Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Volume 3 (of 3)

by George Henry Lewes

BOOK VII.

CHAPTER I.
GEORGE MAXWELL.

Pietro.—"This Malevole is one of the most prodigious affectations that ever conversed with nature. A man, or rather a monster: more discontent than Lucifer, when he was thrust out of the Presence. His appetite is as insatiable as the grave: as far from any content as from heaven."

JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner was radiant again; if not happy, she was at least sprightly, occupied, and flattered. She had not forgotten Marmaduke, she had not forgiven him; but although his image sometimes lowered upon her, she banished it with a smile of triumph, for she was loved!

The silent, shy, and saturnine George Maxwell had taken Marmaduke's place, as cavalier servente; and across his dark, forbidding face there shone a gleam of sunshine, as he now watched the sylph-like enchantress, who for so long had made him more and more misanthropical by her gay indifference to him, and who at last had perceived his love.

Marmaduke, his hated favoured rival, was dismissed; and not only was a rival dismissed, but he, George, was admitted in his place.

The history of these two may be told in a few words. Maxwell, silent and watchful so long as Marmaduke was a visitor at the house, suddenly became more talkative and demonstrative when he found Marmaduke's visits cease. Hopes rose within him. He spoke with another accent, and with other looks to Mrs. Vyner. She was not long in understanding him. Once opening her eyes to his love, she saw as in a flash of light, the whole history of his passion, she understood the conduct of the silent, jealous lover, and deeply flattered at such constancy and unencouraged affection, began to turn a favourable eye upon him. Smarting herself from wounded affection, she could the more readily and truly sympathize with him. In a few weeks—for passion grows with strange rapidity, and days are epochs in its history—she gave him to understand that he was not indifferent to her. Of Marmaduke she spoke freely to him, telling him the same story she had told her husband; and he believed her: what will not lovers believe!

No word of love as yet had passed their lips, and yet they understood each other. Indeed, so plain was the avowal of her looks, that a man less shy and suspicious than Maxwell would long ago have declared his passion, certain of a return. But he was withheld by the very fierceness of his passion, and by his horror at ridicule. Maxwell was one of those men who never enter the water till they can swim—who never undertake anything till they are certain of succeeding, held back by the fear of failure. One trait in his character will set this disposition clearly forth: he had a fine tenor voice, and sang with some mastery, but he never could be prevailed upon to sing before any one, except his family, because he was waiting till he could execute as well as Rubini or Mario. Meanwhile, he was intensely jealous of those who, not having reached that standard, did sing; and his scornful criticisms on their curious presumption, was nothing but miserable spite at their not having so sensitive a vanity as his own.

Maxwell was in truth a bad, mean-spirited, envious, passionate man, in whom vanity, ludicrously susceptible and exacting, fostered the worst of passions, jealousy and revenge. He was misanthropical: not because his own high-thoughted soul turned from the pettiness of mankind with intolerant disgust,—not because he had pryed too curiously into the corruptions of human nature, without at the same time having been fortunate enough to know familiarly all that is great, and loving, and noble in the human heart—but simply because his life was a perpetual demand upon the abnegation, affection, and admiration of others, and because that demand could not, in the nature of things, be satisfied. It has been said that a man who affects misanthropy is a coxcomb, for real misanthropy is madness. Not always madness: seldom so; it is generally inordinate and unsatisfied vanity. A man hates his fellow-creatures because they, unwittingly, are always irritating him by refusing to submit to the exactions of his vanity: he construes their neglect into insult, their indifference into envy. He envies them for succeeding where he dare not venture; he hates them for not acknowledging his own standard of himself. Maxwell was one of these.

Conceive such a man suddenly caught in the meshes of a brilliant coquette like Mrs. Meredith Vyner! Conceive him after two years of angry expectation, during which she has never bestowed a smile on him which was not unmeaning, now awakening to the conviction that his merits are recognised, that his love is returned, that he has inspired a guilty passion!

The guilt added intensity to his joy: it was so immense a triumph!

What a pair! Love has been well said to delight in antitheses, otherwise we might stare at the contrast afforded by this little, hump-backed, golden-haired, coquettish, heartless woman, and this saturnine, gloomy, stupid, bad-hearted man.

Poor Meredith Vyner could not comprehend it. The evidence of his eyes told him plainly how the case stood; but his inexperienced mind refused to accept the evidence of his senses. What could she see in so grim and uninteresting an animal? Marmaduke was quite another man; affection for him was intelligible at least; but Maxwell! And what could Maxwell see in her? Why, she was the very contradiction of all he must feel in his own breast!

In that contradiction was the charm: Maxwell did himself instinctively, but involuntarily, that justice; he would assuredly have hated a duplicate of himself, even more intensely than he hated others.

Meredith Vyner endeavoured once or twice to come to an "explanation" with his wife; for he was master in his own house, and would be, or he was greatly deceived. But she answered him with a few galling sarcasms (adding general allusions to the miseries of young wives subject to the absurd jealousies of foolish, old men), and ending in—hysterics! There was no combating hysterics, and Vyner was always defeated.

CHAPTER II.
ROSE AGAIN SEES JULIUS.

Mrs. Vyner again went into society as usual, the only difference being that she was generally accompanied by Maxwell instead of her husband. Rose often stayed at home, but sometimes went with her. Time had not made her forget Julius St. John, but it had brought back the elasticity of her spirits; and except an occasional sigh of regret, or a short reverie, she was much the same as she had been before.

One Saturday on which they went to Dr. Whiston's soirée, Rose accompanied them, and was delighted to see Cecil there in high spirits, and beautifully dressed. Blanche's condition of course prevented her being there.

"But she is quite well, is she not?"

"Charming, and looks lovelier than ever."

"I have not been to see her this week. Mama has not been able to let me have the carriage. How gets on your new picture?"

"Famously. How beautiful you are looking to-night, Rose!"

"Of course I am; do I ever fail? But tell me, what is the subject of your picture?"

He put his finger on his lips.

"That's a secret. I let none know anything about it, as I intend surprising you all."

"Papa is so proud of you now, that I think if you were to go to him, all would be made up."

"That's kind, certainly; now I no longer need him, he is willing to acknowledge his son-in-law. No, Rosy, no; I have made advances enough; he must make them now."

"But think how delightful it would be for us all!"

"I know that; besides, I know it must come. He will make the first advance; and he shall make it."

The secret of Cecil's holding back was not pride, but calculation. He fancied that if Vyner made the first advances to him, he could make terms; and his recent losses at the gaming-table had made him sensible of the precariousness of his present resources.

As they moved through the crowd, and were passing into the second room, they came face to face with Mrs. St. John and Julius.

There was no avoiding a recognition. Rose blushed deeply, and felt extremely embarrassed; but recovering herself, she held out her hand to Mrs. St. John, who took it coldly.

Cecil and Julius shook hands cordially.

"Have you long been returned?" asked Rose in a low voice.

"Six weeks," was the laconic reply. "I hope Mr. Vyner is quite well, and Mrs. Vyner?'

"Mama is here—in the other room," she said, with an effort.

She made a movement as if to pass on; her eye met Julius's as she bowed, but his face, though deadly pale, gave no sign of agitation.

In another instant, they were in the next room; and Rose, with well acted indifference, occupied herself with the specimens exhibited on the table, addressing common-place remarks to Cecil, much to his astonishment.

"Is it all over, then, Rose?" he said.

"All. Oh, do look at this machine for teaching the blind to write—how very curious."

"Are you serious, Rose?"

"Serious! Didn't you see the cut direct?"

"You take it calmly!"

"Would you have a scene? Shall I faint? Shall I pretend to be stabbed to the heart? Shall I act a part?"

"Pretend! Are you not acting now?"

"Not I. If you think their reception has pained me, pray undeceive yourself; it is no more than I expected. Months ago I made up my mind. I know what to think of him. I am glad he has behaved so; very glad, very glad. It now puts everything beyond a doubt. Very glad."

