Page:The London Magazine, volume 8 (July–December 1823).djvu/538

 From this day forward there came so many letters to Miss Goodchild by the new established post that the beautiful letter-case was no longer able to contain them. She was now obliged to resort to the help of her writing-desk, which—so long as her father had no suspicions—was fully sufficient.

The paper intercourse now began to appear too little to Mr. Tempest. For what can be dispatched in a moment by word of mouth, would often linger unaccomplished for a thousand years when conducted in writing. True it was that a great deal of important business had already been dispatched by the letters. For instance Mr. Tempest had through this channel assured himself that Ida was willing to be his for ever. Yet even this was not enough. The contract had been made, but not sealed upon the rosy lips of Ida.

This seemed monstrous to Mr. Tempest. “Grant me patience!” said he to himself, “Grant me patience, when I think of the many disgusting old relations, great raw-boned absurd fellows with dusty snuff-powdered beards, that have reveled in that lip-paradise, hardly knowing—old withered wretches!—what they were about, or what a blessing was conferred upon them; whilst I—yes, I that am destined to call her my bride one of these days, am obliged to content myself with payments of mere paper money.”

This seemed shocking; and indeed, considering the terms on which he now stood with Ida, Mr. Tempest could scarcely believe it himself. He paced up and down his study in anger, flinging glances at every turn upon the opposite house which contained his treasure. All at once he stopped: “What’s all this?” said he, on observing Mr. Goodchild’s servants lighting up the chandeliers in the great saloon:—“what’s in the wind now?” And immediately he went to his writing table for Ida’s last letter: for Ida sometimes communicated any little events in the family that could any ways affect their correspondence: on this occasion however she had given no hint of any thing extraordinary approaching. Yet the preparations and the bustle indicated something very extraordinary. Mr. Tempest’s heart began to beat violently. What was he to think? Great fêtes, in a house where there is an only daughter, usually have some reference to her. “Go, Tyrrel,” said he to his clerk, “go and make inquiries (but cautiously you understand and in a lawyer-like manner) as to the nature and tendency of these arrangements.” Tyrrel came back with the following report: Mr. Goodchild had issued cards for a very great party on that evening; all the seniors were invited to tea; and almost all the young people of condition throughout the town to a masqued ball at night. The suddenness of the invitations, and the consequent hurry of the arrangements, arose in this way: a rich relative who lived in the country had formed a plan for coming by surprise with his whole family upon Mr. Goodchild. But Mr. Goodchild had accidentally received a hint of his intention by some side-wind; and had determined to turn the tables on his rich relation by surprising him with a masquerade.

“Oh! Heavens! what barbarity!” said Mr. Tempest, as towards evening he saw from his windows young and old trooping to the fête. “What barbarity! There’s hardly a scoundrel in the place but is asked: and I,—I, John Tempest, that am to marry the jewel of the house, must be content to witness the preparations and to hear the sound of their festivities from the solitude of my den.”

As night drew on, more and more company continued to pour in. The windows being very bright, and the curtains not drawn, no motion of the party could escape our advocate. What pleased him, better than all the splendour which he saw, was the melancholy countenance of the kind-hearted girl as she stood at the centre window and looked over at him. This melancholy countenance and these looks directed at himself were occasioned, as he soon became aware, by a proposal which had been made