank, (lazily.) – "From whom?"
Lord Spendquick. – "Levy. Just come from him – never saw him in such a fidget. He was going into the city – I suppose to see X. Y. Dashed off this note for you – and would have sent it by a servant, but I said I would bring it."
Frank, (looking fearfully at the note.) – "I hope he does not want his money yet. Private and confidential– that looks bad."
Spendquick. – "Devilish bad indeed."
Frank opens the note and reads half aloud, "Dear Hazeldean."
Spendquick, (interrupting.) – "Good sign! He always 'Spendquicks' me when he lends me money; and 'tis 'My dear Lord' when he wants it back. Capital sign!"
Frank reads on, but to himself, and with a changing countenance —
"Dear Hazeldean, – I am very sorry to tell you that, in consequence of the sudden failure of a house at Paris with which I had large dealings, I am pressed, on a sudden, for all the ready money I can get. I don't want to inconvenience you; but do try and see if you can take up those bills of yours which I hold, and which, as you know, have been due some little time. I had hit on a way of arranging your affairs; but when I hinted at it, you seemed to dislike the idea; and Leslie has since told me that you have strong objections to giving any security on your prospective property. So no more of that, my dear fellow. I am called out in haste to try what I can do for a very charming client of mine, who is in great pecuniary distress, though she has for her brother a foreign Count, as rich as Crœsus. There is an execution in her house. I am going down to the tradesman who put it in, but have no hope of softening him; and I fear there will be others before the day is out. Another reason for wanting money, if you can help me, mon cher!– An execution in the house of one of the most brilliant women in London – an execution in Curzon Street, May Fair! It will be all over the town, if I can't stop it. – Yours in haste, Levy.
"P.S.– Don't let what I have said vex you too much. I should not trouble you if Spendquick and Borrowell would pay me something. Perhaps you can get them to do so."
Struck by Frank's silence and paleness, Lord Spendquick here, in the kindest way possible, laid his hand on the young Guardsman's shoulder, and looked over the note with that freedom which gentlemen in difficulties take with each other's private and confidential correspondence. His eye fell on the postscript. "Oh, damn it," cried Spendquick, "but that's too bad – employing you to get me to pay him! Such horrid treachery. Make yourself easy, my dear Frank; I could never suspect you of anything so unhandsome. I could as soon suspect myself of – paying him – "
"Curzon Street! Count!" muttered Frank, as if waking from a dream. "It must be so." To thrust on his boots – change his dressing-robe for a frock-coat – catch at his hat, gloves, and cane – break from Spendquick – descend the stairs – a flight at a leap – gain the street – throw himself into a cabriolet; all this was done before his astounded visitor could even recover breath enough to ask "What's the matter?"
Left thus alone, Lord Spendquick shook his head – shook it twice, as if fully to convince himself that there was nothing in it; and then re-arranging his hat before the looking-glass, and drawing on his gloves deliberately, he walked down stairs, and strolled into White's, but with a bewildered and absent air. Standing at the celebrated bow-window for some moments in musing silence, Lord Spendquick at last thus addressed an exceedingly cynical, sceptical, old roué: —
"Pray, do you think there is any truth in the stories about people in former times selling themselves to the devil?"
"Ugh," answered the roué, much too wise ever to be surprised. "Have you any personal interest in the question?"
"I! – no; but a friend of mine has just received a letter from Levy, and he flew out of the room in the most extra-or-di-na-ry manner – just as people did in those days when their time was up! And Levy, you know, is – "
"Not quite as great a fool as the other dark gentleman to whom you would compare him; for Levy never made such bad bargains for himself. Time up! No doubt it is. I should not like to be in your friend's shoes."
"Shoes!" said Spendquick, with a sort of shudder; "you never saw a neater fellow, nor one, to do him justice, who takes more time in dressing than he does in general. And, talking of shoes – he rushed out with the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right. Very mysterious." And a third time Lord Spendquick shook his head – and a third time that head seemed to him wond'rous empty.
CHAPTER XXV
But Frank had arrived in Curzon Street – leapt from the cabriolet – knocked at the door, which was opened by a strange-looking man in a buff waistcoat and corduroy smalls. Frank gave a glance at this personage – pushed him aside – and rushed up stairs. He burst into the drawing-room – no Beatrice was there. A thin elderly man, with a manuscript book in his hands, appeared engaged in examining the furniture and making an inventory, with the aid of Madame di Negra's upper servant. The thin man stared at Frank, and touched the hat which was on his head. The servant, who was a foreigner, approached Frank, and said, in broken English, that his lady did not receive – that she was unwell, and kept her room. Frank thrust a sovereign into the servant's hand, and begged him to tell Madame di Negra that Mr Hazeldean entreated the honour of an interview. As soon as the servant vanished on this errand, Frank seized the thin man by the arm – "What is this? – an execution?"