She muttered "very glad" to herself as she sat down in a chair just left by a dowager, and tried to cheat herself into the belief that she really was glad. In truth, she was at that moment more indignant than unhappy. The coldness of her reception, both by mother and son, had exasperated her. Had he looked pleased to see her, had he even looked very pained, she would have at once given him to understand that his retreat had been precipitate, and that she was ready to accept him with delight. But his coldness piqued her; she refrained from addressing a word to him; and was now indulging in somewhat bitter reflections on his conduct.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vyner had been eloquent in her admiration of Cecil and his genius, to Lady F——, with whom she was talking. Maxwell, from time to time, threw in a sarcasm, and was evidently uneasy at hearing any one praised so highly.

"Well, but you know, my dear sir," said Lady F——, "he must be monstrous clever, or he would never make so much money."

Maxwell shrugged his shoulders, and said, with considerable significance in the tone,—

"That depends upon how he makes it."

Mrs. Vyner looked at him surprised. A little while afterwards, when they were standing retired apart from the company, she asked him what he meant by his reply to Lady F——, respecting Cecil's money-making.

"I mean this: he doesn't make money by his genius," Maxwell replied, with sneering emphasis.

"By what, then?"

Maxwell refused at first to answer.

"What can you be hinting at? By what means does he make his money?"

"By ... there, I may as well tell you; you must soon hear it ... by gambling."

A shudder of disgust ran over her frame.

"Are you sure—quite sure of this?"

"Quite: I had it from a man who plays nightly at the same table with him."

"How horrible! isn't it?"

"No," he replied, with a sardonic smile: "it's genius."

She looked at him astonished: at that moment, she hated him. Well would it have been for her if she had taken the warning of that moment, and flung from her the viper that was crawling to her heart. But she forgot it. Maxwell's smile passed away, and was replaced by one of tenderness for her.

Rose and her mother were both thoughtful as they rode home that night.

The next day, Rose communicated to her father what Cecil had said at Dr. Whiston's, and begged him to write to Cecil, and announce his forgiveness. Vyner, who would have been well pleased to do so, spoke with his wife about it.

"He is a credit to us now," added Vyner.

"Oh! yes, a great credit."

"Don't you think so?"

"How should I not? Vyner is an old name—a good name—it can gain no fresh éclat from honours, but it may from infamy."

"From infamy, Mary?"

"Cecil Chamberlayne, your creditable son-in-law, is a gambler."

"Good heavens!"

"His cab and tiger, his dinners, his trinkets—all come from that infamous source: it is his means of livelihood."

"My poor, poor Blanche!" exclaimed the wretched father, as the tears came into his eyes. "But she shall not stay with him .... I will take her away ... She shall come to us .... she shall."

In vain his wife interposed; he ordered the carriage, and drove at once to Cecil's house.

CHAPTER III.
WOMAN'S LOVE.

Blanche was trimming a baby cap, when her father entered the room. With a cry of delight she sprang up, and rushed into his arms. He hugged her fondly, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he pressed his child sadly to his bosom.

It was some time before either of them spoke.

"My poor child!" he said at last.

"Your happy child, papa; I am so happy! I knew you would forgive me soon. Oh! why is not Cecil here to join with me in gratitude?"

"Blanche," he said with an effort, "I am come to take you away with me: will you come?"

She looked her answer.

"That is right, ... that is right .... Pack up your things, then, at once."

"Pack up what things?" she asked in astonishment.

"Whatever you want to take with you .... Come .... don't stay in this house a moment longer than you can help."

Her astonishment increased.

"Do you mean me to leave my home?"

"Yes."

"And .... my husband?"

"Yes."

"Leave my husband?—leave my Cecil? Why, papa, what can have put that into your head? Do you suppose, I am not happy here? ... He is the best of husbands!"

Meredith Vyner had recourse to his snuff-box, as in all emergencies. He inserted thumb and index finger into it, and trifled mechanically with the grains, while seeking for some argument.

"Do, dear papa, relieve me from this suspense .... What is it you mean?"

"Are you serious, Blanche?—is he a good husband?'

"I adore him; he is the kindest creature on earth."

Vyner took a huge pinch. That did not clear his ideas, and he sat silently brushing off the grains which had congregated in the wrinkles of his waistcoat, very much puzzled what to say.

"Papa, there is something on your mind. If it is anything against Cecil .... anything a wife ought not to hear, spare me, and do not utter it. If it is anything else, spare me the suspense, and tell me at once what it is."

"Blanche, my dearest child, I came here to save you from ruin, and I will save you. You must quit your husband."

"Why?"

"Is not my word sufficient? I say you must. Your welfare depends upon it."

"Why?—I say again—why?"

"Are you—no, you cannot be aware of how your husband gains a livelihood."

She coloured violently and trembled. He noticed it, and read the avowal in her agitation.

"You do know it then?"

She burst into tears.

"Well, my dear child, since you know it, that saves me an unpleasant explanation. But you must leave him; you cannot stay here longer: you cannot share his infamy; you shall not be dragged into his ruin. It has been a miserable match; I have always grieved over it; always knew it would end wretchedly. But to come to this!—to this! No, Blanche, you cannot remain here. Come and live at home; there at least you will not live in infamy."

She wept bitterly, but offered no remark.

"Come, Blanche," he said, taking her hand, "you will leave this place, will you not? You will live with us. I cannot promise to make you happy, but at least I can save you from the wretched existence of a gambler's wife. Come—come."

"I cannot!" she sobbed.

"Rouse yourself: conquer this emotion. Think of your future—think of your child!"

She shuddered.

"Think of the child you are to bring into the world. Must it also share in the ruin which its father will inevitably draw upon you? My dear Blanche, you must have courage; for your own sake—for your child's sake—you must quit this house. Come home to me. I am unhappy myself; I want to have some one about me I can love: Rose is the only one: Violet is away: your mother—but don't let me speak of her. You see, Blanche, dear, I want you; you will fill a place at home; you will be so petted; and the little one will have every comfort—and his aunt Rose—but don't sob so, my child: do restrain yourself. You will come, eh?"

"I cannot!"

Vyner took another pinch of snuff, and was disconcerted; there was such wretchedness, but such resolution in her tone, that he felt his arguments had been powerless.

Her sobs were pitiful to hear, and his own eyes were filled with tears, in spite of his rising anger at what he considered her obstinacy.

"Why can you not?"

"Because he is my husband—one whom I have chosen for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to obey, till death do us part—one from whom death alone shall part me, for I love him, he loves me, and by his side I can smilingly await poverty, even ruin."

"Even infamy!" exclaimed Vyner.

"Even infamy!" she replied, in a low sad tone.

"This is madness."

"It is love—it is duty. I know the wretched fate which must befall us. I foresee it: but if it had already fallen, I should say the same. I cannot leave him! I may be miserable; we may be brought to beggary; my child may want every necessary—oh! I have not shut my eyes to that terrible prospect! I have seen it; it has wrung my heart, but I cannot—would not, if I could—leave him who is all my happiness. Cecil is more than my husband: he is all that I hold dearest in life: he is the father of that child whose future you so gloomily foresee; shall that child—shall my child not smile upon its father? You do not know what you ask."

"I ask you to be happy."

"I am so. Without Cecil I could not be so. Let misfortune come to me in any shape, so that it rob me not of him, and I can bear it; only not that—only not that!"

"Bless you for those words, my own beloved!" said a voice which made them both start and look up.

Cecil stood before them. He had overheard the greater part of their conversation, and had opened the door without their noticing it, absorbed as they were in their own emotions.

Vyner took three rapid pinches, and felt greatly confused. Blanche threw herself into her husband's arms, and sobbed aloud.

"Bless you, my own Blanche, for the unshaken depth of your love. It shall not be thrown away. I will no longer be unworthy of it. I have been a villain—yes, sir, I confess I have been a weak and selfish villain; seduced by my necessities, and by vile temptations, I have nearly brought this dear girl to ruin. But this morning has saved me. I have seen the peril—I will—hear me, sir, solemnly swear, by all that is sacred—by all my hopes of happiness—by this dear head now resting on my heart—I swear never again, on any pretext, to touch a card—to enter a house of play! Will you believe me? You hear my oath—a gentleman's word ought to be sufficient, but you have my oath—will you believe it?"

Blanche pressed him convulsively to her, and laughed hysterically in her joy.

