DOI article:
Harland, Henry: Merely Players
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25499#0049
By Henry Harland 45
to be sure ; but the meteorological influences were, for that, only
the more potent. He remembered her shining eyes now as not
merely whimsical and ardent, but as pensive, appealing, tender ;
he remembered her face as a face seen in starlight, ethereal and
mystic ; and her voice as low music, far away. He recalled their
last meeting as a treasure he had possessed and lost; he blamed
himself for the frivolity of his talk and manner, and for the ineffec-
tual impression of him this must have left upon her. Perpetually
thinking of her, he, was perpetually sighing, perpetually suffering
strange, sudden, half painful, half delicious commotions in the
tissues of his heart. Every morning he rose with a replenished
fund of hope : this day at last would produce her. Every night
he went to bed pitying himself as bankrupt of hope. And all the
while, though he pined to talk of her, a curious bashfulness
withheld him ; so that, between him and Hilary, for quite a
fortnight she was not mentioned. It was Hilary who broke the
silence.
“Why so pale and wan?” Hilary asked him. “Will, when
looking well won’t move her, looking ill prevail ? ”
“ Oh, I am seriously love-sick,” cried Ferdinand Augustus,
welcoming the subject. “ I went in for a sensation, and I’ve got
a real emotion.”
“ Poor youth ! And she won’t look at you, I suppose ? ” was
Hilary’s method of commiseration.
“ I have not seen her for a mortal rortnight. She has com-
pletely vanished. And for the first time in my life I’m seriously
in love.”
“You’re incapable of being seriously in love,” said Hilary.
“ I had always thought so myself,” admitted Ferdinand
Augustus. “ The most I had ever felt for any woman was a sort
of mere lukewarm desire, a sort of mere meaningless titillation.
But
to be sure ; but the meteorological influences were, for that, only
the more potent. He remembered her shining eyes now as not
merely whimsical and ardent, but as pensive, appealing, tender ;
he remembered her face as a face seen in starlight, ethereal and
mystic ; and her voice as low music, far away. He recalled their
last meeting as a treasure he had possessed and lost; he blamed
himself for the frivolity of his talk and manner, and for the ineffec-
tual impression of him this must have left upon her. Perpetually
thinking of her, he, was perpetually sighing, perpetually suffering
strange, sudden, half painful, half delicious commotions in the
tissues of his heart. Every morning he rose with a replenished
fund of hope : this day at last would produce her. Every night
he went to bed pitying himself as bankrupt of hope. And all the
while, though he pined to talk of her, a curious bashfulness
withheld him ; so that, between him and Hilary, for quite a
fortnight she was not mentioned. It was Hilary who broke the
silence.
“Why so pale and wan?” Hilary asked him. “Will, when
looking well won’t move her, looking ill prevail ? ”
“ Oh, I am seriously love-sick,” cried Ferdinand Augustus,
welcoming the subject. “ I went in for a sensation, and I’ve got
a real emotion.”
“ Poor youth ! And she won’t look at you, I suppose ? ” was
Hilary’s method of commiseration.
“ I have not seen her for a mortal rortnight. She has com-
pletely vanished. And for the first time in my life I’m seriously
in love.”
“You’re incapable of being seriously in love,” said Hilary.
“ I had always thought so myself,” admitted Ferdinand
Augustus. “ The most I had ever felt for any woman was a sort
of mere lukewarm desire, a sort of mere meaningless titillation.
But