L I B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLR5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 8-2.3
 
 Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 witii funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/prideirresolutio01pons
 
 PRIDE 
 
 AND 
 
 IRRESOLUTION 
 
 THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE. 
 
 Like an JEoIian hai*p that wakes 
 
 No certain air, but overtakes 
 
 Far thought with music that it makes 
 
 Such seemed the whisper at my side. 
 
 "What is't tliou know'st, sweet voice?" I cried. 
 
 " A hidden hope !" the voice replied. 
 
 To feel, although no tongue can prove. 
 That every cloud that spreads above 
 And veileth Jove— itself is love. 
 
 Texntson. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1850.
 
 -• I 
 
 SUSAN GREVILLE; 
 
 OE, 
 
 lEKESOLUTIOK 
 
 A DOMESTIC STOEY. 
 
 The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good, 
 The slow sad hours that bring us all things illj 
 
 And all things good from e\dl. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 And is there aught on earth so rich and rare, 
 Whose i^leasures may with virtue's pains compare 
 This fruit of patience — this the dear delight 
 That 'tis a trial in her Judge's sight. 
 Her part still striving duty to sustain, 
 Not spurning pleasure, not defying pain. 
 Never in triumph till her race is won. 
 
 And never fainting till her work be done. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 A MAN without decision can never be said to belong 
 to himself — since if he dared to assert that he did, the 
 puny force of some cause about as powerful, you would 
 have supposed, as a spider, may make a captive of the 
 hapless boaster the very next moment, and triumphantly 
 exhibit the futility of the determination by which he was 
 to have proved the independence of his understanding 
 and his will. He belongs t(j whatever can seize him, 
 and innumerable things do actually verify their claim on 
 him and arrest him as he tries to go along — as twigs 
 and chips floating near the edge of a river are intercepted 
 by every weed, and wliirled in every little eddy. 
 
 Foster's Essay on Decision of Charactee. 
 
 In the progress of their discourse the Marquis of 
 Montrose added, " that course of theirs (i.e. the Cove- 
 nanters) ended not but in the king's death, and over- 
 turning the whole of the government." When one of 
 the ministers answered, " that was a sectarian party that 
 rose up and carried things beyond the first and true 
 intent of them," he only said in reply, " error is rnfinite!'^ 
 
 Montrose and the Covenantees.
 
 SUSAN GREVILLE. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 For not the blameless life, nor artless youth, 
 
 Nor beauty's bloom, nor innocence, nor truth. 
 
 Can move that Mind mysterious whose dread power 
 
 Doth chastening rule our transitory hour, 
 
 And low doth lay the proud man's haughtiest boast, 
 
 And oft the brightest virtue tries the most. 
 
 Anox. 
 
 The belief in luck and ill luck, that there 
 are lucky and unlucky persons, is a belief from 
 which the mind naturally revolts ; and rightly 
 revolts ; for the affairs of the universe, and if 
 of the universe, the affairs also of individuals, 
 are not guided by chance, as even the heathen 
 has taught us. 
 
 And yet this doctrine of luck and ill luck is 
 incorrect only in the words by which it is ex- 
 b2
 
 4 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 pressed; for painful as it may be to own it, 
 painful and puzzling as may be the reflections 
 into which it leads us, it is impossible for us 
 to close our eyes to the fact, that some people 
 are what is commonly called lucky — lucky in 
 all the enterprises which they undertake — 
 lucky also in the course of events which affect 
 them, but over which they have no control — 
 and that others are in the same way unlucky : 
 in other words, that some men walk in sun- 
 shine all their life long, while others appear 
 to be " born" above, far above, the common 
 lot of mortals, " to trouble as the sparks fly 
 upwards.'' 
 
 There is, of course, no real difficulty in the 
 question. The discipline of life is not the 
 same for all. For the most part " mingled 
 shades of joy and woe" appear to be man's 
 appointed lot — the lot most fitted to draw out 
 and exercise the virtues, and overcome the 
 evils of his nature ; and where it is otherwise 
 ordained, where a perpetual cloud appears to 
 rest on the head of any human being, we must 
 believe that although the reasons for such a 
 destiny are to us dark and incomprehensible,
 
 PUIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 5 
 
 yet that it is guided by the same wisdom and 
 with the same fitness for the trial of individual 
 character, as that which shapes the course of 
 the rest of the world around us. 
 
 I believe it has been often remarked that 
 some of the best and holiest, the jewels of our 
 race, have been most singled out for trial. I 
 do not mean so much those who have been 
 made holy by trial, as those who appear at in- 
 tervals, " like autumn violets sweet and rare," 
 from their childhood upwards living amongst 
 us rather as visitants from another v/orld than 
 inhabitants of this. I believe such are often 
 destined to peculiar troubles ; and it need not 
 surprise or puzzle us that it is so, if we could 
 but remember that sorrow, though its general 
 character may be chastening, yet need not 
 necessarily be so ; it may sometimes be rather 
 a gift, a precious opportunity granted to show 
 forth to men, and to offer to God those hidden 
 virtues, which " like the plant that throws its 
 fragrance from the wounded part," require the 
 wounds and sufferings of this life for the due 
 exhibition of their beauty and power. 
 
 I was led into some such reflections as these,
 
 6 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 as I stood after a long absence on the hill 
 which overlooks tlie beautiful and romantic 
 country surrounding the woods and grounds 
 belonging to Keevor Hall, and meditated on 
 the fate of one with whom for many years I 
 was thrown into perpetual contact — I mean 
 Susan Greville, the heroine of my story. 
 
 The circumstances which led me into that 
 contact are immaterial for the reader to know ; 
 it suffices that the tale I tell is told not from 
 hearsay, but from actual observation. I do 
 not mean to say that I vouch for the accuracy 
 of every word which I have recorded. There 
 were many occasions on which I was not and 
 could not be present, and I have rather endea- 
 voured to convey a truthful and life-like repre- 
 sentation of characters which made a deep 
 impression upon me at the time, and which I 
 had unusual opportunities of studying, than to 
 confine myself to the record of deeds which I 
 saw done, and words which I heard spoken. 
 For the truth of my representation, however 
 small in otlier ways the merits and interest of 
 my tale may be, I fearlessly appeal to all who 
 visited at Keevor Hall during the time of 
 which I speak.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 7 
 
 I feel that my story needs a preface and an 
 apology — the events are too few — the cha- 
 racters want diversity — the interest is confined 
 to one chain of circumstances, and one quiet 
 spot. But the tale, as I before said, is told 
 from observation : those incidents which passed 
 around me I have related, and (with but few 
 exceptions) those alone; and if the characters 
 which I have endeavoured to depict fail to 
 •interest others as once they interested me, I 
 fear that an apology will have little effect in 
 producing the result which I desire ; and so 
 (though deeply conscious of the necessity for 
 an apology) I proceed without more words to 
 my tale. 
 
 Old Mr. Greville, of Keevor Hall, was re- 
 markable for two things — family pride and 
 ill-temper. For the pride there might be 
 some excuse, for the family of Greville had 
 lived in the large, straggling, irregular, but 
 picturesque house of Keevor, for more years, 
 as the old housekeeper said, "than mortal 
 man could count;" and of this family many a 
 one had borne a distinguished part in the 
 political history of their generation. If pos-
 
 8 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 terity has forgotten their names, it was but 
 the more reason that their descendant should 
 cherish their memory; but there was one 
 whom posterity has not forgotten, and the 
 favourite pride, the treasured remembrance of 
 the old man's heart, was that he could count 
 among his ancestors Fulke Greville, Lord 
 Brooke, the cotemporary and friend of Sir 
 Philip Sydney. 
 
 For the pride, then, some excuse was al- 
 lowed, but what could be said in defence of the 
 violence of his temper? Nothing was said, 
 for nothing was needed. Of excuses for any 
 of his failings Mr. Greville never dreamed. 
 If he thought about his temper at all as a 
 matter of reflection, which was doubtful, it 
 was rather to count it as a proper attribute — 
 an additional perfection in the character of the 
 far- descended and respected Lord of Keevor. 
 
 Two stars cannot shine in one sphere, and 
 two reigning propensities are very apt to in- 
 terfere with the gratification of each other — 
 it was so in this case. Mr. Greville's pride 
 was conquered by his ill-temper. Although 
 the support of his family in its ancient honour
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 9 
 
 and esteem was the all-engrossing subject of 
 his thoughts, it was he himself who struck 
 the fatal blow which diminished its present 
 honour, and opposed a barrier to its increas- 
 ing grandeur. He had two sons — the eldest 
 a calm-tempered, indolent, contented, peace- 
 able man; the second inheriting something of 
 his father's temper. It might be natural to 
 suppose that it was with the latter that occa- 
 sions of difference arose ; that with the calm, 
 peaceable man it could not fail but that all 
 things should go on in calm and peace. 
 But we should suppose wrongly. There are 
 few things more irritating to the irritable 
 than perfect calm. A soft answer, indeed, 
 turneth away wrath ; but it must be the soft 
 answer of restraining principle, not of indif- 
 ferent equanimity. The calmness of his eldest 
 son in all disputes, and under all excitements, 
 acted like a perpetual fire upon the temper of 
 the father; and under the constant flame of 
 irritation, the gentler glow of paternal feel- 
 ings died away. 
 
 With Ralph Greville, the second son, there 
 were occasional disputes; but as the two irri-
 
 10 PKIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 table tempers boiled over together, they also 
 tranquillized together, and the mutual storm 
 was followed by a mutual calm. Ealph like- 
 wise had, by absence, a strong hold on his 
 father's aifections. Though too well provided 
 for to need a profession, he was of a roving 
 disposition; and while his brother remained 
 immovable at home, he was absent for months, 
 and even years, taking up his abode now in 
 one country, now in another. Whatever, 
 therefore, were his original claims on his 
 father's favour, they were increased tenfold by 
 imagination and absence, and all the love 
 withdrawn from the elder son was lavished 
 upon him. 
 
 Such being his feelings, Mr. Greville's first 
 impulse was to disinherit his natural heir. 
 His estates were at his own disposal. He 
 himself was the last in an entail, and a love 
 of power had prevented him from making any 
 fresh settlement of his property. But this 
 desire was counterbalanced by other feelings. 
 Two tilings in particular weighed in the op- 
 posite balance, and declared against such an 
 extreme proceeding. In the pride of his heart
 
 PEIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 1 1 
 
 lie had called his eldest son Fulke, and to de- 
 prive Fulke Greville of Keevor, was more than 
 he could calmly contemplate. A second and 
 stronger reason against such a measure was 
 to be found in the affection which he bore 
 towards the eldest of his son's children, little 
 Susan Greville — he could not prevail upon 
 himself to drive her from the house in which 
 she was born. 
 
 Under these conflicting emotions he decided 
 upon a half measure. Out of an income of 
 14,000/. a year, the estate of Keevor, amount- 
 ing in value to something under one-third of 
 that sum annually, was left to Mr. Fulke 
 Greville ; the remainder of the property, 
 which lay chiefly in the same county, 
 although at a considerable distance, was set- 
 tled on the youngest son, Ealph. 
 
 It is possible that Mr. Greville in some 
 degree blinded his eyes to the injurious effect 
 which such a disposition of his property must 
 have upon the honour and influence of his 
 house, and yet, even while listening to the voice 
 of passion, he did not entirely forget his 
 former hopes and dreams.
 
 12 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 With a far-seeing glance he contemplated 
 the possibility of reuniting the divided pro- 
 perty at some future time; for in a formal 
 letter of directions, found with and referring 
 to his will, he gave orders to both his sons to 
 pursue a specified line of conduct, in case 
 a certain contingency should occur. What 
 these directions were, I will not now pause 
 to explain, as, at the time of my first ac- 
 quaintance with the family at Keevor, the 
 contingency contemplated had not occurred. 
 
 Having arranged his affairs to his full satis- 
 •faction, and having, as he thought, tempered 
 justice with mercy in a manner unequalled in 
 the annals of history, old Mr. Greville died 
 after a very short illness. There was some 
 reason to suppose that had his life been pro- 
 longed, he would have altered the arrange- 
 ments on which he had bestowed so much 
 care and thought. When, on the evening 
 of the day before his death, little Susan Gre- 
 ville was lifted up upon liis bed to wish him 
 good night; and in her simple, touching, 
 childish voice, said, ^' God bless you, grand- 
 papa !" tears came into the old man's eyes, and he
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 13 
 
 remained for some hours in profound thought. 
 When he roused himself from his apparent 
 stupor, it was to desire that his lawyer might 
 instantly be sent for. Before he could arrive, 
 however, Mr. Greville was dead. 
 
 It was five years after this time that I first 
 became acquainted with Mr. Fulke Greville. 
 He had never moved from Keevor, and was 
 living there with his wife and two children in 
 perfect comfort and happiness, although on a 
 scale of considerable economy. He was still 
 the same quiet, indolent man; wrapt in his 
 wife, his children, and his garden, contented 
 with the present, closing his eyes to all trou- 
 bles or trials in the future, and leaving to 
 Mrs. Greville the entire management of his 
 house, and of the property which had devolved 
 upon him. 
 
 His brother had in the same manner pur- 
 sued his old tastes, and had settled himself 
 abroad. He had married earlier than Mr. 
 Fulke Greville, and had also been early left a 
 widower with one little boy. At the time of 
 my first visit at Keevor, the intelligence of 
 his second marriage had just been received.
 
 14 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 I liave endeavoured, in as short a compass 
 as possible, to explain the circumstances, do- 
 mestic and pecuniary, of the Greville family, 
 which was necessary for the understanding of 
 my tale.
 
 PEIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 15 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Her eye was patient, and she spoke in tones 
 So sweet and of such pensive gentleness, 
 That the heart heard them. 
 
 Madoc. 
 
 I MUST introduce you to tlie two little 
 sickly children of Mr. and Mrs. Greville. 
 
 By the side of a trellised casement-window, 
 which opened to the ground and led into the 
 garden — the walls on one side thick with ivy, 
 on the other fresh and scented with jessamine 
 — a little boy was lying on a sofa. His limbs 
 were half covered with a shawl, and his posi- 
 tion prevented you from seeing, what at other 
 times was but too apparent, that he was a 
 cripple. A little girl sate on a low stool by 
 his side. A book of stories was in her hand, 
 with which she was endeavouring to amuse
 
 16 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 the boy, and ber work lay on a chair which 
 was drawn close to her seat. 
 
 There was little beauty in either of the 
 children. Their skins were pale and sallow ; 
 and their brown hair was cut close round their 
 temples. Their eyes were very dark, but 
 without any peculiar beauty of size or bril- 
 liancy, and beneath the under-lid of each 
 there was that deep, black mark, which speaks 
 so painfully of weakness and ill health. 
 
 And yet there was something in the appear- 
 ance of both the children which could not fail 
 to attract the attention of all, except the very 
 determined admirers of beauty. There was 
 in their countenances a very remarkable ex- 
 pression of earnestness and intensity, which — 
 although speaking of acquaintance with thought 
 and suffering, and therefore painful to see at 
 so early an age — excited feelings of anxious 
 and lively interest. In addition to this, there 
 was — but it was more on the face of the girl 
 than of the boy (in him there was something 
 of restlessness) — a look of tranquillity and 
 serenity which I had never seen on any coun- 
 tenance before. She might look sorrowful,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 17 
 
 she might be suffering pain of body or of 
 mind, but it was still the same, — this ex- 
 pression never changed. It was as if an angel 
 of peace continually hovered over her. and 
 covered her with his wings, or, as Coleridge 
 has beautifully expressed it, — " It (peace) lay 
 on her countenance like a steady, unshadowed 
 moonlight." 
 
 " Don't read any more, Susan," said the 
 little boy, with a sigh; "I can't listen any 
 longer." 
 
 Susan put down her book, and turned her 
 eyes sorrowfully and inquiringly upon her 
 brother. 
 
 " Oh, Susan ! I do feel so very, very ill," he 
 said, with another sigh. " I think I get worse 
 every day." 
 
 ''Can I do anything for you, Charley?'^ 
 asked the little girl, with her earnest, pitying 
 look: " are you in very great pain?" 
 
 '' No, not pain, — at least, not great pain. 
 Sometimes I wish it icas pain; I think I 
 could bear it better. I am so tired, — my 
 bones ache so, — I seem to ache all over;" and 
 he moaned, and turned restlessly on his couch. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 " You have been lying here so long : let me 
 lift you up a little while. There now, is that 
 better?" and, with the hancliness and gentleness 
 of an experienced nurse, she pulled up and 
 arranged the cushions that were supporting 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, that is better. Sit down again, 
 Susan. Yes, I feel quite comfortable now. 
 But, Susan," he continued, after a short 
 silence, during which the little girl had taken 
 up her work, " I don't think this can go on 
 much longer. Do you know, Susan, I think 
 that I shall very soon die." 
 
 There was a quick, sorrowful glance from 
 the little girl, but no exclamation, no answer. 
 
 '' I don't think I mind, Susan. Dying! I 
 wonder what dying is ! I wonder what it is 
 like ! I wonder if it is very painful ! What 
 do you think, Susan? do you think it is very 
 painful to die?" 
 
 " Mamma says we shouldn't think about 
 death in that way, Charley," said the little 
 girl, in her soft, sad voice. " She feays, when 
 the angel of death comes to fetch us away to 
 happiness, that we should go, and not be 
 afraid.^'
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 19 
 
 "I shan't be afraid, Susan; I am sure I 
 shan't; I think I shall be yerj glad to go, 
 only for one thing." 
 
 Again the earnest glance from the little 
 girl, but no question. 
 
 '' I don't mind leaving Keevor, Susan ; I 
 don't mind never seeing again the sun, or the 
 trees, or the flowers; I don't mind their 
 putting me in the ground by poor grandpapa, 
 because I know I shan't stay there, — shall I, 
 Susan? — I know I shall fly away, and see 
 more beautiful things than any we have here ; 
 but, Susan, I can't die and go away from you, 
 — I can't be happy, unless you are with me, 
 — I don't care for beautiful things, unless you 
 see them, too." 
 
 The little girl never raised her eyes, — the 
 tears were blinding them, — but she worked 
 away quickly and nervously at her work. 
 After a moment, she said, in a low faltering 
 voice, "Don't, Charlej^ — don't; mamma says 
 it is not right to speak like that." 
 
 "Why isn't it right, Susan? It's quite, 
 quite true. I don't think I could be happy 
 even in heaven, unless you were there. Shall 
 c 2
 
 20 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 you be happy without me, when I go away 
 and leave you alone?" 
 
 Such a look from the child — such a quiver- 
 ing smile was her answer ! 
 
 The little boy had now worked himself up 
 into an excitement of feeling ; he now went on 
 in a voice whose tenderness would have melted 
 a heart of stone — " What shall you do, Susan, 
 when I am dead ? I often think, and think, 
 and I can't fancy you without me. You never 
 do anything but take care of me, and nurse 
 me, and try and make me happy; what shall 
 you do, Susan, when you have no one to take 
 care of any more?" 
 
 The poor little girl struggled hard to re- 
 strain herself, but in vain. " Oh ! Charley, 
 Charley, don't — please, don't ! I know I shall 
 be able to bear anything that comes, but don't 
 talk of it now, — please, don't, — I cannot bear 
 it now." And in a perfect passion of grief, 
 she laid her head down upon the couch, while 
 the boy, almost with a look of pleasure, stroked 
 her dark hair with his small, wasted hand. 
 
 It was at this moment that I came in from 
 the garden, at the open trellised window. The
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 21 
 
 little girl raised her head, and her eyes — and 
 my eyes in the same instant, fell upon a deep 
 red stain on the couch where she had laid her 
 face. I was about to make an exclamation 
 of surprise and alarm, but with instant self- 
 possession, she held her finger to her lips, to 
 command — gentle as it was, I felt it as a 
 command — ^to command my silence; then 
 moving and arranging the folds of the shawl, 
 she got up and left the room, merely saying, as 
 she passed me, and held out her little hand — 
 
 " Will you amuse Charley, while I go away 
 for a little while? — I shall soon be back.'^ 
 
 Notwithstanding my anxiety on her account, 
 seeing that it was her desire to conceal what 
 had happened from her brother, I obeyed her 
 orders, and sate down to amuse the little boy 
 to the best of my power. I began to give him 
 an account of some curious birds, which I had 
 been seeing at a shop in a town at some dis- 
 tance, but he listened to me listlessly, and with 
 indifference, and, at the first convenient pause 
 in my conversation, he looked very earnestly 
 at me, and remarked, " I have been making 
 Susan cry."
 
 22 PPJDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 "And why so, Charley?" I asked. "Do 
 you like to see her tears — I don't like it at 
 all." 
 
 " Sometimes," he replied ; and he still looked 
 at me with a look in which there was a kind 
 of arch melancholy. 
 
 " Why do you like it, my boy? — if you love 
 your sister, shouldn't you like better to make 
 her smile? 
 
 "Angels don't cry; do they?" he asked — 
 as if there was some deep meaning in his ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "No," I said, shaking my head; " at least, 
 we have no reason to think they do ; if they 
 
 do " My mind was wandering from my 
 
 young companion, as it is but too apt to do, 
 into regions of speculation, as to the possi- 
 bility of angel's tears; but he recalled me to 
 himself. 
 
 ■ '^ Then, that is why I like to make Susan 
 cry," he said, with a slight smile. " Do you 
 know 1 am sometimes afraid that she is an 
 angel, and will fly away from this world be- 
 fore me, — but when I see her cry, then I 
 know "
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 2S 
 
 " Then you know," I said, taking the words 
 from his mouth, and finishing them according 
 to my own fancy — " then you know that she 
 is no unsorrowing angel, but a poor young 
 creature sent down to be tried and tempted 
 upon earth." For, often, and often when I had 
 looked at that young, calm, earnest face, I 
 had said to myself that no ordinary portion 
 of trial must be destined for her. 
 
 We were interrupted by the entrance of the 
 nurse, Bessie, as the children called her, who 
 came into the room in her bonnet and shawl, 
 and with the little boy's hat in her hand. 
 
 "Come, Master Char%," she said, '^ the 
 pony is at the door, and you must not keep 
 it waiting, for fear of the rain ; come along, 
 my dear, I've brought you your hat, you see." 
 She raised him on the couch, and held out to 
 him the crutches necessary to support his weak 
 deformed limbs. 
 
 "Won't Susan come? — Bessie," he said, "I 
 want Susan." 
 
 "Miss Greville is going to stay with her 
 mamma. Come, my dear, or we shall have a 
 shower."
 
 24 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 " But I hate to go without Susan," he cried, 
 with tears in his eyes. His feelings had been 
 excited, and had made him nervous and fretful, 
 which was not usual to him. 
 
 " I know you do, my dear," said the kind 
 nurse ; " but, Mr. Charley, even you must do 
 what you don't like sometimes. Miss Greville 
 don't like to stay, but she stays because her 
 Mamma wishes her to stay. Come along, my 
 dear, and be as good as Miss Greville is." 
 
 I don't think the little boy was quite satis- 
 fied, but he slowly crept to the door, and was 
 placed on his pony ; a boy stood ready to lead 
 him. 
 
 Anxious as I was about Susan, more espe- 
 cially when I remarked a grave sad look on 
 the nurse's face, I could not make any inquiries 
 until we were alone. When the pony had 
 started, I held Bessie back, and asked if she 
 was alarmed about Miss Greville. 
 
 *'Not now, sir," she said, with a grave 
 shake of the head; ''I think it will not be 
 much just now; but into the future, sir, with 
 these two poor children, I am almost afraid to 
 look. This is not the first time that it has
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 25 
 
 happened ; when her grandpapa died five years 
 ago, Miss Greville cried very much, and she 
 
 broke a vessel in the throat, they said 
 
 We must hope, sir, vre must hope, and if they 
 are taken away before their time, why, sir, it 
 
 is a happy thing for the young to die 
 
 but I must amuse Master Charley;" and she 
 left me. 
 
 Doubtless, it is happy for the young to die 
 — untainted to pass to their reward — and 
 happy, too, is it for those Avho, through the 
 trials and temptations of this world, are per- 
 mitted to win for themselves a brighter crown 
 than the crown of childish innocence. To the 
 first of these destinies the poor sickly boy 
 upon whom my eyes were resting was called — 
 to the second but no, I will not fore- 
 stall my tale. 
 
 Something more than a year after the date 
 of this conversation, little Charley declined 
 and died; and at eleven years old Susan Gre- 
 ville became the heiress of the old picturesque 
 family place of Keevor Hall.
 
 ^6 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Dost tliou like tlie picture f 
 
 Lady of Lyons. 
 
 '' It is ray wish and desire that in the too 
 probable event of the death of my grandson, 
 Eulke Charles Creville, a marriage should be 
 contracted between my grand-daughter Susan, 
 and her cousin Julian Greville. And it is 
 my wish and desire that the engagement for 
 this marriage should be entered upon when my 
 grand-daughter, Susan Greville, shall have 
 attained the age of seventeen.'* 
 
 The above is an extract from the letter of 
 directions annexed, by old Mr. Greville to his 
 will. 
 
 At the time of his death, the death of his 
 grandson was, as he said, too probable; but
 
 PEIDE AXD IRRESOLUTION. 27 
 
 soon after that event, the cliild appeared to 
 rally ; and altliough a long life was scarcely to 
 be desired for liira, yet it was not strange that 
 his parents should shrink from the contempla- 
 tion of his early loss, and that the plans of 
 the worldly old man should escape from their 
 memory. 
 
 Their attention was recalled to them by a letter 
 from Mr. Ealph Greville, written from Florence, 
 a few months after Charley's death. In this 
 letter he informed them of his own willing- 
 ness to agree to his father's directions, provided 
 always, that on coming of age, his son should 
 not be averse to it. " Of this, however," he 
 said, " I have no expectation. Julian is now 
 fifteen, and is a promising, well-disposed boy, 
 a million times cleverer than his father. In- 
 deed, both in appearance and character, he 
 takes more after my poor Bianca than from 
 me. I have already spoken to him on the sub- 
 ject of this marriage, in strict confidence, (I 
 have not even mentioned it to my wife,) and I 
 assure you that his imagination is very fa- 
 vourably impressed, I may say excited, with 
 the idea of his little wife. Let me know, my
 
 28 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 dear Fulke, what your feelings are on this 
 matter. It shall not be my fault if the pro- 
 perty of our ancestors is not again united in 
 our children." 
 
 The answer of Mr. GreYille to this letter 
 was short, which was usual in his communica- 
 tions, and decisive, which was unusual. 
 
 " Keevor Hall, May — , 18—. 
 
 " My dear Brother, 
 
 " I am of the same mind as you are ; 
 provided always that Susan has no objection. 
 My wife disapproves of your consulting Julian 
 so early; she will not have the subject men- 
 tioned to Susan till she is seventeen. I have 
 no doubt of my poor father's plan being for 
 the best. Shall we ever see you at Keevor 
 again. The tulips have been in great beauty 
 this year. "I am, ever yours, 
 
 "FULKE GrEVILLE." 
 
 From this time little communication took 
 place between the families till the time men- 
 tioned by old Mr. Greville, for the contraction 
 of the marriage, drew near.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 29 
 
 Meanwhile Susan had grown from the pale, 
 sickly child, into a woman. 
 
 She had been rather strictly brought up. 
 Mrs. Greville was a woman of strong mind 
 and deep feeling, but in her manners and 
 ideas she was somewhat stiff and precise. 
 She had been educated in what is now called 
 the old-fashioned style of education, that is, 
 with little attention to graces and accomplish- 
 ments, but with a thorough knowledge of 
 household concerns, and great care for the 
 moral culture of the mind; and she had pur- 
 sued the same plan in the education of her 
 daughter. 
 
 I am in many points an admirer of the old 
 style of education, but its incompatibility with 
 the lighter and brighter graces of the new, I 
 never could understand. The sense of iDcauty 
 is also a gift and a talent, and I do not see, 
 where there is the time and power for its cul- 
 tivation, that we are excusable in neglecting 
 to cultivate it. Above all, I think that Mrs. 
 Greville was inexcusable in neglecting it in 
 the education of her daughter. She was not 
 rearing a flower to be picked up as it
 
 30 PRIDE AND lEEESOLUTION. 
 
 seemed by chance, but was preparing a wife 
 for one, whom it required but a little thought 
 to perceive was receiving an education in 
 every way opposed to the system she was pur- 
 suing with her own child. 
 
 Mrs. Greville, however, with all her strength 
 of mind and vigorous judgment, was what has 
 been called " a bundle of prejudices." Her 
 vision was firm and clear, but it was narrow. 
 Accomplishments were with her but another 
 nam^ for frivolity, and with frivolity she 
 was engaged in a perpetual warfare. Con- 
 centration of the mind was her great principle, 
 dissipation of the mind her great aversion. 
 Susan, therefore, was brought up much like 
 one of^the maidens of old. Her mind was 
 stored with useful practical knowledge: she 
 was urged to read,»but such books only were 
 allowed her as would lead her to think; and 
 that she mtgfit have time to think, some hours 
 of every day were allotted to vrork — to work 
 of all kinds, both useful and ornamental. Her 
 time was regularly portioned out ; idleness was 
 never allowed. Air and exercise had been 
 ordered for the strengthening of her health,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 31 
 
 and lier mother encouraged her to be much 
 out of doors; but the hours of air and exer- 
 cise were also used as education ; every walk 
 had a definite duty assigned to it. Every 
 day she Avas taught to look upon as lost, in 
 which she had not, by the bestowal of charity, 
 or by the gift of kind looks and kind words, 
 gladdened the heart of some of the poor around 
 her. There was little to quarrel with in the 
 education; it was most excellent as a founda- 
 tion, but it was narrow. Many characters it 
 would have formed into a mere machine. That 
 Susan escaped being a machine, I have always 
 considered to be owing (partly, of course, to 
 natural disposition) but principally to the in- 
 dependence of thought and action, which her 
 early and lonely intercourse among the poor 
 was calculated to give her. Tales were poured 
 into her youthful ears, — confidences of joys, 
 and sorrows, and sufferings, — which excited 
 in her breast an unextinguishable curiosity, 
 and an undying sympathy with humanity. 
 
 Though there were occasional indications 
 of a taste very much at variance with her 
 mother's, Susan submitted herself to Mrs.
 
 32 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Greville's plans and regulations, not only obe- 
 diently, but with a willing mind. She loved 
 her mother passionately, and this feeling was 
 enough ; her own tastes were as nothing com- 
 pared to the joy of gaining one quiet smile of 
 approbation from her lips. She was the same 
 being all her life long; " she lived not in 
 herself, but was a portion of those around 
 her." 
 
 I suppose the earnest care bestowed upon 
 the education of a child, is never ultimately 
 lost, even where it has been mistaken ; but it 
 must be a painful thought to parents and 
 teachers to reflect how often their prejudices 
 may have interfered with the future happiness 
 of those over whom they have anxiously and 
 unceasingly watched. Often in after-days I 
 sighed as I thought, '' Were Mrs. Greville 
 here, she would repent." 
 
 I must not, however, let it be supposed that 
 because Mrs. Greville was stiff and precise, 
 she had made Susan so, too. Something of the 
 calmness of her mother's manners Susan had 
 either caught, or had inherently ; bi^t what in 
 the mother was formality, in the daughter was
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUITON. 33^ 
 
 grace. In mj remarks on Susan's education, 
 I speak only so far as her happiness was con- 
 cerned; for myself, I never wished her to be 
 other than she was. 
 
