A Whim, and Its Consequences / Collection of British Authors Vol. CXIV

by G. P. R. James

Chandos felt as if some angel's hand had effaced the brand of Cain from his brow: his resolution of giving himself up was of course at an end, it being, like all resolutions in regard to definite acts, the mere plaything of circumstances; but he set to work to form other resolutions, which men may frame with better hopes of their durability, if their own minds be strong. They affected the regulation of his own passions, the course of his own conduct, the control of his own spirit. They were good; and they were lasting.

It is excellent for man to stand as on a mountain in the outset of life, and gaze over the many ways before him; to choose deliberately and with cool judgment, that upon which he will bend his steps, and to pursue it to the end. Verily, he shall not want success.

Chandos Winslow did so; and he rose tranquillized. Warm and eager by nature, he had learned from his mother to control himself to a certain point; but that control was merely according to or within the limits of worldly conventionalities. He had now found that there were wider obligations; that to rule his own passions, to check his own vehemence, to submit all his first impulses to a rigid law, totally independent of the factitious regulations of society, was a duty which, performed, must lead to peace of mind; and he resolved to strive so to do against original disposition, and against what is even more strong--habit.

On the subsequent morning he set out early for Northferry, not choosing to revisit Winslow park again, lest he should encounter one "a little more than kin and less than kind."

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Patience, and shuffle the cards," said the sleeper in the cave of Montesinos; and an excellent good rule it was. Our cards want shuffling; for the trumps have got packed.

A little more than a fortnight after Chandos Winslow had left Northferry for London, the party assembled at the house of Mr. Tracy on the evening of a cold January day, consisted of two or three persons besides his own family. There was the clergyman, Horace Fleming. There was an old lady, who lived at about twenty miles' distance, and spent the night there, when she dined--very rich, and somewhat egotistical. There was her niece, an exceedingly pretty little girl, without a penny, and totally dependent upon her bounty, who sang beautifully, and was kept under strict rule by her aunt--a sort of human singing bird, which old ladies will keep in cages now and then; and "last, but not least," was Sir William Winslow, who had come for two days, and had stayed seventeen. Not that he had entirely passed his time at Northferry; for he had ridden over more than once to Winslow Abbey, had met lawyers, and agents, and surveyors, and had received a proposal and nearly concluded an agreement, for selling the estate, land, park, and house to the law-agent of Viscount Overton, acting on his lord's behoof. Some little matters remained to be settled, but nothing of any great importance. The title was to be taken as it stood; the money was ready to be paid; and the only question was, whether the timber should be given at a round sum, or be regularly surveyed and valued. It was altogether an excellent arrangement; for, although perhaps the price offered was about five thousand pounds less than the real worth of the property, yet it saved Sir William the barbarism of pulling down the Abbey; and that was well worth the money.

These periods of his absence from Northferry, however, were very short. Sir William brought them to a close as speedily as possible; agreed to proposals, which nobody thought he would agree to, with a facility most extraordinary; gave short answers and few words to every one who applied to him on business, and rode back to Northferry as soon as by any means he had scrambled through what he had got to do.

Sir William seemed a changed man; and nobody could tell by what means the alteration had been effected. Most people indeed seemed to like him, and to wonder at the bad reports which had got about concerning him; but the cause of this marvellous change must be explained.

It was a change external, not internal. The man was the same; the demeanour was altered. The same vehement passions were upon him which had always moved him; but their operation had taken a different direction. The first day he had passed at Mr. Tracy's, he had given his arm to Emily, to take her in to dinner, and he had thought her exceedingly beautiful. The high, pensive character of her countenance, the voluptuous beauty of her form, the grace of all her movements, even the coldness of her manner towards himself, had all excited--however opposite in their apparent tendency--first admiration, and then passion. He saw her every day; and, with the uncontrollable impetuosity of his nature, he hurried on, pressing his suit upon her, only restrained from declaring it openly by the extreme brevity of their acquaintance. Every time he beheld her, his heart seemed on fire; every time she spoke to him, her words were enchantment that he could not resist; every time he touched her hand, it sent the blood thrilling through his veins; and day by day, and night by night he drank in draughts of love from her eyes, which seemed to intoxicate and leave him no command over himself. It was, in short, more like the passion of some warm eastern land than of our cold climate; and there was no folly, hardly any impropriety, that he would not have committed to call her his with as short a delay as possible.