Age of Responsibility CSR 2.

0 and the
New DNA of Business The Wayne
Visser
Go to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookgrade.com/product/age-of-responsibility-csr-2-0-and-the-new-dna-of-busi
ness-the-wayne-visser/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

DNA of New Growth The

https://ebookgrade.com/product/dna-of-new-growth-the/

ebookgrade.com

Fintech The New DNA of Financial Services

https://ebookgrade.com/product/fintech-the-new-dna-of-financial-
services/

ebookgrade.com

New Dark Age Technology and the End of the Future James
Bridle

https://ebookgrade.com/product/new-dark-age-technology-and-the-end-of-
the-future-james-bridle/

ebookgrade.com

Age of Access The New Culture of Hypercapitalism Rifkin

Jeremy; The Rifkin Jeremy;

https://ebookgrade.com/product/age-of-access-the-new-culture-of-
hypercapitalism-rifkin-jeremy-the-rifkin-jeremy/

ebookgrade.com
Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet
New Essays

https://ebookgrade.com/product/fan-fiction-and-fan-communities-in-the-
age-of-the-internet-new-essays/

ebookgrade.com

Dangerous Thinking in the Age of the New Authoritarianism

(CritInterventions Politics Culture and the Promise of
Democracy)
https://ebookgrade.com/product/dangerous-thinking-in-the-age-of-the-
new-authoritarianism-critinterventions-politics-culture-and-the-
promise-of-democracy/
ebookgrade.com

Age of Dualization The

https://ebookgrade.com/product/age-of-dualization-the/

ebookgrade.com

Age of Algorithms The

https://ebookgrade.com/product/age-of-algorithms-the/

ebookgrade.com
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
"spake upon that hint," she rebelled, and was impatient at such an advantage
being taken of her "unguarded language."

Meanwhile, the dressing-bell had rung, and no one was in the drawing-
room except Marmaduke and Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who were in the midst of
a somewhat bitter and mutually reproachful conversation respecting the
honesty and constancy of the two sexes.

"Men are so brutal," she said; "they always demand undying constancy
from us—"

"And never get it——"

"And even when perhaps jealousy, anger, or despair have driven us into
seeking elsewhere for relief from our outraged affections, they sneer and talk
of our frivolity and incapacity for an enduring passion."

"Well, well, it is easy to talk of jealousy driving a woman to extremity,

but there must be shown some cause for that jealousy. Mere absence, mere
inferiority in position, is sometimes enough to suggest ample cause for
jealousy. An absent lover thinks incessantly of his mistress; a rich old lover
makes his appearance; whereupon the engaged lady suddenly becomes
jealous of her absent swain, and, driven to desperation, marries the rich old
lover!"

Nothing could better please Mrs. Vyner than the turn taken by the
conversation, which, in its generality of expression and covert significance,
best answered her purpose of justification, without seeming to justify herself.

"I agree with you. There must be ampler cause shown. But if the absent
lover suddenly ceases to write, and reports arise that he is very assiduous in
his attentions elsewhere, if to this silence, confirmed by these reports—if to
the jealous rage, which those who love ardently must feel when they are
betrayed, be added the temptation of vengeance in the shape of a brilliant
match, then, I think, we should not blame a woman's inconstancy, so much
as we should pity her fate. Were she to marry a young and handsome man,
she might be supposed to love him; but if, as in the case supposed by you,
the new lover be old, then it is a proof that whatever wild motives may have
prompted her wild act, inconstancy in her affections had nothing to do with
it."

Marmaduke was a good deal shaken by this artful speech, but he rather
felt than saw its falsehood. A shrug of the shoulders, and a slight incredulous
laugh was all the answer he vouchsafed.

"There is this further difference," she pursued, "between the sexes. When
a man has quarrelled with a woman—when he has deserted her or been
deserted by her, he tramples down in his heart all former love, and replaces
adoration with hate, or, at the least, with indifference."

"Very right too."

"Yes, you men think so. But how differently a woman feels! Under the
same circumstances, whatever may have been prompted by her rage or her
despair, the act upon which she had resolved once performed, her love
returns with all its former force—returns and lives in her heart throughout
the rest of her life. This is what I mean by our superiority in constancy.
When once we love, it is for ever. No neglect, no ill-usage, no inconstancy
can kill it. Weak and wayward, reckless and passionate as we are, we rush
into wretched extremes, we do rash things when blinded by our tears, but do
what we will, we cannot stifle the love that is in our hearts."

The little creature had risen and thrown back her golden locks with the
graceful fury of a Pythoness, her eyes sparkled with an unwonted light, her
nostrils were dilated, her whole frame seemed animated with passion, as she
declaimed, rather than spoke, that vindication of herself in her sex.

I have said before that she had the nature of an actress. The present
scene, therefore, was not only adapted to her histrionic display, but gave her
such keen delight, that she could have pursued it for a long while, quite
independent of any ulterior purpose, had not Marmaduke suddenly arrested
her eloquence, by asking in a tone of subdued irony,—

"And am I expected to believe all this?"

She paused to fix a passionate look at him. Then, slowly drawing from
her bosom a small locket, held it up to him, and said scornfully,—
 "Do you recognise this?"

Before he had recovered from his astonishment, she had left the room.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "It is my hair!"

It was her father's.

CHAPTER VIII.

WOMAN'S CAPRICE.
Quelque raison qu'on trouve à l'amour qui nous dompte,
On trouve à 1'avouer toujours un peu de honte.
On s'en defend d'abord; mais de l'air qu'on s'y prend
On fait connoitre assez que notre cœur se rend.
MOLIERE.—Tartuffe.

We left Rose pondering over her lover's letter, and her own uneasiness at
having by her hints called forth a delightful declaration. We return to her
after the lapse of half an hour, and find her in the same state. At length the
dinner-bell rings.

The volume of Leopardi lies on the table: will she take it down with her?

There is a fact in human nature which will be familiar to many, but

which I am unable to explain, and that is the occasional impulse which
forces us to act diametrically opposite to our wishes. It is a sudden spasm of
wilfulness, wholly irrational, but wholly irresistible. I know that, in my own
case, I have refused advantageous offers—declined invitations to pleasant
excursions—entirely in obedience to this impulse of wilfulness—which I
have regretted the instant afterwards, when either circumstances or my pride
made the regret unavailing. No reason, no gratification of any vanity,
indolence, or temper has been at the bottom of this. The impulse has been
purely wilful and irrational—motiveless, were not the motive enveloped in
the very impulse.

