CHAPTER XIII.—WHO IS HE?
Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man’s erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever Nature has in worth deny’d,
She gives in large recruits of needless Pride!
For, as in bodies thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swell’d with wind.
—Pope.
If Nathan Gomer had constructed a plan for the accomplishment of the matrimonial hopes of Flora and Mark Wilton, the reading a homily to Mr. Wilton, upon the cruelty of forcing the hand to be given without the heart, formed no portion of it. He was content with having produced a striking effect; and he suddenly—as abruptly as he had spoken—rose up and quitted the room.
He did not, however, remain away long; but returned to the library, accompanied by Mr. Wilton’s solicitor and old Josh Maybee.
During the interval of his absence, Mr. Wilton, shocked by the disclosures made by him respecting the fate of the Grahame family, had certainly had some grave reflections pass through his mind upon the mutability of human affairs, as well as upon the vanity of human pride; but these newly-awakened sentiments were quickly put to flight by an inspection of law papers placed before him by his solicitor, and by some revelations made by old Maybee, who also produced those documents which were needful to identify Wilton as the actual legal claimant to the Eglinton estates. He put in, as well, his own proofs of a title to a portion of the property in question, which Wilton directed his solicitor to examine with scrupulous closeness.
Deeds, plans, statements of accounts, registers, &c., were spread over the library table; and an abstract was handed to Wilton, which he devoured with avidity, for it gave him a more clear and definite notion of the value and extent of the property to which he was about to succeed than he had before been able to obtain.
The vastness of the possessions and the largeness of the revenues were made clear in this paper, and the contemplation of it fascinated him. He closed his eyes, and lo! a fair vision of a highly cultivated district was spread out before him. The woods and vales, the sloping hills, the park, the plantations, the pastures and farm-lands, the villages, and a numerous tenantry bowing to him as sole owner of this lordly domain, successively presented themselves to him.
When he opened his eyes again, the reflections inspired by Nathan Gomer’s observations were no more remembered. Once more he was inflated with vain glory; elated by his accession of wealth; unmindful of past services received; oppressed with a torrent of schemes of future grandeur; and more than ever unprepared to accept high moral principles and genuine personal worth in lieu of birth and rank, in whatever prospective matrimonial contract might be formed with any member of his family.
The perusal of that document was too much for his strength of mind. Evidences of its effects upon him were to be seen on his flushed cheek, in the excited, restless expression of his eye, and the dignified tone he gradually assumed to his “man of business.” Then, too, Josh Maybee, received by him in a frank, familiar manner, suddenly perceived that he was being patronised with the loftiest air imaginable, a style and manner which Wilton continued, when addressing him, with such unvaried uniformity, that the poor old fellow began to imagine and ultimately to believe that through a long course of years he must have been under the deepest obligations to him—barred windows, prison walls, and an age of griping penury, nevertheless—that he was now only too much honoured in being permitted to be the actual instrument of establishing the Wilton claim. He certainly felt mystified; but the imperial manner of Wilton towards him assured him that it must be all right.
Then, too, he was so graciously condescending to Nathan Gomer—waved his hand to him, and smiled as a sovereign, receiving homage while seated upon his throne. This last ebullition rather disconcerted Nathan; he grinned not pleasantly—more as a hyena preparing to spring upon a victim.
“Ho! ho!” screeched the little man, as he retired to a window, and looked out. “Ho! ho! he condescends to me—me, who have done so little for him. Ho! ho! so good of him—ho! ho! so beneficent of him. How prostrated with thankfulness I ought to be. I ain’t, not a bit of it, not a morsel; I must be a fiend of ingratitude. His heart, once as soft as pudding, is becoming steel; I’ll steep it in vinegar, and see whether that will dissolve it.”
He turned back to where Wilton was seated erect, listening to expositions made by his solicitor, and regarding with an attentive scrutiny some of the documents before him, especially those which had reference to the rent-roll.
Nathan’s features had assumed an expression such as they seldom wore—one hard, disagreeable, and unfriendly. He addressed the solicitor, suggesting that, in Mr. Wilton’s weak condition, it would be prudent to defer until the following day further proceedings. Such signatures as were immediately required he had obtained, “and altogether,” he said, looking hard at Wilton, “he thought a very satisfactory progress had been made.”