Vyner rose, and taking Cecil's hand, said,—

"Chamberlayne, you are a man of honour; I respect you. What you have now done effaces the past. We are reconciled. I will assure you two hundred pounds a year during my life, which, with your own income, will suffice, I hope, to keep you in decent comfort, and will enable you to employ your talents honourably, and, I hope, profitably. My house is open to you. We are reconciled, are we not?"

Cecil pressed his hand warmly.

"I have been angry with you," Vyner continued, "but my anger is gone—what says our favourite?"

Non Dindymene, non adytis quatit
Mentem sacerdotum incola Pythius
Non Liber æque, non acuta
Si geminant Corybantes æra
Tristes ut iræ—

Eh? is it not so? The past then is forgotten?"

"Oh, sir," said Cecil, wiping away a tear, "I do not deserve such kindness.... I have been a wretch.... But my future conduct shall thank you—I cannot now!"

"All I ask is—make Blanche happy."

Cecil looked down upon her upturned face, and met her loving glance with a look of unutterable tenderness; then drawing her head to him, he pressed his lips upon her eyes; she threw her arms around him, and exclaimed,—

"How can I help being happy with him?"

Much affected by this scene, Vyner again pressed Cecil's hand with great warmth, kissed his child, wiped his eyes, and withdrew; for his heart was full.

CHAPTER IV.
A BEAM OF SUNSHINE IN THE HOUSE.

Cecil was very earnest in his repentance, and sincerely meant to keep the oath he pledged. He at once sold his cab and horse; discharged his tiger; reduced his expenses in every practicable way; paid the great bulk of his debts; ceased to visit the club; ordered the servant to deny him to Frank Forrester, whenever that worthy called; and was assiduous at his painting.

Having thus shut himself out from temptation, and begun again the career of an honourable man, he ought once more to have been happy. He was so for a few days. Blanche's recovered gaiety, and her grateful fondness, made him bless the change. But the excitement soon wore off; and in getting into the broad monotonous rut of daily life, he began to miss the variety and excitement of his former pursuits.

He could not work with pleasure: he had lost all the "delight" which "physics pain." Work to him was drudgery, and it was no more. His spirits became low. From Blanche he hid the change as well as he could; but he could not hide it from himself. He would stand for half an hour before his easel, absorbed in reveries, and not once putting pencil to the canvass. He would sit for hours in an easy chair, smoking, or affecting to read; but his mind incessantly occupied playing imaginary games at rouge et noir, in which he was invariably a winner.

There is this excuse for the gambler: the temptation besets him in a more powerful shape than almost any other temptation to which man is exposed. Imagination, stimulated by cupidity, is treacherously active. The games being games of chance, imagination plays them not only with alarming distinctness, but with most delusive success. Heaps of gold glitter before the infatuated dreamer; and although he rouses himself with a sigh to find that he has only been dreaming, yet the dream has had the vividness of reality to him. Many and many an unhappy wight has started up from such dreams, goaded with a sense of their reality, and persuaded that, if he only play the game as he has just played it in imagination, he must infallibly win; has pawned his last remnant, or robbed his employers, to rush to the gaming-table, and venture everything on the strength of that conviction. Ruined, perhaps dishonoured, people have exclaimed, The wretch! or The scoundrel! and have been stern in their indignant condemnation of his pitiable folly. But little do they know to what fearful temptations he has succumbed; little do they know the fascination of the gaming-table to one who has played much, and whose hours have been crowded with imaginary games, in which he has been eminently successful.

I do not defend the gambler: God forbid! I am merely endeavouring to present a psychological explanation of the very common phenomenon, which people generally regard as produced only by some innate wickedness. The gambler knows the folly of his act: no one so well! He knows that the bank must win, and in his cooler moments will demonstrate the matter clearly to you. But then comes this seductive imagination, like a syren, picturing to him gorgeous realities: he is dazzled, fascinated, and succumbs.

To resist imagination, to trample down temptation, a man needs strength of will; but this is precisely the quality men are most deficient in; and here, as almost everywhere, we find that vice is not, as Plato says, ignorance, but weakness!

Cecil held out manfully against temptation, and everyone believed him cured. No one knew what was constantly passing in his mind, or they would not have been so secure.

Meanwhile Blanche had passed safely through her blissful trial, and a little girl was nestled at her side. The joy and rapture of the happy parents, the delight of Rose, the pride of Vyner, and the supreme indifference of Mrs. Vyner, may well be conceived. Little Rose Blanche, that was her name, was more welcomed, and more caressed than if she had come into the world to preserve great estates from passing into other hands; and how she escaped being killed by the excess of attention and variety of advice, is only another illustration of the mysterious escapes of infancy: a period when it would seem some good genii must be always on the alert to prevent the ever imminent catastrophe. There is said to be a special god who looks after drunkards, and preserves them in their helpless state; but what are the perils of a drunkard to the perils of an infant surrounded with nurses, relations, and female friends?

Rose Blanche throve, however, and grew into a dimply, rosy babe enough, incomparably more beautiful than any other babe ever seen, as mother, father, nurse, and aunt incessantly testified. It did squall a little, to be sure, and Cecil who had irritable nerves could not be brought to consider that musical. But men! what do they know of babies?

My dear madam, answer me frankly, did you ever know a man who was worth listening to on that subject? Did you ever meet with one whose head was not crammed with absurd notions thereupon? Is not your husband, in particular, characterized by the most preposterous incapacity—is he not fidgety, crotchety, absurd? I knew it.

Let me not, therefore, admit one word of Cecil's respecting Rose Blanche, who promised to have more beauty, intelligence, and heart, than any other infant then sprawling in long clothes, or then looking with profound impenetrable calmness upon the wondrous universe to which it had been so recently introduced.

A beam of sunshine had been let into the existence of Blanche and Cecil, a beam which stretching far out into the future gilded the distant horizon, so that they, and all, pronounced great happiness in store for them. The exquisite expression of maternal love made Blanche incomparably beautiful; and Cecil, as he watched her gazing downwards on the infant at her breast, in that deep stillness of seraphic love, whose calm intensity Raphael, alone has succeeded in pourtraying,—would bend forward and press his lips upon her forehead chastened, purified, and exalted. In those moments he was another man; ennui fled, discouragement was conquered, and the cards were not before his mind's eye.

CHAPTER V.
VIOLET TO MARMADUKE.

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend—
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end:
For this the passion to excess was driven,
That self might be annulled:—her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.
WORDSWORTH.—Laodamia.

DEAREST MARMADUKE,

I must write to you. I have been on the point of doing so often, very often, and now I learn from Rose that you have written to ask her if she could send you news of my health from time to time. Thank you, Marmaduke, thank you for the delicacy which has dictated your respect for my resolution—thank you for not having attempted to discover my retreat. You see I disclose it to you now—I am with my kind old uncle—I let you know it, confiding in your not abusing the knowledge, and attempting to see me. We cannot meet. I could not endure it. But we can write. Your letters will be a solace to me; to write to you will be an exquisite pleasure. Yes, Marmaduke, I long to pour out my soul to you; I long to tell you all I think, all I do; and you will tell me what you think, and what you do, will you not? There is no issue from our fate; we must bear it, but we shall bear it with less murmuring if we can speak to each other without reserve.

"My health, you will be glad to learn, is good. Exercise keeps up my strength, in spite of what I have suffered. I am almost all day on horseback with my uncle, and that keeps me strong. Shot is of course my inseparable companion; the dear beast sympathizes with me, I am sure; and sometimes when I sit still, my soul carried away in some sad reverie, I see his intelligent eyes fixed inquiringly on my face, and then I say, 'where is Marmaduke?' and he pricks his ears, wags his tail, and runs to the door to listen if indeed you are coming; disappointed, he returns to his place to look sadly at me, as if he knew that your presence alone would bring the smile again upon my face.

"I am much calmer than I was. Renewed health has doubtless a great deal to do with it, for misery is but malady; the healthy are not long unhappy. I now resign myself to the inevitable, and no longer beat my distracted wings against my cage. Happy I am not, and cannot hope to be; but I am calm, and in my calmness it seems to me that the privilege of writing to you, and of knowing that you think of me, is a privilege which the happiest might envy.

