"I have no wish to trouble him on the subject," was the cold rejoinder, somewhat haughtily expressed.
"I may not hope then—"
"You may hope nothing on this subject whatever. Let it be dropped now and forever. If I can aid your prospects—"
"You will patronize me. Thank you, Miss Annie, but patronage from you would suit my temper badly. I had thought there was one being in the world superior to the influences of prejudice, of conventional distinctions; but you, too, deem me an inferior, because I boast not of paltry wealth or of gentle descent. Inferior as you deem me, you shall yet feel my power—yes, my power!"
His language and his told were those of a madman, and his flashing eyes gave him a frenzied appearance. Trembling with rage, the quondam lover left the presence of his adored, meditating in bitterness the most direful revenge.
Had Annie put any faith in his professions of love to herself, she would have been undeceived by this burst of rage. Love had not animated him—that was apparent enough; his disappointment was but a foiled ambition; yet after permitting upward of two years' attentions, conscience told her he should have met with a less haughty rebuff. The retrospect showed her she had encouraged him. She had then partly drawn upon herself a merited rebuke. She could but acknowledge this, and, humiliated, Annie would willingly have done her part in repairing the evil she had occasioned by promoting his advancement in life but this was beyond her power. The next news she heard was that Alfred Brookbank had prevailed on his father to advance him a large sum of money, and had set sail for America.
Time passed on. Estcourt Hall became duller every day, and beyond the arrival of a new family in the neighborhood there was nothing of interest outside. This family consistent of a dowager Lady Conway, her son and daughter. They had purchased "a place" near the sea for the benefit of Lady Conway's health. Their own estates, or rather the son's estates, were in a neighboring shire. They [{337}] were not intellectual, but they were wealthy and of good family, and in time an intimacy sprang up between them and the Godfreys, none knew how or why, and in a few months after, to the surprise of every one, "The Morning Post" announced that Sir Philip Conway, Bart., had led to the altar Miss Annie Godfrey, second daughter of E. Godfrey, Esq., of Estcourt Hall.
The marriage was strictly private. Eugene left Cambridge for a day or two to be present at it, but he soon returned to college. Of the nature of his studies no one guessed. He did go in for honors, as his father would have wished. Nevertheless his tutors made a good report of him, and the secluded life he led made many suppose that he was pursuing very deeply some pet hobby of his own.
Indeed, this was partly true; for although at his first return to Cambridge he was much dejected, he soon began to reflect that Euphrasie was very young; that she not only was now completely dependent, but that she was likely to continue so; and that the most unlikely thing that could happen, was the gratification of her wish to enter a convent. He trusted to time to teach her this, and a new hope sprang up within him, and that, too, at the very moment that his friend M. Bertolot, began to hope he had mastered his feelings for Euphrasie, and become reconciled to the inevitable separation.
Eugene spoke not of his love, but with renewed ardor he addressed himself to study the most important relationships that can exist for man. Guided by the counsels of M. Bertolot, he mastered the evidences of Revelation and then assured himself that that revelation, once given, was divinely protected: that that which was intended to shed light on the human soul, darkened by sin, was not a dubious ignis fatuis, subject to human vagaries, but an unerring guide and an unfailing lamp. We will not follow him through his arguments now, as we shall have occasion to make him speak for himself on a future occasion.