Wilton loftily assented, and as loftily begged Nathan Gomer to do the honours of the table for him to his man of business, and “that good creature Maybee,” as he did not then feel that he possessed the strength necessary for such proper courtesy—such very proper courtesy. Nathan displayed his teeth, and accepted the post of honour. He conducted the pair to the dining-room, where he introduced them to Mark Wilton and Flora. He whispered a few words into Mark’s ear, and then returned to the library.
Old Josh Maybee gazed after him as he disappeared, and said to Mark—
“An awfully singular, elderly little gentleman. Pray do you know who he really is?”
“Ay!” added the solicitor, musingly, “a singularly peculiar personage, indeed. I never could make out who he was, or is, or will turn out to be.”
“Strange little fellow enough,” responded Mark, “but you pose me when you ask me who he is. I often ask myself that question.”
“He appears to be very kind-hearted, and to have a generous spirit,” said Flora. “I should like to know who he really is. He comes and departs so mysteriously; he seems to be acquainted with everything that has happened or is about to take place; papa says he is very wealthy——”
“E—nor—mously wealthy,” chimed in the solicitor, speaking emphatically.
“He possesses great influence over individuals,” continued Flora, “and, seemingly, over circumstances. I have great faith in anything he may predict, and—and I really should like to know who he is.”
The object of their speculations was at this moment alone with Wilton; on entering the library, he strode rather than walked up to where Wilton was seated, still poring over the abstract. He threw himself into a seat with a sudden violence which made Wilton start, then to elevate his eyebrows, then to frown.
This person—this Mr. Gomer, was assuming a familiarity, which he now thought it would be proper to check. He screwed up his eyes and affected a distant manner.
“You have something to communicate to me, Gomer, I apprehend, by your speedy return,” he observed, with his eyes fixed upon the paper he held in his hand.
“I have, Wilton,” he said curtly; “a very good time too, I think, to say it, now that you are all but installed owner of your large property.”
Mr. Wilton coldly inclined his head.
“Proceed!” he exclaimed.
Nathan made a grimace.
“Hem!” he coughed, “the gap is wide which separates the Queen’s Bench from Eglinton Park, Mr. Wilton.”
Mr. Wilton’s cheek flushed at the suggestion. He coughed too.
“Um—a—Gomer,” he said, “those are contrasts which only vulgar minds draw. Wonder is the offspring of ignorance—um—a—don’t repeat, I pray, such observations.”
“And Pride is the parent of evil,” chuckled Gomer. “Ah, I used to write that in a copy-book. However, I have not come here to make reflections, or to bring disagreeable reminiscences before you. I came to inform you that, the day after to-morrow, you will have to appear against our cunning friend, Mr. Chewkle, who very nearly rendered the possession of the Eglinton estates a matter of no importance to you.”
“The atrocious assassin,” exclaimed Wilton. “I wonder how I escaped the villain’s bullet upon such favourable terms.”
“Do you not know?” asked Gomer, eyeing him keenly. “Um—a—well, by the providence of Heaven, his aim was bad, and my gamekeepers were at hand,” said Wilton, reflectively. “Truly it was a fortunate circumstance that they were near, or the wretch would have slain me. I have a faint remembrance of his kneeling upon my chest——”
“And of him whose hand clutched the scoundrel by the throat and dragged him off at the moment his hand was raised to terminate your existence?”
“Um—a—no, I do not recollect that. My senses left me: but I shall reward that individual liberally—in short I will place that matter in your hands, Gomer, to give to him whatever you may think will satisfy him—um—a—with my thanks.”
“Are you serious, Wilton?” asked Gomer, almost jeeringly.
“Sir!—-a—um-Mr. Gomer, pray inform me what there is in my manner or tone which implies that I have descended to jest on this subject?” exclaimed Mr. Wilton, with hauteur.
Nathan Gomer laughed and rubbed his hands.
“I asked the question because I suspect that you would not endorse my award,” he replied.
“I do not comprehend you, Mr. Gomer!” responded Wilton, still in the same distant tone. “If I appoint you to manage an affair for me, giving you a carte blanche to act in the matter, I consider it a reflection upon my honour to assume that I should be dissatisfied with your award.”
“Listen, Wilton!” exclaimed Gomer, striking the table a sharp, angry blow. “The individual who saved your life at the most critical instant of its jeopardy would spurn a money compensation.”
Mr. Wilton opened his half-closed eyes.
“I suspect that, although it was at the risk of his own life he saved yours, he attaches but little credit to his deed,” continued Gomer, “for he would have acted precisely in the same way to save the meanest wretch in existence.”
