P., and a dozen sheets of
Jack's own clumsy writing, delivered who knows how, in what crush-rooms,
quadrilles, bouquets, balls, and in which were scrawled Jack's love and
passion and ardour. How many a time had he looked into the dictionary at
White's, to see whether eternal was spelt with an e, and adore with one a
or two! There they were, the incoherent utterances of his brave longing
heart; and those two wretched, wretched lines signed C., begging that
C.'s little letters might too be returned or destroyed. To do him
justice, he burnt them loyally every one along with his own waste paper.
He kept not one single little token which she had given him or let him
take. The rose, the glove, the little handkerchief which she had dropped
to him, how he cried over them! The ringlet of golden hair--he burnt them
all, all in his own fire in the prison, save a little, little bit of the
hair, which might be any one's, which was the colour of his sister's. Kew
saw the deed done; perhaps he hurried away when Jack came to the very
last part of the sacrifice, and flung the hair into the fire, where he
would have liked to fling his heart and his life too.
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