The Midnight Queen [25]
curious, he cautiously knelt
down, and examined the loose flagstones until he found one he
could raise; he pushed it partly aside, and, lying flat on the
stones, with his face to the aperture, Sir Norman beheld a most
wonderful sight.
CHAPTER VI.
"Love is like a dizziness," says the old song. Love is something
else - it is the most selfish feeling in existence. Of course, I
don't allude to the fraternal or the friendly, or any other such
nonsensical old-fashioned trash that artless people still believe
in, but to the real genuine article that Adam felt for Eve when
he first saw her, and which all who read this - above the
innocent and unsusceptible age of twelve - have experienced. And
the fancy and the reality are so much alike, that they amount to
about the same thing. The former perhaps, may be a little
short-lived; but it is just as disagreeable a sensation while it
lasts se its more enduring sister. Love is said to be blind, and
it also has a very injurious effect on the eyesight of its
victims - an effect that neither spectacles nor oculists can aid
in the slightest degree, making them see whether sleeping or
waking, but one object, and that alone.
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. And you and
I may thank our stars, dear readers, that we are a great deal too
sensible to wear our hearts in our sleeves for such s
bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was longer-lived
than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and had it
badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did she
conceal her face - would she ever disclose it - would she listen
to him - would she ever love him? feverishly asked Passion; and
Common Sense (or what little of that useful commodity he had
left) answered - probably because she was eccentric - possibly
she would disclose it for the same reason; that he had only to
try and make her listen; and as to her loving him, why, Common
Sense owned he had her there.
I can't say whether the adage! "Faint heart never won fair lady!"
was extant in his time; but the spirit of it certainly was, and
Ormiston determined to prove it. He wanted to see La Masque, and
try his fate once again; and see her he would, if he had to stay
there as a sort of ornamental prop to the house for a week. He
knew he might as well look for a needle in a haystack as his
whimsical beloved through the streets of London - dismal and dark
now as the streets of Luxor and Tadmor in Egypt; and he wisely
resolved to spare himself and his Spanish leathers boots the
trial of a one-handed game of "hide-and-go-to-seek." Wisdom,
like Virtue, is its own reward; and scarcely had he come to this
laudable conclusion, when, by the feeble glimmer of the
house-lamps, he saw a figure that made his
down, and examined the loose flagstones until he found one he
could raise; he pushed it partly aside, and, lying flat on the
stones, with his face to the aperture, Sir Norman beheld a most
wonderful sight.
CHAPTER VI.
"Love is like a dizziness," says the old song. Love is something
else - it is the most selfish feeling in existence. Of course, I
don't allude to the fraternal or the friendly, or any other such
nonsensical old-fashioned trash that artless people still believe
in, but to the real genuine article that Adam felt for Eve when
he first saw her, and which all who read this - above the
innocent and unsusceptible age of twelve - have experienced. And
the fancy and the reality are so much alike, that they amount to
about the same thing. The former perhaps, may be a little
short-lived; but it is just as disagreeable a sensation while it
lasts se its more enduring sister. Love is said to be blind, and
it also has a very injurious effect on the eyesight of its
victims - an effect that neither spectacles nor oculists can aid
in the slightest degree, making them see whether sleeping or
waking, but one object, and that alone.
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. And you and
I may thank our stars, dear readers, that we are a great deal too
sensible to wear our hearts in our sleeves for such s
bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was longer-lived
than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and had it
badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did she
conceal her face - would she ever disclose it - would she listen
to him - would she ever love him? feverishly asked Passion; and
Common Sense (or what little of that useful commodity he had
left) answered - probably because she was eccentric - possibly
she would disclose it for the same reason; that he had only to
try and make her listen; and as to her loving him, why, Common
Sense owned he had her there.
I can't say whether the adage! "Faint heart never won fair lady!"
was extant in his time; but the spirit of it certainly was, and
Ormiston determined to prove it. He wanted to see La Masque, and
try his fate once again; and see her he would, if he had to stay
there as a sort of ornamental prop to the house for a week. He
knew he might as well look for a needle in a haystack as his
whimsical beloved through the streets of London - dismal and dark
now as the streets of Luxor and Tadmor in Egypt; and he wisely
resolved to spare himself and his Spanish leathers boots the
trial of a one-handed game of "hide-and-go-to-seek." Wisdom,
like Virtue, is its own reward; and scarcely had he come to this
laudable conclusion, when, by the feeble glimmer of the
house-lamps, he saw a figure that made his