I call attention to this fact, as a fact, because it helps me to explain Rose's

sudden resolution not to take down the volume of Leopardi. Perhaps, in her
case, there may have been some acknowledged influence derived from her
annoyance at that passage in Julius's letter, which threw the onus of the
situation upon her. Perhaps she might have been secretly anxious to show
him that she was not so ready to throw herself into his arms as he might
suppose. I know not how it may be; all I know is, that with a sudden effort
she walked down stairs, came into the drawing-room, saw the death-like
paleness of her miserable lover, whose hopes had been thus scattered by a
blow, seated herself upon a vis-à-vis, and joined in the conversation as if
nothing had occurred.

It is easy to say that Julius was prepared for this, that his own diffidence
had perpetually taught him to expect it; he had thought so, too, and yet he
was not prepared. We sophisticate with ourselves quite as much as with
others. We say we are prepared for an event which, if it occurs, takes us with
the suddenness of a blow to a blind man. And Julius, when he saw Rose
enter without the token, felt as if a grave had suddenly yawned at his feet.
"Marmaduke was right!" he said, and instantly turned over the leaves of the
"Book of Beauty," which was on the table.

Marmaduke, whom we left bewildered at the discovery of Mrs. Meredith

Vyner's long-cherished affection, had not yet recovered from the agitation
into which it had thrown him. The announcement that Mrs. Vyner was too
unwell to descend to dinner—having been seized with one of her singular
hysterical fits—added to the tumult of his thoughts; for he readily divined
the cause of that fit, and her wish also not again to meet him that evening.

It is needless to say, how gratified he was. In his own eyes he had been
rehabilitated. From the position of a jilted lover, he was raised to that of one
loved, "not wisely, but too well;" and the keen delight it gave to his self-love
was something quite indescribable.
 From a sort of instinctive feeling of delicacy, he kept away from Violet's
side. Rose occupied him entirely.

Julius was, therefore, enabled to hand Violet to dinner without any

embarrassment. He was cold, grave, and dignified; speaking little, but that
little without bitterness, without covert allusions. You only noticed that he
was grave—not that he was hurt.

Rose was somewhat piqued. She knew that she had done wrong, was
sorry that she had done it, but yet could not without impatience see the
dignified reproof which there was in Julius's manner. Willing enough to
repair by a word the error she had committed, she expected, indeed required,
that he at least should show sufficient concern to induce her to repair it.

This is not very amiable, perhaps, but it is human nature. In a moment of

capriciousness, she had rejected his proffered love; not that she meant to
reject it, but simply because she chose to indulge her wilfulness. She
intended to release him from despair, as soon as her rejection had produced
it; she had never thought of his leaving the house that evening, without a full
assurance of her love. But now all her plans were overthrown. He exhibited
no despair. His cold, grave manner was more like a stern reproof of her
capriciousness, than the despair of a lover. Her rejection had been accepted;
and she was angry with him for taking her at a word.

Violet was puzzled at the little attention Marmaduke paid her, and more
puzzled at his eyes never meeting hers as they were wont, to mingle their
lustre with each other; and observing also the change in Julius, she began to
speculate on the probable cause. Was Marmaduke suddenly smitten with
Rose, and was Julius jealous of him?

It was a solemn, tedious dinner. Fortunately, Meredith Vyner had begun

upon the inexhaustible subject of English etymologies, and talked enough
not to observe the silence of the others. When the ladies withdrew, he
entered into a discussion with Marmaduke, on the comparative merits of
ancient and modern poetry, while Julius carefully cut some apple peel into
minute slips.
 They remained much longer than usual over their wine; and when they
returned to the drawing-room, Julius missed the sweet glad smile of
welcome with which Rose greeted him, by studiously looking another way.

The change of feeling in a loving heart is very rapid from anger to

sorrow, and Rose had long since lost all sense of pique, for one of sorrowful
alarm. During the time the gentlemen had remained over their wine, she had
reflected on the whole affair, and penitently avowed her folly. Her only
course was to undo what she had done; and the smile with which she greeted
him was meant as the first intimation of her changed opinion.

But Julius neither saw that smile, nor afforded her the slightest
opportunity of speaking to him; and—strange contradiction in human
impulses!—the more he wrapped himself in his reserve, the more abject was
her humility in endeavouring to draw him out of it.

At length she fled to her own room, resolved to bring down the Leopardi,
and hand it to him, saying,—

"There is the book you ought to have had before dinner."

But when she reached her room, she was forced to vent her pent-up
feelings in a flood of tears—and bitter-sweet those tears were: bitter in
remembrance of the past, sweet in anticipation of the future. Having calmed
herself by "a good cry," she had then to wash her face and eyes, to remove
all traces of her grief. This took some little time.

When perfectly satisfied with her appearance, she took up the volume,
kissed it fervently, and tripped down stairs. She found Violet alone leaning
her magnificent arm upon the table in an attitude of profound meditation.

"Where... where are .... they?" Rose faltered out.

"The St. Johns? Gone this quarter of an hour."

"Gone!" exclaimed Rose in an agonized voice, and sank into a chair,

with a terrible presentiment of some tragic results from her absurd caprice.
 CHAPTER IX.

CONSEQUENCES.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean—
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
TENNYSON.—The Princess.

A restless, agitated night was it for the four lovers. Julius sat up packing.
He had informed his mother of his rejection; and she, doating as she did on
her son, was highly indignant at Rose's "unfeeling coquetry, which she never
could have believed her guilty of." Espousing his cause with a vehemence
which somewhat hurt him, she readily agreed to his proposal of their both
leaving the Grange forthwith, and spending the winter in Italy.

Marmaduke also packed up that night. He had quarrelled with Julius, and
was determined to quit the Grange early in the morning. The subject of their
quarrel had been the two girls, whom Marmaduke accused of being heartless
coquettes, which Julius angrily denied. High words passed; for both were in
a state of extraordinary agitation, from the events of the night.

