“Trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.”
So says the poet, but alas! the clouds soon melt into the grey air of the world, and some of us, before our course is finished, forget that they ever were. And yet which is the shadow of the truth—those dreams, and hopes, and aspirations of our younger life, or the corruption with which the world cakes our souls?
Ida knew that she could not expect her father to sympathise with her; she knew that to his judgment, circumstances being the same, and both suitors being equally sound in wind and limb, the choice of one of them should, to a large extent, be a matter to be decided by the exterior considerations of wealth and general convenience.
However, she had made her choice, made it suddenly, but none the less had made it. It lay between her father’s interest and the interest of the family at large and her own honour as a woman—for the mere empty ceremony of marriage which satisfies society cannot make dishonour an honourable thing. She had made her choice, and the readers of her history must judge if that choice was right or wrong.
After dinner Harold came again as he had promised. The Squire was not in the drawing-room when he was shown in.
Ida rose to greet him with a sweet and happy smile upon her face, for in the presence of her lover all her doubts and troubles vanished like a mist.
“I have a piece of news for you,” said he, trying to look as though he was rejoiced to give it. “Edward Cossey has taken a wonderful turn for the better. They say that he will certainly recover.”
“Oh,” she answered, colouring a little, “and now I have a piece of news for you, Colonel Quaritch. My engagement with Mr. Edward Cossey is at an end. I shall not marry him.”
“Are you sure?” said Harold with a gasp.
“Quite sure. I have made up my mind,” and she held out her hand, as though to seal her words.