“Oh!—a—well, if he attaches no importance to the act,” said Wilton, shrugging his shoulders with the air of one who considered his dignity reflected on, “why of course, I——”
“Must!” suggested Gomer, with emphatic shrillness, “for his gallant rescue was everything in the world to you—children, Harleydale, Eglinton, all—all. Therefore, though he may view his conduct with disinterested eyes, you cannot, and you should reward him fittingly.”
“But—a—I must suggest that there is a wide distinction between the meanest wretch in existence and a—a—the owner of——”
“Yourself, you mean,” interrupted Gomer, bluntly; “that is exactly why you should reward him as becomes your position.”
“I empower you to do so,” said Wilton, with a most dignified gesture.
“Softly,” said Gomer. “You are also indebted to him, not only for the life, but the preservation of your daughter’s honour.”
Wilton started, and fixed upon him an incredulous stare.
“Your condition, after you received your wound, prevented your being told what really occasioned the illness of your daughter Flora,” said Gomer, impressively; “let me briefly explain. The details you shall be made acquainted with hereafter, Your late guest, Colonel Mires, who began life by plunging from gambling into forgery, and whom you saved from destruction by timely repairing the consequences of his crime, who, in turn, obtained Harleydale for you, conceived a passion for your daughter Flora——”
“I had some such suspicion,” ejaculated Wilton, looking aghast, as if he feared what was about to follow.
“He, sir, finding that the field was occupied,” continued Gomer—“that he should never gain your consent to marry her, nor her consent to have him, acted independently of both, and carried her off.”
“Carried her off?”
“Precisely. In accordance with a most skilfully devised plot he bore her off on the morning on which that knave Chewkle fired at you. The same active spirit that interfered so opportunely in your favour discovered the abduction, and pursued the ravisher. He succeeded in overtaking, in rescuing, and restoring your daughter safely to her home again.”
There was a pause for a minute.
Then Nathan Gomer said, drily—
“Not a fellow this to receive a money compensation.”
Mr. Wilton made two or three efforts to speak; at length, by a desperate exertion, he said—
“The name of this person—a—um—is——”
“Mr. Henry Vivian,” replied Nathan Gomer, in a clear, sonorous voice.
Mr. Wilton sank back in his chair.
Was it possible to be afflicted with more vexatious or annoying intelligence than this? Had it been anyone else, his liberality would have known no bounds; but to be indebted to this parvenu, who aspired to an alliance with his house, for the lives of himself and daughter was intolerable.
What to say—what to do, he could not conceive, his brain was in a whirl. He remained silent.
Nathan Gomer fixed his bright, dancing eyes upon him.
“My award, Wilton, to Mr. Vivian, for his earnest services to you and your daughter, would have been to bestow the hand of the damsel upon him, in accordance with the maxim, that the ‘brave deserve the fair.’ But I presume, as I said before, that you would not endorse my award, though I more than half suspect the young lady would herself do so with a ready pen.”
Wilton quitted his chair, and paced his room, a movement he usually resorted to when his mind was agitated; suddenly he paused and stood before Gomer, and said, in an excited manner—
“You were correct, Gomer, in supposing that I should not endorse any such award—perfectly correct; such a notion is preposterous, wild, romantic,—a—a—foolery. I—a—I am—a—on a ship with my daughter—-a—we both fall into the sea—a—a—a brave sailor jumps in and saves us both; am I—am I to give my daughter’s hand to that sailor. I admire him, I honour his bravery, and would reward it—a—but with my daughter’s hand—a—never. I never heard of anything so astoundingly—why—a—Gomer, you do not look much like a susceptible romantic personage, you can hardly feel it your business——”
“To make two young hearts beat in happy unison,” interrupted Gomer, sharply. “Yes, I do. Why not? Why should I not, eh? Permit me to ask why I should not? I can’t help my looks. A diamond, you know, has an ugly crust; but because I am a dwarf, and look as if I performed ablutions in turmeric, it does not necessarily follow that I should have a lump of granite for a heart.”
“But, Gomer, you are—a—rich—and a—a—man of the world—a—” responded Wilton.