 I wish I could describe her to you; but the 
 grace that hung about every quiet movement 
 of her small, slight figure, was a thing to be 
 felt, not described. She was not beautiful; 
 nay, in any proper sense of the word, she was 
 not even pretty. Her dark eyes were not 
 large, or lustrous, or brilliant; her features 
 had no regularity of form ; her skin was pale, 
 too pale. There was something quakerlike in 
 the simplicity of her dress, and in the plain 
 braids of her dark hair, but still there was 
 about her a softness, a stillness, a serenity — 
 
 '- From all things outward she had won 
 A tearful grace, as though she stood 
 Between the rainbow and the sun." 
 
 In her smile, in the light of her dark eyes 
 there was a sweetness, a thoughtfulness, a 
 compassion that seemed to spring from an 
 unfathomable fountain of love within, and yet 
 when the sorrows of others, or her own, were 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 reflected too deeply and sadly on the mirrors 
 of those eyes, the serenity of her brow re- 
 mained unchanged. The peculiarity of her 
 countenance lay in this contrast — the intensity 
 of feeling with the intensity of repose. She 
 reminded you of moonlight resting upon 
 clouds. 
 
 One morning, she was seated at her em- 
 broidery frame in a recess of the long old- 
 fashioned drawing-room, which was peculiarly 
 appropriated to her use. Mrs. Greville quietly 
 entered the room, and stood beside her. Susan 
 looked up, and rose from her seat, but, touch- 
 ing her shoulder, her mother motioned to her 
 to remain where she was. 
 
 After a few criticisms on her work, she sat 
 down opposite to her, and fixed her eyes with 
 some gravity upon her face. 
 
 " Do you remember, Susan," she began, at 
 last, "that you are seventeen to-day?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma," Susan said, sadly, even 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " I know," continued her mother, " that 
 since the time when on this day you were 
 visited with so great an affliction, you do not
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 35 
 
 wish to be reminded of your birthday. You 
 may trust me, Susan ; I mention it with no 
 desire to make it a day of rejoicing, but be- 
 cause I am bound by a promise to talk to you 
 seriously on this day upon a subject of grave 
 interest to me and to yourself." She paused, 
 and examined her daughter's countenance, 
 then inquired, " Do you remember your grand- 
 father, Susan?" 
 
 *' Yes, mamma — oh, yes !" 
 
 " You are right, my child, to remember 
 him — he loved you, and you have only cause 
 to think with gratitude of his memory. I 
 wish I could bury in oblivion the faults of 
 which he was guilty towards others; but his 
 own wishes have made this impossible. Hitherto 
 you have heard nothing of our family affairs. 
 I tell you them now, not that you should 
 blame the dead, but because the truth is the 
 
 wisest and the fittest to be spoken at all times, 
 
 « 
 
 and because it is right that you should consider 
 all the circumstances of the case, before you 
 come to a decision upon the point on which a 
 decision is necessary." 
 
 She then briefly detailed the circumstances 
 d2
 
 36 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 with which the reader is acquainted; her 
 daughter listening with interest, but without 
 any idea that her destiny was involved in 
 them. 
 
 " Do you know, Susan, that you are your 
 father's heiress?" she inquired, at last. 
 
 " Yes, mamma," she replied, with the sor- 
 rowful look of her dark eyes. 
 
 " I have told you, my child, that it was 
 your grandfather's wish that the two properties 
 should be again united. Do you see how it 
 can be accomplished?" 
 
 " Mamma, you do not think I wish to be an 
 heiress," she said, reproachfully. 
 
 Her mother smiled, and shook her head. 
 " That will not do, Susan — you must think 
 again." 
 
 But no thought came to Susans aid. The 
 word marriage had never been addressed to 
 her; it was hardly probable, therefore, that 
 such an idea as that of the intended arrange- 
 ment should present itself, 
 
 " I see I must tell you," her mother said, 
 quietly. " It was your grandfather's last 
 wish that the properties should be united by
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX. 37 
 
 your marriage with your cousin, Julian Gre- 
 ville." 
 
 There was a little start, a little change of 
 colour, a pausing in her work, but no excla- 
 mation. 
 
 " I wish you to understand, Susan, that it 
 depends entirely on your own will. Your 
 father wishes to fulfil his father's directions. 
 I, too, shall rejoice if they can be accomplished 
 consistently with your happiness; but there 
 will be no force on your inclinations. What 
 have you now to say ?" 
 
 Susan remained for some minutes in deep 
 thought. She raised her eyes at last, and 
 then said in a voice which, soft as it was, was 
 firm and decided, " Mamma, I will do all I 
 can to love my cousin ; if I find it impossible, 
 you and papa must trust me that my will has 
 not been wanting." 
 
 " And do you feel as if it would be possible ?" 
 inquired her mother, with some curiosity. 
 
 " I think it may," she replied, without 
 raising her eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Greville slightly smiled. 
 
 Susan seemed to feel the smile and all that
 
 38 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 it implied, for, with a heightened colour, she 
 rose from her seat, and taking from her 
 writing-desk a letter, gave it to her mother, 
 as if in explanation of her feelings. It was a 
 letter written in large boyish hand, and by 
 its appearance had undergone considerable 
 wear and tear. 
 
 Mrs. Greville glanced at it ; it was thus : — 
 
 Florence, August 15. 
 
 Mr DEAR Cousin: 
 
 Papa told me the other day that 
 your brother was very ill. I am very sorry 
 for it; and I am very sorry for you, because 
 I am sure it must be very bad to see a person 
 in pain. I went into a shop yesterday, and 
 I saw some picture-books, and I asked papa 
 if your brother would like them ; and he said 
 he would, and he said I might write to you, 
 and tell you that they should go to England 
 the very next person that goes. I hope they 
 will get safe, and I hope you and your brother 
 will like them ; and I shall be very glad to 
 hear that he is better. I was ill a month ago, 
 but I am quite well now. I hope you are all
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 39 
 
 well. Give my love to my uncle and aunt, 
 and tell them that my nurse says, Florence 
 would do your brother good. I should like 
 to see you. 
 
 " I am, my dear Cousin, 
 
 '' Your very affectionate Cousin, 
 " Julian Greville." 
 
 Who does not know the value of a letter to 
 a child? and this was the only letter Susan 
 had ever received. The writer of it was, 
 therefore, no stranger to her fancy. The 
 picture-books, indeed, had never arrived ; but 
 what were picture books compared to a letter? 
 
 " It was kind of Julian," Mrs. Greville said, 
 with a faint smile, as she returned it, — " I 
 had forgotten." 
 
 She sate for some moments in deep thought; 
 then approaching her daughter, she took a 
 small miniature case from her bag. 
 
 " I have a picture of Julian, Susan, which 
 your uncle wishes you to see. It represents 
 him only as a child, but I understand that 
 it is very like him still. If, however, in 
 obedience to his wish, I allow you to see it,
 
 40 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 you must remember that it is with no desire 
 that you should fill your mind with idle 
 dreams of romance. This marriage may 
 very possibly never take place. Julian has 
 consented to remain unmarried until he has 
 seen you; but the same freedom of choice 
 and refusal which is allowed to you, is allowed 
 to him. He, too, may find it impossible to 
 love you. There, Susan! you may take the 
 picture for a few minutes." 
 
 Supposing Mr. Kalph Greville to be anxious 
 to secure Susan's consent, he was judicious in 
 allowing her to see the portrait of his son. It 
 was but the picture of a child — a boy eight or 
 nine years old — the black hair was falling 
 round his face, and straying upon the open 
 shirt collar; but there was something in the 
 large expressive eyes, and in the melancholy 
 and almost superhuman beauty of the features 
 and countenance, which would have stirred 
 the heart of the most tranquil. 
 
 When Susan raised her eyes, her cheek was 
 crimson. '' I think, mamma," she said, with 
 a slight smile, "that it will be more likely
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 41 
 
 that my cousin should not love me, than that 
 I should find it impossible to love him." 
 
 "It is very possible that he will not love 
 you," said Mrs. Greville, in a grave calm 
 voice, for she was troubled at her daughter's 
 countenance. As she took back the minia- 
 ture and turned away, her heart was visited 
 with a slight pang of self-reproach for the 
 work in which she had been engaged — but it 
 was but for a moment. In her own family, 
 cases of manages de convenances had not 
 been uncommon, and, as is often the case, had 
 not been unhappy; and there was something 
 in this calm arrangement of her daughter's 
 future life which was naturally suited to the 
 turn of her mind, and the ideas in which she 
 had been educated.
 
 42 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Life is before ye — oli ! if ye could look 
 
 Into the secrets of that sealed book, 
 
 Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith. 
 
 Ye should sink down and falter — ' Give us death.' 
 
 Mrs. Butler. 
 
 A YEAR after the date of the conversation 
 related in the last chapter, Susan suffered the 
 greatest affliction that could befall her, — the 
 death of her mother. It is strange, but not 
 the less true, that the cold and calm have a 
 power of fixing affection which the soft and 
 warm-hearted often seek for in vain. I 
 speak of the outwardly cold — the really cold 
 can neither feel nor inspire affection. Susan 
 loved her father, but his weak and indolent 
 character, though full of tenderness and in- 
 dulgence for herself, could not inspire the
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 43 
 
 adoration with which she regarded her mother. 
 I often wondered at the species of fascination 
 which Mrs. Greville exercised over her and 
 over her husband; and yet though I wondered, 
 I, in common with all who approached her, 
 felt the influence myself. 
 
 In her last illness, her naturally deep feelings 
 burst through the barriers of coldness and 
 formality which had hitherto restrained them ; 
 but while her tenderness gave a charm to 
 those days, greater perhaps than had belonged 
 to the days of health and strength, it could 
 not fail to add to the bitterness of parting, in 
 her daughter's desolate heart. 
 
 The fate of Susan had always occupied 
 much of her thoughts ; but in these days fear 
 and anxiety began to enter into the gaze of 
 affection with which her eyes rested upon her 
 face. I believe that the pang of self-reproach, 
 which she had at one moment felt, returned 
 again and again in the silent hours of sick- 
 ness. 
 
 " Susan," she exclaimed one day, in a voice 
 of deep tenderness, as she seized the hands with 
 which her daughter was stooping to arrange
 
 44 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 her pillows, " how am I to leave you, my 
 child?" 
 
 Though each had read in the eyes of the 
 other that the fatal progress of the disease had 
 been but too well observed, this was the first 
 time that the idea of separation had been 
 mentioned between them — perhaps to Susan, 
 in spite of knowledge, the first time that it 
 had been realized. Her cheek became crimson, 
 then deadly pale; and, kneeling down by the 
 side of her mother's couch, she laid her head 
 upon the hands which still enclosed her own. 
 
 " Be calm, Susan," said Mrs. Greville, 
 gravely, dreading, from old experience, the 
 effects of excitement upon her daughter's feel- 
 ings. " There," she continued, releasing her 
 hands, " sit down — sit down opposite to me. 
 I wish to speak to you, and I cannot speak 
 unless you command yourself." 
 
 Her mother's voice never failed in its effects 
 on Susan's mind. She rose from her kneeling 
 posture as she was desired, the tears were 
 driven back, the emotion that was overcoming 
 her was stilled. But though the daughter 
 became calm, the mother was agitated still.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 45 
 
 " Susan," she began again. " I shrink from 
 leaving you alone; who is to watch over you 
 when I am gone ? — who is to guard, to guide, 
 to direct you?" 
 
 " You, mother, still," replied the soft, sad 
 voice of her daughter. 
 
 The words appeared to cause a pang. Mrs. 
 Greville sighed. " I sometimes fear, my child, 
 that I have ah'eady guided you wrongly. This 
 
 engagement It is of this I wish to speak 
 
 to you. I sometimes fear that I have been 
 wrong in allowing you to promise what you 
 have done. It is now more than a year since 
 your uncle acknowledged your father's letter, 
 in which he had told him of your consent to 
 our wishes. He then said that his son would 
 shortly come to claim you. From that day to 
 this the subject has not been mentioned by 
 either one or the other." 
 
 " Don't fear for me, mamma," Susan re- 
 plied; '' for I do not fear for myself. I would 
 not have anything otherwise than as it is." 
 
 " I do not wish to give you distrust, Susan, 
 but it is better that you should look the future 
 calmly in the face. It is better that you
 
 46 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 should understand the peculiar difficulties of 
 your position. You are in some sort tied to 
 one in a foreign land; and you must guard 
 your heart till he comes, however long he may 
 delay. He may come at last, and you may 
 
 love him only too well, while he Who 
 
 is to watch for you my child, to act for you ; 
 who is to save you from sorrow, to guard you 
 from insult?" 
 
 " Perhaps, mamma," said Susan, gently but 
 steadily, " you will think me too bold, too 
 confident, if I say what I feel; but I do not 
 fear the future. I do feel that I am strong 
 enough to bear the trials of life. I feel that 
 I shall always be able to act for myself, and 
 to suffer, too." 
 
 " You are confident," said her mother, with 
 a faint smile; "but do not be too confident, 
 Susan. You are calm now; you little know 
 what you may feel — you do not know what 
 suffering is." 
 
 " Do I not, mamma?" she exclaimed sadly. 
 She hesitated, then continued in a steady voice, 
 though while she spoke tears fell like rain 
 from her eyes, — " What sorrow can ever be
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 47 
 
 equal to this — and yet, mamma, even this I 
 feel that I can bear." 
 
 Mrs. Greville shook her head with a faint, 
 sad smile, but she said no more ; and, in spite 
 of her consciousness that Susan little knew of 
 what she spoke, the Avords of her daughter 
 were effectual — and it was not the first time 
 that they had been so, in calming and 
 strengthening her heart. 
 
 Mrs. Greville died, and her loss was deeply 
 felt in Susan's home. From that time, as if 
 lie had hitherto lived and thought only in the 
 reflected light of his wife's intellect, Mr. 
 Greville sank into a state of childishness. 
 Perhaps Mrs. Greville only was aware how 
 nearly a child he had been during his whole 
 existence. There was nothing painful in his 
 state, nothing approaching to idiotcy — he was 
 full of kindness to Susan, and to all around 
 him; happy, notwithstanding his loss, in his 
 garden and his flowers ; but so far as intellect 
 was concerned, his powers were under those 
 of an intelligent child of eight. 
 
 Susan had hitherto been a cipher in the
 
 48 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 house. Suddenly she found herself a person 
 of great importance, and invested with su- 
 preme authority. There was no agent at 
 Keevor ; old Mr. Greville had scorned assist- 
 ^ ance, and after the division of the property, it 
 appeared to be needless. All affairs were 
 managed by Mrs. Greville, assisted out of 
 doors by an attached and respectable old 
 bailiff, and within doors, in the management 
 of the accounts, by myself. It w^as Mrs. 
 Greville who heard complaints — who arranged 
 the lettings of farms, the building and repair- 
 ing of cottages — the cutting and planting, 
 and other improvements of the property ; and 
 at her death she left a special charge that in 
 all her employments Susan should succeed her. 
 Certainly, the training of Susan's mind had 
 adapted her to such occupations; and she 
 rose at once, as strong minds ever do, to all 
 the requirements of her position. 
 
 " I tell you what, Hannah," said the old 
 bailiff to his wife, " Miss Greville is just such 
 another as her mamma, only that her voice 
 is softer, and her smile something sweeter. If 
 I was to stop up my ears, and cover up my
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 49 
 
 eyes, bless you, I should think her mamma 
 was alive again." 
 
 I gave lier all the assistance, which Mrs. 
 Greville's strongly expressed wish conscien- 
 tiously allowed me to give, and she was not 
 slow to avail herself of it; but still her time 
 was much occupied, and often I felt saddened 
 as I thought how dull and severe a life it was 
 for one so young. The light of romance, the 
 brightness of fancy, the gaiety of youth, shed 
 but little sunshine on her path. 
 
 I cannot say, however, that she ever ap- 
 peared to feel it dull. Her spirits were 
 not high — I do not think in those days I 
 ever heard her laugh — but neither can I 
 remember that I ever saw her a prey to 
 weariness, or to that sinking of the heart 
 which I have seen in far happier lives. I 
 suppose Ion is in the right — 
 
 There are a thousand joyous things in life 
 Which pass unheeded in a life of joy, 
 
 till breezy sorrow 
 
 Comes to raffle it. 
 
 YOL. I.
 
 50 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 A soul possessed of many gifts, 
 A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 
 That did love Beauty only (Beauty seen 
 In all varieties of mould and mind) 
 And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 
 Good only for its beauty, seeing not 
 That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters^ 
 And never can be sundered without tears. 
 
 Texxysox. 
 
 What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy? 
 
 Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 Another year had passed away. 
 
 Two young men were seated at dinner, in 
 a room of one of the hotels at Dover. The 
 rain was falling in torrents, and at the direc- 
 tion of one of the young men, the Avaiter, 
 having stirred up a blazing fire, was closing 
 the shutters and drawing the curtains to shut 
 out the dirty, damp, dismal, lingering light of 
 a rainy evening in May.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 51 
 
 " Now, George," continued the same young 
 man who had been issuing a variety of com- 
 mands to the waiter, while his companion sat 
 by in silence ; '' now, George, di'aw your chair 
 near the fire, and confess that this is a little 
 more comfortable. I suppose you are sighing 
 over the rejected daylight, as my old nurse 
 used to do; I can see her now shaking her 
 head at me, because I ivould have the shutters 
 shut whenever there was snow; but to my 
 mind there is nothing on earth so dismal as 
 acting summer on a day that January would 
 be ashamed of, and that is what you stupid 
 English are always doing." 
 
 ''England is the only place for comfort," 
 remarked his companion, who, though he had 
 appeared indifferent about the fire, was now 
 bending over, and scorching himself by the 
 side of it. 
 
 "So you think; so all you proud English 
 think. Virtue, courage, wealth, comfort — there 
 is nothing that England is not famous for; 
 but as to comfort, I deny it. The comforts 
 of Englishmen are so tied and bound with 
 rules and regulations that they might as well 
 e2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 be without tbem. Well do I remember my 
 sufferings at my respected tutor's, the Rev. 
 Nicholas Prim. In that truly English family, 
 it was the custom to put out the fires on the 
 25th of March, and light them again on the 
 29th of September, and woe to him who pre- 
 sumed to shiver during the interval. There 
 was I, George, fresh from the suns of Italy — 
 I am sure you may be thankful that I was 
 spared to you. I little thought during those 
 two tedious years that I should have survived 
 to shudder at them." He drew himself closer 
 to the fire, and stirred up the blaze into a 
 furnace. 
 
 The accent of the young man who had just 
 spoken was English, but there was something 
 in his manner which would have led you to 
 think he was a foreigner. Englishmen rarely 
 give to a subject more than its value. They 
 talk of the weather with interest, because 
 it is often a subject of real interest, but 
 they do not discuss every trifle with the 
 gestures and exclamations which on all sub- 
 jects alike are common to foreigners. It was 
 something of this peculiarity, a certain ex-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 53 
 
 citement of manner in tlie commonest con- 
 versation which struck you as W7z-English in 
 Julian Greville. 
 
 "You must confess, George," he continued, 
 after a pause, " that England has given us a 
 surly welcome. I came prepared to say, 
 * Dear earth, I do salute thee With my royal 
 hand,' and this is the return it makes. All 
 my beautiful feelings of amor patria with a 
 damp chill hand are thrust back into my 
 bosom, and I heartily wish myself at Florence 
 again." 
 
 " Sunshine or rain, storm or cold, England 
 is always welcome to me," said his companion, 
 resolutely. 
 
 " That's very pretty, George ; not, perhaps, 
 exceedingly new, but expressed with much 
 energy and feeling, and I congratulate you on 
 the appearance of a poetical talent which I 
 had never before suspected. You will turn 
 out a mute inglorious Milton after all. How- 
 ever, seriously, though I cannot agree in the 
 full force of your declaration, I will say, that 
 for this once I come prepared to be pleased 
 with England, and notwithstanding this most
 
 54 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 dismal greeting, I am determined to be so 
 still. I am tired of Italy, tired of beauty, 
 tired of enjoyment, sick of myself. I want 
 some new excitement, and I mean to find it 
 here. I do feel it, already. I wish you were 
 not such a dull fellow, George, for I feel up to 
 anything to-night." 
 
 No remark was made, nor did he appear 
 to expect one. He sate for some minutes in 
 smiling thoughtfulness, while he tapped with the 
 poker upon the bars of the grate in a manner 
 which would have driven a sensitive person to 
 Bedlam, but his companion was in a mood of 
 thoughtfulness deeper than his own. 
 
 Suddenly he looked up. " And now, 
 George !" he exclaimed, " what business do 
 you suppose has brought me to England?" 
 
 George Vivian was a man of few words ; he 
 made a gesture which expressed whatever you 
 pleased to imagine. 
 
 " What do you think of my having come to 
 England in search of a wife — no, not in search, 
 but actually to take a wife wlio is waiting for 
 me — a wife I have never seen, scarcely heard 
 of— a wife who may be an angel of beauty, or
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 55 
 
 a creature whose only use could be to frighten 
 crows away, for anything I know of the matter ? 
 Well, George !" 
 
 His companion looked up and smiled. 
 
 *' Why, what a wretch you are ; you look as 
 unmoved as if I had told you that I came all 
 the way to England to have my hair cut. If 
 my new wife is as English as you are, George, 
 I shall lead a pretty life of it." 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, Julian, but I am a bad 
 deceiver. Your father told me of your engage- 
 ment, or half engagement^ two years ago, but 
 he charged me not to mention it to you till 
 you mentioned it to me. I have kept ray 
 promise." 
 
 " There's a long story saved, then, and I 
 am not sorry for it," said Julian, as he 
 stretched himself in his chair, and put his feet 
 on the fender. " But I tell you what, George, 
 I think we ought to figure in some future 
 volume of moral essays, under the head of 
 * Unparalleled example of prudence and dis- 
 cretion,' or ' Eare instance of inviolable se- 
 cresy.' The annals Of history could scarcely 
 produce such another; and for once, I must
 
 56 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 confess, that your virtue has been higher than 
 mine, for I depended on your ignorance, and 
 have reserved my communication like a child, 
 for a bonne-bouche, while you must have been 
 continually tempted to show me that you were 
 perfectly acquainted with all my plans and in- 
 tentions. There, George, is not that magnani- 
 mous ; never complain of my vanity again. 
 Well," he continued, after a moment's silence, 
 "and what do you think of my prospects? 
 Do you think that I was in the right to bind 
 myself to this unknown wife? For after all 
 I am bound, and I feel and own myself bound. 
 Do you think you should have done as I have 
 done?" 
 
 " No !" replied his companion, steadily. 
 
 " No !" As he spoke, Julian again started 
 forward and seized the poker. He was one of 
 those persons who are never still. The move- 
 ments of the body are often the expression of 
 the mind. '\No, George! What, not if your 
 father had implored you to consent to it, if he 
 had asked a second promise almost in his last 
 hours?" 
 
 " No," he repeated. " There is sometimes
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 57 
 
 a choice of duty, and for myself, I know too 
 well that my likings are few, and my dislikes 
 strong and many, for me to have allowed my- 
 self to involve the happiness of my whole life, 
 and much more the happiness of another, in 
 any such promise as you have made. It is 
 less hazardous for you, Julian. You are more 
 inclined to like and to love than I am ; but 
 even to you, my strong," he raised himself in 
 his chair, " my earnest advice is, that you do 
 not consider yourself bound. You know that 
 it is not so in fact ; your promise was merely 
 conditional. You know that it is in your own 
 power to set this engagement on another foot- 
 ing. For once, be wise ; do not throw away 
 rashly every chance of happiness, every hope 
 of guidance in your future life." 
 
 Julian made no answer, but resumed his 
 employment of fidgetting with the poker. 
 George Vivian Avatched him for a moment, 
 then continued with an earnestness of voice 
 and manner which was unusual to him. 
 
 "I do not often think or speak on such 
 subjects, but nothing can alter my opinion of 
 the misery of a marriage without love; and
 
 58 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 in your case, Julian, it is not only your hap- 
 piness, but your welfare that depends upon it. 
 You have lived with those you loved, and 
 with those who love you, from your childhood 
 till now; and unless your whole love, and 
 your whole restless heart is given to your wife, 
 there will be no peace and no safety for you. 
 I promised your father to assist you and ad- 
 vise you — will you take my advice now ? — will 
 you promise me not to run rashly into an en- 
 gagement which may entail misery upon you, 
 and if upon you, then surely upon Miss 
 Greville also." 
 
 " How I act, George, must depend very 
 much upon circumstances. I don't yet quite 
 know what is expected of me." 
 
 "No, Julian, do not let it depend on cir- 
 cumstances. For once let your actions depend 
 not on the circumstances, and the temptations, 
 and difficulties in which you are placed, but 
 on your own clear judgment of what is best 
 and right." 
 
 " Well, I promise you that if in very truth 
 I find Miss Greville an odious, ill-tempered
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 59 
 
 scarecrow, I will scramble out of my diffi- 
 culties, if there is a loophole left. But, 
 George, I really enjoy the thoughts of my en- 
 gagement; I look forward to the idea of a 
 wife." 
 
 His companion sighed, hut stooped again 
 over the fire, and made no further remark. 
 
 Julian began again. " I am going to settle 
 down into a thoroughly dull, heavy, steady 
 character like yourself. Shall you not rejoice^ 
 to see me in yellow gaiters and a broad- 
 brimmed straw hat, acting the country gentle- 
 man, the respectable farmer, the domestic 
 husband? Do you remember the drawing of 
 my grandfather which hung in my father's 
 study at Florence? I shall be just such 
 another ! When I was in a very good temper, 
 my old nurse used to tell me, that if I would 
 always be as good as I was on such a day, 
 * she did believe that I should grow up to be 
 the very image of my grandpapa,' who was the 
 object of her idolatry; and now you shall see 
 her vision realized." And with a slight smile 
 of vanity, which was, however, totally free
 
 60 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 from conceit, he passed his fingers through 
 the dark hair, which he wore rather longer 
 than is common with Englishmen. 
 
 If personal vanity could ever be excusable, 
 it might have been so in Julian Greville, for 
 in figure and in feature he was absolutely 
 faultless. It was such beauty as an artist 
 would have loved to study, and which he 
 might have used as a model for all the higher 
 creations of his art, whether for a poet, a 
 warrior, or an inspired saint. His raven 
 hair curled slightly round a brow of that 
 broad, open form, which is supposed to denote 
 the poetic temperament. His eye, large and 
 black as his hair, was at once piercing and 
 melting; and his smile, now sweet and ani- 
 mated, now thoughtful and melancholy, had a 
 charm peculiar to himself. 
 
 There was, however, a fault, not in the sym- 
 metry, but in the expression of his features, 
 which in some degree detracted from the im- 
 pression which he was calculated to make; 
 and this more or less, according to the cha- 
 racter of the observer. While in his figure 
 there was something dignified and command-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 61 
 
 ing, while the upper part of his face spoke of 
 power and intellect, there was a defect in the 
 lines of the mouth, a want of strength and 
 energy, an expression of irresolution and vacil- 
 lation, which gave a different character to his 
 appearance. It came and went, in moments 
 of excitement it even vanished altogether ; hut 
 in general, even to a superficial observer, 
 there was something in his countenance which 
 mingled a feeling of painful interest with the 
 admiration which he could not fail to inspire. 
 And this expression of his countenance was 
 but the expression of his mind. As we read 
 in the French fairy tale, it was as if the 
 genius who presided at his birth had gifted 
 him with every talent and every virtue, but 
 withheld from him the power to use them. 
 His mind was full of beauty, not of the beauty 
 of art alone, but of moral beauty also. His 
 ideal of perfection was high and noble. His 
 heart swelled as he read or heard of lofty 
 deeds, of heroic virtue, of self-conquest, of 
 courage or magnanimity, but here he rested. 
 A writer of the present day has said that 
 ^' there are few practical errors of more im-
 
 62 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 portance than confounding wishes "with the 
 will^ which is the voice of the whole being;" 
 and this was Julian's fatal mistake. He wished 
 to be all that his imagination most brightly 
 pictured, and yet when it came to action, he 
 was feeble — to decision, he was uncertain. In 
 temptation the bright ideal faded, and, carried 
 away with the excitement of the moment, he 
 was powerless. The beauty and refinement of 
 his mind preserved him from much evil, but 
 his life was a life of self-indulgence; and, 
 looking back on the years that had passed, he 
 could point to no wishes which had not been 
 indulged, no desires which had not been grati- 
 fied, either from a steadfast sacrifice to prin- 
 ciple as regarded hin^iself, or from charity to 
 others. 
 
 In his intellectual nature the defect was the 
 same. He had talent, he had genius. He 
 could not sing a note, or play a chord, or 
 write a fragment of verse, or scribble the 
 merest scratch with his pencil, without dis- 
 j)laying a power and. vigour which mere appli- 
 cation and perseverance may sigh for in vain, 
 but he did nothing. It was perhaps of little
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 63 
 
 importance that lie should persevere and per- 
 fect himself in any of these accomplishments ; 
 but as showing the tendency of his character, 
 as illustrating, and even as assisting in con- 
 firming the moral defect of hie nature, his want 
 of application and energy, was all important. 
 Circumstances can never be made answer- 
 able for the errors into which we fall, but at 
 the same time it must be allowed, that some 
 circumstances are more favourable than others 
 for the strengthening of the character in virtue 
 and principle, and Julian was certainly un- 
 fortunate in the position in which he was 
 placed. He inherited from his Italian mother 
 his beauty and his genius, but her death, two 
 years after the birth of her son, deprived him 
 of a guide who had wisdom equal to her talents, 
 and whose ardent imagination was swayed 
 and directed by the purest principle. From 
 the time of her death, he became the sole idol 
 of his father, and, consequently, the master of 
 the house. Indulged, petted, and cherished, 
 he governed everything around him, except 
 his own wayward will; and, perhaps, his 
 danger was the greater, because, from the
 
 64 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 amiableness of his disposition, the tenderness 
 of his heart, and the refinement of his nature, 
 his virtues were striking, while his faults were 
 subtle and concealed. 
 
 When his son» was eight or nine years old, 
 Mr. Greville married the widow of an English 
 gentleman, whom he met with abroad. In 
 his choice, he was in some degree guided by 
 anxiety for his child. Mrs. Vivian had two 
 sons, five or six years older than Julian. 
 These boys were at a public school in England, 
 but Mr. Greville had seen them in Italy dur- 
 ing the holidays, and had been struck by their 
 mingled gaiety and manliness, steadiness and 
 •spirit. He hoped that the maternal care 
 which had been so wisely exerted for them, 
 might assist in guiding and controlling, without 
 requiring severity on his part, the capricious 
 whims and desires of his beautiful and idolized 
 child. . It is possible that the new Mrs. 
 Greville had determined to watch over her 
 step-son with the same wise and discriminat- 
 ing care with which she had watched over her 
 own children; but the best resolutions occa- 
 sionally yield to temptation, and the tempta-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 65 
 
 tion of petting a beautiful and engaging child 
 is, to those who are fond of children, no in- 
 considerable one. On the first day of her 
 entering the house, the little boy approached 
 her, twined his arms round her neck, and 
 turning up his long dark lashes, as he fixed 
 his eyes on her face, whispered, in mingled 
 Italian and English, an inquiry, " whether she 
 would be as kind to him as he was sure hig 
 own mamma would have been?'' From that 
 moment Mrs. Greville was as completely his 
 slave as the rest of the household long had 
 been. 
 