"I read much. Tell me what books you are reading that I may read them too, and so be with you in spirit, even in your studies. Mind you obey me in this particular, and tell me all the books you read. Do not be afraid of frightening me by the dryness of the subject. I have been a miscellaneous and unwomanly reader. Papa's and uncle's libraries have always been at my disposal, and although I have studied no one subject, and am consequently very, very ignorant, yet in my unrestrained liberty I have read all sorts of books, from treatises of philosophy to novels. You know papa made us all learn a little Latin, that he might explain Horace to us; so that I have got a tincture of learning, just enough to make men's books intelligible, and not enough to make me a blue.

"Therefore, let me read what you read; I shall, perhaps, understand a serious book all the better from knowing that you have understood it; for I want my mind to be as little below your level as culture can make it.

"Describe to me your daily habits and avocations. Rose tells me that you are seen nowhere; that you have ceased to visit all your old friends. What replaces them?

"I do not ask you if you think of me. I know you do. My own heart tells me so. I know your character; with all its manly strength, it has womanly tenderness in it, like the honey Samson found in the lion's mouth; and that tenderness is my guarantee that I am not forgotten; that, although separated by an insuperable barrier, we are not less united in heart. You will not cease to love me because I cannot be yours; you will not love me less because I am forced to deny you. No, Marmaduke, love such as yours is not selfish: it is something higher than self, and I will not pay you the ill compliment of doubting it. Could I do so, I should be selfish enough to appeal to your feelings, to entreat you to love me ever, and not to think of another. I should be jealous could I doubt you—but I cannot doubt.

"God bless you, Marmaduke, may you be happy! Write to me soon; and write only of yourself.

"VIOLET."

CHAPTER VI.
BRIGHTER SCENES.

You o'erjoyed spirits, wipe your long-wet eyes!
JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.

There was a charming ball at Mrs. Langley Turner's. The rooms were full without being crowded, and the company was brilliant: rank, beauty, and talent, gave their éclat to the scene.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner and Rose were there; George Maxwell of course, and to Rose's extreme delight, Julius St. John. She was at first annoyed at recognising him, but her second thoughts showed her that the present was an excellent opportunity for exhibiting her indifference. She was, accordingly, in high spirits, or seemed to be so; accepted the homage paid her with saucy coquetry; danced, talked, and laughed as if her heart were as light as innocence could make it. A careless bow had been her only salute of Julius, and she passed by him several times without affecting not to observe him.

She noticed that he had grown thinner and paler. His face had grown more thoughtful, but his demeanour was perfectly calm.

Late in the evening, Rose was examining the flowers, and thinking of the handsome young guardsman who had just left her side, when she felt some one approach her. It was Julius. She resumed her inspection of the flowers.

"If you are not engaged for the next quadrille, Miss Vyner," he said in a low but firm tone, "may I hope for the honour?"

"I am engaged," she replied quietly, and then moved half-way round the flower-stand, as if to discover fresh beauties.

Julius did not mistake the refusal; but he was not to be so easily discouraged.

"Are you also engaged for the quadrille after that?"

"I am."

There was less firmness in her tone; he thought it trembled.

"And .... I hope I am not intrusive .... and the next?"

Rose fancied that a refusal would look like fear, so she mastered her voice, and replied, with the stereotyped smile,—

"I shall have much pleasure."

He bowed, and withdrew.

Rose's gaiety was somewhat damped; she tried to be lively, but there was a depression on her spirits she could not shake off. It seemed as if her eyes could fix themselves nowhere but in the direction in which Julius stood.

She tried to look away, but she soon found herself again watching him.

Meanwhile, Maxwell was remonstrating with Mrs. Vyner upon the little desire she exhibited to be near him, to speak to him.

"We must think of appearances," she replied; "here every action is noticed and commented-on."

"But other men sit by you; you talk to them."

"Yes; as a blind. If I am seen much with you, people will begin to gossip."

"What if they do?" he brutally replied.

"What if they do! Are you indifferent to it?"

"You do not seem to be, at any rate," he said, sarcastically. "You have grown very respectful of appearances of late. You never thought of them with Mr. Ashley."

"Because I did not care for him."

"You looked as if you did; you acted as if you did; and every one supposed you did."

"But they were wrong. I was not careful then, because there was no danger of my committing myself. With you, it is very different."

"So it appears."

"Now you are angry."

"I am."

"What about?"

"Your indifference."

"Foolish fellow!" she said playfully.

"Oh, yes, it is very easy to say that; but I feel I have cause to be angry. You pretend to love me, yet you can leave me here in the room, and chatter away to any fool who pleases to accost you. One would think I was indifferent to you."

"One would think! who would? would you? What does it matter to you if the world thinks me indifferent to you?"

"It matters a great deal."

"How so?"

"Of course it does; it always matters to a man to have a charming woman care for him. People envy him his good fortune. They think more highly of him."

"And you wish to be envied?"

"I do not wish it to be supposed that I am so unattractive that no woman can care for me."

"It would please you, then, if people gossipped about us?"

"I don't say that exactly; though I don't see what harm their gossip could do us."

She fixed her grey eyes upon him with a strange expression. In an instant she read his character—its intense selfishness was revealed; and she began to doubt whether he, too, might not be playing with her, as Marmaduke had played; or worse, whether his love might not be the mere prompting of a wretched vanity, which sought her conquest as a trophy, not as a desire.

"Mr. Maxwell, we differ so entirely in our views, that it would be useless to prolong this discussion. I have only this more to say: so far from giving the world any right to gossip about me, in reference to you, it is my determination to relinquish the pleasure of your acquaintance from this time forward. When you have learned what is due to me, I may resume it; not till then."

She rose, as she said this, and walked across the room to Mrs. Langley Turner, by whose side she sat down; while Maxwell gazed on her with mingled feelings of astonishment and rage, his brow darkening, his lips compressed, and every nerve within him trembling.

Mrs. Vyner was wrong in her suspicions. It was not vanity, it was jealousy which prompted his words. He suffered tortures from seeing her smile, and chat with other men, and scarcely notice him. He was sincere in his wish for her to distinguish him above all the rest; not simply to gratify his vanity, but to assure him that she really loved him enough to brave everything for him. Besides, he could not understand how her love allowed her to keep away from his side. Prudence never chilled him. Appearances never restrained him. He could have sat by her all the evening—every evening—it was what he most desired; and he did not understand how she could forego the same pleasure.

Maxwell was narrow-minded, even stupid; but his passions were intense; and at this moment he felt as if he could murder her. He quitted the ball in a state of deep concentrated anger, brooding on what he considered his wrongs.

Julius came to claim Rose for the quadrille. They were silent at first, and embarrassed.

"How did you like Italy?" she said, by way of breaking the silence.

"Not at all."

"Indeed! then you are singular. I thought every one must like it. Perhaps you prefer contradiction?'

"No; I was in no frame of mind to enjoy anything."

She trembled slightly; the chaine des dames, by obliging her to quit his side, prevented her speaking. When they again stood quietly beside each other, he continued,—

"We went to see everything, and the only result was, that we so tired ourselves during the day, that we slept soundly at night."

"But the pictures, the statues, the architecture, the people?"

"I saw them all; but they all wearied me."

"You were rehearsing Childe Harold, I suppose?" she said, with a feeble attempt at liveliness, which her voice belied.

"If I had been acting a part—even of misanthropy—I should have enjoyed myself unhappily ... It is your l'été."

She advanced, and the conversation was again interrupted. Nothing more was said during the rest of the quadrille; both were absorbed in their own thoughts.

He led her to a seat, and took another beside her. After a pause of some moments, she said,—

"So you were unhappy in Italy?"

He looked earnestly into her eyes as he answered,—

"Does that surprise you? Were you not already aware of it? Had I not cause?"

She blushed deeply, as she said,—

"No; you had .... no cause .... if you had stayed in England .... you might have got over it."

His lower jaw fell as she concluded this phrase. She felt herself on the eve of a declaration, and by a strong effort turned it off in that way.

At this moment a partner came to carry her off for a waltz, and Julius was left to his own reflections. He reproached himself for having so far betrayed his feelings; but in truth they had been wrung from him, as from her, by the irresistible fascination of the moment.