Having completed his arrangements, he threw himself upon his bed, but
not to sleep. Strange visions came to him—phantasmagoria, in which the
image of the imperial Violet was ever and anon floating before the
passionate figure of the sylph-like Mrs. Vyner, as she last appeared to him,
proclaiming woman's undying love. Gradually his thoughts settled more and
more upon the latter. He began to consider the various parts of her story, and
to compare it with the facts. Then a new light broke in upon him. It is one of
the effects of oratory, that your ears are charmed, your mind borne away
along the stream of eloquence or argument, without having time to pause
and examine; but subsequent reflection often suffices to break the spell, and
the enthusiastic applauder votes against the very sentiments he has
applauded. So Marmaduke had been carried away by the skilfully
constructed tale which Mrs. Vyner had improvised; and the plausibility of
the non-receipt of letters, and reports of his attentions to another, had been so
great as really to have made him doubt the justness of his old convictions.
But, on reflection, that plausibility vanished. He remembered that his letters
had been received and acknowledged until within a very short time of the
announcement of her marriage. He also remembered that he had been so
occupied with affairs as to have had no time even for ordinary society in
Brazil; so that no innocent flirtation with any girl there could at that time, by
any possibility, have given rise to the reports by which she pretended to have
been made jealous.

It was evident, therefore, that she was deceiving him again. For some
purpose or other, she was playing with him.

"I will get to the bottom of this mystery," he said. "One of two things it
must be: either she really loves me, in spite of all—and, in that case, I will
profit by it,—or else she is again coquetting with me for some purpose, or
out of mere love of coquetry; and, in that case, I will avenge the past. She is
as cunning as the devil! To dupe her, I must feign the dupe."

He turned upon his pillow with a chuckle of triumph.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner slept soundly that night. A smile was on her lips as
she sank asleep—a smile of gratulation at the success of her experiment on
Marmaduke. She was sure that he was in her power.

Rose could only stay her grief by the recollection that to-morrow would
explain away all that was now doubt and misgiving. She intended to call
early at the Grange, and frankly tell Julius that she loved him. Nevertheless,
in spite of this resolution, a dark presentiment overshadowed her soul, and
drove away the thoughts of happiness. She wept abundantly; sometimes at
her own folly, sometimes in anger at Julius, for having so brutally taken her
at her word, as if a woman's negative was ever to be taken, when looks and
words had so often affirmed what was then denied. He ought to have known
she was only teazing him; that it was only a spurt of caprice. He must have
known it. But he did not choose to see it. He wanted to make her unhappy! A
fresh flood of tears closed this tirade. And so on, throughout the long and
weary night.

Violet having heard from Rose the real state of the case, was relieved
from jealousy only to be plunged into fresh doubt. What could be the
meaning of Marmaduke's conduct? They had not quarrelled. She had said
nothing to offend him; nor did he seem offended; and yet....

For the first time, Violet now became distinctly conscious that she loved
Marmaduke. His fearlessness, manliness, and frankness had early captivated
her,—to say nothing of his handsome person. Increased intimacy had shown
her, as she thought, a heart and mind every way worthy of her love. But a
certain mistrust—perhaps a recollection of her inclination towards Cecil,
perhaps a vague sense of imperfect sympathy with Marmaduke—had kept
her more reserved than was her wont; and this reserve was attributed to
haughtiness. The chance of losing him, however, awakened her to a
conviction of what the loss would be.

Day dawned; and with the dawn Julius set out for London. Marmaduke
followed, at about nine o'clock. At eleven, Rose and Violet called in the
carriage at the Grange.

"Mrs. St. John is gone to Walton," said the butler.

"Is Mr. Julius at home?"

"Mr. Julius is gone to London."

"To London?"

"Yes, miss; he went early this morning."

Rose sank back in the carriage, too overcome to weep.

"Is Mr. Ashley within?" asked Violet.

 "He's also gone to London, miss."

It was evident that they were both deserted by their lovers. They drove
back in horrible silence.

After luncheon, they again called at the Grange—Mrs. St. John had gone
out for the day. The next day they called—Mrs. St. John had gone to
London.

It would be painful to dwell on the sufferings of these two girls.

Wounded pride, wounded love, baffled hope, and wearing doubt were the
vultures consuming their hearts.

The next morning's post relieved some of Violet's fears, by bringing her
father a letter from Marmaduke, apologizing for not having called to take
leave of a family from whom he had received so much kindness, and with
whom he had spent such happy hours; but being forced, by his quarrel with
Julius, to quit the house at the very earliest, he trusted the omission of a
farewell visit would be excused; the more so, as the Vyners were themselves
very shortly to come to London, when he hoped to do himself the pleasure of
paying them his respects in person, and in person to thank them for their
hospitable kindness.

This proved that he at least had not departed in anger. Mrs. Vyner
secretly rejoiced at the event, attributing his flight to a sudden resolution to
quit her dangerous presence, and attributing the letter to an uncontrollable
desire to be with her again.

To Rose this brought no consolation. She had none, except that she must
see or meet Mrs. St. John in London, and that she could then explain to her
the whole affair.

How eagerly these three women longed to be in London, and with what
feverish impatience they set out, when the day at length arrived.
 BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

THE BOARDING-HOUSE.
Mathew. Now trust me you have an exceeding fine lodging here, very neat and private.

Boladil. Ay, sir: sit down, I pray you. Master Mathew, in any case possess no gentlemen
of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging. Not that I need to care who know it, for the
cabin is convenient; but in regard I would not be too popular and generally visited as some
are.

BEN JONSON.—Every Man in his Humour.

Returned from their honeymoon, Blanche and Cecil began to look about
them, and examine the state of their prospects. Her father had refused, as we
have seen, to countenance the match; so that from him neither patronage nor
money could be expected. Cecil called upon several of his influential
friends, to see if any "gentlemanly situation" was open to his acceptance. I
need not say how fruitless were those applications.

Yet "something must be done," he constantly observed. A wife was a

responsibility which made him serious; and despairing of—for the present at
least—obtaining any consul-ship or government office suitable to his
pretensions, he determined to make a name in literature or art. That name
would either be the means of enriching him, as an admiring public enriches a
favourite, or else would give him a greater "claim" on patrons.
 Cecil was vain and ambitious, and from his boyhood upwards had been
desirous of creating for himself a reputation equal if not surpassing those
whose names he heard sounded in every society. But, although he was very
clever and unusually accomplished, he had as yet taken no serious steps
towards that lofty object. He wanted that energetic will which must nerve
every man who attempts to do great things; "to scorn delights and live
laborious days." He was unequal to the perpetually-renewing sacrifice which
lies at the bottom of all great achievements in art, literature, or science; the
sacrifice, not of one temptation, not of one advantage, but of constant
temptations. The artist is as one who, spending day after day in a luxuriant
garden, must resist the temptation of culling the flowers that grow to his
hand, of fruits that glisten before his eyes, and subduing the natural desire of
man for instant fruition, consent to pass by these temptations, and, with
spade and hoe, proceed to that work which, after much stedfast labour, much
watchful care, will in due season produce fruits and flowers equal to those
around him. The delight of seeing his labour crowned with such results; of
watching the nursling of his care thus growing up into matchless beauty, is a
delight more rapturous than the enjoyment of all the other fruit could have
given him. But, nevertheless, that delight is purchased by a sacrifice of
present small enjoyments for future pleasures of a higher kind; and the
sacrifice of the present to the future is that which ordinary men are perhaps
least able to accomplish.