“I am both,” answered Gomer, emphatically. “I am a man of the world, and I see that, like boys after butterflies, the majority of my kind pursue objects as gaudy and as useless when caught. I see the hollowness of most human purposes, the eagerness with which they are pursued, and the wretched, vexed vanities they prove to be when possessed. I am rich, Wilton; but I apprehend the true purpose of riches to be something different to self-deifying aggrandisement. The world is full of woe—the mission of wealth is to alleviate it: also, to assist and to elevate human worth, and to plant happiness where it has not been wont to bloom. Such have been the objects of my life-labours; and such, I trust, they will continue to be. I do not, however, pretend to attempt to control your actions, or guide you in the performance of your duties. That must be your own task. I simply reiterate what my award to Mr. Vivian would have been; and now I expect you will take upon yourself the office of acknowledging the debt of gratitude you owe to him—rather a heavy obligation to my thinking—and the consideration of the meet reward you will bestow upon him.”
Wilton, after a little reflection, said—
“It appears to me, in looking back on the past, Gomer, that—a—that you have exercised a considerable, I might say a very considerable influence over my actions, and have directed generally the course of my inclinations, a—a—and my intentions. Even now, a—though disclaiming such purpose, it seems to me that you are occupied—I—a—should say, actively occupied in forcing me to swallow a potion most repugnant to—a—to—to my nature, seeking to impel me by honeyed words concerning the good which a—a—must result from my acquiescence—a. Stay, don’t interrupt me now. I would fain acknowledge that you have hitherto shown the greatest interest in my personal affairs; that, I say, I think is undoubtedly clear. It is also plain and undeniable that your—a—um—your interference hitherto has been attended with the best possible result; that I admit. It might in the present instance—I say it might—I am by no means supposed to think it would, but it might operate beneficially if it succeeded in making me believe that it would be at least proper to bestow the hand of my daughter upon Mr. Vivian. But before I consent to re-open the case, and listen to a repetition of your arguments, be good enough to tell me who you are, and explain to me why you, a comparative stranger—merely the landlord of a house I once inhabited—should have mixed yourself up with my affairs, and now take upon yourself to direct me in the disposal of my children in marriage.”
Nathan Gomer rubbed his hands briskly over his chin and mouth, and champed with his teeth, as though his tongue and lips were parched. Presently he spoke; his voice grated harshly at first.
“Ha! ha! very true,” he said, with a grim chuckle; “I never reflected upon that very grave consideration—-my title to interfere in your affairs; it did not occur to me, I grant you I have been impertinent, officious. I ought to have left you to—no no”—he checked himself with a sudden dignity—“I must not permit myself to be betrayed into a weakness. Mr. Wilton, you have smitten me on one cheek; before I permit you to smite the other, I will inform you who I am, not at this moment, but at the proper time. It will come to your ears with sufficient speed when it does come. Farewell.”
“Hem—a—Gomer—stay!” cried Wilton, hurriedly. But Gomer was gone. The old man would have followed him, but a servant entered the library, followed by the Honorable Lester Vane.
Vane was dressed with studied elegance; his garb was in the highest style of fashion, and fitted him to perfection. Having quite recovered his health, of which, recently, he had purposely taken the greatest possible care, he looked, as he walked with an elevated gait—affected, and acquired by practice—a very handsome and polished specimen of the aristocracy.
Wilton was immediately struck by his appearance and manner. The words “Honorable Mr. Lester” rang in his ears, too, as the servant announced him. He had before noticed the superiority of mien and attire displayed by Vane, but, under existing circumstances, they now made a stronger impression than ever upon him.
Here evidently was the son-in-law proper to his own and his daughter’s condition in life. Nathan Gomer might preach as much as he pleased about two young hearts beating in happy unison, but was it possible that such would be the result of an unequal match? It was far more likely that Flora, wedded to a young, elegant fellow like Lester, and moving, after her marriage with him, in a high circle, would be much gayer and happier than if mated with one who had been accustomed only to the atmosphere of a workshop, and to mix with very moderate people. Wilton felt decided upon the point, and accordingly greeted Lester Vane with evident pleasure, which that astute personage responded to with consummate artifice. By his observations and his inquiries, he led Wilton to the conclusion that he possessed a noble spirit and unaffected kindness of heart. He even offered to give back to Wilton the promise he had received from him of Flora’s hand, and assured him, with well-simulated earnestness, that however deeply painful, and even heart-breaking, it might be to him to forego the honour of Miss Wilton’s alliance, he would rather sacrifice his eternal happiness than be the occasion of one moment’s grief to her. He had come down, he said, with the object of either being able to disabuse Flora’s mind of its false idea in respect to Vivian, and to win her love, or to resign her hand and retire from the field altogether—an alternative which old Wilton rather vehemently “pooh-poohed.”