On closer inspection, it seemed to him, as if there had been in her manner a tenderness and embarrassment which implied a wish for reconciliation, if not a regret for the past.

Prompted by this idea, he went up to Mrs. Vyner, and began a long conversation with her, at the termination of which he asked if he might be allowed to pay his respects to her some morning.

"Always delighted to receive you, Mr. St. John, that you must know; indeed, I should pick a quarrel with you for not having called before, but that I suppose you have some excellent excuse."

"Then, to-morrow?"

"To-morrow we shall be at home."

The morrow came, and Julius, resolved at any rate not to lose Rose as a friend (beautiful sophistry of lovers!), was punctual in his visit. He was there before every one else. Vyner and his wife were alone in the drawing-room.

"Let Miss Vyner know that Mr. St. John is here," said Mrs. Vyner to the servant.

In a few minutes Rose came down: a volume was in her hand, and it caught the eye of her lover as soon as she appeared. She was very agitated, but shook him by the hand as if nothing particular was about to transpire. She tried to join in the conversation, but could never finish a sentence.

Mrs. Vyner left the room shortly afterwards, and then Rose suddenly remembered that papa had bought a new and rare edition of Horace, which she was sure Mr. St. John would like to see.

Julius expressed enthusiastic eagerness.

Vyner thought he could lay his hand on it in a minute, and trotted away to his study for that purpose.

No sooner had he left the room than Rose, blushing and trembling, said,—

"Here is a book .... I meant to give it you .... before you left the Hall .... that night."

She could say no more. He snatched the volume from her hand: it was Leopardi. A thrill of rapture ran through his whole being; and, in a voice choked with emotion, he said,—

"Rose .... dearest Rose .... is this .... is this the answer to my .... to my letter?"

"It is."

He clasped her in his arms, and, with hysterical passion, groaned, as he held her to his heart.

"Here is my treasure .... Eh?" said Vyner, opening the door, and discovering the lovers in that unambiguous embrace.

"Tell him all," whispered Rose in Julius's ear, as she fled in confusion from the room.

Julius did tell all; and that very hour Vyner gave his delighted consent.

CHAPTER VII.
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE.

Claude.—"Miserable trickster! you know that your weapon is harmless!—You have the courage of the mountebank, sir, not the bravo."

BULWER.—Lady of Lyons.

That very day a strangely different scene took place in that house.

Mrs. Vyner was in that famous boudoir before described; Maxwell was gloomily pacing it to and fro. He was there for the purpose of having an "explanation"; but he found her more than a match for him, and was now trying to beat from his stupid brain a convincing argument.

"You don't love me," he at last exclaimed.

"Have you come here to tell me that? If so, I would have you observe, that you have chosen a singularly inappropriate occasion."

"I say you don't love me," he repeated, and his eyes sparkled with malignant fire.

"Perhaps not. You do not take the way to make me love you."

This was said with such an air of quiet indifference, that he paused to look at her, as if he could read on her brow a confirmation of what she said.

"I do not love you then!" he said bitterly. "I have not loved you for two years .... not saying; a word about it .... loving you in secret .... seeing others more favoured, seeing others looking into your face as I dare not look .... suffering tortures of jealousy .... I do not take the way to gain your love! what way should I then take?"

"Be amiable .... women are not captivated by scowls .... George, you are unjust to me. Sit down, and listen to me calmly. Remember my position."

"You take care I shall not forget it."

"Would you then forget it?"

"Yes; for it keeps you from me. It is in your mouth at all times. 'My position' is your excuse for everything."

"And is it not a valid excuse?"

"No; it is not: it is a mere excuse. Remember your position, indeed! why do you love another man than your husband, if your position forbids it?"

She looked at him in surprise, but even her tiger eyes quailed beneath the savage glance of her brutal lover. She felt that he was her master! He was not to be led as Marmaduke had been led, because in him there was none of the generous principle, or chivalric sensibility, which made Marmaduke, in spite of his impetuosity, pliable and manageable. He had almost as much vehemence, and infinitely more brutality. She saw all this; yet she loved him. Strange paradox of human nature, she loved the fierce, narrow-minded, ungenerous Maxwell, with a far deeper passion than she had felt for the generous, open-hearted, high-spirited Marmaduke! It may be that she felt more sympathy with a being of a lower order; or it may be that Maxwell alone had conquered her: certain it is, that she felt for him another kind of passion, and was more his slave than he hers. By a not uncommon transposition of places, he, who as an unacknowledged lover had been the most abject slave, became, when acknowledged, the most unflinching tyrant. This is generally the case with brute natures.

It is not to be supposed that she submitted quietly. She was too fond of power to relinquish it without a struggle; but although ridicule was a weapon she wielded with unsparing skill, and a weapon he dreaded more than any other; yet even that was but a small sword which was beaten down by the heavy sabre of his fierce sarcasm.

"You do not answer me," he said, irritated at her silence.

"Until you can speak to me as a gentleman," she replied, "I shall remain silent."

"That is an easy way of ending an argument."

"There is an easier."

"Is there, indeed?"

"And more efficient—do not force me to it."

"Pray what is it?"

"To leave the room."

She rose and walked to the door. He seized her wrist.

"Let me go, sir; you hurt me..... This violence is manly—but it is like you..... Let me go..... Will you force me to ring the bell, and have you ordered out of the house?"

"Ring the bell! you dare not ring it! I defy you..... What could you say? what do I do here? .... Ring it, by all means!"

She was stung by his manner, and looking on him with intense scorn, said,—

"I will."

As she moved towards the bell, he drew a pistol from his pocket. She started, terrified at the sight.

"You brave me, do you?" he said, hoarse with passion; "you brave me; well! ring!"

Her hand was on the bell: she hesitated.

"What means that? Do you intend to murder me?"

"I do!"

She did not start, she did not scream; a smile of unutterable scorn passed over her face.

"Ring it, I tell you."

"You wish me to order you to be turned out?"

"I wish to end this struggle—and I declare to God that I will end it, either in my favour, or with your life. I am reckless; choose you! You think I am a fool; you are mistaken: I am no fool; nor shall you make me one. You say you love me; I hope for your sake you speak truly; if you do not, you shall not live to torture me."

"Your hand trembles."

"It is with passion, then. It is because the crisis has arrived. It is because this is the moment that must decide everything."

Her hand was still upon the bell. Her calmness puzzled and exasperated him, and when she said with a slight irony in her tone,—

"And you really talk of shooting me, to prove your love?"

He levelled the pistol at her, and shouted,—

"Ring the bell, and try me!"

"I will. But first allow me to observe, that if there is one thing more despicable than the threat you make, it is to commit the exquisitely ridiculous mistake of acting such a part as you now act. Passion might excuse the deed; nothing can efface the childish stupidity of the pretence. Mr. Maxwell, when next you get up a scene like this, at least take care that your pistol is loaded; yours has no cap!"

Having uttered this in the coldest, calmest tone imaginable, she rang the bell.

A cry burst from him as he looked down, and saw in truth, that there was no cap on the nipple. He thrust the pistol into his pocket, and threw himself into a chair in wild confusion.

The servant entered.

"Order a cab for Mr. Maxwell," Mrs. Vyner said.

The servant retired, and they were again alone. Not a word passed. Overwhelmed with rage and shame, Maxwell sat brooding on his stormy thoughts. Mrs. Vyner watched him with scorn: he had lost the hold over her which his violence had gained: she now thought that he was not so terrible as Marmaduke had been, and from having feared, she now despised him.

"The cab is at the door," said the servant.

Maxwell did not move. His dark thoughts occupied him. It had been no vulgar threat, for the pistol was really loaded, although the cap had been forgotten; but he understood the contempt with which she must regard him, and he was ruminating projects of vengeance.

She had taken up a book and was affecting to read, as if undisturbed by his presence; he was made aware of it by the rustle of the leaves as she turned them over; and conscious of the disadvantage of his position, he at length arose, and looking at her malignantly, said,—

"You fancy me an actor; I am one; my first appearance has been in a farce; laugh, laugh! my next will be in a tragedy!"

And with a low bow he retired.

