“I cut short these confidences somewhat abruptly
now and then,” said I. “But excuse
me, Dr. John, may I change the theme for one instant?
What a god-like person is that de Hamal! What
a nose on his face— perfect! Model
one in putty or clay, you could not make a better or
straighter, or neater; and then, such classic lips
and chin—and his bearing—sublime.”
“De Hamal is an unutterable puppy, besides being
a very white-livered hero.”
“You, Dr. John, and every man of a less-refined
mould than he, must feel for him a sort of admiring
affection, such as Mars and the coarser deities may
be supposed to have borne the young, graceful Apollo.”
“An unprincipled, gambling little jackanapes!”
said Dr. John curtly, “whom, with one hand,
I could lift up by the waistband any day, and lay
low in the kennel if I liked.”
“The sweet seraph!” said I. “What
a cruel idea! Are you not a little severe, Dr.
John?”
And now I paused. For the second time that night
I was going beyond myself—venturing out
of what I looked on as my natural habits—
speaking in an unpremeditated, impulsive strain, which
startled me strangely when I halted to reflect.
On rising that morning, had I anticipated that before
night I should have acted the part of a gay lover
in a vaudeville; and an hour after, frankly discussed
with Dr. John the question of his hapless suit, and
rallied him on his illusions? I had no more presaged
such feats than I had looked forward to an ascent
in a balloon, or a voyage to Cape Horn.
The Doctor and I, having paced down the walk, were
now returning; the reflex from the window again lit
his face: he smiled, but his eye was melancholy.
How I wished that he could feel heart’s-ease!
How I grieved that he brooded over pain, and pain
from such a cause! He, with his great advantages,
he to love in vain! I did not then know
that the pensiveness of reverse is the best phase for
some minds; nor did I reflect that some herbs, “though
scentless when entire, yield fragrance when they’re
bruised.”
“Do not be sorrowful, do not grieve,”
I broke out. “If there is in Ginevra one
spark of worthiness of your affection, she will—she
must feel devotion in return. Be cheerful,
be hopeful, Dr. John. Who should hope, if not
you?”
In return for this speech I got—what, it
must be supposed, I deserved—a look of
surprise: I thought also of some disapprobation.
We parted, and I went into the house very chill.
The clocks struck and the bells tolled midnight; people
were leaving fast: the fete was over; the lamps
were fading. In another hour all the dwelling-house,
and all the pensionnat, were dark and hushed.
I too was in bed, but not asleep. To me it was
not easy to sleep after a day of such excitement.
THE LONG VACATION.