"Yes, sir."
"For what sum?"
"Fifteen hundred and forty-seven pounds. We are the first in possession."
"There are others, then?"
"Or else, sir, we should never have taken this step. Most painful to our feelings, sir; but these foreigners are here to-day, and gone to-morrow. And – "
The servant re-entered. Madame di Negra would see Mr Hazeldean. Would he walk up stairs? Frank hastened to obey this summons.
Madame di Negra was in a small room which was fitted up as a boudoir. Her eyes showed the traces of recent tears, but her face was composed, and even rigid, in its haughty though mournful expression. Frank, however, did not pause to notice her countenance – to hear her dignified salutation. All his timidity was gone. He saw but the woman whom he loved, in distress and humiliation. As the door closed on him, he flung himself at her feet. He caught at her hand – the skirt of her robe.
"Oh! Madame di Negra! – Beatrice!" he exclaimed, tears in his eyes, and his voice half-broken by generous emotion; "forgive me – forgive me; don't see in me a mere acquaintance. By accident I learned, or, rather, guessed – this – this strange insult to which you are so unworthily exposed. I am here. Think of me – but as a friend – the truest friend. Oh! Beatrice" – and he bent his head over the hand he held – "I never dared say so before – it seems presuming to say it now – but I cannot help it. I love you – I love you with my whole heart and soul – to serve you – if only but to serve you! – I ask nothing else." And a sob went from his warm, young, foolish heart.
The Italian was deeply moved. Nor was her nature that of the mere sordid adventuress. So much love and so much confidence! She was not prepared to betray the one, and entrap the other.
"Rise – rise," she said, softly; "I thank you gratefully. But do not suppose that I – "
"Hush – hush! – you must not refuse me. Hush! – don't let your pride speak."
"No – it is not my pride. You exaggerate what is occurring here. You forget that I have a brother. I have sent for him. He is the only one I can apply to. Ah! that is his knock! But I shall never, never forget that I have found one generous noble heart in this hollow world."
Frank would have replied, but he heard the Count's voice on the stairs, and had only time to rise and withdraw to the window, trying hard to repress his agitation and compose his countenance. Count di Peschiera entered – entered as a very personation of the beauty and magnificence of careless, luxurious, pampered, egotistical wealth. His surtout, trimmed with the costliest sables, flung back from his splendid chest. Amidst the folds of the glossy satin that enveloped his throat, gleamed a turquoise, of such value as a jeweller might have kept for fifty years before he could find a customer rich and frivolous enough to buy it. The very head of his cane was a masterpiece of art, and the man himself, so elegant despite his strength, and so fresh despite his years! – It is astonishing how well men wear when they think of no one but themselves!
"Pr-rr!" said the Count, not observing Frank behind the draperies of the window; "P-rr – . It seems to me that you must have passed a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. And now —Dieu me damne—quoi faire!"
Beatrice pointed to the window, and felt as if she could have sunk into the earth for shame. But as the Count spoke in French, and Frank did not very readily comprehend that language, the words escaped him; though his ear was shocked by a certain satirical levity of tone.
Frank came forward. The Count held out his hand, and, with a rapid change of voice and manner, said, "One whom my sister admits at such a moment must be a friend to me."
"Mr Hazeldean," said Beatrice, with meaning, "would indeed have nobly pressed on me the offer of an aid which I need no more, since you, my brother, are here."
"Certainly," said the Count, with his superb air of grand seigneur; "I will go down and clear your house of this impertinent canaille. But I thought your affairs were with Baron Levy. He should be here."
"I expect him every moment. Adieu! Mr Hazeldean." Beatrice extended her hand to her young lover with a frankness which was not without a certain pathetic and cordial dignity. Restrained from farther words by the Count's presence, Frank bowed over the fair hand in silence, and retired. He was on the stairs, when he was joined by Peschiera.
"Mr Hazeldean," said the latter, in a low tone, "will you come into the drawing-room?"
Frank obeyed. The man employed in his examination of the furniture was still at his task; but at a short whisper from the Count he withdrew.
"My dear sir," said Peschiera, "I am so unacquainted with your English laws, and your mode of settling embarrassments of this degrading nature, and you have evidently showed so kind a sympathy in my sister's distress, that I venture to ask you to stay here, and aid me in consulting with Baron Levy."