Cecil wanted the animal energy and resolution necessary for empire over
himself. Much as he wished for reputation, he could not nerve himself to the
labour of creating it. He was conscious of a certain power, and flattered
himself that he could at any time succeed, whenever he chose to make an
effort. But he could not make the effort. Parties of pleasure could not be
refused; pleasant books could not be left unread; concerts and musical
societies could not be declined. In short, one way and another, he "never
found time" to devote himself to any work. There were so many "calls upon
his time;" he had so many engagements; his days were so broken in upon.

Thus had he gone on idling and dreaming; coveting reputation, but

shrinking from the means; dissipating his talent in album sketches, fancy
portraits, album verses, and drawing-room ballads. His sketches were greatly
admired; his verses were in request; his music was sung; and everybody
said, "How amazingly clever he is! What he might do, if he chose!"
 But now poverty came as a stimulus to exertion. It was now a matter of
necessity that he should work; and with cheerful confidence he sketched out
the plan of his career.

His first step was to advertise in the Times for board and lodging on
moderate terms, as their income was too small for an establishment of their
own; and Blanche had never been initiated into the mysteries of
housekeeping. To judge from the number of answers he received, one would
imagine that a certain class of the English people were bitten with a singular
mania—that of taking houses "too large for them," and the consequent desire
"to part with the upper portion" to a genteel married couple, or a quiet
bachelor. Why will people thus shirk the truth? Why not say at once that they
are poor, and want their rent and taxes paid?

Well, among these answers there was one which particularly struck
Cecil. It was from a widow living at Notting Hill. Omnibuses passing the
door every ten minutes; the quiet, unpretending comforts of a home; strictest
attention to the respectability of the inmates, and sixty pounds a year for a
married couple's board and lodging, were the inestimable advantages offered
to the advertiser. The situation and the terms so well suited Cecil's present
position, that he determined to look at the place.

The boarding-houses of London are of every possible description; from

splendour to pinching, almost squalid poverty. That kept by Mrs. Tring was a
type of its class, and merits a fuller description than I shall be able to give of
it. The first aspect of it produced a chill upon Cecil. He had taken Blanche
with him; and on arriving they were shown into the front parlour, with the
information that Mrs. Tring would be "down directly."

It must be a beautiful room, indeed, which can be agreeable in such

moments. I know few things more unsatisfactory than that of waiting for a
stranger in a strange house. But the cold, cheerless, rigid, poverty-stricken
appearance of Mrs. Tring's parlour, would at all times have made Cecil
uncomfortable: how much more so now that he was contemplating living
there! The drab who officiated as maid, with flaunting cap-ribands, slip-shod
feet, and fiery hands,—a synthesis of rags and dirt,—came in to light the
fire; a proceeding which only made the room colder and more uncomfortable
than before, besides the addition of smoke.
 The parlour had a desolate appearance. All the chairs were ranged in
order against the wainscot, as if no one had sat in them for months. Not a
book, not a bit of needlework, not even a cat betrayed habitation. The settled
gloom seemed to have driven away all animated beings from its prosaic
solitude. The furniture was old, dingy, scrupulously clean, invalided,
melancholy; it did not seem as if it had been worn to its present dinginess,
but as if it had darkened under years of silence and neglect.

The Kidderminster carpet was of a plain, dark pattern, selected for its
non-betrayal of stains and dirt; it was faded indeed, but in nowise worn. The
hearth rug was rolled up before the fender. In the centre of the room was a
square table, covered with a dark-green cloth, on which some ancient ink
spots told of days when it had been used. Six black horse-hair chairs with
mahogany backs, and one footstool retiring into a corner—a portrait of a
gentleman, executed in a style of stern art, dark red curtains, and two large
shells upon the mantelpiece, complete the inventory of this parlour, which in
Mrs. Tring's establishment was set apart for the reception of visitors, and
those who came to treat with her for board and lodging.

The want of comfort of this room did not arise from its appearance of
poverty so much as from its cold pinched look. It was a poverty which had
no poetry in it—nothing picturesque, nor careless and hearty. Between it and
the parlour of poor people in general, there was just the difference between a
woman dressed in a silk dress which has been dyed, then has faded, and is
now worn with a bonnet which was once new, and a woman dressed in plain,
common, but fresh wholesome-looking gingham, which she wears with as
much ease as if it were of the costliest material. It had the musty smell of an
uninhabited room, and the melancholy aspect of a room that was
uninhabitable. A sordid meanness was plainly marked upon it, together with
an attempt at "appearances," which showed that it was as ostentatious as the
means allowed. It was genteel and desolate.

Cecil looked at Blanche to see what impression it had made upon her;
but the mild eyes of his beloved seemed to have noticed nothing but his
presence, which was sufficient for her happiness. It suddenly occurred to
him, that the more wretched the appearance of his home, the more likely
would Vyner be to relent when he heard of it; and this thought dissipated his
objections to the place.
 Mrs. Tring shortly entered, with very evident marks of having just attired
herself to receive them. Her presence was necessary to complete the picture;
or rather, the room formed a fitting frame for the portrait of the mistress.

Mrs. Tring was the widow of a curate, who, astounding and paradoxical
as the fact may appear, had not left her with an indefinite number of destitute
children. No: for the benefit of the Statistical Society the fact shall be
recorded. Mrs. Tring, though a curate's wife, had never borne a child; she
had been left penniless but childless. When I say penniless, I use, of course,
merely a well-sounding word. The literal truth is, that although he left her no
money, he had left her the means of earning a subsistence, by opening her
house as one in which single ladies, single gentlemen, and married people
could be lodged and boarded at a very moderate sum. The furniture was her
own. Her boarders paid her rent, taxes, dress, and little expenses; and thus
Mrs. Tring contrived to live, but not without a hard struggle! It was barely a
subsistence, and even that was precarious.

