On reaching home, Frank found company there—a few
chance visiters. He had resolved to act on Randolph's advice,
and he called up all his force of character to go
through with it. Some dark thoughts would flash through
his mind ever and anon; but he felt it useless to resist or

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

to think, and he abandoned himself to the stream. He had
a stern task to perform, but a necessary one. He had not
sought it. It had been thrust upon him, and when he did,
at intervals, turn the affair over in his mind, he could not but
feel a buoyant pride, a stern triumph in the thought that such
a deadly attempt upon him had been met so promptly and
manfully. The words of Randolph rang in his ears: “If
they want a meeting, they shall have one.” Sometimes he
shuddered at the possibility that he himself might be killed.
But his reason told him that, under the circumstances, his
fate, scarcely preferable, was fixed, as the slaughterer of
his poor friend, the infatuated, reckless, doomed Glendenning.
“He will have it. It's his own doing! His blood be
on his own head!” and with these thoughts he applied himself
to the gayeties of the company with more than his usual
lively and cheerful calmness.

“Come,” said Miss Elton, blushing as she did so, “a
last duet, Frank.”

“A last, indeed,” said he.

It was a peculiarity in the present evening that, as he
was to set off on a long separation from his family in the
morning, all the incidents and remarks had reference to a
parting. Mrs. Lennox's eyes were more than once full of
tears. Mary ceased to torment, and Miss Elton to be on
her guard with him. All hearts were saddened and softened
visibly enough through the cheerfulness which nevertheless
reigned over it all. On Frank these continued allusions
had a singular effect. It was almost as if everybody
knew he was to meet a dangerous foe in the deadliest strife
in the morning. Everything breathed of absence, separation,
and a long farewell.

His romantic and tender nature made him delight to yield
himself to this illusion. He felt, indeed, that, although the
catastrophe of the morning would probably be Glendenning's
death, it would, in fact, break the spell which rendered him
the happy, bright blessing of his father's family circle, and
that by a dark destiny he was there now for the last time
as a sunshiny, innocent boy. He was about being transformed
into a man of blood—to stain his peace of mind with
murder, and thus to surround himself with associations
which must make even his own mother regard him with
fear and horror. But the world—custom—the fashion!
must be satisfied. Must!

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He sang several duets and trios with Miss Elton and
Mary. His noble form and handsome features were the
object of everybody's gaze, for, somehow or other, he appeared
inspired with more than his usual beauty and manliness.

The clock struck eleven, and the visiters took their leave.

“And so, my dearest Frank,” said his mother, putting back
(a favourite habit of hers) the thick hair from his forehead,
“we are to lose you.”

“Yes, mother.”

“And your boyhood is over,” said Mary.

“I fear.”

“And what shall I do for you in your absence?” said
Fanny, her heart reproaching her for the unavoidable coldness
she had been obliged to put on towards him.

“Think of me sometimes,” said Frank. “Remember
my virtues (if I have any!), not my follies or my faults.”

“Of the latter you have none,” said Mrs. Elton.

“And what will become of your music?” said Fanny.

“Oh, I'm prepared to bid abieu to that and many other
pleasures.”

“How wonderfully romantic,” exclaimed his father.

“I'll have this lock,” said his mother; “now don't start
away.”

“Why should I?” said Frank. “As much as you like.”

Half playfully, half in earnest, she took up a pair of scissors
and cut off a lock, while the laughing circle closed
around to witness the ceremony.

“Now the other side,” said Fanny, “to make it even.”

“Quite right,” replied his mother; “we mustn't destroy
his equilibrium on the eve of such an important event.”

“Why, one would think he was getting shorn for execution,”
cried Mary, with one of her bright smiles.

“There!” said Mrs. Lennox, holding up two curls.

This quotation was received with general laughter by all
but Frank himself, who, despite his utmost exertions, could
not prevent the unexpected thrill with which he had submitted
to the operation from being visible in his manner
and countenance.

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

“What a fool you make of him!” said his father.

“And his own eyes wet!” said Mrs. Elton, pointing to
Mr. Lennox.

“Ridiculous!” said Mr. Lennox. “The boy's setting
out on a delightful journey; seven years will soon pass
away. Why sadden him with all this sentimental nonsense?”

