I don't know whether these were Mr. Malcolm or Ormiston's
thoughts, as he leaned against the door-way, and folded his arms
across his chest to await the shining of his day-star. In fact,
I am pretty sure they were not: young gentlemen, as a general
thing, not being any more given to profound moralizing in the
reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, Charles II., than they are at
the present day; but I do know, that no sooner was his bosom
friend and crony, Sir Norman Kingsley, out of eight, than he
forgot him as teetotally an if he had never known that
distinguished individual. His many and deep afflictions, his
love, his anguish, and his provocations; his beautiful,
tantalizing, and mysterious lady-love; his errand and its
probable consequences, all were forgotten; and Ormiston thought
of nothing or nobody in the world but himself and La Masque. La
Masque! La Masque! that was the theme on which his thoughts
rang, with wild variations of alternate hope and fear, like every
other lover since the world began, and love was first an
institution. "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall
be," truly, truly it is an odd and wonderful thing.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101