Her personal appearance was not pleasantly prepossessing. She was

horribly thin: with a yellow withered face, which seemed to have been
sharpened by constant struggles to gain farthings, and constant sorrows at
disbursing pence. She wore a black net cap, and a black silk dress, white at
the seams from age, the shape of which had outlived a thousand fashions,
and taxed the most retentive memory to specify when it had been the mode.
It was a low dress, and a piece of net fastened by a large brooch served to
conceal her yellow shoulders.

In manner she was stiff, uneasy, and yet servile. She spoke with a sort of
retention of her breath, and an intensity of mildness, as if she feared, that
unless a strong restraint were exercised, she should burst forth into
vehemence; she agreed, unreservedly, to everything said, as if, had she
ventured to contradict a word, it would have infallibly betrayed her temper.

To her visitors she displayed all her amiability, and acceded to every
proposition with such good-humoured alacrity, that terms were soon agreed
upon. For the sum of sixty pounds per annum, payable monthly in advance,
they were to have the back bed-room on the second floor, unfurnished, and
their meals with the family: these meals to consist of a breakfast at nine,
luncheon at one, dinner at five, and tea at eight.
 "We live plainly," said Mrs. Tring, "but wholesomely; luxuries are, of
course, out of the question, yet my inmates have always been satisfied."

"As I have not the slightest doubt we shall be," replied Cecil; "I like
simple food. What other inmates are there, pray?"

"The front bed-room on the second floor is occupied by an old

gentleman who was in a government office, and is now living on his
pension: a charming person, though a little deaf. The room next to his
belongs to an Irish widow, a Mrs. Merryweather—I don't know whether you
are acquainted with her, sir?"

Cecil smilingly replied, that he had not that honour.

"I thought you might, sir; she has seen a great deal of society, and is a
very lively lady. In the room above hers, we have a Miss Bachelor, a maiden
lady—very gifted, sir. She teaches music in some of the best families. The
third back is let to a Mr. Roberts, a young gentleman in the city, who only
breakfasts with us."

Cecil bowed on receiving this information, which promised him that the
fellow-boarders would, at least, afford some amusement to make up for the
dreariness of the house. He announced his intention of taking up his abode
there on the morrow. Accordingly, having moved what furniture he
possessed, with some necessary additions, into the room he was now to call
his own, and having hired in town a painting-room, which he fitted up for
writing as well as painting, and moved his piano into it, he took his young
bride to Mrs. Tring's house, and there they installed themselves, with some
merriment at the shifts to which the want of space forced them.

It was late in the evening when they took possession, and they preferred
not presenting themselves to their fellow boarders until the morning.

"This is a sorry home to bring you to, dearest," he said, as the servant,
having lighted his candles and asked if he had any orders to give, left the
room.

Blanche twined her arms round his neck, and said tenderly to him: "Can
that be a sorry home where love resides?"
 "No, Blanche, no," he replied, kissing her forehead, "I was wrong. Love
creates its own palaces; and we shall be as happy here, as if we had a
splendid seat. We are starting anew in the world—it is well to start from low
ground, because the smallest ascent has then its proper value. Here will I
build myself a name that shall make you an envied wife."

"I am already enviable—ought I to wish for more?"

What a delightful evening they spent, arranging their property in the

most convenient places, and then sitting over the fire discussing future plans
radiant in the far-off sunshine of Hope. That little room—what a world it
was! In the corner stood their bed,—in the centre a round table,—in another
corner a small bookcase—by the window a toilet table. Nothing could be
more cozy, they said.

O, 'tis a paradise the heaven of earth;

Didst thou but know the comfort of two hearts
In one delicious harmony united,
As to joy one joy, and think both one thought,
Live both one life, and therein double life;
To see their souls meet at an interview
In their bright eyes, at parley in their lips,
Their language kisses.*

* Chapman.--All Fools.

CHAPTER II.

INMATES OF A SUBURBAN BOARDING-HOUSE.

Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Tring's inmates assembled, and the new
comers were duly introduced to their future companions. The breakfast was
plain, and passed off rather uncomfortably, a feeling of restraint checking
merriment. As the boarders descended one by one, and were presented to
Cecil and his wife, an unanimity in commonplaces formed the staple of
remark, and every one seemed unwilling to unbend before having closely
scrutinized the new comers. Small communications respecting the state of
the health, and of the good or bad night's rest, were confidentially whispered
in corners; while daring prophecies on the subject of the weather were more
audibly pronounced.

Mr. Revell, the ex-official, ate in solemn silence; Mrs. Merryweather, the
lively Irish lady, was patronizing and polite; Miss Bachelor, as demure as a
well-fed cat; Mr. Roberts, a dapper clerk with a rosy face and well-oiled hair,
was the only person apparently undaunted by the presence of strangers, and
rattled on with more confidence than wit, until the half hour warned him of
the approach of his omnibus, when he buttoned his single-breasted frock-
coat up to the neck, passed on to his red fingers a close-fitting pair of doe-
skin gloves, rolled the silk of his umbrella into the smallest possible
compass, and departed with the indelible conviction of being "about the
neatest dressed man to be met in a day's walk."

Breakfast did not last long. Mr. Revell then engaged himself in assiduous
study of the second day's Times, the only vestige of a paper which found its
way into that forlorn place. Mrs. Tring departed to look after her household
concerns, leaving her boarders to their usual chat in the back parlour, until
their bed-rooms were ready for their reception.

Mrs. Merryweather began to unbend, and Cecil feared that her liveliness
might prove more tiresome than her reserve. She was a great talker of
inconceivable small talk; launched upon the endless sea of personal
reminiscence, she told stories with all the minute detail of a professed
conteur, excited attention by the ample paraphernalia of an anecdote, and
baulked it by ending without a point. Of all bores, this species is the worst: it
is the bore obtrusive and inevitable. Other bores can, with some adroitness,
be managed, they do not unchain your attention; but the story-teller fastens
upon your attention by artful preparations, and though you have been
disappointed a hundred times, experience is of no use, for your interest is
involuntarily accorded on every succeeding occasion.
 To escape from the torrent of talk which was thus loosened upon him,
Cecil sat down to the piano, and ran his fingers over the keys, after which he
begged Miss Bachelor to favour the company with a taste of her quality.
After the necessary hesitation and apologies, she sat down. From a teacher of
music he anticipated a sort of railway rattle; but Miss Bachelor agreeably
disappointed him by the modest execution of a sonata by Dussek: it was a
mild, feeble, performance, unpretending as the performer, and infinitely
preferable to Mrs. Merryweather's stories. He then sang a duet with Blanche,
then a solo, and then another duet. This concluded, he observed that Mrs.
Merryweather had retired, and he followed her example.