The measured manner in which Vane expressed himself, and the earnestness which led old Wilton to be explicit in his views and wishes, occasioned some time to be consumed before the latter could fulfil his intention—floating through his mind all the while he was talking with his new guest—not to suffer Gomer abruptly to depart, and in anger, too. So, as soon as he could conveniently take the opportunity, he rang his bell, and bade his servant acquaint Mr. Gomer that he should be glad of a few words with him.
“He’s gone, sir, and taken t’other old gentleman with him,” replied the man.
“The other old gentleman?” repeated Mr. Wilton, with surprise.
“Yes, sir, one of they two that came with him, sir,” replied the man.
“Which?” asked Wilton, startled.
“I don’t know which,” replied the man, with a stupid expression of countenance; “but Mr. Mark, he do, sir; because Mr. Gomer spoke to him before he left the hall, sir.”
“Send Mr. Mark to me!” exclaimed Mr. Wilton, sharply.
The man disappeared, and, in a few minutes, Mark Wilton made his appearance. He greeted Lester Vane with stern and haughty coldness—conduct his father viewed with irritation, though he made no remark then in reference to it, but confined himself to the matter upon which he had sent for him.
“I hear, Mark,” he said “that Gomer has left the Hall for the railway station, is it so?”
“Surely, sir,” answered Mark, with surprise, “you are aware of that fact. He informed me that he had parted with you.”
“Parted with me?”
“Yes, sir; he expressed himself, I thought, rather emphatically; but he appeared to be in a very great hurry, and took that singular companion of his, Mr. Maybee, with him.”
“Maybee!” echoed Wilton, in a tone of alarm.
He looked hastily over the papers still on the table, but all the documents which Maybee had produced needful to support Wilton’s claim to the large estates in Chancery were yet there. What, then, could Gomer mean by withdrawing him?
“My solicitor is still here,” he exclaimed, addressing Mark.
“I left him in conversation with my sister, sir,” replied Mark.
“He will dine with us—in fact he does not return to London until the morning,” said his father. “Mr. Vane will also be our guest for a—for a—for the present. You will conduct him to your sister and Mr. Charlock, my excellent man of business—quite a gentleman, I assure you, Mr. Vane.”
The “Honorable” bowed.
“A wealthy man, and of high standing in his profession,” added Mr. Wilton.
Vane bowed again.
“I have a high esteem for men of the legal profession,” he said; “they are agreeable company—they are acute men, intelligent, full of anecdote, and, from the very character of their position and acquirements, respectable.”
Mr. Wilton rubbed his hands, he was pleased with the reply.
“I am desirous of a little quiet just now,” he observed; “I shall therefore have an hour or so to myself in my sanctum here alone, but I will join you at dinner. It was not my intention to have done so, but I feel equal now to the pleasure I shall enjoy. Mark, I place Mr. Vane under your charge; I am sure you will pay him every attention.”
Mark made a cold inclination of the head and left the library, followed by Vane, who perceived his coolness, but he had too great a game at stake to appear to do so, or to appear to be affected by it. He himself assumed a proud nonchalant air, and took his way after Mark Wilton, who walked with a quick step at an easy, leisurely pace.
Mark again wondered where he had seen Vane and under what circumstances. He felt morally convinced that they had met before, and that the impressions left behind were not favourable to Lester. In vain he endeavoured to solve the difficulty; his memory would not serve him in this.
Again Lester Vane and Flora were face to face, but under different conditions. She received him—although her heart beat, for she knew he was her father’s favoured suitor for her hand—with a quiet, firm manner, as though his arrival was an incident of ordinary character; and she listened to his well-turned hyperboles, as if they were but common-places. She replied by a silent inclination of the head, and resumed her conversation with Mr. Charlock with an unembarrassed ease which affected Vane more keenly than any studied slight would have done. He could have supplied a motive for that, and have surmounted, or have attempted to have surmounted it hopefully, for it would have shown to him that he was not an object of indifference; but to be received as Flora had met him was to satisfy him that she was in no doubt as to the disposal of her preference, or that it would be adhered to.
He felt by her manner that he was accepted by her as a guest of her father’s, whose coming and going could have no influence or effect upon her.
He mentally determined to change this state of things at any risk.
“Her uncouth booby of a brother cuts me,” he mused.