Frank was just expressing his unfeigned pleasure to be of the slightest use, when Levy's knock resounded at the street-door, and in another moment the Baron entered.
"Ouf!" said Levy, wiping his brows and sinking into a chair as if he had been engaged in toils the most exhausting – "Ouf! this is a very sad business – very; and nothing, my dear Count, nothing but ready money can save us here."
"You know my affairs, Levy," replied Peschiera, mournfully shaking his head, "and that though in a few months, or it may be weeks, I could discharge with ease my sister's debts, whatever their amount, yet at this moment, and in a strange land, I have not the power to do so. The money I brought with me is nearly exhausted. Can you not advance the requisite sum?"
"Impossible! – Mr Hazeldean is aware of the distress under which I labour myself."
"In that case," said the Count, "all we can do to-day is to remove my sister, and let the execution proceed. Meanwhile I will go among my friends, and see what I can borrow from them."
"Alas!" said Levy, rising and looking out of the window – "alas! we cannot remove the Marchesa – the worst is to come. Look! – you see those three men; they have a writ against her person: the moment she sets her foot out of these doors she will be arrested."13
"Arrested!" exclaimed Peschiera and Frank in a breath.
"I have done my best to prevent this disgrace, but in vain," said the Baron, looking very wretched. "You see, these English tradespeople fancy they have no hold upon foreigners. But we can get bail; she must not go to prison – "
"Prison!" echoed Frank. He hastened to Levy and drew him aside. The Count seemed paralysed by shame and grief. Throwing himself back on the sofa, he covered his face with his hands.
"My sister!" groaned the Count – "daughter to a Peschiera, widow to di Negra!" There was something affecting in the proud woe of this grand patrician.
"What is the sum?" whispered Frank, anxious that the poor Count should not overhear him; and indeed the Count seemed too stunned and overwhelmed to hear anything less loud than a clap of thunder!
"We may settle all liabilities for £5000. Nothing to Peschiera, who is enormously rich. Entre nous, I doubt his assurance that he is without ready money. It may be so, but – "
"£5000! How can I raise such a sum!"
"You, my dear Hazeldean? What are you talking about? To be sure, you could raise twice as much with a stroke of your pen, and throw your own debts into the bargain. But – to be so generous to an acquaintance!"
"Acquaintance – Madame di Negra! – the height of my ambition is to claim her as my wife!"
"And these debts don't startle you?"
"If a man loves," answered Frank simply, "he feels it most when the woman he loves is in affliction. And," he added, after a pause, "though these debts are faults, kindness at this moment may give me the power to cure for ever both her faults and my own. I can raise this money by a stroke of the pen! How?"
"On the Casino property."
Frank drew back.
"No other way?"
"Of course not. But I know your scruples; let us see if they can be conciliated. You would marry Madame di Negra; she will have £20,000 on her wedding-day. Why not arrange that, out of this sum, your anticipative charge on the Casino property be paid at once? Thus, in truth, it will be but for a few weeks that the charge will exist. The bond will remain locked in my desk – it can never come to your father's knowledge, nor wound his feelings. And when you marry, (if you will but be prudent in the meanwhile,) you will not owe a debt in the world."
Here the Count suddenly started up.
"Mr Hazeldean, I asked you to stay and aid us by your counsel; I see now that counsel is unavailing. This blow on our house must fall! I thank you, sir – I thank you. Farewell. Levy, come with me to my poor sister, and prepare her for the worst."
"Count," said Frank, "hear me. My acquaintance with you is but slight, but I have long known and – and esteemed your sister. Baron Levy has suggested a mode in which I can have the honour and the happiness of removing this temporary but painful embarrassment. I can advance the money."
"No – no!" exclaimed Peschiera. "How can you suppose that I will hear of such a proposition? Your youth and benevolence mislead and blind you. Impossible, sir – impossible! Why, even if I had no pride, no delicacy of my own, my sister's fair fame – "
"Would suffer indeed," interrupted Levy, "if she were under such obligation to any one but her affianced husband. Nor, whatever my regard for you, Count, could I suffer my client, Mr Hazeldean, to make this advance upon any less valid security than that of the fortune to which Madame di Negra is entitled."
"Ha! – is this indeed so? You are a suitor for my sister's hand, Mr Hazeldean?"
"But not at this moment – not to owe her hand to the compulsion of gratitude," answered gentleman Frank.