"I can't say much for our society," he said to his wife, as they went out
for a stroll.

"We shall not see much of it, you know. We have our own room," replied
Blanche.

"True; but while I am at work?"

"I can think of you!"

There was no reply to this, but to press the arm that leaned on his, closer
to his side, and to look fondly in her loving face.

During their walk, they discussed their plans again with that
inexhaustible interest which the future always has to the young and
struggling; and they returned to dinner with a good appetite.

A significant smile was exchanged between Mrs. Merryweather and Miss

Bachelor, and then between the ladies and Mr. Revell, as a handsome piece
of ribs of beef was placed upon the table. Cecil noticed it, but failed to
comprehend its meaning. He observed also that the hostess carved, and
would by no means consent to his relieving her of the trouble; a procedure
which the exiguity of the single slice placed upon each plate fully explained.

"May I trouble you for a little horse-radish?" he suddenly asked.

Mrs. Merryweather and Miss Bachelor—astonishment snatching up their

eyebrows—simultaneously ceased eating. Mr. Revell, whose deafness
prevented his astonishment, ate on. Ask for horse-radish! There was
something bewildering in the very extravagance of the expectation.

In silence, they awaited Mrs. Tring's reply.

"Horse-radish!" said that lady, with intense suavity. "Dear me! how very
forgetful of me. But we never eat it ourselves; and it never occurred to me
that you might like it. Very forgetful; very forgetful, indeed."

"Pray, do not say a word about it. I care very little for it—only a matter
of habit."

Emboldened by this audacity in the newcomer, Miss Bachelor ventured

to think she could eat another cut of beef. Mrs. Tring, scowlingly, and in the
most repressed tone, suggested the propriety of keeping a corner for the
second course; to which Miss Bachelor assented, now fairly unable to
conceive the immensity of the revolution which the appearance of the
Chamberlaynes had created. A second course! Visions of pheasants—
perhaps even grouse—darkened her bewildered brain.

Mr. Revell, as usual, had heard nothing, but sent up his plate for a second
help; to all Mrs. Tring's shouts about "keeping a corner," imperturbably
answering, "Yes, rather well done; and a bit of fat."

Mrs. Merryweather remembered how on one occasion she was dining at

Colonel James's who had married an old schoolfellow of hers, the daughter
of the man who for so many years kept the What's-the-name hotel in Jermyn
Street, where the Polish count stayed so many weeks, and was so like
Thaddeus of Warsaw, only his name was Winsky, and he came from Cracow,
and about whom there was that tragical story; how one night as he was
walking down Regent Street, when he was suddenly felled by a blow on the
head, and was taken senseless to his hotel. It was a most extraordinary
occurrence, and excited a great deal of talk at the time; but Mrs.
Merryweather could not at that instant remember the exact circumstances.
But, however, that was neither here nor there. What she was going to say
was, that her old school-fellow had married Colonel James—quite the
gentleman—and often invited her to dinner; very good dinners they were
too; plenty of wine and delicacies of the season—peas when they first came
in, and all that sort of thing; well, one day—she never could forget it, live as
long as she might—she had eaten so plentifully of the first course, a
delicious saddle of mutton, that when the game arrived—she had not
anticipated game—she was scarcely able to touch it; and Colonel James,
with his usual affability, observed, "Ah, Mrs. Merryweather, you should
have kept a corner for the second course."

This thrilling anecdote being ended, the beef was removed. Cecil was not
a little amused when he saw that an apple pudding constituted this famous
second course. But as, in the memory of man and boarder, no precedent for
such an extravagance as pudding with hot meat had been known at Mrs.
Tring's, the ladies were quite satisfied that such a second course should
appear at all. The only misgiving in their minds, was whether such cheer was
to become habitual; or was it simply an illusive and treacherous display for
that occasion only?

A Dutch cheese followed the pudding, and there the dinner terminated.

Accustomed as Blanche and Cecil had been to the luxuries and

refinements of their station, it may be supposed that this ignoble boarding-
house was very repugnant to them, and that they suffered bitterly from the
change. It was not so, however. Change is so pleasant to every human being,
that, provided it be abrupt and striking enough to produce a vivid sense of
contrast, it is eminently agreeable. The man who most enjoys a well-
appointed table, whose pride it is to have his dinners served with the care
and splendour bestowed upon banquets, will also enjoy "roughing it," and
picking the leg of a fowl with no fork but his fingers, no plate but a hunch of
bread. We like from time to time to feel ourselves superior to conveniences,
superior to our wealth and its advantages.

The change was quite abrupt enough to make Cecil and his wife enjoy it;
and on retiring to rest that night, they were as happy as affection could make
them.
 CHAPTER III.

HAPPY LABOUR, HAPPY LIFE.

Si modo dignum aliquid elaborare et efficere velint, relinquenda conversatio amicorum
et jucunditas urbis, deserenda cetera officia, utque ipsi dicunt, in nemora et lucos, id est, in
solitudinem recedendum est.

TACITUS.—De Oratoribus.

The splendours of the first day were never renewed. Exhausted

munificence sank quietly back into ancient close-fistedness. Mrs. Tring had
given one banquet, but every day was not to be a holiday, as Mrs.
Merryweather and Miss Bachelor mournfully confessed, when, on the
succeeding morning, they found themselves returned to the salt butter,
drenched tea, and implacable coffee, from which they had been one morning
released. Still more dolorous was the aspect of the dinner. A return was made
to the primitive allowance of one potato for each person, and the bread was
as stale as before.

Cecil was of course chary of making complaints, but as he could not eat
salt butter, quietly contented himself with dry toast: a proceeding which
gained him the respect of Mrs. Tring, as it saved just so much butter. It was
an ill-advised act, however, as it gave her the courage to make several other
petty retrenchments—too petty for him to speak about—yet, nevertheless,
annoying. He had not been there a fortnight before he determined on not
staying beyond the three months for which he had taken his room. Having
thus made up his mind that the annoyances were but temporary, he was
enabled to bear them with tolerable stoicism.

