to Alice--and heard twice
a-week in return--and looked at her portrait, which he kept in a secret
drawer of his desk, about twenty times a-day; and (which was the only
thing about it that made me think it a real instance of true love) he
never mentioned her name to one of his companions. Yet Cambridge has its
temptations even to people as constant as Amadis de Gaul. Frank was a
gay young fellow, with a good allowance--had his father's seat on
horseback, and sported a red coat whenever the hounds came within twenty
miles. He was blessed also with a capacious appetite, both for solids
and fluids, and occasionally astonished the waiter at the Eagle and
Child, by ordering in an extra basket of magnums; but, in the main, he
was steady--and looked at the little portrait with undiminished
admiration. All this time poor Mr Elstree knew nothing of the
engagement, but looked on Frank more as a son than as a mere
acquaintance, without any thought of its being in his power to attain in
reality to that degree of relationship by means of the beautiful Miss
Alice. If Frank believed this, I will be bound Miss Sibylla Smith would
not have given him credit for such stupidity. But there are innocent
minded people in the world, and poor Elstree was one of them. The visits
to the white-walled villa were continued all the vacation; love went on
increasing; and nothing could be more delightful than the description
Frank gave of the happiness of that youthful time. But black days were
in store for them. He left Cambridge, and went to London--the great
trial for country affections. The affections, by his account, continued
exactly the same; but the ideas altered--he saw other people, he mixed
with the world--he overlaid the passion that lay snug and powerful at
the bottom of his heart, with a score or two of flirtations; but, so far
from burying it, they only kept it warm. In the mean time, however, the
correspondence was not so regular as before--and perhaps the expressions
on both sides not quite so tender; for it is impossible for a man in the
Clarendon, with a carriage at the door to carry him down to Ascot, to
write about flames and arrows, which come so naturally when musing on
the Cam or Isis. And in the midst of this London career--during all
which, he assured me, he liked her better than ever--he was startled by
hearing that Mr Elstree was very ill. He hurried down to Leicestershire,
but found he was too late. The good man had died, aft