 Thus, unrestrained and uncorrected by 
 education, Julian Greville, when grown to 
 manhood, had but more fully developed the 
 original fault of his childhood. He was in 
 most points the same. There was the same 
 openness of nature, the same kind-hearted, 
 loving disposition, the same beauty and re- 
 finement of mind, — and with this, there was 
 also the same wayward will, the same excit- 
 able, ungoverned imagination, the same want 
 of strength and principle; while the restless 
 consciousness of talents unused, gave at times 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 M PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 a new and painful irritation to his naturally 
 sweet temper. 
 
 No contrast could be greater than that 
 which existed, both in character and in 
 appearance, between Julian and his brother, 
 as he called him, although there was in fact 
 no relationship between them, — George Vivian. 
 The mind of the latter was as strong and 
 .resolute as that of Julian's was wayward and 
 capricious. Julian excited more admiration 
 ,by his talents, and perhaps commanded a 
 greater degree of sympathy, but George Vivian 
 was remarkable for that sound sense and clear 
 judgment on which the mind reposes with 
 .perfect confidence, and which, though it goes 
 '^under the name of " common sense," is, of all 
 qualities, the most uncommon, and the most 
 •inestimable in its value. Their different 
 characters were strongly marked in their 
 appearance. By the side of Julian, George, 
 at first sight, would scarcely have excited at- 
 tention, and yet, on a nearer acquaintance, he 
 pleased you as much. He was fair, very 
 :English looking, very quiet, and extremely 
 like a gentleman. Perhaps he interested the
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 67 
 
 more, because the gravity of his countenance 
 scarcely appeared to be its natural expression. 
 There was a life and spirit in his blue eye, 
 which told a different tale, and contradicted 
 alike the sombre clouded brow, and the com- 
 mon habits of his life. At the risk of tedious- 
 ness, and although I fear that I have already 
 dwelt at too great length on the character of 
 Julian Greville, I must give a few words to 
 George Vivian. 
 
 Naturally inclined rather to action than to 
 study, his bodily feats at school had been 
 more famous than his mental ones, and a 
 passion for field sports had very early dis- 
 played itself. At seven or eight years old, 
 he had announced his intention of being 
 either a groom or a huntsman. When the 
 impossibility of gratifying either of these 
 wishes was pointed out to him, and he was 
 invited to make a further choice of a profes- 
 sion, he declared in a very resolute tone that 
 if he was not allowed to be one of those two 
 things he did not care what became of him. 
 This indifference gave way, before he was ten 
 years old, to the usual boyish fancy of being 
 f2
 
 68 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 a soldier, and this desire remained unchanged 
 till affection for his mother induced him to 
 waive all his wishes, plans, and fancies, and 
 to consent to go to college and endeavour to 
 prepare himself for the life of a lawyer. 
 Having once consented to the change, he de- 
 voted himself with characteristic resolution 
 to the improvement of his mind, although, 
 from his gay spirits and his averseness to all 
 sedentary pursuits, the temptations to idleness 
 were neither few nor inconsiderable. While 
 still at college, an occurrence took place which 
 in the same hour changed his prospects and 
 blighted his life. From that time there was 
 something which I might call inharmonious in 
 his character and conduct. 
 
 " A man's life," says South, ^' is an ap- 
 pendix to his heart." The most striking 
 exception to the truth of this observation was 
 in the life of George Vivian at the time when 
 I first became acquainted with him. Natu- 
 rally strong and active in mind and body, he 
 yet led a dreamy, listless life, without any ap- 
 parent object or occupation except in the
 
 PEIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 69 
 
 watchful care which he exercised over Julian. 
 The strong practical sense which was remark- 
 able in his judgments of the affairs of others, 
 slept or appeared to sleep when brought to 
 bear upon his own. He had a good property 
 in a wild part of Wales, and the beauty of 
 the place would have been alone sufficient to 
 attract his interest and attention; but from 
 the nature of the property and of the tenantry 
 it had a claim upon him stronger than beauty, 
 the claim, namely, that want and ignorance 
 have upon the wealthy and the educated. 
 But he never visited it, never bestowed upon 
 it the smallest portion of his care. His affairs 
 were managed by an agent, who spent his 
 money lavishly, but whether for his own good 
 or the good of the tenantry, George Vivian 
 never inquired. He received from him the 
 sums necessary for his few wants, answered 
 any pressing letter, and that was all. 
 
 From the period of the event before alluded 
 to, he left his native country, to which he was 
 strongly attached, and wandered into all quar- 
 ters of the globe in search, not of amusement,
 
 70 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 but of distraction. He had been recalled from 
 Egypt, after two or three years' wandering, 
 to attend the deathbed of his mother. 
 
 Up to this time, though they had occasion- 
 ally met both as boys and as young men, George 
 Vivian and Julian Greville had been little 
 together, but from this time they were in- 
 separable. Julian clung to George, and 
 George, weary and joyless himself, found some 
 pleasure in the society of the wayward, im- 
 petuous, and affectionate youth. At Mr. 
 Kalph Greville's request, who was in declin- 
 ing health, he took up his abode with them 
 after his mother's death, and during a year 
 and a half shared with Julian in the cares and 
 watching which his health required. For six 
 months more he remained with Julian to as- 
 sist him in the arrangement of his affairs, 
 which his father's long decline had left in 
 some confusion ; and now accompanied him to 
 England, in the hope of guiding and advising 
 him in the difficulties of the new position in 
 which he was placed.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 7! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 We've come to be married — wliere's the bride 1 
 
 The Hunchback. 
 
 On his arrival in London, Julian wrote to 
 Mr. Greville to propose a visit to Keevor; 
 but he was nearer to his destined bride than 
 he imagined, and an accident only prevented 
 their meeting. Mr. Greville had travelled to 
 London — a great journey for him — partly to 
 consult a physician for himself and for Susan, 
 although, as she vainly endeavoured to per- 
 suade him, they were both in good health, 
 and partly to see a fine show of azalias, in a 
 nursery-garden near London, of which he had 
 read an account in the " Gardener's Chronicle," 
 (the only newspaper which he cared to study). 
 Having accomplished his own objects, he was
 
 72 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 ready to accompany Susan wherever she chose 
 to lead him; but at the end of a week he 
 found himself tired of sights, tired of noise, 
 and longing for the scent of his flowers, and 
 the company of his gardener, at Keevor. 
 
 Julian's letter was forwarded to him from 
 Xeevor on the day before his intended return. 
 He received it at breakfast. Although his 
 daughter's marriage with his nephew was the 
 sole object of his worldly care, he received the 
 sudden announcement of his arrival in England, 
 and of his intention to fulfil that object, with 
 his usual calm insouciance of manner. He 
 opened the letter, glanced at the signature, 
 then laid it down, and proceeded to butter 
 his toast and to finish his first cup of tea. 
 When at length slowly and methodically he 
 had mastered the contents of the letter, he 
 looked at Susan. 
 
 '' It is a pity we were not at Keevor, Susan ; 
 I have thought so every day. It is not a 
 good thing to be away from home, and I felt 
 sorry, yesterday, when Marshall wrote to say 
 that the white rose-tree had budded." 
 
 " Then why, papa, did you stay? — I hope
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 7S 
 
 you did not think that I wished to stay in 
 London." 
 
 " And if he did, Susan," said a stiff, thin, 
 healthy-looking old maid of upwards of seventy, 
 an aunt of Mr. Greville's, who had lately be- 
 come an inmate of his family — " and if he did, 
 Susan, he would have been in the right. It 
 is not to be expected that you are to stay 
 moping and poking at Keevor all the days of 
 your life." 
 
 Mr. Greville looked at his daughter with 
 a pained and wondering look. 
 
 " Aunt Janet is only joking, papa," said 
 Susan, soothingly. '' She knows that we never 
 think of moping at Keevor. But what has 
 happened there to annoy you ?" 
 
 " Oh ! it does not matter, Susan. I dare 
 say it does not matter — only Julian wrote to 
 say that he would come to Keevor, and we are 
 not there. But I dare say it will not matter. 
 I dare say he is still in England. He writes 
 a pretty letter; you can see it." 
 
 '' Blushing already ! Susan ? " remarked 
 Aunt Janet, as she saw the crimson cheek, 
 and startled expression with which Susan re-
 
 74 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 ceived her father's communicatioii — " a most 
 promising sign for a lover. I shall take care 
 that Mr. Julian Greville is duly informed of 
 the fact." 
 
 I believe that Miss Janet Greville had many- 
 good qualities, but she had spent her life in 
 endeavouring to conceal them. Meddlesome^ 
 impertinent, and irritable, her whole object 
 appeared to be to make herself as disagreeable 
 as a person with some acuteness, some malice, 
 and a soured temper, can make herself. I 
 have often heard it said, ^' Who can have told 
 that story? who can possibly find pleasure in 
 repeating disagreeable things, and making 
 odious remarks?" and I have often felt in- 
 clined to answer, " Miss Janet Greville." She 
 delighted in giving pain : not real pain, but 
 in inflicting those little annoyances which, to 
 sensitive people, are painful. To use a simile, 
 she would not have stabbed her worst enemy 
 with a dagger, but she would have found some 
 satisfaction in sticking pins into the body of 
 her victim. I must, however, say in her de- 
 fence, that it was but a habit, and on the 
 surface; an fond^ I believe she had a good
 
 PKIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 75 
 
 heart. I say this from a sense of justice, — 
 from no other feeling ; there was no cordiality 
 between Aunt Janet and me. She was a 
 strange woman altogether. Though rich 
 enough to live independently, she preferred to 
 inflict her presence where it was not wanted. 
 For five-and- twenty years she had established 
 herself uninvited in the house of a widow 
 sister, over whose low spirits and weak nerves 
 she had tyrannized with iron tyranny. At 
 her death, finding a short episode of solitude 
 unpleasing, she wrote to her nephew, to pro- 
 pose a visit to Keevor. Mr. Greville, un- 
 conscious of all that was implied in the pro- 
 posal, and, even had he been conscious, too 
 weak and too hospitable to refuse, wrote her 
 an answer in the kindest and most inviting 
 terms ; and to Keevor she came, a month or 
 two after Mrs. Greville's death. She came, 
 bringing with her all that is implied in the 
 comprehensive term, "berthings;" and once 
 established, nothing but bodily force could 
 have ejected her again. 
 
 A less acute observer than Miss Janet 
 Greville would have been struck with the
 
 76 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 •expression of Susan's countenance on the an- 
 nouncement of Julian's arrival. It did not 
 express alone the interest which all in her 
 position must have felt; in her downcast face 
 you might have read that hope and fear, that 
 feeling rather than interest was agitating her 
 heart. Since the day when first her eyes had 
 been permitted to rest on the image of her 
 cousin, that beautiful and melancholy counte- 
 nance had unceasingly haunted her imagina- 
 tion; I will not say that while yet unseen 
 Susan loved her cousin, but if I did/say so, I 
 should not be far from the truth. With him 
 whose pictured image had such power to affect 
 her, the hopes of her future life were insepa- 
 rably bound up. It may, perhaps, seem to 
 many that a passion so romantic was incon- 
 sistent with Susan's character; but it is a 
 false idea to suppose that strong minds are 
 necessarily matter-of-fact ones. A strong 
 mind may be more romantic than any other, 
 since its attachments may (not must) share in 
 the strength of other parts of the character. 
 It is but the folly of romance, the weak in- 
 dulgence, the false sensibility, which a strong
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 77 
 
 mind necessarily rejects. Susan liad naturally 
 a vivid imagination, and the strictness of her 
 education had rather deepened and concen- 
 trated than extinguished it. In the seclusion 
 of the life she led, where there were none who 
 could satisfy her pure taste and high ideal, 
 this imagination had found a vent in the 
 direction to which her mother had turned her 
 thoughts : the mere idea of the possibility of 
 her marriage with an unknown cousin would 
 not have been sufficient to excite it; but the 
 idea clothed in a tangible form, and such a 
 form, had not only excited her imagination, it 
 had taken entire possession of her heart. 
 
 Their meeting was prevented by an acci- 
 dent. On the day that Mr. Greville received 
 his letter, Julian slipped down stairs, and 
 severely sprained his ancle. George Vivian 
 called on Mr. Greville, to tell him of the fall, 
 and also of the necessary postponement of 
 their visit to Keevor. 
 
 " Now, George, this is what I call wisdom," 
 said Julian Greville, as he stepped into the 
 chaise that was to convey them to Keevor,
 
 78 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX. 
 
 about three weeks after his accident; " I wrote 
 to Mr. Greville to say that we should arrive 
 at six. Now, by my wise management, and 
 by tearing myself out of bed an hour earlier 
 than usual, we shall arrive at Keevor at four." 
 
 " And what is the object of the falsehood?" 
 said plain matter-of-fact George Vivian. 
 
 " What ! why, who but you, George, would 
 have to ask such a question ? Do you think it 
 nothing to escape the formal first introduction ? 
 Oh ! I know you English well. If you can 
 make a man look awkward, you will do it. 
 But I am not going to submit to anything of 
 the sort, and so I wisely arranged my present 
 plan. You think I don't know the manners 
 and customs of this country of yours, but I 
 have been here long enough to be aware that 
 you have a sort of enjoyment in putting people 
 out of countenance on such occasions as the 
 present. I happened to be witness to a little 
 matrimonial arrangement that took place at 
 Mr. Prim's, between Susannah Prim and the 
 under-master. Oh ! if you had but seen the 
 endeavours of Mr. Prim and Mrs. Prim, and 
 the friends of the Prims, to make the unfortu-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 79 
 
 nate couple look like fools — the formal an- 
 nouncement, the healths that were drunk, the 
 sly witticisms, &c., &c. Susannah bore it 
 very well ; women have wonderful pluck some- 
 times, but poor Parker ! his unfortunate face 
 did not recover the blushing of that day so 
 long as I had the pleasure of his acquaintance, 
 and I have no doubt it bears the traces still. 
 No, George, such scenes are not lost upon me. 
 I profit by experience." 
 
 " And so all Englishmen are like Mr. Prim? 
 You are complimentary to me, I must say, 
 Julian." 
 
 '' Why, George, you are just such another, 
 with less wit, perhaps, but even more formality. 
 If I was now going down to Llandover to 
 marry your daughter, I know exactly how it 
 would be. I will describe the scene to you. 
 I should arrive in my chaise and four punc- 
 tually at five o'clock. You would be standing 
 on the steps to receive me. / should jump 
 out rather hastily, but you would come stately 
 down and give me welcome. There would be 
 a short inquiry after my health, and then you 
 would say, ' Let me lead you to my daughter.'
 
 80 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 I don't know how the leading would be con- 
 ducted, whether we should proceed hand in 
 hand or not, but lead would be the word, I 
 know. Well, you would lead me through the 
 entrance hall, by a long line of staring servants, 
 into a dark, dreary, old-fashioned drawing- 
 room, fitted up with carved oak and red da- 
 mask, and there we should find Judith seated 
 at her embroidery. You would precede me to 
 the window, and you would say, ' Judith!' . . . 
 Why, George, you are perfectly devouring my 
 romance, you shall not have another word; 
 never, never, will you know how I shall greet 
 your Judith." 
 
 " What a strange being you are, Julian," 
 said George Vivian, fixing his eyes with some 
 curiosity on his companion. *' If I felt that 
 on the events of this day the whole happiness 
 of my life depended, as I fear you have deter- 
 mined to make yours depend, I could not joke 
 as you do." 
 
 " Because your mind is a strange one, far 
 stranger than mine. You allow one idea to 
 absorb it wholly, and that must become oppres-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 81 
 
 sive. I have a thousand ideas on one subject, 
 and so none can weigh very heavily. I assure 
 you, George, I am quite as much, perhaps 
 more, occupied with wondering what I shall 
 first say to Miss Greville, than I am with 
 hopes or fears for my future life. Besides, you 
 know, you like a quiet life, and so anxiety is 
 tedious to you, but to me novelty and excite- 
 ment are life and spirit, whatever they are 
 caused by — pleasure or pain." 
 
 The journey to Keevor, which was a long 
 one, was performed in the time allotted by 
 Julian. It was just four o'clock when they 
 turned abruptly down the hill, which over- 
 looked the valley in which Keevor was situated. 
 It lay before them in all the brightness of the 
 sunshine, and the luxuriant verdure of June, 
 and Julian surveyed the scene with the enrap- 
 tured eye of an artist. 
 
 "This is beautiful, George! 'This is a 
 valley worth fighting for !' as King William is 
 said to have exclaimed on some occasion ; it is 
 as bright as Italy, and as fresh as Paradise." 
 
 An abrupt turning took them from the high 
 YOL. I. G
 
 82 PRIDE AND IPwRESOLUTION. 
 
 road into a shady lane, at the end of which an 
 old ivy-covered gateway proclaimed that they 
 were at their journey's end. 
 
 " I do believe we are at Keevor, George," 
 cried Julian, as the postboys smacked their 
 whips, and swept through the arch at full 
 speed; ''and I am quite unprepared, — I had 
 no idea we were so near. This arrival is an 
 awful thing ! would it were done ! I feel hor- 
 ribly nervous! — actually, there's the house. 
 Ah, George ! I wish you were in my position, 
 and then you would not look so irritatingly 
 demure. Here we are!" as, passing through 
 another old archway, they stopped at the door 
 of the house. 
 
 A servant stood in the entrance; no bells 
 were rung, or notice given, and before Julian 
 had time to think, the door of the long drawing- 
 room was thrown open, and he was in Susan's 
 presence. 
 
 She was alone, seated, as usual, in the recess 
 of the window, endeavouring by the occupation 
 of her fingers to steady her excited mind and 
 restless expectation. 
 
 Julian stood for a moment irresolute; but
 
 PEIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 83 
 
 Susan, accustomed to act promptly and de- 
 cidedly, put down her work-frame, came quietly 
 forward, and held out her hand to each; then 
 sitting down, half with words, and half with 
 a movement, begged them to sit down also. 
 So far she had acted without thought; but 
 when she found herself seated opposite to Ju- 
 lian, whom she recognised at once from his 
 strong likeness to the childish portrait on 
 which her eyes had so often rested, something 
 of consciousness returned, and showed itself 
 not ungracefully in her downcast eyes, and in 
 the. slight nervous movement of her fingers. 
 
 Julian was the next to speak, and to make 
 some apology for being earlier than the time 
 he had mentioned; and in answer to this, 
 Susan said she would call her father, and left 
 the room. 
 
 " I like your Judith," said Julian, turning 
 to George Vivian, with a smile, after some 
 minutes consideration; " but didn't I tell you 
 how much more pluck women have than men ? 
 I assure you I did not know what to say or do 
 when I came into the room, and I humbly 
 thank you for all the assistance you gave me. 
 g2
 
 84 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 I really beg you will exert yourself, George, 
 for I feel so extremely bashful, that I have 
 quite lost the use of my intellect." 
 
 They were interrupted by the return of 
 Susan with old Mr. Greville. He went up to 
 Julian with extreme kindness and cordiality. 
 
 " You are very welcome to Keevor, my dear 
 Julian, for your own and for your poor father's 
 sake. I am very happy to see you here : so is 
 Susan, I am sure. You have taken me a little 
 by surprise, but it is of no consequence; I 
 dare say you could not help it. I should have 
 been glad to have been ready to receive you, 
 as I had intended; but you mentioned six 
 o'clock — however, it is of no consequence, and 
 I beg you will not make yourself uneasy at 
 having surprised me." 
 
 Julian took the hint to excuse himself for 
 his unpunctuality, which Mr. Greville again 
 assured him was of no consequence, though he 
 had been a little surprised at first. He then 
 repeated his " welcome to George Vivian, and 
 then looked round for Susan. 
 
 " I must introduce you to my daughter 
 Susan, Julian. I believe she was in the room
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 85 
 
 to receive you — she tells me she was ; but, my 
 dear Susan, don't go out of the way — I should 
 like to see you welcome your cousin to Keevor.'* 
 
 Susan came forward shyly, but with a smile, 
 and held out her hand again to Julian; then 
 fearful, perhaps of some further remarks, she 
 hastened to close the interview. 
 
 " I think you will be sorry to come in so 
 early, papa. Won't you go back into the 
 garden ? Perhaps Mr. Greville and Mr. Vivian 
 will like to take a walk, as it will be some 
 time before dinner is ready." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Susan, I should be sorry to 
 be in so early, and Marshall was a little dis- 
 appointed at your fetching me away. I think 
 I had better go back; and I shall be very 
 glad if Julian and Mr. Vivian have any 
 curiosity to see our flowers. But I hope they 
 will make themselves quite at home here." 
 
 Julian followed Mr. Greville into the gar- 
 den, and Susan returned to her work to think.
 
 86 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 One 
 
 Not learned save in gracious household ways, 
 Not perfect — nay, but full of tender wants; 
 No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
 In angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
 Who looked all native to her place, and yet 
 On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere 
 Too gross to tread. 
 
 The Pkincess. 
 
 Few, none, find what they love, or could have loved, 
 Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
 Necessity of loving have removed 
 Antipathies. Childe Harold. 
 
 " If strong contrasts, as it is sometimes 
 remarked, are peculiarly favourable to love, 
 surely we may securely look to the fulfilment 
 of our wishes here; for what is there in com- 
 mon between this quiet, retiring, simply-edu- 
 cated girl, and that brilliant, imaginative, 
 and irresistible looking young man?"
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 87 
 
 Such was my soliloquy on the first evening 
 of Julian Greville's arrival at Keevor; (for 
 the occasion of his visit was well known ; Mr. 
 G-reville, less discreet than his wife, having 
 since her death made little secret of his plans 
 and hopes for Susan,) and even on that first 
 evening, I fancied that on one side the work 
 of love was begun. And strange indeed it 
 appeared to me, as I watched her kindling 
 eyes and heightened colour, that it should be 
 in Susan's tranquil nature that so sudden a 
 passion should spring up. But the depths of 
 human .character are unfathomable. New 
 circumstances call forth new feelings, new 
 energies; and it is often the nearest and the 
 dearest who see with most surprise the de- 
 velopment of some unsuspected power, the 
 apparition of some unexpected weakness, in a 
 heart which they had supposed to be as clear 
 to them as the day. 
 
 I can scarcely describe the interest with 
 which I watched the party assembled at Keevor 
 during those early days. To an observant 
 mind, life is a continual romance; and even 
 to an unobservant mind there icas a romimce
 
 88 TRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 acted at tliat time. Every word that was 
 spoken showed more plainly the wide gulf, 
 formed by differences of tastes, feelings, and 
 sympathies, which separated Julian from his 
 Cousin. Every moment revealed more clearly 
 to my wondering eyes that Susan's heart was 
 gone ; I saw how she hung upon Julian's lips ; 
 how unconsciously, yet anxiously, she watched 
 his countenance, to read its varying expres- 
 sions of approbation or dislike; and it was 
 not strange, therefore, that I should watch 
 him on whom the fulfilment of our wishes de- 
 pended, endeavouring myself to read in his 
 glances, and to gather from his words, whether 
 the contrast between them was of such a 
 nature as to awaken, or to prevent the awaken- 
 ing of love. 
 
 The contrast was amusingly shown on the 
 very first morning. Mr. Greville, in the 
 kindliness of his heart, and in the excess of 
 his hospitality, was extremely anxious for the 
 amusement of his guests; and several times 
 during breakfast he inquired of Julian, " Well, 
 my dear Julian, what are your plans for the 
 day?" Eeceiving, as was natural, somewhat
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 89 
 
 undecided answers, for few people (and Julian 
 least of any) wish to be bound at breakfast 
 time to any particular course of amuse- 
 ment for the day, he exercised his own intel- 
 lectual powers upon the subject, and as he 
 left the breakfast table he turned round, and 
 said — 
 
 " My dear Susan, you must think of some- 
 thing that will amuse Julian and his young 
 friend. I was very happy to show them my 
 flowers last night, but a change is sometimes 
 pleasant, and " 
 
 "Pray do not think of our amusement,'^ 
 Julian said, interrupting him hastily. " We 
 shall not have explored all the beauties of 
 Keevor for many days, and I shall not be 
 quite easy till I have been again to the top of 
 the hill to feast my eyes on your beautiful 
 valley." 
 
 " The sun is too hot for such a walk, my 
 dear Julian; the sun is hot and the hill is 
 steep; I have not walked up it this twenty 
 years- — you shall have the carriage some day ; 
 but I was thinking, Susan, that you would be 
 anxious to show Julian your farm. There is
 
 90 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX- 
 
 a nice shady walk that way, and I dare say 
 he is as fond as you are of poultry and cattle. 
 .Stephen was telling me yesterday that you 
 have some very pretty little pigs." 
 
 In some curiosity I turned to examine 
 Julian's countenance ; I felt instinctively that 
 the picture presented by Mr. Greville's words 
 would be distasteful to his fastidious ideas. I 
 was right. 
 
 *' Has Miss Greville a farm?" he asked, 
 fixing his eyes upon her with a look of sur- 
 prise, and there was something of displeasure 
 and contempt mingling with their astonish- 
 ment. Susan was silent, but Aunt Janet was 
 not slow to answer. 
 
 " A farm ! indeed she has. She is the most 
 famous farmer in all the country. What are 
 your strong points, Susan? Pigs or poultry, 
 cows or butter, turnips or mangel-wurzel ; or 
 are you so famous for all that you disclaim 
 praise for any one in particular?" 
 
 Susan blushed, and a pause followed this 
 speech ; it was broken by George Vivian, who 
 laid down the newspaper he was studying, 
 and came towards her.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 91 
 
 " I'm sorry to tell you, Miss Greville, that 
 Julian is perfectly ignorant of all such matters. 
 He does not know a pig from a cow ; but it is 
 time that he should lose what, if he had been 
 born in London, we should call cockney no- 
 tions and habits, and the sooner his education 
 begins the better. Pray let us see your farm 
 without delay." 
 
 Susan smiled, and moved towards the win- 
 dow that led into the garden; but I saw that 
 the effect of Julian's silence Avas to cause a 
 timidity and embarrassment which was very 
 unusual to her gentle, self-possessed manner. 
 But this timidity, this yielding to the influence 
 of another, this loss, if I may so express it, of 
 personality^ is one of the surest unconscious 
 signs of the dawning of a love which is to take 
 a strong hold upon the heart. 
 
 At the window she turned, and with rather 
 an anxious look appealed to Miss Janet Greville, 
 who still sate at the breakfast table. ^' Are 
 you ready, Aunt Janet; won't you come with 
 us?" . 
 
 " My dear Susan, have you quite lost your 
 memory?" she replied, sharply. " I mentioned
 
 92 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 when I first came down that I^ was suffering 
 from a very severe sore throat. I did not 
 sleep a wink all night ; and I think my voice 
 might have reminded you of the fact, even if 
 it was of too little importance otherwise to be 
 remembered." 
 
 " I am very sorry, Aunt Janet. I did 
 forget. Pray don't think of coming." She 
 hesitated, then glanced at me; then, as if 
 ashamed of her irresolution, went into the 
 garden without making any further request. 
 I took no notice of her glance. I was pained, 
 I confess, to see her so unlike herself. 
 
 The farm was not far from the house ; it 
 was prettily situated, and kept with great 
 order and neatness, but there was no ideal 
 beauty about it, and Julian looked round with 
 an air of indifference. An old woman came 
 towards her visitors, and curtseyed her good 
 morning, while she smoothed her white apron 
 with her hands. Susan answered her kindly, 
 saying they were come to visit the farm; as 
 she spoke, she looked at Julian. She hoped 
 he would have said something, either in kind- 
 ness to the old woman, or by way of expressing
 
 PKIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 93 
 
 some slight interest in the object of their visit ; 
 but he remained silent. He was thinking ; and 
 consideration for the feelings of others was not 
 in his nature. 
 
 To break a silence which was yisibly awk- 
 ward to Susan, George Vivian again put him- 
 self forward; asked a few simple questions, 
 and was immediately led away by the old 
 woman to see the various beauties of the 
 farm. 
 
 Susan remained with Julian at the entrance 
 to the farm-yard, and was silently battling 
 with a new and painful feeling of scorn towards 
 all her usual employments, when he addressed 
 her. 
 
 '' These, then," he said, looking round him 
 with a slight inquiring smile, " these are the 
 occupations which you prefer to more intel- 
 lectual pursuits?" 
 
 " No, not prefer ;" said Susan, hastily. 
 
 " I think you told me last night that you 
 played only a little, that you sang not at all, 
 and drew not at all. And yet Miss Greville 
 has a farm, and is even famous for her farm- 
 ing." He spoke playfully, but it was a sati- 
 rical playfulness.
 
 94 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 " That was only Aunt Janet's way of speak- 
 ing,'' she replied, with a blush. 
 
 *' And what is your way of speaking — what 
 is your account ?" He fixed his eyes upon her, 
 smilingly and inquiringly. I believe he was 
 not displeased at the embarrassment his looks 
 very evidently caused her. 
 
 Susan struggled to subdue the anxiety which 
 she felt to justify herself in his eyes. The 
 anxiety, perhaps, was not subdued, but the 
 appearance of it was. Very simply and quietly 
 she explained the case. 
 
 ** There has always been a farm at Keevor; 
 my grandfather was very proud of it, and my 
 father, though he cannot attend to it, is 
 equally so. You know, if there was no interest 
 shown in it, we could not expect that things 
 would go on well ; and so, though of course I 
 can do but little, I do try to understand and 
 to be interested in it." 
 
 Still with his eyes fixed upon her, Julian 
 persisted in his objections. " I don't see how 
 the slight interest which it may be necessary 
 for you to show for these agricultural concerns 
 can interfere with the cultivation of more
 
 * PRIDE AND IPvRESOLUTIOX. 05 
 
 agreeable and more suitable pursuits. I sup- 
 pose a daily visit of a few minutes would be a 
 quite sufficient encouragement, if you pleased 
 to make it so. I am very much afraid that 
 you prefer the cackling of those geese to the 
 sweet sounds of harmony." 
 
 Susan smiled and shook her head; but she 
 was recovering from her first fit of embarrass- 
 ment, and on his asking for some account of 
 her mode of life, she described it in a few 
 simple words. 
 
 " You spend your time, then," interrupted 
 Julian, " over dry accounts and musty parch- 
 ments ; in listening to interesting details about 
 cattle, and, as Aunt Janet informed me, in 
 ordering dinner." 
 
 Susan ofiered no contradiction, for she could 
 not well do so ; and till now her life had never 
 seemed dull or trifling in her eyes. Now, 
 however, as Julian recounted her occupations 
 in tones bordering upon contempt, it assumed 
 a different appearance, and though she remained 
 silent, she stood with downcast eyes and with 
 a blush of shame upon her cheek. 
 
 Julian looked at her for a short time in
 
 96 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 thoughtful silence. The result of his con- 
 templations was to say, with interest in his 
 voice and with a smile upon his countenance — 
 
 " At any rate, I see that, whatever your 
 wishes may be, you are willing to sacrifice 
 them to what you consider to be your duty. 
 I suppose I ought to feel that this is better 
 than, accomplishments." 
 
 Susan blushed deeper with pleasure than 
 «he had done with embarrassment; but his 
 observation was not a true one, and she 
 hastened to say so. "No, indeed, you must 
 not think that I have been dissatisfied with 
 what I have had to do. If my wishes to im- 
 prove myself in music and drawing and such 
 things had been very strong, I have no doubt 
 I should have found time to do it; but when 
 I have time to spare I like to read, and when 
 I have time to be idle I like to work and to 
 be quiet. I must not have you think that 
 there is any sacrifice in what I do." 
 
