To this had her ambition brought her! With no resources, with no friends, without even a good name, she had to begin the world anew. Literature was the desperate resource which alone awaited her; and she resolved to live by her pen.
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!