Love Works Wonders: A Novel. Charlotte M. Brame

is about the most effeminate habit a man can fall into," said Miss Darrell. "I think that, if I were a soldier, I should delight in clear, plain speaking. I cannot understand why English gentlemen seem to think it fashionable to mutilate their mother tongue."

      There was no chance of their ever agreeing – they never did even for one single hour.

      "What are you thinking about, Pauline?" asked Miss Hastings one day.

      Her young pupil had fallen into a reverie over "The History of the Peninsular War."

      "I am thinking," she replied, "that, although France boasts so much of her military glory, England has a superior army; her soldiers are very brave; her officers the truest gentlemen."

      "I am glad to hear that you think so. I have often wondered if you would take our guest as a sample."

      Her beautiful lips curled with unutterable contempt.

      "Certainly not. I often contrast him with a Captain Lafosse, who used to visit us in the Rue d'Orme, a grand man with a brown, rugged face, and great brown hands. Captain Langton is a coxcomb – neither more nor less, Miss Hastings."

      "But he is polished, refined, elegant in his manner and address, which, perhaps, your friend with the brown, rugged face was not."

      "We shall not agree, Miss Hastings, we shall not agree. I do not like Captain Langton."

      The governess, remembering all that Sir Oswald wished, tried in vain to represent their visitor in a more favorable light. Miss Darrell simply looked haughty and unconvinced.

      "I am years younger than you," she said, at last, "and have seen nothing of what you call 'life'; but the instinct of my own heart tells me that he is false in heart, in mind, in soul; he has a false, flattering tongue, false lips, false principles – we will not speak of him."

      Miss Hastings looked at her sadly.

      "Do you not think that in time, perhaps, you may like him better?"

      "No," was the blunt reply, "I do not. I told him that I did not like him, but that I would take some time to consider whether he was to be a friend of mine or not; and the conclusion I have arrived at is, that I could not endure his friendship."

      "When did you tell him that you did not like him?" asked Miss Hastings, gravely.

      "I think it was the first night he came," she replied.

      Miss Hastings looked relieved.

      "Did he say anything else to you, Pauline?" she asked, gently.

      "No; what should he say? He seemed very much surprised, I suppose, as he says most people like him. But I do not, and never shall."

      One thing was certain, the captain was falling most passionately in love with Miss Darrell. Her grand beauty, her pride, her originality, all seemed to have an irresistible charm for him.

      CHAPTER XII.

      ELINOR ROCHEFORD

      It was a morning in August, when a gray mist hung over the earth, a mist that resulted from the intense heat, and through which trees, flowers, and fountains loomed faintly like shadows. The sun showed his bright face at intervals, but, though he withheld his gracious presence, the heat and warmth were great; the air was laden with perfume, and the birds were all singing as though they knew that the sun would soon reappear.