 " But I choose to think there is," he re- 
 plied, with the playful, wilful look of an old 
 acquaintance. 
 
 They were soon joined by George Vivian
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 97 
 
 and his companion, and, with a slight bow in 
 reply to the old woman's low curtsey, Julian 
 turned to go. As they moved on, Mrs. Ro- 
 berts beckoned to Susan to return. 
 
 " Which of them two young gentlemen be 
 the young master, Miss Greville?" 
 
 " The tall one, Hannah. Didn't you know 
 him?" 
 
 " I guessed as much," replied the old 
 woman; '' and that other young gentleman, 
 he did tell me as much, — for I made so bold 
 as to ask him if he was the young master; 
 but, heart alive. Miss Greville, he be'nt a bit 
 like a Greville." 
 
 " He is handsomer than a Greville, don't 
 you think so, Hannah?" said Susan, with a 
 smile and something like a sigh. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Susan, for shame! I never 
 thought to hear you say the like of that. Your 
 grandpapa, the late Mr. Greville as was," and 
 she curtseyed as she pronounced his name, 
 " was as fine a looking gentleman as ever I'd 
 wish to see, — so tall and so fine, and a bit 
 stout, too. That be a fine young gentleman, 
 but he be'nt like a Greville, and so I shall 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 tell my Stephen. And who may the other be, 
 Miss Susan, with the fair hair and the sweet 
 blue eye?" 
 
 Susan satisfied her. 
 
 "He he a pleasant spoken young gentle- 
 man," she said, warmly; " and knowledgable, 
 too, and a fine young man; and my heart 
 warmed to him at the first, for I thought he 
 was the Greville; but there be fine young 
 men that beant Grevilles, I do suppose." 
 
 " I suppose so," SusLin said, smiling; "but 
 Hannah, we shall be offended if you let Mr. 
 Vivian run away with all your praise." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Susan!" exclaimed the old 
 woman, suddenly seized with a fit of remorse, 
 " that other young gentleman, the young 
 master, as they calls him, he be amost too 
 fine for me to praise. He be a young man, 
 indeed. And if he be a bit distant, why 
 it becomes him, my dear, so grand and so 
 stately." 
 
 " I don't think he is distant, Hannah," said 
 Susan, anxiously; "but you know he has 
 lived abroad all his life, and he is not ac- 
 customed to the country as Mr. Vivian is." 
 
 3
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 99 
 
 " Indeed, indeed ! " with an expression of 
 awe in her countenance, "and he be come a 
 thousand miles or more I make no doubt. 
 Lawk! Miss Greville, Keevor can't be no- 
 think but a dull place to such as he." 
 
 Susan smiled and sighed, and followed her 
 guests to the house. 
 
 The old woman smoothed her apron, looked 
 after them, and shook her head. " He be a 
 fine young man, no doubt," she summed up ; 
 "wonderful fine; but he ben't a bit like a 
 Greville as yet; and so I shall tell my 
 Stephen." 
 
 n2
 
 100 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you should 
 like her 1 — that but seeing you should love her ? and 
 
 loviiig, woo 1 
 
 As You Like it. 
 
 AYe were not long in doubt as to the nature 
 of Julian's intentions with regard to his 
 cousin. 
 
 As we all walked home from the morning 
 service on the Sunday after the new arrivals 
 at Keevor, George Vivian made some remarks 
 more warmly than was usual to him, in ad- 
 miration of the parish church, and of the per- 
 formance of the service. 
 
 Susan looked pleased, and Mi\ Greville 
 said, " Susan teaches those poor little children 
 to sing, and she worked that new altar cloth,'^ 
 in a tone which evidently implied that such
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 101 
 
 being the case, it was no wonder that the 
 church should be admired. 
 
 '' Is this another of your employments, 
 Susan?" was Julian's smiling remark. After 
 one day's acquaintance he had called her by 
 her name. " I like this better than some 
 other employments I could name; indeed, I 
 think I could myself be an instructor ' in 
 harmony, in heavenly harmony.' " 
 
 " I was very happy to find myself in a 
 quiet country church again," said George 
 Vivian. *^ How did you feel, Julian?" 
 
 " Very happy to be at Keevor," he replied, 
 with, I fancied an endeavour to catch Susan's 
 eye; ''but as to your quiet country church, 
 you must know very well that I shall disagree. 
 Our Protestant service strikes me as being 
 very tame and common-place after the ser- 
 vices which I have attended abroad." 
 
 "The Roman-catholic service?" inquired 
 Susan. 
 
 " Yes," he said; " I am a very good Pro- 
 testant, I assure you; but when I want to 
 feel religious, then I go into a Catholic 
 church. Oh ! Susan, I wish you could see
 
 102 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 some of the foreign churches, and hear the 
 
 music Our doctrines are all very good; 
 
 and as I tell you I am a true Protestant, but 
 I must own that the Catholics have hit on 
 the right way to make men religious." 
 
 " I knew we should disagree," said George 
 Yivian. "Now to me there is something in 
 the simplicity and quietness of Keevor church 
 far more solemn, than the finest or the most 
 impressive service I attended with you at Rome. 
 Something that separates one much more en- 
 tirely from common life and common cares." 
 
 '' You talk nonsense, George. You are so 
 prejudiced in favour of England, that you will 
 allow nothing to be good or beautiful else- 
 where. I wish Susan could be the judge; I 
 wish you could go abroad, Susan, and see if 
 I am not right in saying, that the Catholic 
 service is more favourable to religion than our 
 cold English one. I assure you," he con- 
 tinued, laughing slightly as he spoke, " that 
 when I have sometimes stood to listen, hearing 
 the voices rise and fall with their wonderful 
 harmony, I have felt actually inspired ; raised
 
 TRIDE AND IRKESOLUTION. 103 
 
 out of myself; capable of any degree of virtue ; 
 ready to be a Saint or a Martyr." 
 
 " And as soon as the voices died away, you 
 found yourself a most uninspired mortal, I 
 will venture to say," said Aunt Janet, scoff- 
 iiigly. 
 
 Julian coloured, perhaps at the truth of the 
 observation. 
 
 " But surely, Aunt Janet," said Susan, 
 warmly, "it is good to have such feelings, 
 even if it is only for a time?" 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that, Susan. For my 
 part, I would not give one brass farthing for 
 all the good feelings in the world." 
 
 " Perhaps you would prefer bad ones," said 
 Julian, playfully. 
 
 "^ Perhaps I should, ^Lr, Julian; and I 
 should not be far wrong if I did. I have 
 seen more bad feelings conquered, than I have 
 seen your fine raptures rise into virtue." 
 
 " This is a very curious little plant," re- 
 marked Mr. Greville, totally unconscious that 
 he broke in upon any subject of conversation, 
 as he pointed with his stick to a small red
 
 104 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 flower, that grew among the stones by the side 
 of the road. " It is called the ^ Shepherd's 
 Clock/ Julian, because it shuts up its leaves 
 exactly at midday." 
 
 '"' Then it is a useful little plant, small as it 
 is," said Julian, kindly ; and he stooped and 
 picked it from the ground. *' I wonder if any 
 poet has ever apostrophised it. It is a subject 
 I should like to enlarge upon; great powers 
 and little show." And this time I was sure 
 that his eyes glanced with meaning and affec- 
 tion at Susan. 
 
 During the rest of the walk home, he re- 
 mained at Mr. Greville's side, discussing with 
 him the nature of various herbs and flowers; 
 and I saw the cheek of the affectionate 
 daughter glow with pleasure, as she watched 
 his attentions to her father. 
 
 When we reached the garden, Mr. Greville 
 took Julian into the conservatory, to exhibit 
 a yellow rosebud which he had discovered in 
 the course of his early morning inspection of 
 his treasures, and we all followed to see what 
 could be seen. 
 
 " See, Julian, here it is," began Mr. Greville,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 105 
 
 speaking in the half-childish, half-poetical way 
 in which he spoke of his flowers. " How 
 gracefully it bends, how delicate the colour; 
 but it has lost something of its beauty since 
 the morning. It is always so; these frail 
 things come to touch our hearts, and haste 
 away before we can show them our love." 
 
 Julian expressed his admiration of the rose- 
 bud, but while he was examining it, his eye 
 was caught by a foreign plant which stood 
 beside it ; — a flower of less beauty, but greater 
 rarity, and which, perhaps, from some asso- 
 ciation, was more attractive to him. He 
 touched it, and in a voice of far greater 
 admiration, exclaimed, — " This is beautiful ! 
 look, Susan." 
 
 "Do you like everything foreign best?" 
 Susan asked, I thought reproachfully. 
 
 He turned his eyes full upon her. "No, 
 Susan, not everything ;^ and he gave her such 
 a look, and such a smile, as made Susan bend 
 her head over the flower, and drew from Aunt 
 Janet the remark, — " Not everything, of 
 course, my dear Susan. How can you ask 
 such a foolish question ?"
 
 106 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 As Julian spoke, my eyes unconsciously met 
 those of George Vivian. I saw we both looked 
 upon his words as decisive ; but the expression 
 of our countenances was different. His was 
 troubled and anxious ; mine, I am well aware, 
 was relieved and satisfied. Julian had been 
 but three days at Keevor, but in those days 
 he had shown such charm of manner, such 
 sweetness of disposition, such sense and spirit 
 and gaiety of conversation, that I had yielded 
 to the sunshine of his influence, and wondered 
 no more that Susan had suffered her fancy to 
 be dazzled, and her heart to be touched. Could 
 I then be otherwise than pleased at the cer- 
 tainty which I now felt that Susan's happiness 
 would be accomplished ; and yet George Vivian 
 was in the right. Even to the soberest among 
 us, three days acquaintance would be but a 
 precarious foundation on which to build the 
 happiness of two young lives, and how much 
 more precarious, then, in the case of the way- 
 ward and excitable Julian Greville ! 
 
 " Where's Susan?" said Julian, looking into 
 the drawing-room early one morning, a day or
 
 PRIDE AND lEEESOLUTION. 107 
 
 two after the kst conversation. " I have been 
 writing some verses to the ^ Shepherd's Clock,' 
 and I want to read them to her." 
 
 " What, you're a poet ! are you, Mr. Julian?" 
 said Aunt Janet, who was sitting alone, making 
 herself mistress of the contents of the news- 
 papers. 
 
 " Sometimes, when I have a fit object to in- 
 spire me. Would you like me to indite some 
 verses to you, Aunt Janet?" 
 
 " !N'o, thank you, I have no liking for 
 tmsh." 
 
 " You are very polite," said Julian, laugh- 
 ing; from the first moment he had appeared 
 to enjoy Aunt Janet's character. " I won't 
 trouble you, then, with any of my soft strains. 
 But where's Susan? can you tell me? where 
 can I find her?" 
 
 " You will find her in the village, if you 
 please to go and look for her there." 
 
 " Hang the village !" he said, hastily ; " what 
 is she doing there ?'^ 
 
 " A.S usual, I suppose, gossiping with old 
 women, and petting dirty children." 
 
 Julian looked put out, curled his lip with
 
 108 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 an expression of disgust, slammed the door 
 with some violence, and came and sat down by- 
 Aunt Janet. 
 
 " It appears to me, Aunt Janet, that Susan 
 has been very strangely brought up." 
 
 "Indeed!" she replied drily. 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" he said, laughing again; 
 " how very provoking you are. But don't 
 you think so too?" 
 
 " It appears to me, on the contrary, that 
 she has been extremely well brought up, if she 
 did but know how to make a good use of her 
 education. She can read and write and keep 
 accounts, order a good dinner, and speak when 
 she is spoken to." 
 
 " A most estimable list of accomplishments, 
 Aunt Janet, certainly. 
 
 ' Come when you're called, 
 
 Do as you're bid, 
 Shut the door after you, 
 And you'll never be chid.' 
 
 " But after all, this is apt to be a little dull 
 and dry ; and for myself I confess that I should 
 prefer a little chiding to such saint-like good- 
 ness as the poem describes."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 109 
 
 " Susan is a great deal better than you will 
 ever be, Mr. Julian." 
 
 *' True, Aunt Janet, most true; no one can 
 be more aware of the fact than I am myself; 
 and don't suppose," he continued, seriously, 
 "that I object to her goodness, or meant to 
 say Susan was dull or dry. She is enough to 
 make me forget all my maxims, all my wishes, 
 and to adorn what I most dislike. But still 
 there are some things which I do dislike— 
 this visiting, for instance. I admire a soeur 
 de la charite^ no one can admire them more, 
 but let it be a soeur de la charite. A Lady 
 Bountiful, a charitable Dorcas ! — I assure you, 
 Aunt Janet, a cold shudder runs through my 
 frame when I think of such a character." 
 
 " What stulF you talk, Mr. Julian," said 
 Aunt Janet, angrily ; not that she approved of 
 Susan's doings, but she loved to contradict. 
 
 " No stuff at all. Aunt Janet. I once lived 
 in the house with a charitable Dorcas, and I 
 creep at the remembrance still. I will describe 
 her to you. Her name was Miss Prim, and 
 truly prim she was. She was always dressed 
 in a dark, woe-begone, coloured stuff gown,
 
 110 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 something between a drab and a fawn colour, 
 which clung round her legs like a bathing- 
 gown, and a black collar, which she wore to 
 save washing. She always appeared in the 
 house with a small flannel petticoat in her 
 hand, and always out of doors with a covered 
 basket on her arm ; and she never opened her 
 lips except to say something on the subject of 
 ' my poor pensioners/ or ' my interesting little 
 scholars.' " He stopped and laughed at the 
 vision which he had conjured up to his fancy, 
 then added, as if it was a truth which had but 
 just struck him — " Susan, however, never 
 could be like A^r." 
 
 " I suppose, Mr. Julian, you mean to marry 
 Susan ?" said Miss Janet, looking full in his 
 face. 
 
 Julian opened his eyes, coloured slightly, 
 then burst into a violent fit of laughing. She 
 looked at him with unfeigned astonishment, 
 on which he recovered himself, and apologized. 
 '' I beg your pardon. Aunt Janet, but you 
 really do ask unwarrantable questions. How 
 can I answer you?'' 
 
 "I see no difficulty in the matter — it de-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. Ill 
 
 pends on yourself; you must see that Susan 
 is quite ready to have you." 
 
 He coloured again ; the speech was offensive 
 to him in many ways, and he got up in some 
 indignation, but as he got up, the door opened, 
 and Susan appeared. 
 
 " Come in, Susan," cried Aunt Janet; " we 
 were just talking of you. Mr. Julian does 
 not approve of these village doings of yours." 
 
 "Was there ever such a woman?" said 
 Julian to himself, but he made no denial, and 
 stood in the window to listen to what passed. 
 Whatever unpleasant sensations the expression 
 of " Susan being quite ready to have him" 
 had excited, they faded at once at her appear- 
 ance. She blushed at Aunt Janet's speech, 
 but did not notice it, and coming steadily 
 forward, gave unhesitatingly her errand. 
 
 It v/as from a person in the village who 
 was ill, and anxious to see Miss Janet Greville. 
 From her love of managing. Aunt Janet had 
 constituted herself physician, and I cannot 
 deny that her prescriptions had been attended 
 with much success. 
 
 " What's the matter with her?" asked Miss 
 Janet, sharply.
 
 112 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 '' I don't know." 
 
 *' Then I have not the least doubt but it is 
 the small-pox, and I'm quite ashamed of you, 
 Susan, for running into infection in this way. 
 I can assure you, you have not so much "beauty 
 that you can afford to lose a part of it." 
 
 " I assure you it is not the small-pox. 
 Aunt Janet," she said, smiling ; " you know 
 I always am very careful, because papa is 
 frightened." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must go, though I am 
 sure I don't feel at all up to such a walk in 
 this hot sun. You had better ask me to be 
 cook at once. I wish the poor people would 
 learn not to be ill." 
 
 " I dare say they wish it too, Aunt Janet," 
 said Julian, bending forward from where he 
 stood. 
 
 " Wait for me here, Susan, I shan't be long." 
 She walked to the door, then looked back, and 
 added — " And ask Mr. Julian what he thinks 
 of you, for he has been talking a proper lot of 
 nonsense." 
 
 Susan again blushed slightly at the remark, 
 but turned immediately to Julian, and said.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 113 
 
 ■with a smile, " How do you like Aunt Janet, 
 Mr. Greville?" 
 
 The charm of Susan's presence, with the 
 unconscious simplicity of her manner, had 
 made a reaction in Julian's mind, from the 
 lowering thoughts which Aunt Janet's remarks 
 and his own momentary comparison with Miss 
 Prim had excited ; and yielding to the impulse 
 of the moment, and to the tenderer thoughts 
 which the feeling of the injustice which had 
 been done to her raised in his affectionate 
 nature, he came towards her. 
 
 "I like her very much, Susan; I like 
 everything at Keevor except one thing; and 
 shall I tell you what that is?" He paused; 
 then said with a playful, but emphatic tone, 
 " You call me Mr. Greville, and I call you 
 Susan." He stopped, smiled, and looked in 
 her face with such a look as he had given her 
 on the Sunday. She blushed deeply and 
 turned away her head. There had been more 
 of playfulness than of feeling in his manner 
 until now, but catching hold of her hand, lie 
 felt that it trembled, and in her half averted 
 countenance he read a tale of feeling so far 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114; PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 deeper than he had expected to excite, that 
 pleased,, surprised, carried away, he went on 
 in a voice of real and deep tenderness. " Have 
 I not reason to complain, Susan? Ought I 
 not to be called Julian by those / love ? " 
 
 The door opened, and Aunt Janet looked 
 in. I don't know if it was her choice, it cer- 
 tainly was her fate always to appear at in- 
 opportune moments. Her quick eye was im- 
 mediately conscious of the state of the case, 
 though Susan hastily withdrew her hand, and 
 went forward to meet her ; and giving a pro- 
 voking nod with her head, and closing the 
 door before Susan could reach it, she called 
 loudly, " Pray don't let me interrupt your 
 conference, Susan. I am going down the 
 passage to put on my boots." 
 
 Susan stood irresolute. Julian could be 
 smiling, and at his ease ; but to her this mo- 
 ment vras the fulfilment of nights and days of 
 thought and feeling; and fluttered with ex- 
 pectation, and trembling beneath the weight 
 of unwonted emotion, her self-possession was 
 gone. Julian called her back. 
 
 " You must come bade, Susan. I want to
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 115 
 
 speak to you. Let her wait." He took hold 
 of her hand again. '' Why, Susan, how you 
 tremble," he said, tenderly; "are you afraid 
 of me ? — you must not be afraid ! It is for me 
 to be afraid of you. I have so much to tell 
 you; so much to ask you; so much to tell 
 you of myself " 
 
 '' I just looked in again, Susan," cried Aunt 
 Janet, popping her head into the room, '* to 
 say that I hope you will not keep me long. 
 My throat is not quite well, and the draught 
 in the passage is particularly bad for it, that's 
 all," and she closed the door. 
 
 Julian burst out laughing. " Go along, 
 Susan," he said; "that woman is enough to 
 drive all sentiment out of the world. Go 
 along, now; and when you come back," he 
 added, rather with the authority of a husband 
 than the entreaty of a lover, " come to me in 
 the garden, and we will not be interrupted." 
 
 i2
 
 116 PHIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by. 
 And lighten half thy poverty. 
 Do all but close thy dying eye. 
 For that I could not live to try; 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire. 
 More can I do, or thou require? 
 
 Bride of Abydos. 
 
 Passions are likened best to floods and streams. 
 The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb. 
 
 Sir Walter Kaleigh. 
 
 When Susan returned from the village, she 
 found Julian walking in deep thought up and 
 down on the broad gravel-walk before the 
 house. She sat down on a garden-seat, and, 
 trembling and agitated, waited until he should 
 observe her. It was some time before he dis- 
 covered her; when he did so he called her
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 117 
 
 hastily, and she went forward to meet him. 
 He was not like the same person from whom 
 she had parted an hour before; then, his 
 countenance had been all playfulness and 
 gaiety, now it was dark and troubled. His 
 hair was in disorder, his brows were knit and 
 bent; and his eyes, their laughing light ex- 
 tinguished, had an expression of gloom and 
 melancholy. 
 
 Susan had never seen him thus before, but 
 it was a transformation by no means uncom- 
 mon to Julian, it was a transformation which 
 thought always produced upon him. So long 
 as he lived in the present moment, and in the 
 excitement of the moment, he was all lightness 
 and gaiety; but if once he looked upon the 
 mind within, if once he meditated upon him- 
 self, the lightness of his nature was gone. 
 Restless, troubled and ungoverned, he became 
 terrified at the picture of his own heart. The 
 few words he had that morning spoken had 
 decided his destiny, and what all George 
 Vivian's warnings and remonstrances had 
 failed to do those few words had done ; they 
 had awakened his mind to consideration on
 
 118 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 the step he had taken ; they had opened his 
 eyes to the responsibilities he had invited; 
 they had roused his imagination to dwell on 
 the hopes and fears, the clouds and sunshine 
 of his future life. It is often thus. The 
 words of others are without us, and however 
 forcible they be, may pass over us as but 
 the sound of " a lovely song," and make no 
 impression, but our own words are from within, 
 and once spoken, they arouse the conscience, 
 though perhaps when they have set their seal, 
 too late. 
 
 It was not that Julian repented of the step 
 he had taken; but what he had done lightly 
 now weighed heavily ; and the very act of 
 thinking, of pondering upon his actions, had 
 tossed and disordered his mind, and had brought 
 on one of the gloomy and desponding fits to 
 which an excitable nature is at aU times sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " Not here, Susan, not here," he said, as he 
 met her. " I cannot talk to you here. Let 
 ns go to the wood." 
 
 She walked by his side in silence. His 
 thoughts were of himself — hers were all of
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 119 
 
 him. In one moment, in the one glance at 
 that troubled countenance, she had passed at 
 once and for ever from girlish shyness, from 
 trembling love, from youthful hopes, from 
 romantic dreams, to the deep, strong, unselfish 
 devotion which characterizes the love of a 
 wife or a mother. 
 
 They reached the wood. He drew her 
 hand within his arm and held it there ; then 
 began — 
 
 " Susan, I hate this engagement. I wish it 
 had never been; I love you, I must always 
 have loved you ; but for myself, I cannot bear 
 to think that love is not freely given; that 
 duty, that love for your father commands it. 
 I need a strong love, Susan; I wish to be 
 loved for myself alone ; tell me, tell me truly, 
 is your love free; if there had been no en- 
 gagement should you have loved me still?" 
 
 He looked anxiously in her face ; and she 
 hastened to answer him. 
 
 " I think I must if I had dared.''' It was 
 the full expression of what she felt. 
 
 " Dared, Susan ! Ah ! you do not know 
 me." He pressed lier hand, lield it faster,
 
 120 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 then went on in a tone of great feeling. " It 
 was needful that I should ask you if you truly 
 loved me ; for a light love, a light fancy, will 
 not do for me. It will be a hard task and a 
 heavy one to be my wife, and not all happiness. 
 You have not seen me, you have not known me 
 as I am. I am as variable" — he stopped and 
 smiled ; even then, though strongly and deeply 
 moved, a poetical quotation was natural to 
 bim — " ' as variable as the shade by the light 
 quivering aspen made.' Never at rest, never 
 at peace ; always excited, sometimes sad and 
 dreary, as I feel now. And worse than this ; 
 there have been moments when I have felt; 
 moments so dark and despairing that there 
 has been to me no truth on earth, no faith in 
 Heaven. Do not shrink from me, Susan. You 
 must know all, you must be ready to bear all. 
 I need to be loved ; I need to have one who 
 will cheer me, who will cling to me ; who, even 
 if my restless, wandering heart strays from 
 perfect right and perfect truth, will still bear 
 with me. Will you, Susan, can you be such 
 a one to me? Will you never, never forsake 
 me?"
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 121 
 
 " I will never, never forsake you," was the 
 soft, firm, earnest voice by his side. 
 
 He started as he heard her — started at the 
 depth of devotion expressed in the voice that 
 spoke. He had told her that he loved her, but 
 all his thoughts, all his feelings, all his words 
 had been of himself. Not once had he recalled 
 the vow which he must make — the promise to 
 love liei% to cherish her until death should them 
 part. 
 
 " Do you, indeed, so love me, Susan?" he 
 said, bending down to look in her face. " Is 
 it possible that you can already so love me?" 
 
 As Julian spoke, a mist fell from Susan's 
 eyes. Her position stood before her in its 
 clear colours. The force of the engagement, 
 Julian's hasty decision, the rapid growth of 
 her own love. Till now his words and her 
 own ready response had seemed but natural in 
 her eyes. She was not easily excited or carried 
 away : her life had been too early saddened for 
 that; but the very fact that excitement was 
 unusual to her, had made her more completely 
 under its influence now. The fascination that 
 hung upon all that Julian said and did; the
 
 122 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 attention of which she was now, for the first 
 time, the object; the new life that was open- 
 ing upon her; all the interest of her position, 
 had conspired to blind her, and to place her 
 under the influence of that illusion and delu- 
 sion that excitement brings. She, prone as 
 she was to deep thought, had not considered 
 the difficulties or the stransfenesses of her 
 situation. 
 
 But now her eyes were opened. "Is it 
 possible that you already love me?" The 
 words fell heavily on her mind, not for her 
 own sake, but for Julian's. She perhaps had 
 been easily won ; but for her there was no 
 more doubt or fear ; easily it might have been, 
 but won she was, wholly and for ever; but 
 he — did he love hei^ ? 
 
 " I feel that you may doubt me," she said, 
 looking up with a deep blush, but firmly and 
 steadily ; " I feel that you may, perhaps, 
 despise a heart so easily won. But these 
 thoughts and feelings are not new to me. 
 They are but the fulfilment of the hopes of 
 two long years. And if I have been easily 
 won," she added, with a touching smile, and
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. ITS 
 
 unconsciously expressing something of Juliet's 
 sentiment, " believe me I shall not be easily- 
 shaken. " 
 
 " I know it, Susan," he said, tenderly — and 
 her manner would indeed have given the most 
 doubting confidence — " I feel it now; you love 
 me, and you will bless me." 
 
 " But, Julian," she said, stopping in her 
 walk, and looking gravely at him, while she 
 disengaged her hand from his arm, ^' Are you 
 sure of yourself; are i/ou free ? If it is strange 
 that I should love you, is it not stranger that 
 you should love me — you, who have seen the 
 brightness of the world, while I have so little, 
 so very little, to win your love." 
 
 " So little, Susan," he cried, earnestly ; *^ so 
 little — you who are loved, and must be loved, 
 by all who come near you !" 
 
 " But as your wife, Julian. It is not a 
 light thing to be bound together for life. 
 Consider before it is too late. You said you 
 hated this engagement. Let tliere be none ; 
 you know there is none if your will is not free. 
 You can know me but little as yet. ..." 
 
 " Stop, Susan," he said, '^ if you do not
 
 124 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 wish to make me miserable. You have said 
 you loved me, — why will you now try to cast 
 me away? Do I not know you? Do I not 
 know that you are an angel? Do I not hear 
 your voice fall like music? Do I not feel 
 that it blesses me as my mother's voice blest 
 me once." 
 
 And so they were betrothed to each other. 
 
 They parted, and Susan sought her father ; 
 not as she might have done that morning, 
 blushingly, tremblingly, to tell of happy 
 plighted love, but gravely, and even sadly. 
 
 She found him engaged in arranging some 
 flowers for a stand in his sitting room. His 
 whole mind was in his occupation, and she 
 waited till the arrangement was completed, 
 then she said, — 
 
 " I am come to tell you, papa, what I think 
 will make you happy. I am to be Julian's 
 wife." 
 
 Mr. Greville raised his head from the flower 
 over which he was bending, and a look of un- 
 wonted pleasure, and a gleam of unusual in- 
 telligence, lit up his eye. 
 
 *' God bless you, Susan!" he said, fondly
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 125 
 
 taking her hand ; " you ever have, you ever 
 will bless me. Now," and there was some- 
 thing like a sigh of relief, which showed that 
 a painful load had rested on his apparently 
 inanimate heart, " I think my father will 
 forgive me." 
 
 The gleam of intelligence faded, and turning 
 to his flowers, he broke off two rosebuds, which 
 he put, with a childish smile, into Susan's 
 hand. 
 
 In recovered spirits, in violent excitement, 
 Julian sought George Vivian. He might well 
 say that he was " variable as the shade," for 
 already all traces of the mood of the past hour 
 had disappeared, dark as the fit had been 
 during its duration. He found him in a 
 small library which had been given up to 
 their use. He was sitting with a book before 
 him, but he was not reading. Thought, heavy 
 thought, was more usual to him than occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Well, George, it is all settled," Julian be- 
 gan; '• I've done the deed, and Susan is to be 
 my wife."
 
 126 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 George Vivian looked up, gravely and 
 anxiously, and remained silent. 
 
 " Don't you congratulate me ?" pursued 
 Julian, in a light tone. " Such a thing don't 
 happen every day of one's life. I vnll be con- 
 gratulated. Come, George, don't stare at me 
 like a startled hare; I know you can't say 
 anything pretty, — I don't expect that. I 
 might wait till doomsday before your lips 
 could frame a pretty speech; but say some- 
 thing, — say you wish me joy in my married 
 life.'^ 
 
 " Most earnestly I wish it," said George, 
 seriously. 
 
 " Thank you ! And I assure you, George," 
 he continued, his spirits rising with the sight 
 of his companion's gravity, "that there is 
 every prospect of your earnest wishes being 
 accomplished. I like your Judith very much." 
 
 George shook his head. '' 1 wish I could 
 have seen you serious, Julian, for once, and 
 then my hopes in your prospects would have 
 been more secure." 
 
 "I have been serious enough with Susan, 
 George," said Julian, a cloud coming over his
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 127 
 
 face : "I have had one of my black moods this 
 afternoon, and she has seen it, — seen it and 
 chased it away. Susan is an angel! and 
 when I ask you to congratulate me, it is be- 
 cause I feel that she will make me happy." 
 
 " And Miss Greville, Julian — shall you 
 make her happy?" 
 
 '^ Of course I shall. Why, George, Susan 
 loves me; she does, indeed, — loves me for 
 myself. I, therefore, must be happy; and 
 you know, when I am happy, there is no fear. 
 Don't you allow that, in my good moods, I 
 have the power to give happiness?" And 
 his eyes shone with a radiant light, which 
 spoke indeed " of the miraculous draught of 
 happiness," and his whole frame seemed to 
 partake in the smile which played on his 
 countenance. 
 
 '' You are, indeed, a very dangerous person, 
 Julian," replied his companioD, as he surveyed 
 him, and the slight sigh that was suppressed 
 was not a sigh for Susan. " I am not sure, 
 however," he continued, with a smile, "that 
 I should have entrusted my Judith to your 
 care."
 
 128 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 " Then you would have deprived Judith 
 of a very good husband and a very happy life. 
 But thank you, George; I see you trust me 
 
 I wish I could see you as happy as I 
 
 feel," he added, affectionately. 
 
 George said nothing, but again took up his 
 book, and Julian left him to his thoughts. 
 
