English fiction -- 19th century; Tailors -- Fiction
So these Parcae, daughters of the shears, arranged and settled the
young man’s fate. His task was to learn the management of his mouth,
how to dress his shoulders properly, and to direct his eyes—rare
qualities in man or woman, I assure you; the management of the mouth
being especially admirable, and correspondingly difficult. These
achieved, he was to place his battery in position, and win the heart
and hand of an heiress.
Our comedy opens with his return from Portugal, in company with Miss
Rose, the heiress; the Honourable Melville Jocelyn, the diplomate; and
the Count and Countess de Saldar, refugees out of that explosive little
kingdom.
CHAPTER IV.
ON BOARD THE JOCASTA
From the Tagus to the Thames the Government sloop-of-war, Jocasta, had
made a prosperous voyage, bearing that precious freight, a removed
diplomatist and his family; for whose uses let a sufficient vindication
be found in the exercise he affords our crews in the science of
seamanship. She entered our noble river somewhat early on a fine July
morning. Early as it was, two young people, who had nothing to do with
the trimming or guiding of the vessel, stood on deck, and watched the
double-shore, beginning to embrace them more and more closely as they
sailed onward. One, a young lady, very young in manner, wore a black
felt hat with a floating scarlet feather, and was clad about the
shoulders in a mantle of foreign style and pattern. The other you might
have taken for a wandering Don, were such an object ever known; so
simply he assumed the dusky sombrero and dangling cloak, of which one
fold was flung across his breast and drooped behind him. The line of an
adolescent dark moustache ran along his lip, and only at intervals
could you see that his eyes were blue and of the land he was nearing.
For the youth was meditative, and held his head much down. The young
lady, on the contrary, permitted an open inspection of her countenance,
and seemed, for the moment at least, to be neither caring nor thinking
of what kind of judgement would be passed on her. Her pretty nose was
up, sniffing the still salt breeze with vivacious delight.
“Oh!” she cried, clapping her hands, “there goes a dear old English
gull! How I have wished to see him! I haven’t seen one for two years
and seven months. When I’m at home, I’ll leave my window open all
night, just to hear the rooks, when they wake in the morning. There
goes another!”
She tossed up her nose again, exclaiming:
“I’m sure I smell England nearer and nearer! I smell the fields, and
the cows in them. I’d have given anything to be a dairy-maid for half
an hour! I used to lie and pant in that stifling air among those stupid
people, and wonder why anybody ever left England. Aren’t you glad to
come back?”
This time the fair speaker lent her eyes to the question, and shut her
lips; sweet, cold, chaste lips she had: a mouth that had not yet
dreamed of kisses, and most honest eyes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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