The Argosy — page 251: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

23 Matson Maloume. A month had passed rapidly, and I never wavered in my belief in my godmother until this fatal morning, when I experienced the truth of the old adage, and listening, had heard no good of myself. I was nothing, absolutely nothing, to Bonne-maman. All her heart was with the young man who had only just arrived from England, with whom she had been discussing me as a stranger. As if I should ever seek to win the affections of an engaged man! Moreover, am I not myself engaged? Shall I tell her, and make her quite comfortable ? No; I resolve I will not do so, but let her feel, if ever so slightly, uneasy. Yes, as we are both safe, I will make myself as fascinating as I can. Horace Vernon is to marry Mdlle. Berthe de Pontac, and I am to marry the Rev. Robert, so there can be no harm in a little flirtation, and I shall let things take their course. II. Tuincs do take their course, and a very pleasant course it is. The days pass quickly, and I have no time to write letters. The Dinard bathing season will soon be at its height. The Parisian world, in- cluding Mdlle. Berthe de Pontac, will be here—so Bonne-maman tells me; Horace never mentions her. I often long to ask him about her, but a shy feeling closes my lips. Do I dread that her name should break the spell of happiness cast round my life Alas! after some weeks of delightful enjoyment, the spell was broken, and by Bonne-maman. Horace had fired my imagination by a glowing account of fresh blackberries, the finest, blackest, sweetest that ever were seen. Work- ing upon my enthusiasm, he promised to take me a blackberrying. The next morning, in high glee, we sallied forth: he armed with a stout hooked stick, I with a basket. Past a cottage, with a bright- eyed maiden tending her pet lamb in the kitchen, while her mother was sitting at the spinning-wheel in the morning sun. ‘Through lanes so narrow, we had to scramble up the steep bank to let the great white horses with the lumbering waggons go by. ‘Through bush, through briar” we went, and never a blackberry did I see. At last, I ventured to remark upon the singular fact of the flowers and buds being still in full bloom. I heard a slight chuckle, and looking up at my companion’s face, saw a mild gleam of fun on it. ‘‘ Well, you must indeed be a cockney born, to think of expecting blackberries in August.” For a moment I was put out, then joining in his merriment [ contented myself with the wreath of wild flowers he had gathered. Irom this merry excursion we returned in high glee and good humour, my basket laden with flowers, my hat decorated with berries and brightly tinted leaves. Bonne-maman, contrary to her usual hospitality, did not ask Horace to stay, and he went off there and then to his hotel. ‘Then, having removed my protector, I was Gomichooks co m