 I watched Susan very anxiously that even- 
 ing. Her countenance puzzled me. We had 
 attained the wishes of years ; and she, if I had 
 read her rightly, should have been blest, most 
 blest: but was she so? She was more full of 
 thought than usual, and once, as she sat over 
 her embroidery frame, I fancied that her 
 brows knit, and that the peace which reigned 
 over her face was for a moment dispelled. I 
 have since thought that it was the weight of 
 responsibility which weighed heavily upon her. 
 A human being's happiness is an awful thing 
 to take in trust; and it is not the conscious- 
 ness of our own love that can lighten the 
 burden, or our own desire to bless. There 
 are such things as vain endeavours and in- 
 effectual effort ; there are smiles which are not 
 responded to, soft words which fall powerless,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 129 
 
 without the magic to soften or to cheer. Till 
 now, Susan's powers had never failed; why 
 did her heart sink within her now? I sup- 
 pose an answer might readily be found — there 
 are inward powers which measure love, and 
 unconsciously show where the balance is want- 
 ing ; — Julian's words of love were more, much 
 more, than Susan's ; but she knew who loved 
 most, on whom, therefore, the burden of re- 
 sponsibility would lie; and already, strong 
 and self-reliant as she naturally was, some- 
 thing of the dread of failure was stealing over 
 her mind. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 130 PPJDE AND IRRESOLUTION, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, 
 Not endless night, nor yet eternal day 
 
 The saddest birds a seas.n find to sing, 
 
 The roughest stonn a calm may soon allay. 
 
 Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 
 
 That man may hope to rise, and fear to fall. 
 
 Robert Southwell. 
 
 Sorrows, Sliakspeare says, come in bat- 
 talions. I am sure visitors do so too. On the 
 morning after Julian's proposal, the arrival of 
 another guest was announced at our quiet 
 Keevor. 
 
 Aunt Janet was always the first person to 
 lay hold of the newspaper. For the last week, 
 her hour for appearing at breakfast had been 
 considerably advanced, from a dread, as we 
 supposed, of George Yivian, who, on the morn- 
 ing after his arrival, had been most innocently
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 131 
 
 beforehand with her in looking over its con- 
 tents. 
 
 "I say, Fulke — Mr. Greville," she said, 
 looking lip suddenly from the page before 
 her, " have you read your letters this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " ISTo, Aunt Janet," he replied, with a face 
 rather scared and fluttered at her exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 " Then I wdsh you would read them, and 
 not dawdle over your toast in that way. 
 There's some news, I can tell you." 
 
 Mr. Greville obediently put down his toast, 
 and inspected his two letters ; but observing 
 that one had a black seal and a black border, 
 he looked at Susan, and laid them aside again. 
 A black border was at this time painfully and 
 entirely connected in his mind with the death 
 of his wife. 
 
 Susan left her seat, and came round to 
 Aunt Janet. "What is it?" she asked, leaning 
 over her. 
 
 Aunt Janet triumphantly pointed to an 
 announcement among the " Deaths." 
 
 " Suddenly, on the 6th instant, at her resi- 
 K 2
 
 132 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 dence in Brook-street, the Lady Frances Vere, 
 in the 55th year of her age." 
 
 Susan made no exclamation, but glanced at 
 her father. He had not ventured again to 
 touch his toast, but was sitting with his eyes 
 vacantly fixed on the black letter. She ap- 
 proached his chair, he started, and put the 
 letter into her hand. 
 
 The purport of the communication will be 
 gathered from the following short history. 
 
 Florence Vere was a ward of Mr. Greville's. 
 She was the daughter of a sister of Mrs. 
 Greville's, who had married an officer of good 
 family but small fortune. Both father and 
 mother had died early, and the child was left 
 to the guardianship of a Lord Mortimer, a 
 distant relation of the father's, and to Mr. 
 Greville, a connexion of the mother's. There 
 had seemed but little likelihood that either 
 guardian would be troubled with the child, for 
 she was adopted by a maiden aunt of Captain 
 Yere's, with whom she had lived from eight 
 years old to the present time. 
 
 The sudden d^ath of Ladv Frances Vere left
 
 PPwlDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 133 
 
 the young orphan wthout a home, and nearly 
 destitute. 
 
 Her letter to Mr. Greville was written in 
 great apparent distress, announcing the death 
 of her aunt, and saying that she was desired 
 to ask Mr. Greville to receive her at Keevor. 
 Another letter from the solicitor of Lady 
 Trances, entered into the circumstances more 
 fully. He said that it had always been the 
 intention of Lady Frances to provide for Miss 
 Yere on her marriage; that unfortunately 
 her sudden death had prevented tlie accom- 
 plishment of her good intentions. That Miss 
 Yere was, therefore, left without any provi- 
 sion but her father's fortune — a sum, he said, 
 more than sufficient for a young lady's needs, 
 but very insufficient as a means of support. 
 He had no doubt, he continued, that Lord 
 Mortimer, who had always shown great kind- 
 ness to his ward, would ultimately receive her 
 into his family, but Lord Mortimer was at 
 present at Kome in a very precarious state of 
 health ; and he had therefore taken upon him- 
 self to recommend Miss Yere to apply to Mr,
 
 134 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Greville to receive her until some arrangement 
 could be made for her future destination. 
 
 After reading his letters, ]\Ir. Greville's re- 
 mark, as he took up his toast, and with a 
 sigh, gave his mind to his breakfast, was — 
 *'Ah! Susan; I thought that black border 
 meant something." 
 
 Aunt Janet's was — "What! Florence Vere 
 coming to Keevor — the fashionable, the beau- 
 tiful, the highly accomplished Florence Vere ! 
 We are honoured, indeed. Susan, you must 
 look to yourself — brush up your dress, hold 
 up your head, turn out your toes." 
 
 *' Fashionable and highly accomplished," 
 exclaimed Julian. " I hate the girl already." 
 
 There could be no doubt as to the answer 
 to be returned, and in three weeks Florence 
 Vere was to take up her temporary abode at 
 Keevor Hall. 
 
 Those three intervening weeks passed swiftly 
 away, and during those weeks Susan Greville 
 tasted, I think, the fulness of human felicity. 
 
 As a sun breaking forth at the sunset hour
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 135 
 
 after a dull and sober day, lights up a land- 
 scape with rich unrivalled brilliancy, so fell 
 the sun of Julian's love, and Julian's genius, 
 and Julian's companionship, upon the calmness 
 of her past life — and swiftly responsive to the 
 call, powers of which she had never dreamt, 
 thoughts, feelings, imaginations, awoke within 
 her, making her cheek to glow, and her eye to 
 kindle, into beauty. 
 
 And Julian, too, was happy — all was new 
 to him, England, Keevor, Susan herself, with 
 her quiet grace, her retiring, but not ungifted 
 mind, her devoted love. No cloud, no fit of 
 darkness, no prophetic shadows, obscured the 
 brightness of his mind. They were continually 
 together; Susan entered eagerly into all his 
 tastes and pursuits, and he, happy in her pre- 
 sence, endeavoured to share with her in her 
 soberer duties, and learned, or at least ap- 
 peared to be learning, for the first time, that 
 there were other beings in the world besides 
 himself, and other pleasures than those of the 
 wayward fancy alone. 
 
 I will not say that to me all was perfectly 
 cloudless. " AVe are all," it is said, " more or
 
 136 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 less related to Chaos ;" and Julian's relation- 
 ship was certainly a very close one. In the 
 light of happiness which now fell upon his 
 heart, and which exhibited every whim and 
 fancy, every thought and feeling as it arose, 
 it was but too apparent to rne, that although 
 not void, all was " without form" within him 
 — a tangled mass of confusion. There were 
 precious metals without number, but strewed 
 about so carelessly and disorderly as to be 
 almost valueless. And sometimes I questioned 
 with myself, what will follow when the excite- 
 ment is past? Is there feeling sufficient to 
 engross, principle sufficient to restrain, when 
 novelty ceases? — and my answers were not 
 always perfectly satisfactory. 
 
 Yet upon the whole I hoped — I could not 
 but hope strongly, from the effects of constant 
 intercourse with a character like Susan's, from 
 whom, as it were, an emanation (for it was 
 wholly without effort) of virtue, duty, and 
 fixedness of principle, unceasingly and uncon- 
 sciously flowed. 
 
 As '^ no news is good news," so an unevent- 
 ful life is said to be a happy one ; and though
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 137 
 
 I do not entirely agree to the remark, since 
 the under-current of emotion is often deeper 
 and sterner than that on the outward surface 
 of things, yet it teas true in this case. In 
 these three weeks I have little to record. 
 
 Julian very early constituted himself our 
 king and tyrant. It was his habit or destiny 
 to usurp dominion, and had been so from his 
 earliest infancy. None presumed to offer him 
 contradiction or rebuff, except Aunt Janet, 
 and hers, I believe, was but a rougher kind 
 of worship. 
 
 '' Now, Aunt Janet," he would say, " look 
 at this drawing, and tell me if there was ever 
 yet in the world such a master as I am. When 
 the revolution comes, there is no doubt what 
 my vocation will be. I took Susan to sketch 
 the old ruin at lUingham. It is only her 
 second attempt in sketching. What do you 
 say of the master she has had the good fortune 
 to meet with?" 
 
 " What do yoic say, Mr. Julian, to the pro- 
 ficiency of your pupil?" 
 
 ^' Ah, true, Aunt Janet, I forgot that!"
 
 138 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 said Julian, laughing. '' There, Susan, you 
 have got a compliment at last." 
 
 '' ]N"ot at all," replied Aunt Janet, scorn- 
 fully. " What but proficiency could be ex- 
 pected when Love was the teacher. You need 
 not blush, my dear Susan, there is nothing to 
 be ashamed of." 
 
 Another night it was — 
 
 " Well, Aunt Janet, what do you think I 
 have been doing to-day?" 
 
 " Some fool's business, I suppose," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Thank you, no. Very much the con- 
 trary. I have been engaged on a work of 
 Avisdom. I went with Susan to the school, 
 and have been teaching the young idea how 
 to shoot. I did not dislike my occupation, 
 but I am sorry to tell you that I disgraced 
 myself. Mrs. Crump (if that is not her name 
 I am sure it ought to be — ^how you could en- 
 gage such a woman, Susan ! You must get rid 
 of her, and procure a pretty mistress, if you 
 wish me to patronize your school again) well, 
 Mrs. Crump desired me to examine the children 
 in arithmetic ; and they answered so fluently
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 139 
 
 to my questions, that, in an evil moment, 
 I struck. boldly into the seven line, and asked 
 seven times nine. The sevens were my old 
 enemies; I knew very well that I could not 
 answer. To my dismay I ran along my circle 
 of staring girls, and not one of them could 
 reply. Fancy my situation. I was publicly 
 disgraced ; forced to confess my ignorance and 
 apply to Susan. Now don't you feel for me, 
 Aunt Janet?" 
 
 ^' I wonder who was right about the fool's 
 business?" she said, triumphantly. 
 
 " My talents never developed themselves in 
 arithmetic," he replied, playfully. " I am, I 
 confess, lamentably ignorant of my multiplica- 
 tion table. Let us have a lesson to-night. 
 Susan, you shall be the examiner, for I am 
 quite certain that both George and Aunt Janet 
 will fail in their sevens. Now begin !"
 
 140 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 And thou sad sufferer under nameless ill 
 That yields not to the touch of human skill ; 
 To thee the dayspring and the blaze of noon 
 The purple evening and resplendent moon, 
 The stars that sprinkled o'er the vault of night 
 Seem drops descending in a shower of light, 
 Shine not, or undesired and hated shine, 
 Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 One morning when Julian came down to 
 •breakfast, (it was, I think, the day before 
 Miss Vere's arrival,) rather late, as was his 
 habit, for he was a great lover of repose, he 
 found Aunt Janet loudly declaiming on the 
 practice of keeping birthdays. 
 
 " / set my face against it," she was saying, 
 as he entered. " It is a foolish practice, and 
 a very annoying one. Where there are many
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 141 
 
 birthdays, it is a perfect tax upon one's pocket. 
 I knew a family once — there were twelve chil- 
 dren — they are ruined now, and no wonder; 
 I always told them what w^ould be the end of 
 it. This family chose to keep the birthdays 
 of every one of the twelve children; the 
 father and mother, and the children's children. 
 There was no living in the house. I assure 
 you, my temper, it is not often tried, but it 
 was so tried by these birthdays that I had 
 hardly patience to show common civility. I 
 had rather have a birthday tax levied upon 
 me at once. You know then, at any rate, 
 what is expected from you; and, after all, 
 who cares whether you are twenty, or sixty, 
 or a hundred and forty?" 
 
 " True, Aunt Janet," said Julian, playfully, 
 " when we get to a hundred and forty, our 
 friends will, I fancy, be a little tired of keep- 
 ing our birthdays; but up to that point let 
 them be kept by all means. I would not 
 have my birthday forgotten for all the world. 
 But what is all this about? ' Who has got a 
 birthday?' as my nurse would have said." 
 
 '' Susan has," said Mr. Greville. '^ It
 
 142 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 is Susan's birthday to-day, and I have given 
 her that pretty white rosebud. I have been 
 in a sad fright for fear it should blow before 
 the time ; but Marshall said it would do, and 
 he was right. I picked it fresh this morning 
 in all its beauty." 
 
 " Susan's birthday, is it?" observed Julian. 
 " Now, Susan, I am very much offended, and 
 more than offended — very much hurt. It is 
 your birthday, and I was not to know it." 
 
 "I dare say Susan forgot it," interposed 
 Mr. Greville, " till I came in with my pretty 
 white rosebud. Susan never thinks about 
 ]ierself." 
 
 " No she didn't, she remembered it perfectly 
 well — I see she did. I am hurt with you, 
 Susan. I call it really unkind." 
 
 " A lovers' quarrel," remarked Aunt Janet. 
 *' Mr. George, (she had a particular fancy for 
 calling people by their Christian instead of 
 their Sirnames whenever it was possible,) I 
 think, Mr. George, you and I had better shut 
 our eyes and stop our ears, and entertain each 
 other as well as we can." 
 
 Julian hurried through breakfast with un-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX. 143 
 
 usual speed. As lie got up, he said to Susan, 
 '' You will not see me all day, Susan ; I am 
 offended with you," and he left the room. 
 
 Susan did not appear to be much alarmed 
 at his anger. She guessed, I suppose, the 
 cause of his absence, though she could scarcely 
 guess that he was going to a town at a dis- 
 tance of twenty miles, where alone he thought 
 a sufficiently fashionable jeweller could be 
 found. 
 
 In the afternoon of the day Susan w^as 
 returning alone from the village by a circuitous, 
 unfrequented path, of vv^hich she was very fond, 
 when she observed George Vivian approaching 
 with the uncertain step and unobservant eye 
 of one who walks for a walk, and has no other 
 object. She paused, that he might join her. 
 She was not sorry for this opportunity of 
 meeting with him alone. 
 
 For the few days previous to Julian's en- 
 gagement he had exerted himself as it after- 
 wards appeared considerably; but from that 
 time, day after day, he had sunk lower into 
 despondency and gloom, and all our endeavours 
 were insufficient to arouse him. Whether it
 
 144 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 was that Julian's happiness formed too painful 
 a contrast to his own feelings, whether a return 
 to his own country awakened memory too 
 clearly, or whether other thoughts, hopes, and 
 desires were stirring within him, I could not 
 then discover. 
 
 In common with all who saw him, Susan 
 watched him with deep interest; and had 
 pondered upon the mystery of his sorrow with 
 the intense compassion which was a part of 
 her nature; but though George Vivian evi- 
 dently regarded her with no common feelings 
 of admiration, although he had once expressed 
 to me in the strongest language his sense of 
 Julian's good fortune, yet to her endeavours 
 to obtain his confidence, he had been as back- 
 ward and unapproachable as to all others. 
 
 She paused at a gate which she was about 
 to enter, and he joined her. 
 
 " Have you been walking far?" she inquired. 
 
 " Yes, taking one of my long strides, as 
 Julian calls them. I went round by Illingham 
 — the ruin is very fine." 
 
 "You refused to come with us the other 
 day," Susan said, reproachfully.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 1 45 
 
 He smiled a sad unmeaning smile — then 
 employed himself in undoing the chain which 
 hooked the gate at which they stood. 
 
 " Some might call you uncivil, Mr. Vivian," 
 Susan continued, as they passed through the 
 gate and walked on ; " but I only say that you 
 are unkind." 
 
 " Unkind !" he replied, quickly — " no, in- 
 deed!" 
 
 " We feel it so. Julian grieves over your 
 absence, and / can only imagine that you 
 must look upon me as very selfish, and think 
 that I wish to separate Julian from one who 
 has hitherto been his only friend." 
 
 "Indeed, you mistake," he said, sadly; 
 "Julian does not like being alone, and there- 
 fore formerly even my company was better 
 than solitude — now he has better society, and 
 I do not wish to inflict my presence on his 
 happiness." 
 
 "And why inflict?" 
 
 " Because it is an infliction to witness 
 misery which you cannot relieve," he replied, 
 almost sternly. 
 
 " It may be so to those who care only for 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 their own happiness; but will you give that 
 character to Julian and to me ?" She looked 
 up at him as she spoke with her sweet smile^ 
 and those soft loving eyes, which spoke so 
 deeply of sympathy and pity. 
 
 " You are very kind," he said, turning away 
 his head with a sigh — but be said no more. 
 
 They walked on a little way in silence, then 
 Susan began again — " Mr. Yivian, will you 
 forgive me if I press upon a subject which you 
 so evidently wash to avoid? It is not idle 
 curiosity that makes me speak — you must 
 trust me for that — nor do I ask or wish to ask 
 why you are so miserable; but I must ask, 
 can nothing ever comfort or relieve you? 
 Cannot you imagine how painful it must be to 
 us to see you unhappy, the more painful be- 
 cause we are happy. A thousand and a thou- 
 sand times I have wished to speak to you, but 
 dared not." 
 
 " You are very kind," he said again, with a 
 quivering lip ; but no more. 
 
 " Will you not answer me?" she continued^ 
 " Can nothing comfort or relieve you?" 
 
 " Nothing ^^^ he replied, despairingly.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 147 
 
 " You must indeed be miserable," she 
 said; and tliey walked towards the house in 
 silence. 
 
 As they entered the garden, she stopped, 
 and looking up at him again, said, gently and 
 earnestly, " Do not think that I am going to 
 force myself upon you, but I know how our feel- 
 ings change, — and if ever you should change, 
 if ever you should feel that anything could 
 give you comfort, will you remember that even 
 as Julian loves you, I love you; and that 
 neither he nor I can ever be perfectly happy 
 till you are happier. You must forgive me 
 for speaking to you; it is my duty as well as 
 my wish, for I feel that I have taken Julian 
 from you, and perhaps added to your un- 
 happiness." 
 
 " I feel your kindness," he said, in a voice 
 of deep emotion. " I would thank you if I 
 could, but I cannot." He paused, then still 
 more agitatedly went on, — " And to show you 
 that I feel it, I would tell you what it is that 
 has made me the helpless, despairing wretch 
 that I am, and ever must be ; but I cannot do 
 it — but ask Julian — let him tell you ; and then, 
 l2
 
 148 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 if in all the world you see a ray of comfort 
 for me, then tell me so, and I will bless you 
 indeed." 
 
 He left her hurriedly. 
 
 As he entered the house, Julian appeared at 
 the drawing-room window, shouting for Susan. 
 
 He saw her, and joined her where she stood ; 
 but the joyous spirits in which he had returned 
 were checked by the glance he caught of George 
 Vivian's countenance. 
 
 "What is the matter with George?" he 
 asked, as he approached her. 
 
 Susan told him what had passed. 
 
 A cloud gathered on his brow. " I hate 
 this subject, Susan ; I hate to think of it ; it 
 makes me as miserable as poor George himself. 
 But since he told you to ask me, I suppose 
 I must tell you about it. He killed his 
 brother, his only brother — shot him." 
 
 There are some trials whose very existence 
 are a trial to the faith of the strongest, and 
 this was one. That any human being should 
 be doomed to the misery of cutting oft' — in the 
 hour of gaiety and sport, in the bloom and 
 freshness of youth, the life, perhaps the dearest
 
 PEIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 149 
 
 to them on earth — seems almost incredible^ 
 but such things have been. 
 
 Susan's brow contracted with the pain of 
 the doubts that swept over the serenity of her 
 soul. 
 
 " No wonder you look shocked, Susan/' 
 Julian said; "it always seems to me too hor- 
 rible to be true. And there were many cir- 
 cumstances that added to the horror. It was 
 his elder brother, — such a gay, handsome, high- 
 spirited young man, — such a person, as one 
 feels, should never die. It happened at Llan- 
 dover, too, George's place, and you know, by 
 that means, it became his own. One cannot 
 wonder that he should hate the name of it. I 
 will tell you about it as well as I can, but 
 I only once heard it from George, and I never 
 can wish to hear him mention it again. Though 
 he is so reserved, and seems so cold, it is 
 frightful to see him when he is roused. 1 
 think it must be nearly five years ago now ; 
 — the elder brother, Dudley his name was, 
 was at Llandover in October; he wrote to 
 George, who was on his way to Cambridge 
 from Florence, to go down to him at once, for
 
 150 PPJDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 that lie had kept three capital days shooting 
 for him. George cared /or nothing but hunt- 
 ing and shooting in those days, though he was 
 very steady at Cambridge, and read a good 
 deal. Well, George and another person went 
 down, and they were there alone, and all in 
 great spirits. George was gay at that time, 
 but he was nothing to Dudley. Dudley seemed 
 to be made of happiness, — I don't think he 
 knew what it was to have one moment's 
 disquiet. On the third morning, George said 
 he was not well, and that he would stay at 
 home, or only join them late in the day ; but 
 they laughed at him. Dudley said it would 
 be the best day of all ; they forced him to go, 
 in short. I always think he must have had 
 some presentiment of evil. He don't know how 
 it was, no one ever seemed to know ; he had a 
 bad headache, and he fancies his eyes may 
 have been misty. But once he fired, and he 
 heard a human cry ; you may imagine, Susan, 
 what a moment that was. He saw his brother 
 stretched on the ground, and as pale as death. 
 In a moment he was kneeling by his side ; and 
 Dudley opened his eyes. He just said, " Don't
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 151 
 
 l3e unhappy, George, it was no fault of yours," — 
 took his hand, and pressed it to his lips, and 
 died. It icas dreadful! — was it not, Susan, 
 enough to break even a strong man's heart? 
 They said that George fell down lifeless by his 
 l)rother's side with a cry of agony that never 
 <50uld be forgotten ; and for three days he re- 
 mained in a stupor from which nothing could 
 rouse him. When he did recover, they wished 
 Mm in a stupor again, for he was mad, dis- 
 tracted, — a most dreadful kind of madness, 
 with some consciousness of what he had done ; 
 kept wringing his hands, and calling to Dud- 
 ley to forgive him ; and this madness went on 
 for some weeks. At one time they thought 
 he never could come to his senses again ; but 
 lie did at last, and then he fell into that state 
 of despondency in which you see him now. 
 Poor George !" he said, and he remained silent; 
 and Susan, too, was silent, with downcast eyes, 
 pondering upon what she had heard. 
 
 Julian began again. " George has never 
 been at Llandover since that day, and he says 
 he never will see it again. He can't sell it, 
 or I am sure he would. He hates to think of
 
 152 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 it as his own. I don't wonder at him. I am 
 fcjiire I should feel as he does ; but it is a pity, 
 for I believe it is dreadfully neglected by the 
 agent he employs." 
 
 " Yet he should go there — don't you think 
 so, Julian?" Susan said, thoughtfully. "It 
 can't be right to neglect it, because he is un- 
 happy." 
 
 '' I don't know — I don't know much about 
 ■right — but if you think his neglect wrong, I 
 believe that would be the way to work upon 
 George. The fact is, I am afraid that he 
 was very injudiciously treated. His mother 
 was in weak health at the time of the accident, 
 and she was very much shocked at the news 
 of her son's death — so much so, that my father 
 never told her the truth about what had hap- 
 pened — he never dared ; and when poor George 
 came to Florence, looking more dead than 
 alive, the first thing my father said, was to 
 implore him to conceal his feelings and the 
 truth. This made George feel guilty ^ I think. 
 He drove the past back into his mind, and 
 brooded upon it unceasingly, and I wonder his
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 153 
 
 mother did not suspect something; but she 
 was very unhappy herself; Dudley was her 
 great favourite, and I suppose she thought 
 his extreme misery was only natural. He 
 did not stay with us long. He left Florence, 
 and for two years went travelling about in all 
 sorts of strange places, till his mother was 
 taken dangerously ill, and he was sent for 
 home. He came only two days before her 
 death, and he was almost mad again then; 
 he said she should not die without knowing 
 what he had done, and forgiving him; and 
 as she was then given over, my father allowed 
 him to speak — and there vras, I believe, a 
 dreadful scene. She was so affected by what 
 he said, that George always feels that he 
 hastened her death. I don't think it was his 
 confession that affected her so deeply ; it 
 would not, of course ; it was a mistaken idea 
 of my father's ; but she was so terrified at his 
 agitation, and so weak, that she could not 
 comfort him, as I am sure she wished to do. 
 Poor George," he said, again passing his 
 band over his eyes, " there are some things.
 
 154 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Susan, which I am almost afraid to tliink of, 
 some things which almost make me doubt if 
 the God we serve can be a God of mercy." 
 
 " But we must not doubt, Julian," Susan 
 said, looking up with her brow clear and 
 serene again, in his face. 
 
 " No," he said, with a sigh; " and I never 
 do when I am with you; but don't talk of 
 this any more; I hate to think of such 
 misery." 
 
 In a moment, with a mere shake of his 
 head, he shook ofi* the gloom from his mind, 
 and the cloud from his brow, and turning 
 playfully to Susan, said, " Now, Susan, for an 
 explanation, and an apology for your misde- 
 meanour. Why am I to be treated like a 
 scullion, and not to be allowed to know any- 
 thing that concerns you? You have hurt my 
 feelings." 
 
 Susan smiled, but sadly. " I did not mean 
 to conceal anything, Julian ; but I was once 
 very unhappy on this day, and I never think 
 of it as my birthday — no one ever does except 
 papa." 
 
 '' Ah, Susan !" he said, affectionately ; " I
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 155 
 
 think I know what you mean ; but you must 
 let me be like your father and remember it, 
 for it must be a happy day to me. Even over 
 the sorrow of this day I cannot grieve, for 
 perhaps but for that I should never have 
 known you. So now, let me show you that 
 I like, love, respect, and esteem this day more 
 than all the days of the year." He smilingly 
 took from his pocket a jeweller's case, and dis- 
 played a pretty gokl bracelet with a diamond 
 clasp, and two lockets hanging to it. It cer- 
 tainly did credit to a country jeweller. " I 
 have been behaving in a most tyrannical 
 
 manner at , I am sorry to say, but 
 
 when I want a thing done, it is no use to tell 
 me that it can't be done ; it must ; and so I 
 have proved, for I have got all I want. Now, 
 Susan, hold out your arm ; I put this on you 
 myself, and woe to him who takes it off again." 
 With a slight change of manner, he went on 
 more seriously — " One locket has my hair, 
 the other has my mother's. I hardly re- 
 member her, but somehow I feel as if she must 
 have been like you; and I wish you, Susan, 
 to be such a friend to me as my mother would
 
 156 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 have been — not despairing or mistrusting me, 
 however bad I may be." He clasped the 
 bracelet on her arm, then holding it for a 
 moment, said, playfully, " If I ever see your 
 arm without this, Susan, I shall know what I 
 am to think — you will have given me up. 
 And now go to George, for I see you are 
 hankering after him all the while I am speak- 
 ing to you."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX. 157 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I bring your auguisli no relief, 
 
 I scorn, like you, the opiate spell ; 
 But barren woes, like joys, are brief — 
 If faithful you would make your grief. 
 Grieve calmly, and grieve well. 
 
 De Verb. 
 
 Susan hastened to look for George Vivian 
 — but here, remembering the beautiful words 
 of Bulwer, let me pause. 
 
 " Some griefs there are which grief alone can guess, 
 And so we leave whate'er he felt untold ; 
 Light steps profane the heart's deep loneliness." 
 
 To administer comfort to a mind diseased 
 like George Vivian's, was not a difficult task. 
 The very tranquillity of manner which could 
 listen to his tale, and dwell upon his griefs 
 without a too evident emotion, was in itself
 
 158 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 no slight consolation. He had told his his- 
 tory but twice — once in a dying ear, and 
 death had too quickly followed — a second time 
 to one whose excitement of mind was little 
 calculated to assuage the throbbiiigs of a 
 wounded heart. Thus driven back into him- 
 self, the tale of sorrow had swelled to a tale of 
 horror, and almost of guilt. Susan's manner, 
 therefore, at once so intense and absorbed 
 that it gave to grief all it asked of sympathy 
 and compassion, and yet so calm and serene, 
 that without words it spoke of the high un- 
 troubled Heaven which solves the problem of 
 human misery, was especially calculated to 
 carry comfort, and hope, and repose. 
 
 But with the quickness of one who had 
 thought much, she saw at once tliat sympathy 
 was not all the comfort that his case required. 
 She looked through to the root of the evil, 
 and to the cure. Young as she was, the sub- 
 ject of the sorrow and evil of the world had 
 occupied a large portion of her thoughts. 
 Even in her early days, while she watched the 
 sufferings of her innocent brother, she had 
 questioned, with the youthful boldness of an
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 159 
 
 inquiring mind, wJty he was thus afflicted. 
 As she grew older, and was made acquainted 
 by her mother with the ills of poverty, and 
 the stern sorrows of poverty and sickness 
 united, she had pondered and questioned with 
 yet deeper reflection. She did not speak of 
 her feelings, but she watched, read, and 
 thought; and from her reflections she drevr at 
 last — 
 
 " Thoughts whose sternness makes them sweet." 
 
 She learnt to consider all " afflictions, whe- 
 ther light or grave," as messengers sent down 
 from Heaven, charged with a message, and 
 bound to perform some work which they, and 
 they only, can perform. Dark may be the 
 coming of the messenger, and severe his mes- 
 sage; but where it is so, well it may be be- 
 lieved that hard is the task which he has to 
 perform. With deeper thoughts she dwelt 
 upon the remembrance that, afflictions being 
 from Heaven, must, like other gifts and 
 talents, leave a deep responsibility behind 
 them. To receive — even to submit, is not 
 enough; they who do no more than receive,
 
 160 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 can scarcely escape the sentence of the servant 
 ivho hid his lord's money in the earth. 
 
 Thus accustomed to reflect, although the 
 nature of the present affliction might for a 
 moment shake her confidence, it was not diffi- 
 cult to Susan to assist George Vivian to trace 
 the good that was hidden in the darkness that 
 clouded over his head ; it was from her heart 
 — from a depth of conviction that she spoke, 
 when with her gentle voice she endeavoured 
 to arouse him from his lethargy, and to re- 
 mind him of the responsibility laid upon his 
 shoulders even by that especial and awful Pro- 
 vidence which had marked him among men. 
 
 Following and overcoming the perversity of 
 grief, answering the agony of reluctance when 
 she pressed upon him the duties of his neglected 
 home — unwearied, though her words appeared 
 to fall, like droppings of idle water, powerless 
 to reach the hard and beaten misery of his 
 heart, so she endeavoured to perform the task 
 of comforter which she had taken upon her- 
 self. Bishop Taylor has beautifully said, "God 
 hath sent some angels into the world, whose 
 office is to refresh the sorrows of the poor, and
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 161 
 
 to lighten the eyes of the disconsolate." I 
 have always applied the words to Susan, for 
 even such appeared to be her mission upon 
 earth. 
 