“Nonsense? No nonsense at all!” exclaimed Fanny,
laughing. “You mustn't think we're all such hard-hearted,
prosaic old bodies as you. What could make us sentimental,
I should like to know, if not this? a young soldier
setting out for the field from the haunts of his youth, and
all that sort of thing! Why, it's poetry itself.”

“To be sure,” said Mary.

Mary began this in jest, but she appeared almost in earnest
as she closed, for she observed with surprise the agitation
of Frank. His lip quivered, though the smile still lingered,
and suddenly he placed his hand over his eyes, and
turned away his head.

“Dear, dear Frank!” said his mother.

“And where is the wonder?” demanded his father, angrily.
“Wouldn't any one fancy he was going to be hanged, by
the fuss you make about it?”

“I'm tired,” said Frank. “I'm a very poor hand at
leave-taking. I think I'll go to bed, as we have a fatiguing
day's travel to-morrow.”

Mrs. Elton, rising to go, came forward, bade him good-by,
and, with the privilege of age, kissed him on the forehead.

And Fanny came to say good-by.

Terrified lest some burst of feeling should betray him, he
took her hand, almost coldly, pressed it a moment to his
lips, and, turning away, she departed.

“Now, Frank,” said Mary, “you foolish fellow! I
thought you had more sense.”

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

“Let him be!” said Mr. Lennox. “Go along to bed,
sir! I hope you'll return with a little more of the `bold
dragoon' about you. What, a roystering blade like you, with
`the' beard of Hercules and frowning Mars—”

“A night's rest is all I want,” said Frank, gayly.

“Well, go along!” repeated his father. “No more embracing
while you're all in this ridiculous mood.”

“Oh, don't mind me,” cried Frank. “Good-night, my
dear father.”

“Good-night, my boy: off with you.”

“One embrace—good-night!”

“Mary!”

“Well, then—good-night—you're a foolish creature.”

“My mother!”

“My son!”

They embraced.

He took up a candle, and went slowly out of the room.

In a few moments the family were all in bed. But no
one slept. A nervous, broken slumber fell upon Mrs. Lennox,
from which, every ten minutes, she started into wakefulness.

“My dear Catharine,” at length exclaimed Mr. Lennox,
“you are a perfect galvanic battery! I had as leave sleep
with an electric fish.”

“I'm glad you're awake,” said she. “I'm very anxious
about Frank!”

“Pooh, pooh! go to sleep.”

“Won't you get up and see how he is?”

“My good, dear Catharine! will you have the kindness
to hold your tongue?”

“I'm perfectly sure he's going to have a fit of illness,”
said Mrs. Lennox, in about ten minutes.

“Well, my love, if you won't sleep, will you get up and
read, or go out and take a walk, or dance a jig on the
tight-rope, or something of that sort. Be quiet, be quiet.
What absurd nonsense have you got in your head?”

“Don't laugh at me,” said Mrs. Lennox, a quarter of an
hour afterward, “but I'm sure something is the matter with
Frank. I'm sure of it.”

“Why? Why do you think so? Because a sensitive,
affectionate boy is touched on the eve of leaving his home
for several years—perhaps forever—with a parcel of women
clipping his locks off, and repeating poetry, and fingering

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

and fiddling about him like the last scene in an opera? Do
go to sleep.”

“No, that's not it. Something extraordinary is the matter
with him. He acted very strangely. His persisting in
the desire to embrace us all—and how did he embrace us?
White lips, cold hands, face turned away, or buried in my
bosom. My dear husband, get up. Some horrible catastrophe
is hanging over us.”

“My heavens! Catharine, how can you be so weak? If
you think anything's the matter with him, go and see him,
and get quizzed to death for it in all his letters for the next
six months. The idea of waking a man up at two o'clock
in the night to ask him how he does!”

With trembling hands and pale face, the affrighted mother
hastily rose, threw over her a loose robe de chambre, and ascended
the stairs to Frank's room. A singular feeling induced
the father to follow her. She knocked.

“Frank! rap, rap, rap.”

“Frank! my son! It's I—your mother.”

“Rap, rap, rap. Frank! Frank!”

There was no answer.

Lennox heard her rapidly open the door, and then—a
shriek of wild horror. He rushed up. The room was
empty. Frank was not there. His bed had not been
slept in.

“The letter yesterday! his conduct last night! my son!”
gasped Mrs. Lennox, clasping her hands. “It's another
duel!”