17. CHAPTER XVII.
FINISHES MR. HEARTSEASE.
Following the want of romance writers in all ages, we
might here close up our history with the striking picture
of the incorrigible bachelor, Sansoney, safely landed on
the smiling shores of matrimony.
But this history unfortunately has busied itself about
other persons, and their adventures—and an event of no
small importance in the life of even Mr. Sansoucy, has yet
to be described and chronicled. We are thus compelled
to ask the kind reader to follow us still, spite of the length
to which his journey has extended; and in this further progress
we promise not to call his attention to a single personage
he has not made the acquaintance of already.
To present the remaining scenes of our narrative in
their full connection, and as distinctly as we can, we shall
return to Mr. Sansoucy, who sits in his office on the day
after the event just described, and in a frame of mind, not
different from what might be expected “under the circumstances,”
as say romantic historians of their heroes.
In other words, Mr. Sansoucy was supremely happy.
The whole world seemed to him bright and beautiful; and
a thousand voices seemed to sing to him, “Be happy! be
happy! happiness like yours is rarely given to the children
of this earth—be happy!”
And Sansoucy applied himself assiduously to the not
difficult task—and looked out with a smile upon the
cold bright snow—and felt the spring within his heart
warm all the bitter winter, thrusting up its blossoms and
bright flowers through all, and reigning queen of all!
He was sunk in one of those reveries which follow happiness
like a shadow, when a rapid step ascended the
stairs, and almost hastening—actually almost hastening—
into the room, Mr. Heartsease held out his hand, and
sighed with a brilliant smile:
“Give me joy, my friend! congratulate me on my bliss!”
“Your bliss, my dear Heartsease?” said Sansoucy,
“certainly! Oh, certainly! but what is it?”
“Haven't you heard?”
“No, indeed.”
“I forgot, my friend,” said Heartsease; “nobody
knows it—it has not been done an hour—”
“Not been done!”
“Assuredly not.”
“Nobody knows it?”
“Unless the respectable guardian of the lady:”
“Oh! the lady!”
“Certainly, the lady! Don't you understand?”
“Oh, perfectly! that is not at all.”
“Really,” said Heartsease, reproachfully, “the way a
man is treated by his friends: but I will not complain.
Learn then, my dear Sansoucy, that you see before you
the prospective husband of the beautiful Miss Gosyp.”
“Miss Gosyp!”
Emmeline, I call her. Her name is Emma; but I add
the line for euphony; though there are cynics who might
think I alluded to her delicacy and fragility of figure.”
“Miss Gosyp!” said Sansoucy, unable to repress his
surprise and laughter; “why you told me a month or two
ago that she had worried you to death.”
“A month or two, my dear fellow, is much further than
I can remember.”
“Ah?”
“Yes; and, doubtless, that annoyance, and the satire,
which I now recall, sprung from jealousy at seeing me
attentive to another.”
“Miss Gosyp—the antediluvian!” said Sansoucy, quoting
Heartsease.
“Oh, my friend! don't recall to me my terrible speeches;
you fill me with remorse.”
Sansoucy laughed.
“Congratulate me, rather.”
“Certainly, my dear fellow; and one thing is certain,
that your wife to be will not need your income, or any
part of it.”
“You allude to her wealth?”
“Yes.”
Heartsease shook his head.
“Such considerations have no weight with me,” he
said, sighing; “what I adore in Emmeline is her loveliness
of soul and brilliant wit.”
“Good! take care of that brilliant wit, my dear fellow!”
“Take care?”
“Or it will cut you.”
“Oh, no, never!” sighed Heartsease, rising; “I look
forward to a life of tranquil and domestic happiness.
Emmeline will not be witty with me, for I shall make a
model husband. I shall remain quietly at home every
evening—I shall become a thoroughly domestic character
—I shall rule my household with the mingled dignity and
kindness of a patriarch. Wives will point to me, and say
“look at him!” and Emmeline will bless the day she
placed her beautiful hand in mine and made me happy!”
Having uttered this speech with great gravity, Heartsease
pleaded the necessity of carrying the delightful
intelligence to his numerous friends; and so, kissing his
fingers, glided away—sighing and smiling to the last—
from the office of Sansoucy and from the present history.
But, perhaps, we may as well add, in this place, that
the result of wedlock in the case of Mr. Heartsease was
not so admirable and striking as he predicted. Instead
of leading a tranquil life, the joyous Heartsease grew more
fashionable than ever—instead of finding Emmeline a
tender spouse, he found her a terrible plague:—instead
of remaining quietly at home in the long winter evenings,
ruling his household with the dignity of a patriarch, and
causing Emmeline to triumph over other wives, and bless
the day she laid her lily hand in his, the gay and philosophic
Heartsease never staid at home, and caused the gentle
Emmeline to objurgate the happy day alluded to. Wherever
ball, or festival, or play was, there was Heartsease—still the
most amiable of butterflies, the most perfect of good fellows.
Never did a cloud pass over his serene and handsome
features—from his lofty height and dark curls, hyacinthine
still, as in his bachelor days, he looked down on the world,
and smiled, and lived his life. His only subject of enthusiasm
was Emmeline—for whom, he said, his tenderness
was so extreme, that nothing but his absence from her,
gave him any peace of mind. Having told you this with
the gentlest and most touching eloquence, the handsome
Heartsease would adjourn to billiards—thence to dinner
and his wine—then to a mild cigar, and other things
promotive of digestion and a tranquil conscience:—and
then at night you would meet him waltzing at the ball
with the gayest and most graceful languor—talking in
the pauses of his dearest Emmeline, and saying that a
slight indisposition made it necessary for her to remain
at home. If occasionally his dearest Emmeline spoke
harshly to him, for his losses at the fascinating cards, he
did not answer again. Supreme in his good humor, and
unruffled by the strongest gales of matrimony, Heartsease
with his old sweet smile, would kiss his hand, and go
away to the theatre, and be the pride and ornament of
that bright universe. When last we had the pleasure of
beholding him, he stood, superlatively dressed, applauding,
with a gentle beating of his yellow kid fingers Misses
Kate and Ellen Bateman, whose performance he approved.
It was perhaps the most rational thing the amiable
Heartsease ever did—and there we leave him.