 I know not — it may have been in that hour, 
 while that sweet voice was falling upon his 
 ear, that a deep, enduring, lifelong passion 
 took possession of his mind. I cannot say 
 that it was so; it may have been already 
 there; it may have been afterwards that he 
 became conscious of it; but pity, in other 
 senses than the poet has it, melts the mind to 
 love; and although right words are very 
 forcible, yet perhaps without the assistance of 
 some other feeling, the effect of Susan's words 
 was more than words usually have power to 
 perform. 
 
 He said little at the moment, but when 
 Susan left the drawing-room with her father, 
 at bed-time, George Vivian, with a slight 
 movement, put Julian aside, and went to open 
 the door. 
 
 He lighted her candle, placed it in her 
 hand, and then said, " I must wish you good- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 bye. I shall be gone before you are up to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 "Are you going to leave us?" she in- 
 quired, startled at the announcement. 
 
 " Yes," he said, gravely, " I am going to 
 Wales." 
 
 Surprised as she was at the suddenness of 
 the change, she fancied that he did not wish 
 for any comment upon his resolution. She 
 said only, with a kind smile, as she held out 
 her hand, — 
 
 " You must not be long away. Julian has 
 not learned to do without you yet, and you 
 know I am only beginning to make acquaint- 
 ance Avith you." 
 
 He pressed her hand gravely and gratefully, 
 but said no more. At that time we none of 
 us discovered that he was more than usually 
 agitated, or excited; he had been even less 
 abstracted than was common to him, and yet 
 what a multitude of conflicting emotions were 
 agitating his breast on that night.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 163 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 
 The bridal of the earth and sky, 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to night, 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave, 
 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 
 Thy root is ever in the grave. 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
 
 A box where sweets compacted lie, 
 My music shows ye have your closes, 
 And all must die. 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 " So, Mr* George is off," exclaimed Aunt 
 Janet, when Julian came down to breakfast 
 on the following morning. " What precious 
 business has taken him off in such a hurry?" 
 
 As she received no answer to her query, 
 she proceeded : ^' I know very well that there 
 m2
 
 164 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 must be some meaning in it. People don't 
 set off at an hour's notice like maniacs, with- 
 out some reason. Is it a love business, Mr. 
 Julian?" 
 
 " You think a great deal about love, Aunt 
 Janet, I observe," said Julian, drily. 
 
 " Don't be pert, Mr. Julian. I've good 
 reason to think a great deal about love. I've 
 seen a great many sufferings from it, and 
 caused them too." 
 
 Julian allowed the conversation to drop. 
 I had observed when he first came down that 
 a slight cloud was on his brow — too slight to 
 have been remarked, if it had not been the 
 first settled cloud which I had seen since his 
 engagement. Some cause as light as air had 
 ruffled his serenity, and he was not prepared 
 as usual for his encounter with Aunt Janet's 
 wits. 
 
 His silence was, however, rather an incen- 
 tive than otherwise to her tongue. 
 
 " Well, so the expected day is come at last. 
 Who remembers that our breakfast-table to- 
 morrow morning will be graced by the pre- 
 sence of the gay, the beautiful, the fascinatiDg
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIO:?^. 165 
 
 Miss Yere? Are you aware of the fact, 
 Susan?" 
 
 ^' I think I am," she replied, smiling. 
 
 " Of course; I need not have doubted that 
 you would remember. Young ladies are not 
 in the habit of forgetting their rivals. How 
 do you feel, Susan? Are you prepared for 
 combat — gathering up your powers — brushing 
 up your charms?" 
 
 " I think you are talking a great deal of 
 nonsense this morning," said Julian, rather 
 sharply. 
 
 ^' And I think you are very pert this morn- 
 ing, Mr. Julian. What nonsense do I talk? 
 When two beautiful young women meet in 
 one house, I believe it is not very unusual 
 that there should be rivalry between them." 
 
 "But I am not a beautiful young woman," 
 Susan said, smiling again : " and so there can 
 be none." 
 
 " Don't argue, Susan — you know very well 
 what I mean. You need not take it all to 
 yourself in that way. You know very well 
 that nobody could have called you beautiful." 
 
 "Yes, you did. Aunt Janet; and so do I.
 
 166 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 In my eyes Susan can have no rival," and he 
 gave her a look so loving and affectionate, 
 that I wondered not at the crimson which 
 died her cheeks. I wished, however — and so 
 I think did Susan before now — that Julian 
 was less public in his expressions of affection 
 (but such was his nature, always following 
 the feeling of the moment) ; and I wondered 
 less than usual at Aunt Janet's hasty remark : 
 ^^ Eeally, what with love, and what with 
 lovers, one don't know which way to look in 
 this house." 
 
 As she was leaving the breakfast-room, she 
 called to Susan — " I am going to look at Miss 
 Yere's room, Susan. You have been making 
 a great fuss, but a great fuss does not always 
 make comfort. I looked in yesterday, and I 
 observed that there was no footstool. Depend 
 upon it she will want a footstool. You had 
 better come and look after the arrangements 
 a little, and don't stand there gossiping with 
 Julian, all day long'." 
 
 " Aunt Janet is in a very meddlesome hu- 
 mour this morning," remarked Julian. 
 
 " I think she is much the same as usual,"
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 167 
 
 replied Susan; " but I think you are thinking 
 of something else, Julian, are you not? Are 
 you sorry that Mr. Vivian is gone?" 
 
 " Eather more sorry that Miss Vere is 
 coming," he said, throwing open the window, 
 and stepping out into the garden. *' I have 
 been very happy, and I don't wish to be in- 
 terrupted." 
 
 ''• You don't think that we could have done 
 otherwise than invite her to come here, do 
 you?" Susan asked, anxiously. 
 
 " No, perhaps not. But I hate to be dis- 
 turbed when I am happy." 
 
 ^' I suppose we must have been disturbed 
 soon," Susan said, smiling. 
 
 " Why — what should disturb ns?" 
 
 " Should you be satisfied with a life as quiet 
 as the life we have been leading?" she looked 
 up, inquiringly, in his face. 
 
 " Do you doubt it, Susan?" 
 
 " A little." 
 
 "And do you like to doubt it?" he said, 
 turning, with some curiosity, to read her 
 countenance. 
 
 " / have been very happy, Julian, and wish
 
 168 ?RIJ)E AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 for no change, unless you should wish it. But 
 I sometimes doubt if you are suited to a quiet 
 life. If you were to feel this as I do, and to 
 wish for a life of greater action, I should not 
 regret it. I could be ambitious for your 
 sake." 
 
 " Don't be ambitious for me, Susan," he 
 said, in a melancholy tone, " for you would be 
 disappointed." He gave a momentary glance 
 into his heart, and reading the secret of its 
 defects, his brow clouded. He went on — " I 
 am sometimes ambitious, too. I think I will 
 do some great thing, or sometimes some good 
 thing ; and for a week, perhaps, it fills all my 
 mind, and then it is all gone again — it wearies 
 me. It is my nature, Susan; I never like 
 anything for a long time together." 
 
 A slight expression of pain passed over 
 Susan's countenance. Julian had been looking 
 at her affectionately, and he saw it. " I did 
 not mean that I loved only for a short time, 
 Susan. I was going to tell you that I think 
 a quiet life is the best for me. I have not 
 been restless since I knew you. I never was 
 so happy in ray life before, as I have been
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 169 
 
 since I came to Keevor. I think I have at 
 last found what I want — peace, and happiness, 
 and love, no great things, to excite me and 
 then make me wretched again ; but every day 
 your love, charming me like a new thing.'^ 
 He looked at her so fondly, smiling upon her 
 with his glorious eyes, that Susan's heart 
 bounded with joy. 
 
 " I will tell you how it is, Susan," he said, 
 gaily, in one moment the cloud of the morn- 
 ing, dispersing like an airy vapour — 
 
 " The bee througli many a garden roves, 
 And hums his lay of courtship o'er, 
 
 But when he finds the flower he loves. 
 He settles there and roves no more. 
 
 I have been from place to place, and pursuit 
 to pursuit, and from person to person, in 
 search of rest, but none were destined for me, 
 and so I was restless still. Now I have found 
 the flower I love, so let me settle down, and 
 rove no more. Don't talk of ambition — let us 
 be quietly happy at Keevor ; and now I know 
 you are in a hurry to go to your father, and 
 don't want to stay gossiping here with me, 
 so just get me a volume of Byron, and I will
 
 170 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 bask in this glorious sunshine. I never saw a 
 more unclouded sky even in Italy." 
 
 Susan left him, happy and hopeful, but I 
 do not know if the excitable mood of the 
 morning did not leave an unconscious weight 
 upon her heart. 
 
 There had been a little bustle at Keevor 
 during the last few days, in the preparations 
 that were making for Miss Vere's arrival, but 
 I had taken little interest in the subject; I 
 hardly know why, I felt a kind of grudge 
 against Miss Vere, though she was totally un- 
 known to me. I believe, like Julian, that I 
 had been very happy of late, and I did not 
 wish our happiness to be interrupted. This 
 morning, however, as I was going to my own 
 room, I had the curiosity to turn out of my 
 direct road, and going down a long passage, 
 to peep into the room which was preparing for 
 Miss Vere. 
 
 The house at Keevor was furnished in a 
 very old-fashioned, and, I must confess, in a 
 heavy and rather gloomy manner. Mrs. 
 Greville, who was scrupulously neat and 
 clean, had had all the old furniture, and the
 
 PRIDE AND IRKESOLUTION. 171 
 
 old damask hangings taken down, cleaned 
 and repaired; but, without exercising any 
 taste in the restoration, had replaced them 
 from whence they had been removed. ■ With 
 some rooms, the heavy, old furniture har- 
 monized well ; to others — for, as I have said, 
 the house was very irregularly built — a lighter 
 and more modern style would have been ap- 
 propriate, and I had rather wondered that 
 Susan, who had an eye for beauty, which her 
 mother never possessed, should not have en- 
 deavoured to improve her old home. 
 
 As I glanced in at the door of Miss Yere's 
 room, I could scarce trust my eyes that I saw 
 rightly, so wonderful was the transformation 
 that had taken place. I pushed open the 
 door, and went further in to examine. There 
 were two rooms, of moderate size, opening 
 into each other — a large square bed, with 
 damask curtains, having formerly filled the 
 one, and a large strangely-shaped wardrobe 
 the other. To my eyes they now appeared 
 like a paradise. The walls were papered with 
 a light sea-green paper, with a border of acorns 
 and dark oak-leaves ; the curtains of the room^
 
 172 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 and of the little French bed, were of the same 
 colour, with a covering of very thin muslin, 
 which gave, at least to my inexperienced fancy, 
 a great beauty and softness to the appearance 
 of the hangings. The furniture was, I believe, 
 of the same material. Green stands with 
 flowers were placed in the windows of the 
 fitting -room, and the bright south sun shone 
 in so temptingly, that I was betrayed into 
 feelings of most sinful envy when I thought 
 of the fair possessor of these apartments. 
 
 " You have made this very grand," I said 
 to Bessie — now Mrs. Lee — who was arranging 
 some mysterious folds of lace and muslin over 
 the looking-glass on the toilet table. 
 
 ^' I have had nothing to do with it, sir," 
 she replied; "it is all done by Miss Greville's 
 orders." 
 
 " I did not know that Miss Greville had 
 such good taste," I remarked. 
 
 " Few do understand Miss Greville, sir," 
 she said. But Bessie was not a talker, and 
 she went quietly on with her business, without 
 bestowing any attention upon me. 
 
 I turned with a sigh to leave the rooms,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 173' 
 
 which had strangely attracted my fancy, and 
 as I went, innocently observed to Bessie, — " I 
 think Miss Yere will be surprised to find that 
 she is come to a paradise at Keevor." 
 
 To which Bessie replied, with more philo- 
 sophy, "It is not a room, sir, that makes a 
 paradise; and we cannot expect that these 
 things should strike Miss Yere as they strike 
 us." 
 
 I could not but own the truth of her re- 
 mark; yet, as I returned to my own less 
 attractive, although, till that morning, much 
 beloved turret, I indulged in another sigh of 
 envy over the good fortune of Miss Yere, and 
 I believe, on this one single point, I was for- 
 tunate enough to excite a fellow-feeling in the 
 breast of Miss Janet Greville. 
 
 Towards six o'clock on that evening, Susan 
 and Julian were in the garden, awaiting the 
 arrival of Miss Yere. 
 
 They stood with Mr. Greville and his faith- 
 ful companion, Marshall, around a large bed 
 of roses. Mr. Greville was cutting off the
 
 174 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 shrivelled heads of the flowers, and sighing 
 and moaning over their rapid fading. 
 
 " It is always the way," he said ; " we have 
 hardly time to say, How fair is creation ! how 
 sweet the flowers! how fresh and gay these 
 beds of roses ! before one by one they fade and 
 die, and leave us to mourn their loss." 
 
 " As for the roses, they certainly are tee- 
 tottally gone," remarked Marshall; ''but the 
 pinks and geraniums are a-coming out re- 
 markable well." 
 
 " Yes, papa," said Susan, consolingly, " look 
 at that bed, — the garden will be as gay as 
 ever again." 
 
 " I don't know, Susan, — I am always sad 
 when the roses are gone. We never shall see 
 them again.'' 
 
 Julian gathered a beautiful rose, one of the 
 few remaining ones, and gave it to Susan, 
 saying, with a smile — 
 
 " The rose that decks the garden bower, 
 
 Although it be a lovely flower, 
 
 Is not the same that blest thine eyes 
 
 Wlien June last spread her laughing skies. 
 
 And ere another sun be set 
 
 Another parting must be met."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX. 175 
 
 " That is what you feel, is it not?" he said, 
 turning to Mr. Greville. " I agree with you, 
 — I wish these roses could last for ever." 
 
 " That is very pretty, Julian, — where did 
 you learn it ? 
 
 "Ere another sun be set, 
 Another parting must be met," 
 
 he repeated, fondly and childishly, as he hung 
 over his flowers. " But now, Marshall," he 
 continued, " we have done this part of the 
 garden, — we must be going on." 
 
 " I hope you will not go very far, papa," 
 Susan observed; "Florence must be here di- 
 rectly, and you know you will be sorry if you 
 are not ready to meet her." 
 
 " Yes, Susan, very true ; still I should not 
 be sorry to cut a few more roses this evening 
 — it makes me sad to see these faded flowers. 
 I shall not be far away, and you must call me ; 
 or I dare say you will hear the wheels, Mar- 
 shall, and you can tell me." 
 
 "I am rather hard of hearing," remarked 
 Marshall, honestly. 
 
 " Well, Susan will hear, and she must call
 
 176 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 me;" and he pottered away with his basket 
 and scissors, and Marshall after him. 
 
 "Oh, this Florence — this Florence! ex- 
 claimed Julian; " how I wish her in the depths 
 of the Red Sea." 
 
 Susan laughed. 
 
 " It is no laughing matter, Susan, I assure 
 you; I feel a positive antipathy to the girl. 
 I know I shall not be able to behave civilly." 
 
 " She is not a person for an antipathy, 
 Julian; there you are quite wrong. If you 
 don't like, you must admire. She is, I think, 
 almost perfectly beautiful." 
 
 " But, my dear Susan, don't you know that 
 I don't care about beauty — not that kind of 
 beauty. Xow I will tell you what this Florence 
 is like — I can see her exactly. She is like 
 that rose," and he pointed to the one which 
 Susan had fastened into her muslin gown, — 
 " beautiful, I allow, quite beautiful, but gaudy 
 and showy; every one that comes into the 
 garden must remark it, and say, * What a 
 beautiful rose !' all open, too, nothing more to 
 hope for — nothing more to unfold — nothing 
 more to interest. Now, Susan, am I not right? 
 Is not that rose like Florence?"
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 177 
 
 ^' So far like," said Susan, smiling, " that 
 you could not pass her by ; every one must 
 say- — ' What a beautiful flower !' But though 
 I know her very little, I am sure that her 
 character is very unlike your description. 
 She has always interested me^ and made me 
 wonder what she really thinks and feels." 
 
 *' It is no use contradicting yourself now, 
 Susan ; I knew I was right. She is a gaudy, 
 showy rose, and I like such things no more. 
 "What I like now is the violet — 
 
 * Its stalk is bent, 
 
 It hangs its head ; 
 
 It seems to hide from view, — 
 
 And yet it is a lovely flower." " 
 
 And he laid his hand on Susan's arm, and 
 looked in her face, till, as he loved to do, he 
 called the tints of the roses there. " Yes, 
 Susan, I don't like showy beauties any more. 
 I like the beauties which are hidden, which 
 one has to stoop to find. And when one has 
 stooped, one finds how numberless the flowers, 
 how beautiful the colours, how sweet the smell- 
 So," he added, smiling — 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 ' " Let me to tlie valley go 
 
 This pretty flower to see^ 
 That I may also learn to grow 
 
 In sweet humility.' 
 
 And now there are the wheels; and now, 
 Susan, I take myself off, and I will go and 
 give warning to your father." 
 
 " Susan! Susan! she is come!" cried Aunt 
 Janet, popping her head out of a window; 
 "such a load of boxes; you would think it 
 was the arrival of Madame Maradau her- 
 self!" 
 
 " Such a load of boxes" was still vibrating 
 in the air, when, before Susan could reach the 
 house, Miss Yere stepped hastily out of the 
 drawing-room window, and came forward to 
 meet her ; and before Susan could speak, she 
 had thrown her arms round her neck, and 
 burst into a passionate flood of tears. 
 
 '' My dear Florence," said Susan, gently — 
 but, surprised and anxious, attempted to lead 
 her back into the drawing-room, out of sight 
 of Mr. Greville, lunt Janet, and Marshall, 
 who were all approaching ; not to speak of the 
 eyes of a very curious housemaid, which were
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 179 
 
 positively darting out of a window above — 
 but Florence resisted. 
 
 *' Xever mind, Susan," she said, recovering 
 herself; "it is nothing — I had rather go 
 through with it at once." She dashed her 
 handkerchief over her eves, but tears again 
 fell fast as she went up to Mr. Greville, and 
 in grateful and forcible terms, though in a 
 faltering voice, thanked him for his kindness 
 in receiving her. 
 
 The poor man had unnumbered kind and 
 pretty speeches on his lips; but he was so 
 fluttered at her thanks, and so scared at her 
 tears, that he was unable to recover himself 
 sufficiently to say a word. Florence then 
 turned to Aunt Janet, and shook hands 
 with her, and then made a sign to Susan that 
 she was ready to go with her. 
 
 " To my own room, if you please, Susan," 
 she said, as they entered the drawing-room. 
 
 And when she reached her room, she flung 
 herself violently on the sofa, and burst into a 
 fresh fit of weeping. 
 
 Susan sat by her for a few moments in 
 silence, then fetched her a glass of water. 
 n2
 
 180 TRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 She tasted it, sighed, dried her eyes, jumped 
 up — then turning to Susan said, with a 
 laugh — " This is a pretty beginning, you ^vill 
 think, Susan; but it's over now. I am not 
 going to worry you any more with my sor- 
 rows. What a figure I have made of myself," 
 she said, standing before the looking-glass. 
 ^' I don't always look as ugly as this, I assure 
 you." 
 
 Susan smiled, but she really was astonished 
 at the strange and volatile manner of her 
 cousin, and supposing it to come from the 
 excitement of the moment, she left her to 
 rest and compose herself before dinner time. 
 Florence at first objected to the proposal of 
 being left alone; but at last owning to a bad 
 headach, agreed to lie down for a short time.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 181 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Who hath not felt how feebly words essay 
 To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray. 
 
 Bride of Abydos. 
 
 Human bodies are sic fools, 
 For all their colleges and schools, 
 That when nae real ills perplex them, 
 They make enow themselves to vex them, 
 An ay the less hae they to sturt them, 
 In like proportion less will hurt them. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Susan and Miss Yere came down together 
 at dinner-time. I was already in the draw- 
 ing-room. Miss Yere had been at Keevor in 
 her childhood; but since her mother's death 
 she had had little intercourse with the Gre- 
 ville family, and I saw her then for the first 
 time. 
 
 I had heard much of her beauty. I was
 
 182 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 prepared — not to love, but to wonder and ad- 
 mire; but all my anticipations fell short of 
 the reality. I almost started as my eyes fell 
 upon lier. Her figure was tall and slight, 
 but not too slight, and was both graceful and 
 dignified. There was something of pride in 
 the way in which the small head was placed 
 upon her neck, but it became her. Her hair 
 was very dark, but her complexion, though 
 pale, was dazzlingly white. I do not know 
 that the outline of her features was strictly 
 regular, but they had every beauty, except 
 perfect regularity ; and her eyes, at once deep 
 set and brilliant, at once sparkling and me- 
 lancholy, were in themselves sufficient to en- 
 title her to the claim of surpassing loveliness. 
 She was in mourning, but not in such deep 
 mourning as I should have expected to see 
 after the loss of so near a relative, and so true 
 a friend. Black lace was thrown over her 
 shoulders, and falls of the same were be- 
 comingly twisted in her hair, and floating 
 mingled with her curls upon her shoulders. 
 Fatigue, and perhaps feeling, had on this 
 night given a softness to her countenance
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 183 
 
 which it sometimes wanted; and I never saw 
 her look equally beautiful, except on one occa- 
 sion, and then her beauty was in a different style. 
 
 Julian came down, according to his custom, 
 late. As he crossed the room, Susan called 
 him, and introduced him to Miss Yere. My- 
 self perhaps a foolish admirer of beauty, I 
 watched with uncontrollable anxiety the effect 
 which her appearance would have upon him; 
 but he merely paused for an instant, bowed 
 without raising his eyes, and retreated to a 
 dis,tant window, where he stood looking out 
 into the garden. Aunt Janet joined him. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Julian, what do you say to our 
 beauty?" 
 
 '' I haven't seen her," he said, shortly and 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Haven't seen her ! Stuff! Why, you have 
 just been speaking to her." 
 
 " I have not seen her," he persisted. 
 
 " Well, if you really have not seen her, just 
 turn your head round, and you will see her 
 now." 
 
 "Thank you, I can wait. I have no 
 curiosity," and he began indifferently to pull 
 a flower to pieces.
 
 184 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 ^' I tell you what, Mr. Julian, she's worth 
 looking at. I don't care for beauty myself — 
 I think it all stuff; but for those who do — 
 and I suppose you, with your nonsense about 
 pretty schoolmistresses, are one — she's what I 
 call a regular fine woman." 
 
 " I hate fine women," he said, with an ex- 
 pression of disgust. 
 
 " Out of sorts, I see, Mr. Julian. Well, I 
 won't trouble you — every man has a right to 
 be out of temper, if he pleases. — Mr. Julian 
 is a little out of sorts," she proclaimed as she 
 left the window, but dinner was announced at 
 the same moment, and her observation fell to 
 the ground. 
 
 The evening passed heavily away, as evenings 
 will do where the person who has accustomed 
 himself to be chiefly considered, chooses to be 
 out of humour. I had no idea that Julian 
 could make himself so disagreeable, and I 
 should have been amused at his childishness, 
 if the view which it gave me of the folly and 
 selfishness of his disposition had not been 
 rather painful than amusing. 
 
 Susan, as was natural under the melancholy
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 185 
 
 circumstances which brought her cousin, so 
 lately courted and admired, a desolate orphan 
 to her father's house, devoted herself to make 
 her feel welcome, and at her ease ; and whether 
 Julian, accustomed — too much accustomed — to 
 be the first object of her care, felt, or chose 
 to fiincy, himself aggrieved ; or whether, really 
 shy and sensitive as he was, the disturbance 
 of his perfect ease and comfort made him 
 really uncomfortable, I do not know. I be- 
 lieve the latter was partly the case ; but what- 
 ever the cause might be, he acted like a 
 naughty child, and as unlike a reasonable 
 being as could well be imagined. 
 
 When he came into the drawing-room, 
 Susan invited him, with a smile, half inviting, 
 half imploring, to come and assist her in en- 
 tertaining Miss Yere — no easy task; for, 
 accustomed to amusement and attention. Miss 
 Vere required much to excite her. But with 
 a wilful shake of his head, he threw himself 
 into an arm-chair, near enough to listen, too 
 far off to partake in the conversation. His 
 under lip was pouting, his hair in disorder, as 
 it usually was, from his restless movements,
 
 IM PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 when, as Aunt Janet said, he was " out of 
 sorts." There he remained for the evening. 
 Though he usually took little interest in the 
 newspapers, he read several from beginning 
 to end, rustling as he read. When this was 
 done, he turned over a book of prints, upside 
 down, for nearly half an hour. When this, too, 
 was finished, there being no other occupation 
 within his reach, he lay back in his chair, 
 tapping the elbow with a paper cutter. 
 
 " You had better order a chaise to be pre- 
 pared to convey me to. the nearest lunatic 
 asylum, Mr. Julian," Aunt Janet cried, at 
 last, (the only one who dared to speak,) her 
 imperturbable nerves overcome by the fidget- 
 ing nature of his amusement. 
 
 At this he laughed and desisted, and ob- 
 serving that his brow cleared, I expected a 
 change of conduct; but after a moment's 
 thought, he got up and fetched another book 
 of prints, to which he devoted himself for tlie 
 rest of the evening. 
 
 Half-past ten came, at length, to relieve us 
 all, and Susan left the room with her father 
 and Miss Vere. As she passed Aunt Janet,
 
 PKIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 187 
 
 she made her a whispered entreaty to remain 
 in the drawing-room for a short time longer. 
 
 After an absence of about ten minutes, she 
 returned, and rather timidly approached the 
 chair where Julian was still sitting. But he 
 was ashamed, I think, of his ill-humour, for 
 he got up, lit her candle, and followed her to 
 the door. 
 
 " I hope you have had a pleasant evening?'^ 
 he inquired. 
 
 "Do you think I have?" she said, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Indeed, you and Miss Yere appeared to 
 be enjoying yourselves uncommonly," he said, 
 drily. 
 
 *' Oh, Julian ! you must not be so uncivil 
 again." 
 
 " Must^ Susan !" with a slight accent of 
 displeasure. " I really don't see that I am 
 bound to love everybody that sets their foot 
 in this house. I dislike Miss Vere, — I told 
 you I should ; I have no wish to cultivate her 
 acquaintance." 
 
 Susan shook her head, half gravely, half 
 playfully, but she would not stay to argue
 
 188 PEIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 with him. She held out her hand, and wished 
 him good night. 
 
 He took it affectionately : then, with one of 
 his rapid changes of manner, said, in his 
 tenderest and most loving tone — " Can you 
 wonder, Susan, that I dislike her, when she 
 deprives me of you ? This is the first evening 
 when, as I wished you good-night, I have 
 not blessed the day which first brought me to 
 Keevor." 
 
 And what remembrance of a selfish or un- 
 amiable disposition did Susan carry with her 
 to her rest! Thus, day by day, with his 
 varying frowns and smiles, he wound himself 
 more closely round her heart. 
 
 With many people, an ebullition of temper 
 is as a clap of thunder, — it clears the air. I 
 do not say the cure is a proper one, but it 
 often is a cure. With Julian it was otherwise : 
 once disturbed, his mind lost its balance, and 
 it was difiicult for him to regain it again. 
 Cowper's lines were especially applicable to 
 him — 
 
 " Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 
 Each yielding harmony disposed aright; 
 The screws reversed .... 
 A thousand thousand strinos at once sfo loose."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 189 
 
 The ill-liumour which had been, partly at 
 •least, wilful the preceding evening, had 
 changed to settled gloom on the following 
 morning. 
 
 When breakfast was over, Susan having 
 attended to her father, read to him, as she 
 usually did, and arranged the routine of his 
 occupations for the day, went to the drawing- 
 room in search of Florence, and, with a hope 
 of being joined there, as was his custom, by 
 Julian. 
 
 Miss Vere was alone, and was sitting listless 
 
 and idle at the window. She jumped up as 
 
 Susan entered, with an expression of weariness. 
 
 "What a time you have been, Susan; I 
 
 thought you would never come." 
 
 " Have you been waiting for me all this 
 while ? I am very sorry, but I could not come 
 before." 
 
 " Oh, well, you are come to stay now — that's 
 something," as Susan took out her work, and 
 sat down in the window. '' I have been gaz- 
 ing out upon the beauties of Keevor ; it is a 
 pretty place, but, my dear Susan, it is dread- 
 fully dull. I have seen a gardener, and a
 
 190 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 sparrow, and a butterfly, and that is all that 
 I have seen during this long hour that I have 
 been waiting for you. How do you amuse 
 yourself here ?" 
 
 " I have not much difficulty," said Susan, 
 smiling; "but I can quite understand how 
 dull it must seem to you. I wish I was better 
 able to amuse you." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Susan; I dare say in time 
 I shall do very well. If you can bear it, I 
 suppose I can." She sat down in the window 
 again, and leant her head upon her hands — 
 her long eyelashes resting upon her cheek — 
 her dark curls blown slightly back from her 
 face. Susan paused in her work to watch her 
 — her attitude was so beautiful, her whole 
 appearance so graceful, so interesting. 
 
 Florence looked up — '- What were you look- 
 ing at, Susan?" 
 
 Susan smiled, and shook her head, and took 
 up her needle again. 
 
 " I know you were thinking about me ; what 
 was it, Susan? — I will know." 
 
 " I think you know without my telling you, 
 Florence."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 191 
 
 " I suppose you were admiring me, then. 
 Well, Susan, you need not be afraid to tell me 
 so ; I shan't be puffed up by admiration now. 
 I don't think I have much reason to be puffed 
 up about anything — 
 
 ^ Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen ! 
 Fallen from my high estate.' " 
 
 And again she leant her head upon her hands, 
 and a tear fell from her long lashes. 
 
 *' My dear Florence," said Susan, gently,. 
 *' I am sure you are very unhappy." 
 
 ^' Sometimes very, sometimes not." She 
 paused for a moment, then looked up quickly. 
 "I am not unhappy about my aunt; I can't 
 allow you to think me so amiable as that. I 
 was very much shocked at her death, of course, 
 and very grateful to her for all her kindness ; 
 but I did not love her, Susan — not the least. 
 She was not a sort of person one could, at 
 least that / could love — shallow, heartless. 
 Oh, no ! if I am unhappy, it is about myself." 
 
 '' And what is it that makes you most un- 
 happy?" 
 
 *' Myself, Susan, my future prospects — a
 
 192 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 homeless dependent orphan — wearied with 
 myself and with everything in the world, 
 caring for nobody and nobody caring for me ; 
 that is not a very pleasant state of things, 
 you will allow." She paused again — then, 
 interrupting Susan before she could speak, she 
 jumped up and said, gaily, " but this is a 
 very dolorous conversation, Susan, and not 
 very likely to enliven my dejected spirits — let 
 us talk of something else." 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed Aunt Janet, putting her 
 head in at the door; '' so Mr. Julian is not 
 here." 
 
 ^' No," Susan said. " Do you want him?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, no — I only supposed that, of 
 course^ I should find him here, as usual. Can 
 I do anything for you, Susan? I am going 
 to take a walk before the heat of the day 
 comes on — good-bye — that's all;" and she 
 closed the door. 
 
 Florence looked at Susan, but said nothing. 
 She saw Julian's avoidance, but was too proud 
 "to notice it. She walked in silence to the 
 pianoforte. 
 
 *' You have got a quantity of music, Susan. 
 I thought you said you did not sing."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 193 
 
 "It is Julianas music," she replied. 
 
