"Heaven knows I do not wish to stay here. But how can I make
Edward and my uncle go?"
"I will try to persuade my sister, what is, in fact, true, that, if they are going abroad for this winter, they ought to be setting out now. You will naturally accompany them to London; indeed, you can make a point of it with Edward; and then, once in London, you can easily contrive to stay there. As Parliament meets at the beginning of November, your coming back here would probably be out of the question."
"Edward will wish to shoot next month."
"Then go to Hillscombe;—anywhere but here."
"Have you seen that man?"
"Not yet; I shall ride to Bridman this afternoon and find him out."
"What is he doing there?"
"I don't know; but James tells me he has been staying at the inn there for the last three weeks."
"Oh, that I were gone from hence! That I had the wings of a dove to flee away and be at rest! Henry, shall I ever know again what it is to be at rest?"
"Rest would not do for you. You have too keen a spirit, too strong a will, and too much genius to know what rest is. A good thing in its way I grant; but neither for you nor me was it ever decreed. We can be intensely happy, we can be intensely miserable. We tremble in the midst of joy, for we feel that it is too exquisite to last. In anguish we hope on, for we cannot conceive life without something to brighten its dull course; and we would rather die than live without a fear, a hope, an emotion of any sort."