"Oh, don't judge of her by her book!" Lionel exclaimed. "That isn't fair. Her book you may very likely consider foolish—not at all. I suppose her head is a little bit turned by the things that Quirk and those fellows have been writing about her; but that's only natural. And if she showed her hand a little too freely in trying to interest you in her novel, you must remember how eager she is to succeed. You'll do what you can for her book—won't you, Maurice?"
Maurice Mangan, on his way home that night, had other things to think of than Lady Adela's poor little book. He saw clearly enough the embroilment into which Lionel had landed himself; but he could not see so clearly how he was to get out of it. One question he forgot to ask: what had induced that mood of petulance or recklessness, or both combined, in which Lionel had wilfully and madly pledged all his future life? However, the thing was done; here was his friend going forward to a mariage de convenance (where there was very little convenance, to be sure) with a sort of careless indifference, if not of bravado; while his bride, on the other hand, might surely be pardoned if she resented, and indignantly resented, his attitude towards her. What kind of prospect was this for two young people? Maurice thought that on the very first opportunity he would go away down to Winstead and talk the matter over with Francie; who than she more capable of advising in aught concerning Lionel's welfare?
Notwithstanding his intercession with Maurice on behalf of Lady Adela's forthcoming novel, Lionel did not seem disposed to resume the friendly relations with the people up at Campden Hill which had formerly existed. He did not even call after the dinner-party. If Mr. Octavius Quirk were for the moment installed as chief favorite, he had no wish to interfere with him; there were plenty of other houses open, if one chose to go. But the fact is, Lionel now spent many afternoons and nearly every evening at the Garden Club; whist before dinner, poker after supper, being the established rule. Moreover,
a new element had been introduced, as far as he was concerned. Mr. Percival Miles had been elected a member of the club, and had forthwith presented himself in the card-room, where he at once distinguished himself by his bold and intrepid play. The curious thing was that, while openly professing a kind of cold acquaintanceship, it was invariably against Lionel Moore that he made his most determined stand; with the other players he might play an ordinarily discreet and cautious game; but when Moore could be challenged, this pale-faced young man never failed promptly to seize the opportunity. And the worst of it was that he had extraordinary luck, both in the run of the cards and in his manœuvres.
"What is that young whipper-snapper up to?" Lionel said to himself, after a particularly bad night (and morning) as he sat staring into the dead ashes of his fireplace. "He wanted to take my life—until my good angel interfered and saved me. Now does he want to break me financially? By Jove! they're coming near to doing it among them. I shall have to go to Moss to-morrow for another £250. Well, what does it matter? The luck must turn some time. If it doesn't?—if it doesn't?—then there may come the trip before the mast, as the final panacea, according to Maurice. Australia?—there would be freedom there, and perhaps forgetfulness."
As he was passing into his bedroom he chanced to observe a package that was lying on a chair, and for a second he glanced at the handwriting of the address. It was Miss Burgoyne's. What could she want with him now? He cut the string, and opened the parcel; behold, here was the brown-and-scarlet woollen vest that she had knitted for him with her own fair hands. Why these impatiently down-drawn brows? A true lover would have passionately kissed this tender token of affection, and bethought him of all the hours and half-hours and quarters of an hour during which she had been employed in her pretty task, no doubt thinking of him all the time. Alas! the love-gift was almost angrily thrown on to the chair again—and he went into his own room.
CHAPTER XXII.
PRIUS DEMENTAT.
When Maurice Mangan left the train at Winstead, and climbed out of the deep chalk cutting in which the station is buried, and emerged upon the open downs, he found himself in a very different world from that he had left. Far away behind him lay the great city (even now the dusky dome of St. Paul's was visible across the level swathes of landscape), with its miry ways and teeming population and continuous thunder of traffic; while here were the windy skies of a wild March morning and swaying trees and cawing rooks and air that was sweet in the nostrils and soft to the throat. As he light-heartedly strode away across the undulations of blossoming gorse, fragments of song from his favorite poets chased one another through his brain; and somehow they were all connected with the glad opening out of the year—"And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils"—"Along the grass sweet airs are blown, our way this day in spring"—"And in the gloaming o' the wood, the throssil whistled sweet"—Mangan could sing no more than a crow; but he felt as if he were singing; there was a kind of music in the long stride, the quick pulse, the deep inhalations of the delicious air. For all was going to be well now; he was about to consult Francie as to Lionel's sad estate. He did not stay to ask himself whether it were likely that a quiet and gentle girl, living in this secluded neighborhood, could be of much help in such a matter; it was enough that he was going to talk it all over with Miss Francie; things would be clearer then.