 " Oh! Mr. Julian Greville sings, does he?^' 
 She said no more, but turned restlessly over 
 the songs. 
 
 " I wish you would sing, Florence. I re- 
 member four years ago coming in for, the end 
 of a song, in Brook-street, and you would not 
 begin again ; you said ' another day,' which 
 never came." 
 
 " Yes, I remember. I did not think you 
 worth singing to, that was the fact, Susan; 
 and you must forgive me, as I was proud of 
 my singing then, and you were only fourteen — 
 and a cousin. You shall hear as much as you 
 please now." She opened the pianoforte, and 
 her fingers ran along the keys with the touch 
 of a master. " I am not in my best voice — 
 a little hoarse — a cold, of course," looking 
 back and laughing. " Really, Susan, not in 
 good voice, for I have not sung a note for 
 above a month. I am obliged to mention the 
 fact, because, as singing is my only accom- 
 plishment, I must have my due share of ad- 
 miration for it. Now, I think I can guess 
 what your style of music will be." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 She played two or three expressive chords, 
 and began at once a slow, solemn movement 
 from a Mass, by Naumann — '^ Agnus Dei." 
 Susan paused in her work to listen; every 
 note of the wonderful music thrilling her heart 
 with an almost painful ecstasy. Florence's 
 voice was a contralto, full, deep, and clear; 
 but, for its unutterable softness, too powerful 
 perhaps for a room ; but every note, as it 
 swelled high and full, was caught and tamed 
 by the perfection of her art, and died away 
 with the softness of a whisper. 
 
 She sang to the end of the slow move- 
 ment, solemnly, expressively, reverently ; 
 but the last note of the voice, the last 
 chord of the music was still vibrating on the 
 air, when she struck at once into a light and 
 lively serenade, — a pretty, but common Italian 
 love-song. 
 
 " Well, Susan," she cried, jumping up as 
 she quickly finished her performance, " how 
 do you like my singing?" 
 
 Susan had returned to her work ; she looked 
 up with a slight smile and a slight shake of
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 195 
 
 her head. " I might have thought you were 
 a second St. Cecilia, Florence, if you had 
 not so quickly drawn me with you to earth 
 again." 
 
 " My dear Susan, how very precise you 
 are. I assure you there was no harm in my 
 little song. Do you disapprove of those pretty 
 words — ' t'amo, t'amo?' You, of all people, 
 ought to have patience with them." 
 
 " It was not of them I disapproved," Susan 
 said, smiling; "you know very well what I 
 meant." 
 
 "You meant something very solemn and 
 precise, that I am sure of. But do you like 
 love songs? — I don't suppose you do." 
 
 " I think I like them better than all others," 
 Susan said, with a slight blush; "but I only 
 judge from Julian's singing; I have heard 
 very few. Will you sing me one ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I shan't be as successful as Mr. 
 Julian Greville," Florence said, drily; "but I 
 will sing you a great favourite of mine — a 
 regular, true, love song, and tell me how you 
 like it." 
 
 o2
 
 196 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 She sat down again, and sang — 
 
 " Oh ! when it is too late, thou wilt regret me, 
 In vain thou'lt strive to hate and to forget me, 
 Thy love for me in vain thou'lt strive to smother, 
 And ne'er again wilt thou so love another. 
 
 Oh ! when it is too late, and I am forsaken, 
 
 Affection once so great will reawaken, 
 
 And then wilt thou renounce the spells that bound 
 
 thee. 
 And sigh for those that once so fondly loved thee. 
 
 But when it is too late." 
 
 The air to which these words have been set 
 is very simple, but it has always seemed to 
 me inexpressibly beautiful and touching. Both 
 the singer and the listener seemed to feel it so. 
 A strange sadness stole over Susan's mind — a 
 dark shadow, boding presentiments, flitted 
 before her eyes, and she said not a word of 
 praise, or approbation. 
 
 Florence jumped up, and cried lightly — 
 *' Well, Susan, how do you like my love ditty ?'^ 
 but when Susan raised her eyes, the eyes of 
 her companion were streaming with tears. 
 
 " Don't look so scared, Susan — it is nothing," 
 she said, laughing; "the song is a favourite,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 197 
 
 as I told you, but it always harrows up my 
 soul to sing it." She came and sat down at 
 the table on which Susan's work-frame rested, 
 and leaning her head on both her hands, con- 
 tinued — " You must not think that there were 
 any personal allusions in my song — I have 
 vague feelings that I shall be very much in 
 love some day, but I never have felt it yet. 
 When I do, I am sure I shall be very unhappy, 
 and so these melancholy love songs please me — 
 that is all." She turned over two or three 
 books that lay on the table, then again looking 
 full at Susan, went on — " It is rather curious, 
 don't you think so, Susan, that I should never 
 have been in love, and here I am nearly 
 twenty?" 
 
 "Well, Florence, I really don't know," 
 Susan replied, after a little thought; "is it 
 very curious?" 
 
 " There's hardly a girl in London of my 
 age that can say the same — that is, of my 
 standing, for I have been out four years; I 
 came out at sixteen, because I would. I could 
 tell you such melancholy tales that have been 
 confided to me, btPt I am afraid they would
 
 198 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 not interest you, and so I will reserve them 
 for better listeners.'^ 
 
 " And how comes it then, Florence, that you 
 are such a wonderful exception?" asked Susan, 
 smilingly. 
 
 " Because I am fastidious, Susan— not for 
 want oi opportunities^ as people call them. It 
 is a sad thing, and I wish it was not so, for I 
 should be much happier if I was married ; but 
 somehow nobody pleases me. I always find 
 fault ; if people are clever, they are either dry 
 or precise, or too ugly to look at ; and if they 
 are handsome, they are stupid or vulgar ; or 
 if they are both handsome and clever, they are 
 conceited, and think too much of themselves ; 
 or, if there really is no fault to find, and I 
 must allow them to be agreeable, still there is 
 a want of enthusiasm, or something or other, 
 which keeps me from really liking them ; and 
 so here I am, after having seen more of the 
 world than most girls, and after having heard 
 no end of pretty speeches, as I told you before, 
 in the sad predicament of the miller, ' caring 
 for nobody, no, not I, and nobody caring for 
 me.' " She spoke lightly, but an expression 
 of deep sadness stole over her features.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 199 
 
 "It is to come, Florence," said Susan, 
 kindly. 
 
 "Which, Susan — love or marriage? They 
 won't go together with me." She got up and 
 stood listlessly before the long looking-glass, 
 twining her dark curls in her fingers. " I 
 know," she continued, " how it will be, as well 
 as if my life was written down in that book. 
 I shall end by marrying a poor, good, dull, 
 respectable man, whom I have already refused 
 twice; who really does care for me, I believe, 
 poor soul, though I can't say that I return 
 his feelings in the smallest degree. That will 
 be the end, and, perhaps, the best end after 
 all. Love is nothing but a burden, I dare 
 say." 
 
 " You speak only to shock me, I am sure, 
 Florence," Susan said, gravely. With a slight 
 smile, she added, " But I don't wish you to 
 suppose that I am shocked whenever you at- 
 tempt to shock me. I am much more sorry 
 to hear you speak in this way — sorry for your 
 sake." 
 
 " I don't speak to shock you, Susan, I assure 
 you; I speak just as I feel. But now let us
 
 200 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 have done. How fine it looks out there ! Can't 
 we take a walk before luncheon? — do come, 
 Susan." 
 
 " I will come in half an hour, if you can 
 wait till then." 
 
 "Half an hour! Why not now? I am 
 not at all in a waiting mood to-day." 
 
 " I am very sorry, Florence, but it must be 
 half an hour." 
 
 " Oh, well ! must is for the king, as they 
 tell children, and you are king here, so I must 
 obey ; but pray give me a novel, or something 
 to pass the time away, for I am not at all fond 
 of my own company." 
 
 " Here are a good many novels," said Susan, 
 approaching a bookcase. 
 
 "Walter Scott's! My dear Susan, that 
 won't do. You might as well set me down to 
 history at once." 
 
 " And would that be a very dreadful punish- 
 ment?" she inquired, smiling. 
 
 "Not always, but now it would. I read 
 history in the winter, when I am sober — never 
 in the summer. I dare say you think I have 
 enough to make me sober now ; but you know
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 201 
 
 there is melancholy as well as lively madness ; 
 and though I am sad enough, I am in no mood 
 for sober studies. No; pray give me some- 
 thing heart-rending, to raise my spirits a 
 little." 
 
 Susan directed her attention to a table on 
 which some books belonging to Julian were 
 lying, and then left her. From one strange, 
 excitable, restless being, she was going to 
 another, but the faults so clearly seen in one 
 case were somewhat hidden in the other — and 
 not only hidden to the eyes of Susan . . . 
 There was a . softness and a charm about 
 Julian, even in his selfishness and petulance, 
 which Miss Vere often wanted; and, in fact, 
 though in many ways alike, Julian's was the 
 weaker but the better nature too. 
 
 She knocked softly at the door of the library 
 where Julian sat, and entered the room with 
 some timidity. She was not in the habit of 
 going in search of him. He was sitting at 
 the library-table, with a pen in his hand, and, 
 spread around the open blotting-book, were 
 innumerable shreds of paper. 
 
 He looked up as Susan approached, and
 
 202 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 leaned back in his chair. " So, you are come 
 at last, Susan. I thought you had quite for- 
 saken me." 
 
 " I hoped you would have come to us," she 
 replied, gently. 
 
 " Not to us. Once for all, understand me, 
 Susan, I don't like Miss Vere — I don't like 
 her manners, I don't admire her beauty — I 
 don't like anything about her." 
 
 " Then am I never to see you, Julian, be- 
 cause Florence is here?" 
 
 " That must be as you please, Susan. I 
 can't dictate to you. If you prefer Miss 
 Vere's company to mine, I suppose that will 
 be the consequence." 
 
 " But, dear Julian, only consider. Do you 
 think it would be right or kind for me to 
 neglect Florence. She is not happy. Don't 
 you feel, that at any rate, just at first, I ought 
 to try and make her feel at home at Keevor?" 
 
 " I don't doubt that you are right, Susan; 
 I dare say you are. I only speak of what 
 the consequences must be." 
 
 She said no more, but leant over the table 
 and examined the pieces of paper that were
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 203 
 
 lying about it. They were scraps, fragments 
 of poetry, all unfinished, began, and thrown 
 aside again. 
 
 " Are these yours, Julian ?" she asked, as 
 her eye glanced from one to the other. '' I 
 ought not to be sorry that you have passed 
 the morning alone, if these are the fruits 
 of your solitude." 
 
 " Don't be glad," he replied, mournfully. 
 "I hardly ever write when I am happy." 
 
 And the fragments bore the traces of a dis- 
 satisfied mind — all were melancholy — all 
 alluding more or less to the sadness of life. 
 
 One piece was lying before him still wet. 
 It was the only finished one, and was in a 
 slightly difierent tone to the others. Susan 
 took it up and read it. It was entitled : 
 
 TO SUMMER. 
 
 Sweet Summer, stay — be not so swift of wing, 
 Stay yet awhile to glad us with thy shining, 
 
 Scarce have we owned thy perfect blossoming, 
 And wilt thou haste so swift to thy declining 1 
 
 Oh, stay awhile. 
 To gild the clouded earth with thy sweet smile.
 
 204 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Stay, with the glory of thy sunny sky, 
 
 The yet more marvellous glory of thy night, 
 
 Far as the eye can pierce or fancy fly, 
 
 The deep blue vault unclouded, starred with light. 
 
 Beam on us still, 
 What sight like thine our earth-bound eyes can fill ! 
 
 Stay, with thy breath so soft and calmly sweet, 
 The morning's freshness and the dewy even. 
 
 Bearing upon its lightly-sandal'd feet 
 
 Ten thousand odours from the fresh fields given. 
 
 Oh, stay, yet stay, 
 To bless the glad, and drive dark dreams away. 
 
 Stay, with thy flowery garland rich and bright. 
 Studding like gems the deep wood's foliage green. 
 
 The varying rose hues, and the lilies light. 
 The wild-eyed scarlet, and the blue serene. 
 
 We bid thee stay. 
 Our hearts refuse to let them fade away. 
 
 By pastures green as thine, waters as clear. 
 We would for ever walk, but may not now, 
 
 Sweet Summer, though thy days have been so fair. 
 Their radiant course must cease, has ceased to flow. 
 
 And Autumn's breath 
 Bears thy bright garlands to a lasting death. 
 
 With deep desire we drink thy beauty in. 
 
 Another Summer bright as thine might come. 
 
 And glad our eyes, and our hearts' blessing win. 
 But thou wilt pass to thine eternal tomb, 
 
 And sadly swell 
 Our hearts to bid their first and last farewell.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 20^ 
 
 She laid it down, and looked at him. 
 
 "Was it this summer that you meant, 
 Julian," she inquired. 
 
 "Yes; I grieve to see it go. I never,, 
 Susan, never shall be as happy as I have 
 been again." 
 
 She felt it too : the same presentiment was 
 upon her mind, and she could not argue with 
 his fears; but she stooped towards him, and 
 said, in her soft, sweet voice, — 
 
 " It may be so, Julian ; the future is not 
 in our power, but the present is — why will 
 you not try and enjoy the present, which is 
 given us to enjoy." He looked up, touched by 
 her earnest, pleading gaze. She went on: 
 " I have promised Florence to walk with her 
 this morning — dear Julian, will you conquer 
 your dislike, and come with us? I think it 
 would make you happier yourself; but if not, 
 will you do it to please me?" 
 
 He did conquer himself so far as to go 
 with them, but not sufficiently so as to throw 
 off his ill-humour. It could, perhaps, scarcely 
 be expected. Few victories are so difficult 
 to gain as the thorough victory over a fit of
 
 206 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 temper ; the very act of trying to overcome it 
 makes its bondage to be felt the more. They 
 walked in silence. Julian was sullen; Flo- 
 rence, with more excuse, was haughty. She 
 .was accustomed to be the first; accustomed to 
 attention, admiration, and flattery. Perhaps 
 Julian's decided aversion was less unpleasing 
 to her than total indifference would have 
 been ; but it certainly was galling, and she 
 responded to it with the coldness and pride of 
 pique.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Hark ! how it floats upon tlie de\vy air, 
 O, what a dying, dying close was there ! 
 'Tis harmony from yon sequestered bower, 
 Sweet harmony that soothes the midnight hour. 
 Long ere the charioteer of day had run 
 His morning course the enchantment was beg-uu ; 
 And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, 
 Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain. 
 
 COWPEK. 
 
 Julian's ill-humour continued for tln^ee 
 days and two nights. I was thoroughly weary 
 of zY, and out of patience with Idni, Aunt 
 Janet, too, after at first enjoying it, began 
 to miss the good-temper with which he 
 had formerly received her observations and 
 courted her conversation ; and she became, in 
 consequence, considerably more snappish and 
 unpleasant in her remarks, especially to poor
 
 208 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Susan. The only one whose patience never 
 failed, was hers who was most severely tried ; 
 whose days were passed in attempts to ad- 
 just the rights and claims of the two who 
 seemed to hang upon her for their happiness, 
 and yet who perversely refused to assist her 
 in her endeavours to make them happy. But 
 Susan^s patience was founded on higher prin- 
 ciples than kindness to Florence or love to 
 Julian; for hers was the charity that '' suf- 
 fereth long and is kind, that seeketh not her 
 own, is not easily provoked, and therefore 
 never faileth." 
 
 This state of things was at last ended by 
 Miss Vere herself 
 
 On the third evening we were all sitting 
 together, this same incompatibility of society 
 weighing on our spirits, when Florence sud- 
 denly rose and walked to the pianoforte. She 
 had hitherto resolutely refused to sing in 
 Julianas presence, and Susan looked up and 
 smiled her gratitude at this change of 
 temper and relaxation of her obstinacy. 
 
 Miss Vere opened the pianoforte, looked 
 over her music, placed a song upon the desk,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 209 
 
 then, with perfect gravity, walked across the 
 room and stood by Julian's chair. He was 
 indolently occupied in destroying sheet after 
 sheet of letter-paper, by portraying a series 
 of ferocious-looking Turks in turbans, and 
 with fuming pipes in their mouths, — all bear- 
 ing a striking resemblance to himself. I don't 
 know what the particular charm of a Turk's 
 head may be, but I have often observed that 
 it is a satisfactory vent for ill-humour. 
 
 '^ Mr. Julian Greville," said Miss Vere, 
 coldly, and without moving a muscle of her 
 countenance, " I am going to sing, and I in- 
 vite you to sing with me. I am not in the 
 habit of being refused." 
 
 Julian looked up, stared, laughed, and fol- 
 lowed her without a word, to the pianoforte. 
 In the same way, he would, I believe, have 
 followed to the world's end, — her or any other 
 person who commanded him to follow them. 
 I often regretted that, from Susan's love and 
 her natural gentleness of manner, her requests 
 were so seldom enforced with the weight of 
 a comm.and. 
 
 Miss Vere sat down and began at once, 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 silently pointing out to Julian the line from 
 whence she started, and the line at which 
 she wished to make an end. 
 
 They began — and still in the lonely day, 
 and in the silence of night the wonderful 
 harmony of their united voices falls upon my 
 memory soft, rich, and melodious as it first 
 greeted my astonished, entranced, enraptured 
 ear. They were both finished masters of the 
 art of singing — all that teaching can do, and 
 it can do much, had been done for them; and 
 in addition they had the melody of voice, and 
 the depth of feeling which teaching alone can 
 never give. The peculiarity of their voices 
 added to the beauty of the music. Florence's, 
 as I before mentioned, was a contralto — 
 Julian's was a tenor ; each voice, as it has been 
 prettily said, borrowing its beauty from the 
 other, and the union of the two made such a 
 concord of sweet sounds as words are too poor 
 to describe. 
 
 I was so carried away by my delight, that 
 it was not until the clamorous ending with 
 which, as it appears to me, the Italian com- 
 posers ruin too many of their most beautiful
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION, 211 
 
 pieces, that I turned to observe the effect of 
 the music upon Susan. I almost dreaded to 
 read upon her brow the symptoms of annoy- 
 ance, if not of jealousy. But far was Susan 
 from such earthborn thoughts ! She was sit- 
 ting, as I had done, rapt, entranced, her earnest 
 eyes resting upon the singers, her heart beat- 
 ing with the strange emotions and aspirations 
 which the unequalled beauty of the sounds 
 excited. 
 
 The voices ceased — with a slight sigh of 
 pleasure, (after all, a sigh is the expression of 
 intensity of enjoyment,) she turned to Aunt 
 Janet, who sat knitting beside her. 
 
 "This is music, is it not, Aunt Janet?" 
 Aunt Janet was one of those who have no 
 music in their souls. Shakspeare would have 
 had but a poor opinion of her, for although he 
 says — 
 
 " There's nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 
 But music for the time doth change his nature;" 
 
 he would have been at fault as far as she was 
 
 concerned. She sat prim and demure during 
 
 the song; dropping her stitches, picking them 
 
 p2
 
 212 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Tip again, audibly counting, and soliloquizing 
 at every blunder she made, and to Susan's re- 
 mark, she merely replied, drily — 
 
 *' Very sweet, indeed, my dear Susan. You 
 had better take care, or she will sing his 
 heart away." 
 
 I started at her expression of a thought 
 which had passed, almost too swiftly to be ob- 
 served, through my own mind. But by Susan 
 it was unnoticed, or at least it seemed to be 
 unnoticed. No shadow crossed her brow, and 
 a moment afterwards she went to attend to 
 her father while he made his evening's mess 
 with tea and cake, without a single glance to- 
 wards the pianoforte. 
 
 Susan had scarcely left her place before 
 Florence returned to it, sat down, and taking 
 up Susan's work put in a few stitches, and 
 then unpicked them again. 
 
 A discussion had, I suppose, commenced at 
 the pianoforte ; I only heard the conclusion. 
 Julian approached her, and drew a chair to 
 the opposite side of the table. 
 
 " One more, Miss Vere — I only ask for one 
 more?"
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 213 
 
 '^ No thank you," she replied, coldly, " I 
 don't mean to sing any more to-night." 
 
 " Why so capricious ?" he said, with a 
 smile, but with some annoyance. 
 
 " I might ask you the same question," she 
 said, quietly; and turning to Aunt Janet, 
 began laughingly to inquire how many stitches 
 she had dropt that evening. 
 
 Julian pushed back his chair, and returning 
 to his own seat, commenced a fresh portrai- 
 ture of a Turk's head, with a most appalling 
 expression of countenance, on a sheet of fool- 
 scap; but Susan approached him, laughed 
 at his heads, and talked of the music, and 
 the sheet was turned over, and the evening 
 finished with a pretty sketch of an angel and 
 a child. 
 
 Miss Vere's reluctance to sing again was 
 overcome on the following morning. She had 
 felt a simple, and perhaps not unnatural, de- 
 sire to punish Julian ; and having made him 
 feel her displeasure, and exercised a little 
 power, she was not disposed to carry her re- 
 sentment any further. They began to sing an 
 hour or two after breakfast; and for three
 
 214 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 successive days the sound of their united voices 
 might be heard, never ending, still begin- 
 ning. I will hurry on to the end of the three 
 days. 
 
 Susan was summoned from the drawing- 
 room, where she sat listening and unnoticed, 
 to give her opinion on some important point 
 which was under discussion between her father 
 and Marshall. She must have been uneasy 
 enough in heart, not from jealous feelings for 
 herself, but from anxious ones for Julian ; but 
 she gave to her father her usual earnest and 
 undivided attention. They had been the rounds 
 of the garden, and she was standing by the 
 side of a large flower-bed, when Aunt Janet 
 approached her, and beckoned her away. 
 
 Susan quietly followed to a little distance. 
 " I tell you what, Susan," said Aunt Janet ; 
 "you are a fool. Allow this singing to go 
 on for another day, and I give you warning, 
 that young lady will sing Julian's heart 
 away." 
 
 A faint blush passed over Susan's face, but 
 she replied steadily, " I know you mean 
 kindly, Aunt Janet; but I cannot allow such
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 215 
 
 things to be said to me;" and she turned 
 away and retraced her steps to the flower-bed. 
 
 " A wilful woman must have her way," 
 cried Aunt Janet, loudly ; " but remember I 
 have done my duty — don't say that I gave 
 you no warning." 
 
 While she spoke, Julian darted from the 
 window of the drawing-room, and approached 
 the flower-bed, where the group were standing. 
 His brows were contracted — his countenance 
 dark and troubled. 
 
 " Marshall was right, Susan," Mr. Greville 
 was saying; "we have lost our roses; but 
 see how bright the geraniums are. Our 
 garden is as sweet and gay as ever it was." 
 
 " Not to me," Julian said, in a gloomy voice. 
 " I regret the roses still." 
 
 It was the weariness of over-indulgence 
 which was oppressing him. That which to 
 him should have been but a passing amuse- 
 ment, he had allowed to occupy his time, to 
 fill his mind, to intrench upon his most sacred 
 duty; and for the time, the excitement of 
 novelty was passed, and remorse and weari- 
 ness were stealing over and oppressing his 
 mind.
 
 216 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 " Will you walk with me to-night, Julian,'^ 
 Susan asked, in her gentle voice. He was 
 come to her to allay the fever of his mind ; she 
 felt it, and responded at once to the unspoken 
 call. 
 
 He gratefully accepted the offer, and they 
 set off together across the meadows that lay 
 before the house. 
 
 When they returned from their walk, Julian 
 was himself again — his eye was bright, his 
 brow serene, his countenance full of light and 
 life — he was loving to Susan, attentive to Mr. 
 Greville, kind and playful to Aunt Janet — he 
 was once again the Julian whose first arrival 
 at Keevor had gladdened all our hearts ; and 
 as I watched him, the weight which had been 
 hanging over my mind for the last week was 
 removed. I saw that it must be a hard and a 
 toilsome task to bring that restless nature to 
 strength and principle; but if she did not 
 faint under the burden, I felt that Susan 
 would conquer at last. Her influence was 
 powerful still— her sweet voice strong to con- 
 trol and soothe his harshest mood. 
 
 But the fault of moral weakness, and weak-
 
 PKIDE AND IRRESOLDTION. 217 
 
 ness of character and principle in general is, 
 that it is always in extremes. Total absti- 
 nence is the only strength of a weak mind, as 
 moderation is the virtue of a strong one ; and 
 the former being often too violent a remedy 
 for the occasion, is apt to be as dangerous as 
 the other extreme, excess. 
 
 I suppose none but singers and passionate 
 lovers of their art can tell how great is the 
 fascination that lies in the perfect union of 
 two voices. Julian had certainly felt its fas- 
 cination ; but in his fit of remorse acknowledg- 
 ing that there w'as danger in the indulgence of 
 his taste, he, full of good intentions, had re- 
 solved to indulge himself no more ; and as at 
 this time Miss Yere's sole attraction to him 
 was in her voice, (for though she amused hi& 
 excitable mind, she in many ways offended his 
 refined and fastidious taste,) the consequence 
 of his resolution was total neglect. 
 
 Determinations made solely from excite- 
 ment, in excitement are usually broken again. 
 Miss Yere could not be otherwise than piqued 
 at the caprice of Ji Jian's conduct. She was 
 not accustomed to be taken up and put down
 
 218 PKIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 at pleasure, and her pride would have risen 
 against it, if depression and melancholy had 
 not rather caused it to affect her spirits. I 
 pitied her, for I could not but feel that to an 
 ardent unoccupied mind Keevor must be 
 something of a prison-house. 
 
 Susan devoted herself with her unfailing 
 kindness to her cousin, but Susan, as perhaps 
 my readers have discovered, was not what 
 could be called an amusing companion. 
 Agreeable, I think, she was, as they must be 
 who, to great charm of manner and sweetness 
 of voice, unite a thoughtful intelligent mind, 
 and a ready sympathy with the thoughts and 
 feelings of others ; but she was reserved and 
 retiring, and, in short, she did not possess that 
 ease and lightness of conversation which is 
 sometimes a natural, sometimes only an 
 acquired gift — and it was this that Florence 
 required. 
 
 One afternoon Julian suddenly entered the 
 drawing-room, and found Miss .Vere alone. 
 She was sitting idly and dreamily in the 
 window, her eyes wandering about the garden. 
 A pensive look was very becoming to her*
 
 PRIDE AND milESOLUTION. 219 
 
 Some admired her animation, but to me there 
 was a peculiar attraction in her beauty when 
 under the softening influence of melancholy. 
 
 Julian paused to look at her — her attitude 
 was the same which Susan had once admired. 
 — he admired it now — he approached her. 
 
 " You are very thoughtful, Miss Vere." 
 
 '^ Not thoughtful, only bored — or if bored 
 is not a proper expression, I am a prey to 
 ennui." She laughed as she spoke, but her 
 countenance retained its melancholy. 
 
 "Do you find Keevor very dull?" Julian 
 inquired. 
 
 *' I don't blame Keevor, I only blame my- 
 self — it is, I have no doubt, my own fault if 
 I find Time a great enemy." She paused, 
 then went on more gaily, and rather mis- 
 chievously. " I suppose your temper is so 
 even, and your mind so well regulated, that 
 you don't know what it is to feel depressed 
 and wretched, and yet to have no satisfactory 
 reason to give for it." 
 
 " You don't suppose any such thing," he 
 said, playfully. He stood for a moment look- 
 ing at her, then added, " I am sorry you think 
 us all so dull and stupid."
 
 220 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 She looked up and laughed — her spirits 
 were rising. " Oh ! I did not say that — I 
 think you all very clever, but you know to 
 the dull, cleverness becomes exceedingly like 
 dulness; and I am dull. My governess 
 always told me so. Whenever I said I had 
 nothing to do, she said that could only be the 
 complaint of an idiot. We used to battle the 
 point every Sunday regularly, because I 
 always said so on Sunday, and in those days 
 I never would allow I was dull; now I will 
 agree with anybody who tells me so." The 
 shade stole over her face again. 
 
 Julian stood looking at her without 
 speaking. 
 
 " The fact is," she continued, " that I don't 
 like a quiet life ; I dare say excitement is very 
 bad — people tell me so, but I like it — it is 
 only in excitement that I feel to live." 
 
 " That is exactly like me," Julian said, 
 folding his arms and leaning against the 
 shutter, opposite to her. " Give me excite- 
 ment, — I don't want dissipation, I hate it, but 
 give me something to think about, something 
 to feel, and I am happy. Give me even
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 221 
 
 misery itself, and I had rather feel it than the 
 tameness of mere existence." 
 
 "No, Mr. Greville, I can't follow you 
 there," Florence said, shaking her head; "I 
 cannot say that I wish to be unhappy "-.-and 
 swift as she spoke, a large tear fell from 
 her eye. 
 
 *' My dear Florence, you are unhappy," he 
 exclaimed. She laughed, shook her head, 
 and got up from her seat, but he stopped her 
 as she was moving away. 
 
 " Don't stay at home, this fine day. I have 
 promised to meet Susan at five — it must be 
 nearly that time — let us go together." 
 
 She consented but too willingly. It was 
 then four o'clock. They wandered away 
 together, and although Susan had been 
 detained, and was half an hour after her time, 
 they did not complain. 
 
 That evening the singing was renewed.
 
 222 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 Twist ye, twist ye, even so, 
 
 Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
 Hope and fear, and peace and strife. 
 
 In the thread of human life. 
 
 Guy Mannering. 
 
 I WAS forced about this time to leave Keevor 
 for three weeks. My business was chiefly of 
 a private nature, but before my return I was 
 to remain in London for a few days, in order 
 more satisfactorily to answer some puzzling 
 questions which had arisen, with respect to 
 the marriage settlements of Julian and Susan. 
 
 During my absence I heard nothing from 
 Keevor. At the time of my departure I had 
 not felt quite easy as to the general aspect of 
 affairs, and absence is a strange magnifier of 
 ill. In the course of my last day's journey so 
 many vague fears and presentiments filled my
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 223 
 
 mind, that I believe tliere were few misfor- 
 tunes whose announcement would have startled 
 me on my arrival. That nothing very un^ 
 common had happened, the aspect of the 
 house, and of the servants, soon assured me ; 
 yet still it was with a beating and an anxious 
 heart that I entered the drawing-room. 
 
 How cold and calm is reality compared to 
 the terrors of our imaginations. As I opened 
 the door and looked around me, I felt as if I 
 had entered the abode of peace. It was even- 
 ing, for I had left London at a late hour. 
 Mr. Greville was sleeping in his chair, Susan 
 sat working on the sofa, and on a chair 
 beside her, Florence was sitting, bending over 
 a music-book which lay upon the table. 
 Aunt Janet was knitting, and at the farther 
 end of the room stood Julian and George 
 Vivian at an open window, engaged in deep 
 conversation. The latter had only returned 
 a few hours before me. ^'All is well," I 
 internally said, with a sigh of relief, and 
 warmly returned the affectionate pressure of 
 Susan's hand, as she came to meet me with a 
 sweet smile of welcome.
 