Mrs. Tring had to make a living out of her boarders, and as she accepted
such very low terms, the reader may imagine what nice calculations and
minute economies were necessary. The house was, indeed, a field of battle,
wherein, by adroit generalship, she every day gained a victory. The living
was pitiable, and Cecil was forced, in self-defence, to keep a small provision
in a store closet, from which he and his wife satisfied the appetite which
Mrs. Tring's fare had stimulated, not appeased. It sometimes went so far as
his sending out for a chop, which he cooked in his little room, over his dwarf
fire. Nevertheless, with all the extra expenses into which scanty fare forced
him, the place was remarkably convenient from its cheapness; and they both
supported the little discomforts with happy light-heartedness.

Cecil was full of projects. He had begun a picture of considerable

pretensions, the conception of which was not without grandeur: it was Nero
playing while he gazed upon the blazing city of Rome. He had also sketched
the libretto of a comic opera, of which he was to write both words and
music. Gay and lighthearted as the hopeful and employed always are, the
best qualities of his nature were brought out, and Blanche adored him, if
possible, more than ever. Work—which was given to man that he might
learn to know his excellence, and to know the pleasure which attends the full
development of every faculty—work crowded the hours with significance,
and gave to life a purpose; and Love illumined with its sunshine the difficult
path which stretched itself before him. Never, no never, had Cecil known
happiness till that time. He had squandered the riches of his nature as he had
squandered the heritage of his parents; and now he came to know the value
of what he had lost. A serious ambition occupied him, a happy affection
blessed him.

Oh! who shall paint the luminous picture of their quiet life, which, to
ordinary eyes, was so prosaic and insignificant! In that miserable house,
where meanness hourly struggled with adversity, there was a small room,
which was parlour, bed-room, and sometimes kitchen, all in one; and from
the contemplation of which, when you were told that in it lived a pair who
had been reared in luxury and refinement, you would have turned away with
painful pity. Yet were the secret history of that seemingly unfortunate pair
known, your pity would change into envy, as those four miserable walls
changed into a temple of Love, Youth, and Hope.

Poverty—a word of terror—is only terrible to the rich. The poor are not
really the unhappy, for happiness is wholly independent of our worldly
goods and chattels. If poverty has its hardships, wealth has its annoyances. If
wealth can satisfy caprices, when satisfied they do not give the same delight
as the cheap enjoyments from time to time indulged in by the poor. All
things are precious in proportion to the difficulty of obtaining them, and the
very facilities of wealth take from enjoyments their zest.

What makes poverty terrible is its proximity to want. And as want itself
is often a thing of degree, the rich imagine that any deprivation of their
accustomed indulgences must necessarily be a serious evil. But, in truth, the
human mind is so constituted as to adapt itself to every condition, and to
draw from its own health the requisites of happiness.

Blanche and Cecil were poor, but they had visions of future wealth and
prosperity; meanwhile they had the glorious certainty of mutual affection,
which irradiated their humble home, and made each hour of their lives worth
more than all Peru could purchase.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW MRS. VYNER WAS BENEFICENT.

One morning while Cecil was in his studio, smoking a cigar and
contemplating the sketch of his picture on the easel, with the air of a man
who profoundly meditates on the details of a great conception, Blanche was
in her room at Notting-hill, making the essence of coffee with a French
machine, which they had purchased (unable to drink the incomprehensible
mixture Mrs. Tring set before them) when a carriage drove up to the door.
Blanche did not hear it, as her room was situated at the back. It was with
great surprise, therefore, that she saw her mother and Rose rush into the
room, and bound into her arms.

After the first hearty embraces and inquiries were over, Blanche became
aware of the condition in which she was found, and blushed. It was not that
she herself felt ashamed of her poverty, but she was hurt at the reflections
which must necessarily arise in their minds respecting the folly of her
marriage; so she hastened, in rather a precipitate and clumsy manner, to
assure them how exquisitely happy she was.

"Thank God for that!" exclaimed Mrs. Meredith Vyner. "Then I have
nothing to reproach myself with for not having interfered—for not putting a
stop to Cecil's attentions—which I very early noticed, let me tell you. The
only thing I now desire is to bring your papa round; but he is so obstinate! I
do my utmost—but I almost begin to fear that my intercession only makes
him more resolved; and I suspect if we were never to mention the subject to
him, he would relent very speedily. But depend upon me, my dear, for
looking after your interests."

"Dearest mama!" said Blanche, gratefully kissing her.

"As soon as I see him relenting, I will contrive to throw him in your way
—and you can then manage him yourself—but do not attempt to see him till
I give you the word."

"I will be guided by you."

Rose was unusually grave and silent. Blanche noticed it, and noticed also
that she looked ill.

"I have been unwell," Rose said; "but I am getting better now. A slight
fever, that is all."

"And how is Marmaduke Ashley?" asked Blanche.

"Very well; we saw him yesterday; in fact we see him very often now,"
Mrs. Vyner answered; "somehow or other he has always some commission
to execute for one of us, and as he is an agreeable companion, we make
much of him."

"And how gets on the flirtation with Violet?"

"Why—pretty much as usual. I suspect it is only a flirtation just yet; or

else he is kept at a respectful distance, for you know dear Violet is not the
most affable of beauties."
 "And Julius, Rose, how is he?"

"Indeed, I cannot tell you," quietly answered Rose.

"You can't! What! do you mean to say, Rose, that——."

"He is in Italy, I believe," she said, interrupting her sister, but showing no
more emotion on her face than if she were speaking of the most indifferent
person.

Blanche was not deceived, however; she knew her sister's love for Julius,
and divined a quarrel.

"That is the slight fever!" she mentally exclaimed; and then comparing
her lot with that of her two sisters, felt it was infinitely preferable.

After a two hours' chat, they rose to depart. The real purpose of Mrs.
Vyner's visit was to give Blanche fifty pounds, which her father had sent her,
in accordance with the arranged plan that she was to suppose it came from
her mother.

"And now before I go, dear Blanche," said Mrs. Vyner, "I have to give
you an earnest of your not being forgotten by me, however your father may
act. Money from him, he vows, is out of the question; he will not give a
sixpence. But out of my own privy purse, I shall from time to time take care
of you. There, dear girl, take that;

The gift is sma', but love is a'.

I have set aside this fifty pounds——"

She was interrupted by Blanche throwing her arms round her neck, and
hugging her tightly, while tears of gratitude stood in her eyes, and she
murmured "Dearest, kindest, mama!"