“I care nothing for that—but she shall not do so with impunity. I will have her. No risk shall daunt me, no obstacle deter me, for it is not alone her wealth I need, but I have conceived a passion for her.”
Such were his thoughts as he gazed upon her while she was speaking to her father’s solicitor. She was so beautiful, so very, very beautiful, that the more his eyes perused her fair lineaments, the more deep became his determination not to be shaken off.
But she never turned her eyes towards him; and when, by her quietly dropping her share in the conversation, it rested between him and Mr. Charlock, she silently glided from the room.
Had it not been for the presence of Mr. Charlock, Mark would have followed her example; as it was, he spoke but seldom to Vane, who treated him with corresponding carelessness.
It was a relief to Mark when they separated to dress for dinner; and on reassembling, Flora did not appear. She complained of not being well, and they had to proceed without her. Mark confined his observations to Mr. Charlock; and Mr. Wilton, irritated, angry, and feverish, was compelled to keep Vane in countenance as well as he could.
The task was too much for him; and he found himself compelled from weakness to retire to his chamber the moment the cloth was cleared. The solicitor was an abstemious and an early man; and as he was compelled to quit Harleydale for London at an early hour in the morning, he rose from the table almost as soon as the wine was circulated; after a short interview with Mr. Wilton, and obtaining possession of all the valuable legal papers, he retired to rest.
Mark and Vane were thus left alone. A silence of at least ten minutes elapsed. Neither spoke. Several times Vane had cast furtive glances at Mark, and felt convinced he was thinking about him.
Presently, he placed his hand upon the decanter before him, and said—
“A little wine with you would be very agreeable, Mr. Wilton.”
Mark bowed slightly, and sipped his wine.
Again a silence ensued; and soon Mark’s thoughts were far away. Lotte’s quiet, pale, sad face rose up before him, and her thoughtful eyes seemed to be turned appealingly upon him for help and aid.
Suddenly a flush of heat passed across his features, his eye kindled brightly, and his brow lowered.
He turned to Lester Vane, and in a sharp tone said—
“We have met before.”
Vane looked at him, somewhat surprised at the suddenness of his remark and at its tone. With equal quickness, it occurred to him that Mark recollected only at this moment the scene in Hyde Park. He was prepared for what was coming, and replied, quietly—
“Unquestionably, on my last visit here.”
“Before, sir, we encountered each other in this house. Look at my face well, sir; listen to the tone of my voice; and then tell me if your memory does not furnish you with the circumstances under which we, on a former occasion, confronted each other.”
Vane returned calmly his angry gaze; and, with a most collected manner, replied—
“But for your earnestness, Mr. Wilton, I should imagine you were jesting. Upon my honour I am unconscious of having had the satisfaction of meeting you previous to our introduction here.”
“We met, sir, in Hyde Park one evening——” commenced Mark, rather impetuously.
Vane stayed him.
“Your pardon, Mr. Wilton,” he said; “in what month?”
Mark replied promptly. Vane shook his head coolly, and returned—
“I was not in London; I was in Oxford.”
“In Oxford?” cried Mark, as if he could not believe his ears.
“In Oxford,” repeated Vane, slowly enunciating his words. “I give you my word such is the fact, and if the occasion to which you may refer be of importance to you, I will, in order to set you right on the matter, produce, within a few days, proofs that I am simply stating—what, as a gentleman, I have a claim my bare word should guarantee—the truth.”
Mark swallowed a glass of wine. He could say no more at present. He felt convinced that Vane was the man he had seen in companionship with those who had insulted Lotte, and he determined to pursue the subject until he had either proved him a liar and a debauchee, or confess that, in this instance at least, he was mis taken. He took the first opportunity of excusing himself, and left Vane alone.
Alone to reflect on his position, to examine carefully the opposition he should have to contend with, from what quarter it would proceed, what would be its power, and how it was to be crushed.
“I must learn more before I can proceed upon my course,” he muttered. “One thing is clear: this wilful beauty has given herself, heart and soul, to that fellow Vivian, and I have no other rival to fear. It will not be so difficult to dispose of him if I have time; I must have time. Yet my necessities push me on to a coup-de-main. I will wait and see what to-morrow brings forth. A day may do much. One thing I swear, if I fail she shall never have him—never, never.”
His face assumed a demoniacal aspect. It was but a moment only that it was so ruffled; he heard an approaching footstep, and his features became placid and serene, as though there raged not beneath emotions of carking anxieties, of dread solicitude, and almost despairing apprehension.