CHAPTER VIII.
VIOLET WRITES AGAIN.

Les lettres d'amour ne portent l'émotion que dans le cœur qui inspire et qui partage le feu qui les a dictées. Par elles-mêmes elles se ressemblent toutes: mais chaque être épris d'amour trouve dans celle qui lui est adressée une puissance irrésistible, une nouveauté incomparable.

GEORGE SAND.—La Comtesse de Rudolstadt.

Your letter, dearest Marmaduke, was a great joy to me, but the joy was dashed with pain as I came to the close, and read there the hope you express of our speedy union. No, that cannot be. Oh, do you not feel that it cannot be? do you not feel that it does not depend upon my love, but upon the irrevocable past? I thought I had made you understand all my feelings on this unhappy subject, and that I might write to you freely without awakening in either of us a hope which cannot be gratified. Your letter has greatly pained me; pained me because you seem to think that, inasmuch as we both love, we must be united—that love will bear down all obstacles and triumph at last. But no; that cannot be. If there were the remotest chance of it, do you think I should not catch at such a hope with all the impatient eagerness of love? Have I nothing to subdue? Have I no temptations to overcome? Think, Marmaduke, my noble Marmaduke, think of what I have suffered and must still suffer when I look upon our fate, and yet can say, am forced to say, we must never meet! I fled from London, fled from you, because I feared the insidious counsels of my heart. My reason tells me that I acted rightly—do you not feel so too?

I had looked forward to this correspondence with such longing! I had pictured all the rapture it would give us both; and see! the first letter from you rips up old wounds, and draws from me bitter, bitter tears.

It must cease, unless you can accept my hard conditions. It must cease, Marmaduke, for I dare not let it continue. I could not trust myself—I should allow myself to be persuaded—your hopes would become my hopes—your prayers would melt my resolution. I know it. I know my own heart; I know its strength and its weakness, and I feel that it would be madness in me to expose myself to the temptation of corresponding with you on that subject. You would defeat me at last; and I must not, I will not be defeated! Therefore, promise me at once to accept my conditions, promise to love me as one whom an inevitable fate has separated from you, and for ever. Let us at the outset understand the relation which can alone exist between us. We love, but we must love without hope. Let us accept our fate—a fate which our murmurs or our struggles cannot alter, and in this resignation our love will be as a guiding star to light us through life; let our souls blend into one; let our hearts never be separated, and we shall live together in spirit, though distant from each other. This is not the happy lot which might have been ours, but it is the happiest which remains for us. Isolated we shall be; without home, without family; but life will still have one sacred feeling one immeasurable delight, and above the turmoils and petty cares of the world there will be a heaven for us.

Will you accept my love upon such terms? Will you struggle with yourself as I have struggled, and conquer as I have conquered?

I may seem cold in writing thus! Oh, do not think it; do not think that this conquest has been lightly made! I love you, love you with the passionate excess of a fervid nature: but the stern necessities of our condition imprison me in this reserve. It is because I see no outlet that I am so firm; and it is only since I have clearly seen my lot is inevitable that I have learned to be calm and happy. Write to me without delay, write to tell me that you do not misunderstand me—that you do not think me cold: oh, you cannot think that! Write to me to tell me that you see, as I see, how our only chance of happiness is in resignation—in love without hope. Write to me to tell me that my love will be as a star to you in your ambitious career, and that when the busy day is done, and night with all its deep repose comes on, your thoughts will then rise from the occupations of the day to that serener sphere where souls commingle. For my love will be this to you, dearest; I know it, since I interpret my own heart for you.

VIOLET.

CHAPTER IX.
FRANK IN REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES.

Little Rose Blanche throve apace; but Cecil's painting proceeded slowly, and his mind was still more busy with those imaginary games in which his success was greater and greater every day.

Rose and Julius were in that feverish condition which is common to lovers, whirled amidst the bustle of marriage preparations.

Fevers are not usually enviable things; but that is a kind of fever which we all envy. The Present how crowded, how occupied, how intense! the Future, how radiant, how dream-peopled! The pulse beats, the brain is over-excited, the step is light (and the head also), the face wears an aspect of everlasting beatitude, the hand is generous, the whole man is in a dream.

Some people, indeed, "wondered" at the match; some very ill-favoured men couldn't, for the life of them, imagine what she could see in that ugly fellow: while others, less charitable (they were females), would be sorry to hint at anything illiberal, but they really did think that Rose Vyner, though a lively girl enough, and all that sort of thing, was scarcely the girl to make a good wife. But none of these opinions reached the ears of the parties concerned; and the circle of the Vyners, and the St. Johns was, with few exceptions, sincerely rejoiced at the approaching marriage.

One afternoon, while Cecil was laboriously painting, Frank Forrester knocked at his door.

"Not at home, sir," said the girl, resolutely.

"Bah!" said Frank, introducing his person into the passage.

"Indeed he is not, sir; and he's very particularly engaged."

"You see, my lily of Westminster .... for you are a lily, damn my whiskers!" said Frank, passing his arm round her waist, and kissing her smutty and reluctant cheek; "you see I understand perfectly well, that it is your business to say your master's not at home...."

"Yes, sir; he told me so strictly."

"But it is my business not to believe you ... so announce me, you peony of Pimlico! announce me .... No; I'll announce myself."

So saying, Frank marched up stairs, and without ceremony walked into the atélier.

Cecil was embarrassed at seeing him.

"What's this? cut so old a chum as Frank Forrester! Not at home to Frank! Damn my whiskers! it is enough to make one give the lie to those prime histories of ancient friendship; the Damons and Pythiases didn't say not at home to each other, I presume.... What's the start, Cis, my boy? How is it we never see you? How is it I am denied whenever I present my agreeable person at your inhospitable door?"

Cecil briefly explained to him the change which had taken place in his finances and his habits.

"Quite right too, Cis. Damn it! there's nothing to be done at rouge et noir. I have quite given it up! Unfortunately, not before it cleaned me out. You see," he added, looking down upon his costume, "I am not magnificent .... I don't flourish."

To judge by his appearance, indeed, he did not flourish; and Cecil could not help being painfully struck with the contrast between his costume now, and when last he saw him. Rings, chains, studs, shirt pin, and cane were gone. The hat was greasy, and glossy from being carefully brushed after repeated wettings; the cut-away coat was so threadbare, and its collar so greasy, that it seemed as if it had been worn for ten years, and was hourly in danger of falling to pieces. The double-breasted waistcoat, the brilliant shawl-pattern of which was now greatly faded, was buttoned up to the throat. The sky-blue trousers, worn at the seams, and bagged at the knees, were tightly strapped over a pair of decent boots. Altogether, there was such unmistakeable poverty, coupled with such an attempt at style, that his appearance was singularly painful. It was not humble poverty; it was faded splendour. It was the wreck of a man about town.

His face also showed the effects of the change. Poverty had brought with it a forced abstinence from that excitement which hitherto had sustained him; and every one knows the effects which follow any cessation of accustomed stimulus. Frank having been used to live freely, sometimes intemperately, now drank water. Accustomed to the excitement of the gaming-table, he now could rarely indulge in it. Some men, forced to abstain from wine, would have taken to spirits, or even beer; but Frank damned his whiskers, and declared he was a gentleman, and had never learned to "guzzle": if he could not get wine, and good wine, he would not defile his palate with vulgar drinks.

"What are you doing?" asked Cecil.

"Living the life of a beast, damn my whiskers! dining off a solitary chop, lounging about to be cut by former associates, making vain attempts to induce my friends to go through the matter of form of putting their names to a bill, and moralizing on the fragility of human friendship, and the limits of human credit."

"Well, but have you no means of getting a livelihood?'

"What means? You don't expect me to turn painter, and be moral like yourself, do you?"

"No, indeed; but still, my dear Frank, you must do something."

"Something will turn up, perhaps."

"But if nothing should turn up, what can the end be?"

"Oh! a new broom and a crossing! That's a dernière ressource;—not a bad one, either. A man 'sees life' at a crossing;—besides, the occupation's healthy—all in the open air. I should make a fortune at it. Damme! a gentleman with a broom—that would produce an effect, I think!"