Rose, who was equally taken by surprise at this coup-de-theatre, also

sprang up and kissed her mother, exclaiming,—

"Oh! I wish Violet were here!"

 Mrs. Vyner understood the wish, and looked delighted.

"One day," she said, with the meekness of a martyr, "she will learn to
know me."

It was an exciting scene. Blanche and Rose were affected, as kind hearts
always are at any action which bears the stamp of kindness; and Mrs. Vyner
was affected, as most people are when they have done a generous action,
with a certain inward glow of noble pleasure.

For do not suppose that she remembered at this moment whence the
money actually came. Not she. In her excitable mind, the means were lost in
the end. She had given the money, she had aroused the gratitude of the two
girls, and as far as her feeling of the matter went, she felt just as if the money
had been hers. Indeed, so truly was she possessed with this idea, so actually
generous did she feel in that moment of excitement, that on opening her
purse to take out the notes, she found another ten-pound note beside it, really
her own, and taking it also out she said as she presented it,—

"There, you may as well have that too—you will find plenty of use for it
—and I shall not miss it. There. Only be happy, and trust in me."

The sudden impulse which led her to do this—to complete as it were the
action which she had begun with such applause—to redouble the effect of
what had already been created—will be understood by all who have known,
and knowing have analyzed, such characters as Mrs. Vyner; to others it will
appear a gross inconsistency.

CHAPTER V.

THE CURSE OF IDLENESS.

 Or fia dunque giammai, che tu, Ozio, possi esser grato veramente, se non quando
succedi a degne occupazioni. L'ozio vile et inerte voglio, che ad un animo generoso sia la
maggior fatica, che aver egli possa, se non gli rappresenta dopo lodabile esercizio e lavoro.

GIORDANO BRUNO.—Spaccio.

The consequences of this little scene were manifold.

"Papa," said Violet to her father on the following day, "you have done
what I knew you would do, and what I accept as a presage for the future."

"And what is that, my dear?"

"Sent Blanche some money."

"Who told you so?" exclaimed he, greatly surprised.

"I divined it," she answered, with a quiet smile.

"You ... you are mistaken, Violet, ... I send ... I have renounced her."

"Yes, but your heart speaks for her in secret, and in secret you send
money. Though I question whether sixty pounds..."

"Fifty," interrupted her father.

"Oh, then, you did know of it?" she said, archly.

Meredith Vyner bit his lip.

"Sixty was the sum Mama gave, at any rate, because Rose, who was
present, told me so."

"Kind, generous creature!" ejaculated Vyner. "She must have added the
other ten from her own purse. Violet, you have guessed aright, but keep the
secret, unless you wish me to withhold even my underhand charity from
your wretched sister."
 Violet promised to do so; but how great was her scorn of her mother's
hypocrisy, when she thus found her suspicions verified! From her knowledge
of her father and mother, she had at once guessed the real state of the case,
and confusedly, but strongly, suspected the motive of the latter.

This was the way in which their mutual hatred was nourished. Violet was
not a dupe, and her mother saw that she was not.

On Cecil, the influence of this gift was fatal.

"This comes most fortunately," he said; "for not only do I now begin to
see that our income is barely sufficient to meet our scanty expenditure, but
the more I advance in my 'Nero,' the more am I impressed with the necessity
for not hurrying it. All great works demand time and labour. Were I to hurry
the execution I should spoil it, and too much depends upon success for me to
be precipitate."

He was sincere in saying so; he was his own dupe in asserting that what
he most needed was ample leisure in which to elaborate his conception. He
caught at the excuse offered to his idleness, and like all men, covered his
weakness in the imposing folds of an aphorism. The brain is singularly
fertile in inventing plausible reasons to excuse weaknesses.

Labour is a sublime necessity: it is beneficence under a rude aspect. But

although so beneficent to man, it is radically antipathetic to his nature. All
men are constrained to work. Poverty or ambition are the invariable
taskmasters, and it is only by dint of the strong stimulus of want, or the
stronger dictates of indomitable will, that human nature, vagabond as are its
tendencies, can be made to persevere in the tasks set before it.

What wonder, then, if men under all conditions avidly seize upon every
occasion which enables them for a moment to escape from the tyranny of
work? What wonder if this weak, wayward, susceptible Cecil, who had
laboured cheerily under the impulsion of necessity, now forgot the sweet
delights of his daily task, and relapsed into his old habits of dreaming
idleness?
 There was no longer any remarkable hurry. His daily existence did not
depend upon the immediate accomplishment of his task. He could wait, he
could mature his plans, he could work only when the inspiration came to
him; there was no need to harass an unwilling; brain, he could bide his time.
To any one who knew him, it would be easy to foresee that from the moment
he was released from the immediate necessity of labour, his time would be
frittered away in sterile efforts. It is only genius, which, goaded by an
irresistible inward impulse to transmute into art all that it has felt, labours
with courageous love, and sings because it cannot choose but sing. Talent of
every kind needs an external stimulus, and Cecil was a man of talent, not a
man of genius.

Blanche confirmed him in his opinions; partly, perhaps, out of sincere

belief in him and in all he said, which made her think he could not be in
error; partly, also, out of a little egotism of love which made her rejoice in
every hour that he could snatch from labour to spend at her side. He was so
loveable, that she would deserve pardon, even if her sex's ignorance of life
had not concealed from her the enormity of her fault. There was something
so caressing in his manner, that few people withstood it; and to her he was
the perfection of tenderness, delicacy and amiability. Persons of his lively,
susceptible organization, are usually fascinating in their manners—there is a
laisser aller (which in him was tempered with perfect good breeding), a
frankness, a gaiety, and a general consideration for the feelings and opinions
of others, founded on a desire of universal approbation, which create more
regard than great qualities in a less agreeable exterior. If he was charming to
others, what was he to the wife he loved!

She wished to have him with her, and he was but too glad to gratify her
wish. A little excursion to Richmond occupied one day; a visit to some
Exhibition broke in upon another. There were always pleasant walks and
satisfactory excuses. He was not idle, he said; his brain was working, his
ideas were gradually becoming clearer; the details stood out more distinctly
in his imagination; and 'Nero' would benefit by this delay.

The effect of alms is always enervating, however it may relieve a present

want; and the contributions of Mrs. Vyner were a species of alms. This was
the case with Cecil. His sense of independence—his healthy confidence in
his own powers—becomes destroyed. Had Vyner made a distinct allowance