“I am in a state of mind that baffles description—Mr.
Carleton is going home!!——
“I have not worn earrings in my ears for a fortnight—my
personal appearance is become a matter of indifference
to me—any description of mental exertion
is excruciating—I sit constantly listening
for the ringing of the door-bell, and when it sounds
I rush frantically to the head of the staircase and
look over to see who it is—the mere sight
of pen and ink excites delirious ideas—judge
what I suffer in writing to you—
“To make the matter worse (if it could be) I
have been informed privately that he is going home
to crown at the altar of Hymen an old attachment to
one of the loveliest of all England’s daughters.
Conceive the complication of my feelings!——
“Nothing is left me but the resources of friendship—so
come darling Fleda, before a barrier of ice interposes
itself between my chilled heart and your sympathy.
“Mr. Thorn’s state would move my pity
if I were capable of being moved by anything—by
this you will comprehend he is returned. He has
been informed by somebody that there is a wolf in
sheep’s clothing prowling about Queechy, and
his head is filled with the idea that you have fallen
a victim, of which in my calmer moments I have in
vain endeavoured to dispossess him—Every
morning we are wakened up at an unseasonable hour by
a furious ringing at the door-bell—Joe Manton
pulls off his nightcap and slowly descending the stairs
opens the door and finds Mr. Thorn, who enquires distractedly
whether Miss Ringgan has arrived; and being answered
in the negative gloomily walks off towards the East
river—The state of anxiety in which his
mother is thereby kept is rapidly depriving her of
all her flesh—but we have directed Joe lately
to reply ’no sir, but she is expected,’—upon
which Mr. Thorn regularly smiles faintly and rewards
the ‘fowling piece’ with a quarter dollar—
“So make haste, dear Fleda, or I shall feel
that we are acting the part of innocent swindlers.
“C.E.”
There was but one voice at home on the point whether
Fleda should go. So she went.
Host. Now, my young guest! methinks
you’re allycholy; I pray you,
why is it?
Jul. Marry, mine host, because
I cannot be merry.
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Some nights after their arrival the doctor and Fleda
were seated at tea in the little snug old-fashioned
back parlour, where the doctor’s nicest of housekeepers,
Mrs. Pritchard, had made it ready for them. In
general Mrs. Pritchard herself poured it out for the
doctor, but she descended most cheerfully from her
post of elevation whenever Fleda was there to fill
it.
The doctor and Fleda sat cosily looking at each other
across the toast and chipped beef, their glances grazing
the tea-urn which was just on one side of their range
of vision. A comfortable Liverpool-coal fire in
a state of repletion burned away indolently and gave
everything else in the room somewhat of its own look
of sousy independence. Except perhaps the delicate
creature at whom the doctor between sips of his tea
took rather wistful observations.