Cecil shook his head, though he could not refrain from smiling at Frank's coolness.

"You haven't such a thing as a sovereign about you, eh?" said Frank, combing the long thin hair over the top of his head, so as to hide his daily increasing baldness.

"Yes, Frank, I have, and very much at your service."

"You're a trump!" said Frank, jumping up, and shaking him by the hand. "I have asked that question of eight of my friends within the last two days, and—it was very unfortunate—but at that moment not one of them could lay his hand upon such a thing, damn my whiskers!"

Cecil passed the sovereign to him.

"At any rate, I shall dine to-day," Frank exclaimed.

"Is that anything new, then?"

"So completely novel, that it has not occurred this whole week. In fact, I haven't what I call dined for a month; I have only stifled the baser cravings of hunger, but not satisfied those higher and, perhaps, more imperious cravings of the man who knows how to dine. For, as you know, it is one thing to eat, another thing to eat as an intellectual being should eat. It breaks my heart to pass the club windows, and know how many facilities there are within of dining as a man with an immortal soul should dine,—and to reflect how few among the diners know how to accomplish that solemnity."

"Well, but do you mean to say that, in your present state of finances, you intend spending that sovereign on your dinner?"

"That, or the greater part of it," replied Frank, with considerable seriousness. "I have a strong desire to dine. I can support hunger, I can live upon a crust (if forced), but, damn my whiskers! from time to time I must satisfy the higher cravings of my nature, and dine."

"Frank, you shall dine to-day, and at my invitation; save that sovereign for next week. I warn you, that you will seldom get one from me after this; for I myself am poor. So make the most of it; but to-day we'll dine together."

"We will; the suggestion does credit to your head and heart, Cis."

CHAPTER X.
EFFECTS OF DINING WELL.

After a dinner at the Thatched House, limited in the number of dishes, but selected with the skill of a Frank Forrester, and assisted by a bottle of Barsac, two bottles of Æil-de-perdrix, and a bottle of Romané, the two friends were seated at the table in that state of indolent beatitude which succeeds a scientifically-chosen repast. The pulse is heightened, but digestion is light; the brain is active, yet somewhat dreamy; the will seems lulled, and anything like an effort seems impossible.

Sipping their Burgundy, Frank and Cecil sat talking over the various experiences of their lives, especially with women—a subject on which men are usually communicative during such hours. Frank was inexhaustible in stories, which made Cecil roll with laughter, or listen with breath-suspended interest. Meanwhile the lights grew dimmer, and their brains grew heavier: the Burgundy was steadily overcoming them. Frank perceiving it, made a movement to go. Cecil tried to persuade him to have another bottle, but he was resolute; and having paid the bill, they departed.

The fresh air somewhat dissipated the effect of the wine, but Cecil was now in a state of craving for a fresh sensation; and when Frank announced his intention of trying his luck with the sovereign he had borrowed, Cecil noisily declared he would go with him.

"Not that I intend to play, though. No, no, I've given that up; that won't do. But come along, Frank; anything for a lark. Lalla-liety! Lalla-liety!" he shouted, in a feeble falsetto, as if announcing to the universe that he was not the boy to go home till morning did appear.

When they entered the gaming-house, Cecil, though perfectly aware of everything he did and said, was still what is called "far gone"; and the dazzling lights, the well-known cries, the chink of the money, the click of the rake against the coin, the murmur of conversation, all conspired to intoxicate him.

While Frank played, he walked about the room, observing the various countenances of the players. In one corner sat a young man of about three and twenty, haggard and pale: he was weeping silently, the tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks, and falling upon the ground, while every now and then a stifled sob seemed to tear his breath. He had lost all.

There was something so painful in this retired sorrow; that Cecil, who was contemplating him with a sort of drunken compassion, went up to him, and said,—

"Do not be downcast, sir, fortune may change. Have you lost much?"

"Seventeen pounds," sobbed the young man; "but it was my all—I am ruined! utterly ruined! Fortune cannot change for me, for I shall never have another sixpence, to tempt her with. O my poor mother! my poor mother!"

A tear stood in Cecil's eye, and he hiccupped. He was debating with himself whether he should give the unhappy youth a chance of recovering his gains. At last, slipping a half sovereign into his hand, he said,—

"There—risk that. But if you win back your money, promise me solemnly never to play again. You may not another time find one to give you a chance."

The bloodshot eyes of the youth flashed fire as he saw the piece of gold in his hand. He tried to utter his thanks, but a sort of gurgling murmur was all that escaped. He instantly went to the table and began to play. Cecil, interested in his fate, stood beside him.

He won, and won, and won. In a quarter of an hour, in spite of several losses, he had recovered his seventeen pounds, and five more with them. He repaid Cecil the half sovereign, and clasping his hand, said fervently:—"God bless you! you have saved a fellow-creature!" and ran rather than walked out of the house.

No sooner had he departed than, strange inconsistency! Cecil began to play.

The young man's presence had been a restraint on him, which not even the intoxicating sight of the gold could overcome. He had presented himself as a Mentor to that young man, and could not in his presence descend from the pedestal; accordingly he was irritably anxious for his protégé to win, and to depart. All the time he had been standing at the table, a sort of fever of cupidity possessed him. He staked imaginary sums, and always, or almost always, won. Yes, even with the game played before him, he juggled with himself almost as much as when alone in his atélier he played those successful games. Whoever has stood at a table where a game of chance is being played, and has, in imagination only, participated, must remember this:—We choose a side; if it is victorious, we reflect how great would have been our gain; if it is unsuccessful, we say to ourselves, "There would have been a loss;" but we do not, to our minds, realize that loss with anything like the vividness with which we realize the gain; and, moreover, we constantly shelter ourselves under the idea that "most likely we should not, after all, have chosen that side."

This was the process going on in Cecil's mind as he stood by that table, and saw the game played; and he was impatient for his protégé to begone: so impatient that he cared not whether the youth won or lost; and indeed at one period when the losses were frequent, he was rather disappointed to see a gain follow them, because it deferred the youth's exit. Such is human egotism!

No sooner was he freed from this restraint than, heedless of the whispers of his conscience, he flung down a sovereign, and was soon absorbed in the game.

Frank presently came round to him, having lost back twenty pounds which he had won, and now begged another loan. Cecil took up a dozen sovereigns from the heap before him, and handed them to him with a caution to be careful.

Till deep in the night they played, and Cecil left the house a winner of sixty pounds. Frank had lost the twelve lent him, and was savage against fate. Cecil, half intoxicated as he was, and glorying in his winnings, still felt a pressing sense of remorse, at having been seduced. But he vowed that it should never recur again; and told Frank if ever he proposed to go into another gaming-house, from that instant their friendship would be at an end.

"I have been led astray to-night," he said, "but I dare not repeat it. I know what the end must be; and nothing shall make me forget my oath; so remember, Frank, the first word with which you tempt me, is the word that parts us for ever!"

"I tempt you, indeed! I didn't propose it to-night, did I? Besides, I have abjured the fickle goddess myself. I touch no more cards. Damn my whiskers!"

Cecil rose the next morning with a fearful consciousness of having broken his oath, and of having again plunged into the mire from which he had been extricated. He was ashamed of his weakness, but tried to convince himself that it was a moment of intoxication, and would not recur.

That night he took Blanche to her father's; the next night he invited Rose to come to them, which invitation, as Julius was included in it, was accepted.

Thus were two days placed as barriers between him and temptation. He felt the desire so strong within him to return to the gaming-table, that he was obliged to place himself in a position which would make that return almost impossible. But the third night, he had no engagement. The passion had grown stronger from the restraint: it subdued him! He struggled with it; he tried to gain courage in reflecting on the miseries which would ensue; but the "still small voice," though heard, was impotent. Passion bullied Reason into silence; unable to answer its arguments it gagged them with a reckless "don't care!"

Struggles were vain: the gamester would fulfil his destiny.

CHAPTER XI.
THE HONEYMOON.

When the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft in spirit have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods!
WORDSWORTH.

Mira queste mine
E le carte, e le tete, e i marmi, e i templi,
Pensa qual terra premi; e se destarti
Non può la luce di cotanti esempli,
Che stai? Levati e parti.
LEOPARDI.