"Gratitude! And you do not know her heart, then? Do not know – " the Count interrupted himself, and went on after a pause. "Mr Hazeldean, I need not say, that we rank among the first houses in Europe. My pride led me formerly into the error of disposing of my sister's hand to one whom she did not love – merely because in rank he was her equal. I will not again commit such an error, nor would Beatrice again obey me if I sought to constrain her. Where she marries, there she will love. If, indeed, she accept you, as I believe she will, it will be from affection solely. If she does, I cannot scruple to accept this loan – a loan from a brother-in-law – loan to me, and not charged against her fortune! That, sir, (turning to Levy, with his grand air,) you will take care to arrange. If she do not accept you, Mr Hazeldean, the loan, I repeat, is not to be thought of. Pardon me, if I leave you. This, one way or other, must be decided at once." The Count inclined his head with much stateliness, and then quitted the room. His step was heard ascending the stairs.
"If," said Levy, in the tone of a mere man of business – "if the Count pay the debts, and the lady's fortune be only charged with your own – after all it will not be a bad marriage in the world's eye, nor ought it to be in a father's. Trust me, we shall get Mr Hazeldean's consent, and cheerfully too."
Frank did not listen; he could only listen to his love, to his heart beating loud with hope and with fear.
Levy sate down before the table, and drew up a long list of figures in a very neat hand – a list of figures on two accounts, which the post-obit on the Casino was destined to efface.
After a lapse of time, which to Frank seemed interminable, the Count reappeared. He took Frank aside, with a gesture to Levy, who rose, and retired into the drawing-room.
"My dear young friend," said Peschiera, "as I suspected, my sister's heart is wholly yours. Stop; hear me out. But unluckily, I informed her of your generous proposal; it was most unguarded, most ill-judged in me, and that has wellnigh spoiled all; she has so much pride and spirit; so great a fear that you may think yourself betrayed into an imprudence you may hereafter regret, that I am sure she will tell you she does not love you, she cannot accept you, and so forth. Lovers like you are not easily deceived. Don't go by her words; but you shall see her yourself and judge. Come."
Followed mechanically by Frank, the Count ascended the stairs and threw open the door of Beatrice's room. The Marchesa's back was turned; but Frank could see that she was weeping.
"I have brought my friend to plead for himself," said the Count in French; "and take my advice, sister, and do not throw away all prospect of real and solid happiness for a vain scruple. Heed me!" He retired and left Frank alone with Beatrice.
Then the Marchesa, as if by a violent effort, so sudden was her movement, and so wild her look, turned her face to her wooer, and came up to him, where he stood.
"Oh!" she said, clasping her hands, "is this true? You would save me from disgrace, from a prison – and what can I give you in return? My love! No, no. I will not deceive you. Young, fair, noble, as you are, I do not love you, as you should be loved. Go; leave this house; you do not know my brother. Go, go – while I have still strength, still virtue enough to reject whatever may protect me from him! whatever – may – Oh – go, go."
"You do not love me," said Frank. "Well, I don't wonder at it; you are so brilliant, so superior to me. I will abandon hope – I will leave you as you command me. But at least I will not part with my privilege to serve you. As for the rest – shame on me if I could be mean enough to boast of love, and enforce a suit, at such a moment."
Frank turned his face and stole away softly. He did not arrest his steps at the drawing-room; he went into the parlour, wrote a brief line to Levy charging him quietly to dismiss the execution, and to come to Frank's rooms with the necessary deeds; and, above all, to say nothing to the Count. Then he went out of the house and walked back to his lodgings.
That evening Levy came to him, and accounts were gone into, and papers signed; and the next morning Madame di Negra was free from debt; and there was a great claim on the reversion of the Casino estates; and at the noon of that next day Randal was closeted with Beatrice; and before the night, came a note from Madame di Negra, hurried, blurred with tears, summoning Frank to Curzon Street. And when he entered the Marchesa's drawing-room, Peschiera was seated beside his sister; and rising at Frank's entrance, said, "My dear brother-in-law!" and placed Frank's hand in Beatrice's.
"You accept me – you accept me – and of your own free will and choice?"
And Beatrice answered, "Bear with me a little, and I will try to repay you with all my – all my – " She stopped short, and sobbed aloud.
"I never thought her capable of such acute feeling, such strong attachment," whispered the Count.
Frank heard, and his face was radiant. By degrees Madame di Negra recovered composure, and she listened with what her young lover deemed a tender interest, but what, in fact, was mournful and humbled resignation, to his joyous talk of the future. To him the hours passed by, brief and bright, like a flash of sunlight. And his dreams, when he retired to rest, were so golden! But, when he awoke the next morning, he said to himself, "What – what will they say at the Hall?"