CUPID AND MINERVA.
(Fragment from an Autobiography that it is hoped will never be written.)
I was most anxious that my past should be concealed from him, as I felt that once revealed, it would come between us as a barrier for ever! So I dissembled. I adapted my conversation to his capabilities. I learned to talk of lawn tennis, cricket, politics, even cookery. Only on one occasion did I betray myself. With self-abasement I was asking for an explanation of the electric telegraph. He gave me a somewhat faulty definition.
"Dear me!" I cried. "How did they ever come to think of such a clever thing?"
"Omne ign[)o]tum pro magnifico," he replied, with condescension.
I could not bear the false quantity even from his lips, and I asked, "Would not ign[=o]tum be better, darling?"
I could have bitten out my tongue for such an indiscretion. He looked at me sharply, with a glance of covert distrust.
"What do you know about it?" he asked, somewhat brusquely.
"Nothing, nothing!" I said, confusedly. "I happened to be looking through an Explanatory Pronouncing Dictionary of Latin Quotations, and found the passage."
"Beware of consulting text-books," he returned, sententiously. "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing."
For the moment I was safe, but I knew that the confidence that hitherto had existed between us was shaken and lessened. When he left me that day, he referred once more to the incident.
"Forgive me, SCHOLASTICA, I know I have been disagreeable. But I confess I am upset—the fact is a man doesn't care to be picked up sharp in his Latin."
"Forgive me!" I pleaded, "and you will love me?"
"Ad f[)i]nem!" he returned, making the first vowel short. I set my teeth and was silent. He looked at me with a keen glance, as if he would read my very soul, murmuring under his breath, "if she will stand that, she will stand anything," and we parted! Once alone, I gave vent to my feelings in a burst of passionate weeping. "Ad fïnem!" Oh, it was hard to bear!
At length the day arrived for our marriage. Just as I was starting for the Church a letter was handed to me. I recognised in the shaky superscription (which seemed to tremble in every stroke) his handwriting. The envelope contained a printed paper! It was the Oxford Class List! Then the truth in all its hideousness dawned upon me. He knew at last that I had taken a Double First!
This occurred many years ago. Well, time has brought its compensating comforts, and I am at least able to exclaim, "Quum multa injusta ac prava fiunt moribus!" without being guilty of using a false quantity!