Julius and Rose were married, and a brighter day never shone upon our island than that which saw these two admirable creatures united.

Vyner's heart was heavy as he gave her away; for although he had the highest opinion of Julius, and thought the match in every way an excellent one, yet Rose was the only child he had now at home with him; and his affection, rejected by his wife, had turned itself once more towards his children.

They set off for a wedding tour, down the Wye into Wales. Who shall depict their silent, deep, unspeakable happiness, as they felt themselves now for ever united? Words have no power of expressing such feelings: there is no standard to which to refer an experience which transcends all former experience. Either the reader has felt this bliss; or he will, some day, feel it. To his own experience I must refer him.

Everything then has a certain newness; yet everything comes as such a matter of course! All emotions glide through the soul with such a soft sure pace, that they excite no surprise even by their novelty. The lovers "feel as if they had been married years;" and yet a curious sense of novelty is always present. They do not feel what they expected to feel; yet are they not surprised. In fact, they are all feeling; all deep, vivid, unspeakable emotion. Hand clasped in hand, lip pressed to lip, eyes fixed on eyes, hours of silent and unbroken bliss pass swiftly on, as if the wide universe were shrunk into one spot, as if a whole eternity were not too great to be filled by that one passion.

Love is the intensest form of life. No wonder, then, that all human beings crave it; no wonder that we all feel a perennial interest in it, and that the look of tenderness we detect in its passage from one loved being to another, stirs strange memories in our hearts, and breaks like a smile over our souls; no wonder that in the cunning pages of the poet, we are fascinated by his pictured reflex of those feelings which belong to our common humanity!

Rose and Julius, so fitly formed to be united, each soul being, in Plato's language, the half of the other—the two souls rushing into a perfect one, and making a harmonious life between them: she so gay, witty, wild, frank, and gentle; he so grave, high-souled, earnest-minded, and so noble; she so beautiful, and he so honest—how could they fail to be happy?

To Tinterne's lovely scenes they at first repaired: a delicious spot, made for honeymoons, did not honeymoons fortunately make every place a paradise. The beauty of the spot was sweetly accordant with their minds; and they were delighted to alternate the admiration of nature with their adoration of each other. The sky seemed more blue, significant, and tender, after witnessing a kiss snatched amidst the tangled overgrowth of shrubs (with most unfeminine indifference, too, be it said, in passing, to the crumpling of bonnets!); and the sunny slopes looked still more verdant, as these lovers chased each other, like happy children, down them.

I am not going to betray any more of the secrets of those Eleusinian mysteries of love: the initiated will understand them; and they alone are fit to hear them.

How Julius and Rose admired Tinterne Abbey! Everybody does. Everybody remembers Wordsworth's magnificent lines; and it is the glorious privilege of poetry to open our eyes to the divinity of beauty which lies around us, and to confer on nature herself a splendour not her own. But lovers have no need of an hierophant: beauty to them is visible without the poet's aid; for they themselves are poets. And to our lovers the abbey was more exquisite than to any wayfarer's eye seeking only the picturesque.

"I am often puzzled," said Julius, as they stood within the majestic ruin, "to explain how it is that the proportion we so much admire in ancient and in Gothic architecture should be the endless despair of the moderns. With all our perfection of geometry and masonry, we are miserably behind our forefathers in the first principle of art: proportion. We build more comfortable houses; but we cannot build a palace, a temple, or a monument. The Comfortable we attain: our efforts after the Beautiful are singularly feeble and abortive. I suppose those writers are correct who place the cause of failure in the absence of that religious idea which animated the ancients. Certainly it seems as if we measured with the rule and compass, rather than with the mind: we aggregate materials, instead of incarnating an idea. We use the symbols of other times, and build churches and cathedrals with the columns and façades from sunny Greece, and the Gothic nave and cross from Germany and France; the flying buttress and the pointed arch side by side the architraves and pediments of Greece!"

"You will call me a little ignoramus," replied Rose; "but I can't help it: I prefer this abbey in its ruins to any perfect work of art. No doubt, in its original state it must have been very lovely; but look at it now! With no roof but heaven, no painted windows, but, instead, those charming glimpses of the hills around; and the chinks in the walls—the ruin with its moss and lichens, and the soft shadows thrown on this grassy pavement by the fragments of beauty which are still remaining—is not all this more beautiful than a work of art?"

Julius looked into her eyes and thought she was right; but what stopped his lips from replying, I leave to the reader's imagination: to my ears it had a very musical sound.

It was in vain they tried to be æsthetical and talk architecture; the time and mood were not made for it; and even the exquisite beauty which surrounded them could only draw from them fragmentary remarks. But if they did not express much, they felt a great deal.

It was not a spot to stand on without having the thoughts constantly withdrawn from the present to the past, of which it was a fragment. The mind would wander. On that very spot where they stood, had many a pious monk bowed himself down in prayer: asking, in the contrition of a weary spirit, for pardon and for courage. The faith which moved him has passed away, effaced beneath the giant march of time; the tessellated pavement no longer echoes the slow and heavy tread of monks, but has been broken and scattered, and has passed away with the faith it served; and, like that faith, exists only in broken fragments, curious amongst the weeds that have usurped its place. The painted windows

Richly dight,
Shedding a dim, religious light—

are no more: yon broken, crumbling shaft, springing up like an aspiring soul to the sky, no longer holds the glass

Diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings.

Looking on these fragments which speak feelingly of the decay and change of all things, a soft melancholy would invade their minds.

"Everything then changes, is it so?" asked Rose.

"Everything," he replied, "but love; and that sustains the world."

Did I not say that lovers were poets? Here is Julius talking a language that would surprise himself, were it not the natural expression of his feelings. And Rose—instead of being witty and sparkling—Rose was throughout their tour so serious and sentimental, that no one would have recognised her; but she was intensely happy in her melancholy, and would not have changed it for all the gaieties in the world.

While I contemplate, not without a touch of envy, this change and its cause, it occurs to me, that as I am, unluckily, in no danger of falling into the error myself, I may, to follow my usual bent, moralize for a moment on this all interesting subject of honeymoons.

Rightly is the first month of marriage called a honeymoon: a period of unceasing sweetness, cloying at last upon the palled and exhausted palate, unless it have something higher and better upon which to rest than its mere sweetness. Before the year is out, the "happy pair" have, alas! too often found indifference succeed to this all-exacting, all-impatient passion; a consummation not easily to be avoided, but perhaps, to be delayed.

Many ingenious writers have tried their hands at a definition of love; may I not venture after them?

Love, in its commonest form, I take to be an enthusiasm with which the mind intensifies and dignifies its desires. Unhappily, in most cases, it is only a passing enthusiasm, dying away with the gratification of its desires; and dying, because not founded on lasting qualities; dying, because the sympathies are not involved, because the moral requirements are not responded to with the same facility as the physical. A love, whose root is in passion, and only in passion, cannot be supposed to survive the first ardour of that passion. It is only when above and beyond that passion, giving it force and perpetually renewing it as from a central fire, there exists what I should call a moral passion,—an intense moral desire,—that the love can be durable. The sensuous desire is violent but limited; the moral desire is infinite: the craving which soul feels for perfect communion with soul, and the infinite variety with which that desire is maintained, give to love its lustre and its immortality.

But how are we to distinguish between these two kinds of love? How is a man to know whether he loves in the complete and exalted manner last described, and not in the limited, instinctive, perishable manner? There, I confess, lies the mystery. Time alone can solve it. No man can well discriminate in his own case, and precisely for the reason that love is an enthusiasm, which not only intensifies, but also dignifies his desires, so that in his eyes, his passion appears exalted, imperishable, unchangeable.

How many an unhappy wretch has awakened from a dream of passion, to find that after all it was only his enthusiasm which dignified the object which dignified his passion, and threw around it the lustre of immortal youth!

To think of this, to see in your own experience so many examples, is enough to make you register a vow that you will never—no never again fall in love. The vow may be registered; Love, who "laughs at locksmiths," knows the durability of such barriers as vows; and, looking down with the saucy pity of that imp Puck, exclaims—

Lord! what fools these mortals be!