 ^24 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 When I had detailed the scattered frag- 
 ments of news which were expected of a 
 traveller, I extricated myself from my com- 
 panions, and sat down for my usual and 
 favourite employment of observation. Some- 
 thing I felt there must be to be read, some 
 emotions under this calm exterior. From the 
 <iountenances of Julian and Miss Vere I re- 
 ceived little food for thought — they were 
 much as they had been when I last parted 
 from them. Julian was not, perhaps, in his 
 highest spirits, but there was no gloom on his 
 brow; he was evidently well pleased to have 
 George Vivian again ; but in the countenances 
 of both Susan and Mr. Vivian I found matter 
 for reflection and speculation. George Vivian 
 ivas much changed. He looked like one from 
 whose mind some heavy weight had suddenly 
 been removed : who had suddenly broken from 
 a galling chain, and who was rejoicing in his 
 freedom. Grave he looked and thoughtful; 
 there was no return to the fresh free spirit of 
 his boyhood and his youth — that was not to 
 be hoped for —
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 225 
 
 Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams, 
 May we return to tliat sweet land of youtli, 
 That home of hope, and innocence, and truth. 
 
 But thoiigli grave and serious, still he 
 appeared to be at peace ; his countenance 
 brightened, and was not followed by the con- 
 traction which reproved the brightness; he 
 smiled, and you did not feel that it was like a 
 sun ray over a withered flower. From a 
 bondage as dark and dreary as that of tlie 
 prisoner of Chillon, he had returned to the 
 light of day, and he had returned while yet 
 there was life and mental power to use, and, 
 perhaps, in a certain sense, to enjoy. *' And 
 this is your work," I said, and turned to her 
 whose gentle words had been as the flilling 
 dew to the blighted flower ; and then my gaze 
 rested upon her serene brow, and I asked 
 myself if its peace was such as it was wont to 
 be. On this question I pondered long, and 
 the more I pondered the more certain did I 
 feel that all was not as it should have been. 
 I could not say that she was disturbed; 
 there was no restlessness or uncertainty 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 in her movements, but there was a certain 
 fixed gravity on her brow which was not usual 
 — it was not sadness — it was not serious- 
 ness — these I had often seen ; it was gravity, 
 the gravity of one who was pondering deeply 
 but calmly on some matter of profound inte- 
 rest. Again, when Julian once or twice 
 addressed Miss Vere, she raised her eyes — not 
 quickly, not with a heightened colour — but 
 steadily, glanced at them with a grave gaze 
 of inquiry, and bent over her work again. 
 Xone but those who watched as I watched, 
 who loved her as I loved, would perhaps have 
 traced so much of thought and feeling in her 
 face. I am persuaded that to most of the 
 party she was the same Susan whom they had 
 been accustomed to see. 
 
 One inquiry I made of Miss Janet Greville, 
 as she was folding up her knitting at bed time 
 — " How have you passed your time, Miss 
 Janet, during my absence?" 
 
 " There has been a conspiracy to destroy 
 the tympanum of my ears," she replied, drily; 
 '^ that's all." 
 
 Her answer sent me thoughtfully to bed.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 227 
 
 I was busy the day after my arrival, and, 
 except at breakfast, I saw but little of any of 
 the party ; the little I did see interested and 
 excited me, but led me to no definite conclu- 
 sion. Julian had then been thoughtful, and 
 Susan still watchful and grave; but in so 
 short a time I could not gather wherefore. 
 Something more I guessed from Miss Vere's 
 animated and sparkling beauty, and a look of 
 intense anxiety on the countenance of George 
 Vivian ; but again I could only ask wherefore^ 
 for I saw but little. 
 
 I was the first of the party who appeared 
 in the drawing-room before dinner. The family 
 were later than usual. I had reason to sup- 
 pose that something had occurred to detain 
 them, and I took up a book and placed myself 
 at the window to read. 
 
 I had been so engaged for a few minutes, 
 when Miss Vere suddenly appeared at the 
 window, returning from the garden. She was 
 dressed for the evening; a light shawl only 
 was thrown over her shoulders, and a garland 
 of wild looking flowers was twined in her 
 hair. 
 
 q2
 
 228 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 ^'Is this wise, Miss Yere?" I said, for the 
 evening, though fine, was chilly. 
 
 " I never think about wisdom," she replied, 
 gaily. *' Have you not discovered that before 
 now? I have been adorning myself, like a 
 mermaid, in the open air, and I hope you 
 think I have adorned myself to some pur- 
 pose." 
 
 ^' I certainly do," I said, with a smile, for 
 I could not deny that she looked very lovely. 
 
 " I dressed early," she continued, " and then 
 wandered as far as the wood ; but there mj 
 attention was arrested by the sound of a car- 
 riage, and the ringing of a bell — so I wended 
 my way backward — and now, neither to the 
 right nor to the left can I discover the traces 
 of any such interesting event as the arrival of 
 a stranger. Can you enlighten me? Has 
 anything happened?" 
 
 " I also heard a carriage and a bell, but I 
 know no more." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Grantley, 
 that you have actually remained here in calm 
 ignorance?" 
 
 " If anything of any importance has hap-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 229 
 
 penecl, I shall know it in good time," I said, 
 quietly. 
 
 She shook her head at me in mingled sur- 
 prise and contempt, and I expected her to 
 leave the room on a voyage of discovery for 
 herself; but I was mistaken. She threw oil 
 her shawl, and came and stood with me in the 
 window. 
 
 " So Susan has two lovers in the house, Mr. 
 Grantley," she observed, after a short medita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Has she?" I said, a little startled by 
 her exclamation; yet I, on that day, had 
 made the same discovery. 
 
 " Yes ; I found that out before Mr. Vivian 
 had been many hours, I might say one hour, 
 in the house." 
 
 '^ You are very acute, Miss Vere." 
 
 ^' I am," she said; " I have often been told 
 so. But don't you think, Mr. Grantley, that 
 it is a sad pity, when destiny was arranging 
 Susan's fate, that it did not bestow her upon 
 Mr. Vivian ? He would have made a far more 
 suitable husband." 
 
 " Destiny," 1 said, gravely, " is far wiser
 
 230 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 than to accommodate itself to our ignorant 
 notions of what is suitable." And so indeed I 
 felt ; for though in the early part of the day 
 I had allowed Miss Vere's idea to fill my mind, 
 further thought had suggested to me, that if 
 Julian's restless nature was to be steadied and 
 tamed, it must be by the love and patience of 
 such an one as Susan. She only, as I fancied, 
 at least, could lead him into the land of up- 
 rightness. 
 
 " You need not be so grave, Mr. Grantley," 
 Miss Vere said, I thought, petulantly. 
 
 I made no answer ; and in a moment she 
 spoke again, gaily. '' Well, well, what are 
 these good people doing? Why don't you go 
 and see what is the matter, Mr. Grantley?" 
 
 ^' Nay, Miss Yere, it is not for me to pry 
 into the aifairs of my superiors. But here is 
 Miss Janet, perhaps she can satisfy you." 
 
 "Aunt Janet! what has happened?" ex- 
 claimed Miss Yere. 
 
 '' I am not at liberty to say," she replied, 
 in a stately manner, as she passed on to the 
 further end of the room. I may wrong her, 
 but my firm persuasion has ever been, that she
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 231 
 
 was as ignorant as ourselves, and at that mo- 
 ment dying with curiosity. 
 
 Miss Yere wandered restlessly about the 
 room, arranged her garland at the looking- 
 glass, turned over some books, finally, with an 
 expression of weariness, threw herself on the 
 sofa, and taking up a newspaper, began to 
 read. 
 
 Almost immediately afterwards, Susan ap- 
 peared — her colour was a little heightened, 
 her eye a little brighter — the look of fixed 
 gravity was gone. 
 
 " What is the matter, Susan?" Miss Yere 
 said, impatiently; "what has kept you all 
 to-night?" 
 
 " I have been twice to your room to look 
 for you, riorence, but I could not find you or 
 hear of you." She sat down by her on the 
 sofa, and continued : — " I am afraid you will 
 be surprised, and shocked, at the news that 
 has arrived. A messenger came from Rome 
 
 to B , this afternoon, bringing the account 
 
 of Lord Mortimer's death." 
 
 " Dead!" exclaimed Miss Yere; " my poor 
 guardian," and her eyes filled with tears. A
 
 232 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX. 
 
 moment afterwards, however, volatile as a 
 child, the tears were dashed away, and a 
 smile of amusement playing over her face, 
 she said, " And so Mr. Mortimer is now My 
 Lord. I wonder how he will support the 
 honour." She paused again, then turning 
 suddenly to Susan, " But how came the news 
 to be brought here — none of you knew Lord 
 Mortimer, did you?" 
 
 " Very little," Susan said. " The news was 
 brought here by Lord Mortimer's election 
 agent, with a request that Julian would stand 
 for the county." 
 
 "Ah! of course, Mr. Mortimer must give 
 it up. What an excellent idea ! What does 
 Julian say?" 
 
 " Julian is very much pleased, and most 
 willing to consent. The messenger brought 
 two letters from Mr. Mortimer ; one, a kind of 
 farewell to his constituents, and another ad- 
 dressed to Julian, pressing him to declare 
 himself immediately, before the news of Lord 
 Mortimer's death got abroad. Mr. Mortimer 
 says, that in writing the very day of his 
 father's death, he was only obeying his last 
 orders."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 233 
 
 " I dare say — how like Lord Mortimer !" 
 Miss Vere said, laughing. " I don't think 
 there ever was such a thorough bigoted old 
 Whig. He never would believe that a Tory 
 could have a single virtue — certainly not a 
 spark of honesty. I have no doubt this elec- 
 tion was his last thought. I have no doubt 
 he smiled over his acuteness and good manage- 
 ment. Well, I like the idea extremely." And 
 her face was glowing with animation when 
 Julian and Mr. Painter, the election-agent, 
 entered the room together. 
 
 She immediately called to Julian to offer 
 her congratulations, and Susan got up from 
 the sofa to speak to Mr. Painter. He was a 
 little, meek-looking man, with his head a little 
 on one side, and a small voice. His appear- 
 ance was very unlike that of a man of busi- 
 ness; but from the estimation in which his 
 talents in that line were held, I have no doubt 
 that he was one of those who " in little body 
 shrine a mighty mind." 
 
 He began to speak to Susan with much im- 
 portance. 
 
 *' Yes, Miss Greville, there is no time to be
 
 234 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION, 
 
 lost. In affairs of this nature time is every- 
 thing. Lord Mortimer's thoughtfulness— I 
 mean the late Lord's — cannot sufficiently be 
 praised; and, indeed, his Lordship, the pre- 
 sent Lord, has also acted in a most becoming 
 and satisfactory manner. With time for our 
 helpmate, the game, I may, I hope, confidently 
 say, is in our own hands. Nothing can be 
 more satisfactory than the appearance of mat- 
 ters as they now stand." 
 
 " I think you said the election could not 
 take place immediately." 
 
 *^ True, Miss Greville ; but Mr. Julias must 
 not presume upon that. His address must be 
 out in as short a time as possible, and there is 
 not a moment to be lost before his canvass 
 begins. Mr. Julias, however, makes no objec- 
 tion to any of my suggestions ; he promises to 
 act in a most satisfactory manner. I ventured 
 to say a word in favour of diligence, industry, 
 and perseverance. Nothing to be done in this 
 world. Miss Greville, without perseverance. 
 I believe, however, that my admonitions are 
 not needed. ^Ir. Julias speaks in a most 
 satisfactory manner. Indeed, as matters
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 235 
 
 stand, I may say all our prospects are satis- 
 factory." 
 
 When George Vivian entered the room, he 
 approached Susan, and said, with the affec- 
 tionate interest of a brother, " You are 
 pleased. Miss Greville, at the thought of 
 Julian's prospects." 
 
 " Very much pleased," she said, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "You are right, I am sure; employment 
 will be good for him. But for yourself," and 
 he looked at her, " shall you easily be recon- 
 ciled to a London life?" 
 
 " Do you think I am so wedded to my own 
 ways?" she said, almost gaily. 
 
 He shook his head and smiled, and retreated. 
 Later in the evening Julian sat down to 
 compose his address, and desired Susan to 
 write to his dictation. He could not please 
 himself, and with his usual wastefulness, tore 
 up sheet after sheet of paper. Aunt Janet 
 approached to remonstrate, and with her the 
 rest of the party assembled round the table, 
 with the exception of Mr. Greville and 
 myself.
 
 236 pridp: and irresolution. 
 
 " Susan, how can you allow such wilful 
 waste — it is sinful, Mr. Julian, positively 
 sinful. Look now ! " And she stretched out 
 her sharp thin finger to the pile of torn paper 
 which lay upon the table. 
 
 '' What is your favourite economy, Julian?" 
 asked Miss Vere, playfully; " they say we all 
 have some natural ingrained stinginess." 
 
 *' I don't know," he replied ; " what shall it 
 be, Mr. Painter? I will be for cutting down 
 something furiously, but you must direct my 
 good intentions to their proper subject." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Julian, if I may be allowed 
 to suggest, a proper mention of economy in 
 your address will be attended with a most 
 satisfactory effect." 
 
 " Very well. — Noav Susan, take a new bit of 
 paper, and I will begin again." 
 
 " But you can't plunge into economy at 
 once," she said, smiling. 
 
 " Then I must leave it for the present. I 
 will get up in the night and write — that will 
 be the best — all my finest thoughts are after 
 midnight. I promise you, Mr. Painter, 
 something very sublime before morning."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 237 
 
 " What are your political principles, 
 Julian," inquired Miss Yere. " Do you 
 know, I never gave you credit for being a. 
 Whig; I have hitherto lived under the painful 
 impression that you were a Tory/' 
 
 " My principles are of a mixed kind," he 
 said, laughingly ; " if you wish for a name for 
 them I think they may be called ' Conser- 
 vative Eadical.' " 
 
 " Conservative Eadical," repeated Mr. 
 Painter, musingly — then gently inclining 
 his head, observed, ^' very satisfactory." 
 
 " I am for upholding the monarchy and the 
 aristocracy, and the church, and all the old 
 institutions of the country, but I am for a 
 thorough radical reform of all corruptions." 
 
 And again Mr. Painter remarked, " Very 
 satisfactory." 
 
 " There is nothing very new in your poli- 
 tical creed," said George Vivian, smiling. 
 
 " Ah ! that is because you have only heard 
 my broad statement — you will be a little 
 startled when you come to particulars, and I 
 beg you will be in my room at haff-past 
 twelve precisely, to give me your opinion oa
 
 238 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 my address. Mr. Painter, I should like to 
 liave some more conversation with you ; there 
 are one or two points on which I am a little 
 in the dark. My opinions incline to both 
 sides of the question." And putting his arm 
 within Mr. Painter's, he retired to the other 
 end of the room.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 How oft are we constrained to appear 
 With other countenance than that we owe, 
 And be ourselves far off when we are near. 
 How oft are we forced, on a cloudy heart 
 To set a shining face and make it clear, 
 Seeming content to put ourselves apart. 
 As if we only were composed by art, 
 
 Not Nature 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 And will she love thee as well as I ? 
 
 Will she do for thee what I have done? 
 See all the pomps of the world pass by, 
 
 And look only to thee, Beloved one. 
 
 Sony. 
 
 For a week nothing could exceed Julian's 
 excitement and delight in his prospects. 
 Everything went on, as Mr. Painter expressed 
 it, in a most satisfactory manner. His recep- 
 tion at the first meeting of his leading sup-
 
 240 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTIOX. 
 
 porters was flattering; his manners were wan- 
 ning, and there was no want of more sterling 
 qualities to conciliate sterner critics. His 
 address, well written, and, through George 
 Vivian's influence, concise and to the point, 
 had been commented upon in terms of admi- 
 ration and approbation by some of the leading 
 newspapers. His hopes of success were high, 
 and his delight in his hopes still higher. He 
 and George A^ivian were absent, day after day, 
 from Keevor ; but when he returned at night, 
 though wearied in body, his mind was so 
 sunny, his manners so fascinating, his anec- 
 dotes so well told, his satire so stingless and 
 playful, that every shade of suspicion vanished 
 from my mind, and Susan's countenance lighted 
 once more with all, and more than all, her 
 former happiness. 
 
 But the misfortune (in Julian's history that 
 hateful " but" must for ever occur) of those 
 who have no fixed principles of duty to be 
 their guide, is, that in the moments of dis- 
 couragement and weariness which must attend 
 upon all human pursuits and hopes, they have 
 no support on which to lean, and from which,
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 241 
 
 in spite of tediousness, they can gather strength 
 and spirit. Like the frail bark, they can but 
 be the sport of every wind that passes over 
 them. As was natural, he met with a few 
 repulses ; — the first flowing tide of success was 
 interrupted — a lampoon of a bitter and per- 
 sonal character was posted up on the walls of 
 the county town — (a circumstance rather flat- 
 tering than otherwise, for it is not every one 
 who is worth abasing) — in a wretched coun- 
 try paper his address was turned into ridicule 
 — such were the trivial disasters which dis- 
 turbed the evenness of his spirit; and imme- 
 diately, on the very first disturbance, annoy- 
 ances, scarcely felt before, began to press 
 heavily ; the weariness of the canvass, the hot 
 rooms v/here he met his supporters, the irri- 
 tating nature of the questions addressed to 
 him — and, but for the unceasing exertions and 
 persuasions of George Vivian, he would have 
 retired from the contest in disgust. 
 
 During the days of novelty and excitement, 
 Susan had once again been all in all to liim. 
 She it was who was never weary of listening 
 to his hopes and plans — whose head was never 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Tveaiy of his calculations — whose hand was 
 ever employed in his service. List upon list 
 was written and re-written, and corrected, and 
 thrown aside, and again considered — and so 
 on, hour after hour, and evening after evening 
 — for that which occupied Julian's mind 
 occupied him entirely; and still, with a 
 patience far greater — with an interest equal 
 to his own — Susan was by his side, fore- 
 stalling every wish, smiling jway every cloud, 
 guiding and controlling every caprice, a por- 
 tion of himself. 
 
 So it was for a week. With every evening's 
 close, he returned with his hopeful smiles to 
 her; but with the ruffling of his spirit, her 
 bright day faded again into night. 
 
 The first symptoms of his ill-humour were 
 shown characteristically enough. 
 
 He came home late. He had been detained 
 at a meeting — a wearisome meeting, I have 
 no doubt — and was forced to dress quickly, 
 which was always displeasing to him. At 
 dinner, he sat in profound gloom; spoke 
 sharply to Aunt Janet, and answered, far from
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 243 
 
 patiently, poor ]\ir. Greville's irrelevant ques- 
 tions. When lie entered the drawing-room, 
 Susan was copying for her father a list of 
 plants mentioned in the Gardener'' s Chronicle. 
 Julian mistook it for one of his own hitherto 
 much considered election lists; fancied she 
 wished to force it upon his attention, and, like 
 a child, was determined not to do that which 
 was expected of him. 
 
 Without speaking, but with a petulant ex- 
 clamation, he walked up to the table where 
 she sat, drew the sheet hastily from under 
 her hands, tore it in pieces, and crumpling it 
 into a ball, tossed it into the fire. 
 
 A silence followed, such as usually follows an 
 ebullition of temper; it was broken by Mr. 
 Greville's gentle voice : 
 
 " I am sorry you did that, Julian ; now 
 poor Susan will have to write it all over 
 again." 
 
 "No, she won't," he replied, determinedly; 
 " I don't mean to have anything more of the 
 sort." 
 
 " But, Julian," said the poor man, rising in 
 R 2
 
 244 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 his chair, and speaking with some agitation, 
 *' I want it; she must write it again — she 
 must, indeed." 
 
 '' Julian is not thinking of the flowers, 
 papa," Susan said, hastening to his side; " he 
 thought it was one of his election papers. I 
 will write it again, directly." And turning 
 to Julian, she shook her head at him with a 
 smile, which should have thrown him on his 
 knees before her. 
 
 He did follow her to her seat to apologize. 
 "I am excessively sorry, Susan, that you 
 should have the trouble of writing those tire- 
 some names over again. But you really 
 should not try my temper with the sight of 
 things which it cannot bear. Don't let me 
 see anything like a list for the next three 
 months. I tell you, beforehand, I can't bear 
 it." 
 
 "Are you tired of the election, Julian?" 
 she inquired, sadly. Somehow, her own hopes, 
 Julian's happiness and welfare, appeared to be 
 bound up with these opening prospects. 
 
 " Sick of it, Susan ! If George was not so 
 determined, I should give it up to-morrow. I
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 245 
 
 could have committed suicide to-day while 
 those fook were talking, — fools, every one of 
 them, and George at the head." 
 
 He threw himself on a chair at a little dis- 
 tance, and closed his eyes. As usual, the 
 ebullition had but ruffled him the more. He 
 lay for about half-an-hour without speaking or 
 moving. At length he raised himself, and, in 
 rather an authoritative manner, desired Miss 
 Yere to go and play. 
 
 She laughed, but obeyed. Unfortunately 
 for Julian, his lightest wishes 'were commands 
 to all who approached him. 
 
 As she played, his brow cleared. Hers was 
 not the hand of David, but even such appeared 
 to be the power of her music over his dis- 
 turbed spirit. 
 
 He got up, after a short time, and joined 
 her at the pianoforte. He refused to sing, 
 but he sat by her side, and there he remained 
 for the evening, — and not for that evening 
 only. 
 
 I now saw, thougli probably in heightened 
 colours, that which had taken place during 
 my absence.
 
 246 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Day after day he went out wearily and re- 
 turned in gloom. Notwithstanding the sepa- 
 ration from Susan, which his canvass and 
 other arrangements caused, he scarcely noticed 
 her in the evenings of the day. Not willingly, 
 but as by a fascination, he appeared to be 
 drawn to Miss Yere's side. He sang with 
 her, or more often plunged in thought, his face 
 buried in his hands, he sat listening, while 
 the soft rich notes of her voice fell upon his 
 ear; or, again, hanging over her, while her 
 fingers idly touclied the keys, gazing into her 
 lovely face, he would endeavour to catch fresh 
 spirit and vigour from her animating and ex- 
 citing conversation. 
 
 And we sat by, — I saw the look of watch- 
 ful gravity steal again over Susan's brow, I 
 saw the stealthy and indignant glances of 
 Aunt Janet, I saw the seriousness of George 
 Vivian; and yet we all were mute: we felt 
 that one word spoken might dissolve the 
 fading light of Susan's happiness into mist for 
 ever. 
 
 Of Miss Vere's conduct I have said but 
 little, although I had, before now, discovered
 
 PRIDE AN]> IRRESOLUTION. 247 
 
 that she had allowed her restless affections 
 to settle upon Julian. I do not wish to judge 
 her severely — I am persuaded that it was at 
 first unconsciously done, in the weariness and 
 idleness of an unsettled mind; lam certain that 
 when she became conscious of it, that, as the 
 phrase is, " she meant no harm" — I am per- 
 suaded that her own soul would have revolted 
 from the idea of being a tempter. She did 
 but follow where Julian led ; when he 
 neglected her, she was depressed, but she made 
 no remonstrance ; when he sought her society, 
 she did but show what she felt, delight and 
 gratitude. She thought not of the future, 
 she considered not where her ways were 
 leading her. She, I am persuaded, under- 
 stood but little of the depth of Susan's attach- 
 ment for Julian ; and if she looked onward at 
 all, if for a moment her thoughts were cast 
 forward, it was not forward into the present, 
 but forward into the far future, where her 
 mind rested in vague dreams that all would 
 be right in the end, or in such vague visions 
 as were excited by the idea of George Vivian's 
 secret love.
 
 248 PKIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 I may be thought to speak of her too 
 leniently, but I do not think that her mind 
 was naturally inclined to evil; and when I 
 consider her youth and beauty — the trials of 
 her orphan state — when I think of the tempta- 
 tions of an excited, restless mind, unsoftened 
 and undisciplined by the education of a 
 motlier's love and care, I shrink from too 
 harsh a judgment ; I am willing rather to think 
 of the palliations than to exaggerate her 
 offence : and truly she needs excuse ; for when 
 all is said, how fearfully perverted must have 
 been the sense of right in that mind which 
 could in any way assist in withdrawing the 
 love and duty of her betrothed husband from 
 her cousin, her friend, from one who had met 
 her and tended her with all, and more than 
 all, a sister's love and care. Truly she needs 
 excuse; and if I do not harshly judge, it is 
 but because I rather grieve over the weakness 
 and frailty of humanity. 
 
 It was rather more than a fortnight after 
 ]\Ir. Painter's first arrival, that Susan was 
 returning one afternoon slowly and thought-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 249 
 
 fully from the village. There was a kind of 
 epidemic prevailing at the time, especially 
 among children, and Susan went daily with 
 her soft words and gentle cares to brighten 
 the eyes of the young invalids, and to raise 
 the spirits of the anxious, wearied parents. 
 She had stood this day in many a house of 
 anxiety and mourning; but it was not the 
 thoughts of that which she had left behind 
 which made her step so languid, and knit her 
 young brow with such intense thoughtfulness 
 — she was pondering on a question which was 
 as of life and death — life or death, not so 
 much to her own, as to Julian's welfare and 
 happiness. 
 
 She Avas roused by a quick, sharp step be- 
 hind her, and a peremptory call from Aunt 
 Janet. She stood still till she joined her. 
 
 *' Have you been to see any of those poor 
 little children. Aunt Janet?" she then in- 
 quired. 
 
 " Not I, Susan. I have other things to 
 think of. As to ' poor little children,' too, 
 in that melancholy tone, I should be ashamed 
 to fret about them; as I was telHng Mrs.
 
 250 PRIDE AND IKRESOLUTION. 
 
 Thomas to-day, what can children do better, 
 pray, than to die?" 
 
 Susan smiled a sad, musing smile, but she 
 said nothing, and they walked on together 
 towards the house. 
 
 " I have been to call on Mrs. Gibbs," Aunt 
 Janet remarked, after a short pause, in a 
 voice which was intended to announce that 
 Mrs. Gibbs had said something important. 
 The lady in question was a widow of a sea 
 captain — the gossip of the village, and a 
 protegee of Miss Janet Greville's. 
 
 "I suppose she is very much excited about 
 the election?" Susan inquired, to satisfy lier 
 companion. 
 
 " Excited, yes ! I suppose she is — all fools 
 are; and she's excited about something else, 
 too. Let me tell you, Susan, the doings at 
 Keevor are not so secret as you suppose," and 
 Aunt Janet nodded her head emphatically. 
 
 " What doings?" Susan asked, almost fear- 
 fully, while a blush rose upon her cheek. 
 
 ''What doings? Now, my dear Susan, 
 don't pretend not to understand me — why, 
 Mr. Julian's doings and Miss Florence's
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 251 
 
 doings. I tell you, I heard of them from 
 Mrs. Gibbs." 
 
 The blush faded away. Susan asked no 
 more. 
 
 "Once before, Susan," Aunt Janet con- 
 tinued, " I spoke to you. I warned you of 
 how it would be ; but I was not attended to. 
 I told you she would sing his heart away 
 from you. And who was right, I wonder? 
 Look at him now — who is Mr. Julian's 
 companion? — to whom do his eyes wander 
 when he comes home of an evening? What 
 is his amusement — his pleasure — his occu- 
 pation? Susan, you must be blind." 
 
 " I am not blind, Aunt Janet," she replied, 
 in a low voice, and without raising her eyes 
 from the ground. 
 
 " Then, Susan, if you are not blind, you 
 are a simpleton, or something worse. It's no 
 affair of mine ; I'm not going to get married 
 to Mr. Julian, thank goodness — a pretty life 
 I should lead; but I can't help having my 
 wits about me, and I can't alter my notions 
 of what is right and proper exactly as Mr. 
 Julian wishes. I say it never was proper
 
 252 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 that a man should marry one woman, and be 
 in love with another. It's no use to try and 
 persuade me of it ; and I give you warning, 
 unless you look to it pretty soon, such will be 
 the case here." 
 
 " It shall not be the case here," Susan said, 
 gently and steadily. 
 
 *' Well, I hope I'm wrong, that's all I can 
 say; but it's no use hoping, for I'm right — 
 as I always am, if people will attend to me. 
 Don't say I gave you no warning. I saw how 
 it would be from the very first night. I said 
 then, ' she will sing his heart away.' Can you 
 deny it, Susan? Didn't I tell you how it 
 would be ?" 
 
 She made no answer; she was walking 
 thoughtfully on. They turned from the little 
 path of the meadow into the garden, and as 
 their feet rested upon the gravel-walk, the 
 tones of those well-known sweet united voices 
 were wafted by a breath of air to the place 
 where they stood. 
 
 Susan paused involuntarily and blushed 
 deeply. She had supposed Julian to be with 
 George Vivian, far away. In a moment, how-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 253 
 
 €ver, recovering herself, she was hurrying on, 
 when Aunt Janet arrested her by a deter- 
 mined grasp of her arm. 
 
 " There's one thing more, Susan, that I 
 wish to say, and that you must hear, and then 
 I have done. Is this to go on, or is it not? 
 I don't know what you think ; — young people 
 now-a-days have exceedingly strange ideas 
 upon all points, and I don't see that a parade 
 of. religion and visiting the poor, and stuff, 
 has a bit of effect in making them more par- 
 ticular in practice ; but I confess that in my 
 days I should have thought such attentions as 
 Mr. Julian pays to Miss Florence extremely 
 improper, considering that he is just the same 
 as a married man ; and I can tell you, Susan, 
 notwithstanding all your fine ideas of edu- 
 cation and example, that you are allowing 
 a very scandalous example to be given to the 
 house and the neighbourhood. What does 
 Mrs. Gibbs say, do you suppose ? — ' I hear. 
 Miss Janet, that tlie young gentleman does 
 not quite know his own mind ;' and I tell you, 
 Susan, I didn't know which way to look when 
 ^he said it, and that is not very usual witli
 
 254 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 me. Now, I have done; do just what you 
 please, only don't say I gave you no warning." 
 
 Susan had raised her eyes from the ground, 
 and her colour had risen deeper and deeper 
 while Aunt Janet spoke — for, absorbed in 
 thoughts of Julian's good and Julian's hap- 
 piness, it had not struck her that other eyes 
 and other minds were occupied in the same 
 contemplations which engaged herself. As 
 the forcible truth of Aunt Janet's words im- 
 pressed themselves upon her mind, the last 
 fading hope of a too enduring love gave up its 
 being within her. 
 
 '' Thank you for speaking to me, Aunt 
 Janet," she said, after a moment's thought, in 
 her sad sweet voice, " I will think of what 
 you have been saying;" and turning away, 
 she went quietly across the garden and into 
 the house. 
 
 The song had ceased, and Julian, leaning 
 with his arms upon the pianoforte, was talking 
 in his eager, earnest manner as she entered the 
 drawing-room. She paused a moment in the 
 doorway. Julian's back was towards her, but 
 riorence met her eyes at once, and a sudden
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION^. 255 
 
 twinge of conscience made her blush deeply, 
 and, for a moment, turn away her head. 
 
 It was, perhaps, some unconscious feeling 
 of a like kind, which, when aware of her pre- 
 sence, prompted the petulant tone in which 
 Julian addressed her — for the rebukes of con- 
 science, which we will not hear ourselves, we 
 are but too ready to inflict upon others. 
 
 " Where have you been, Susan?" he cried, 
 in a loud, impatient voice; "Why are you 
 never to be found? We have looked for you 
 high and low, in and out of the house, but, of 
 course, in vain. I wanted you to play. Flo- 
 rence cannot manage these new duets; but 
 you always are out of the way when I wish 
 for your presence." 
 
 "I hardly hoped you would have been back 
 so soon," was all she said ; but she closed the 
 door, and came towards the pianoforte. 
 
 " You have been to that .... village, I sup- 
 pose," he continued, in an irritated tone, and 
 as if he could scarcely refrain from some 
 abusive epithet. "I am sure I wish, with all 
 my heart, that Keevor was at the bottom of 
 the Eed Sea."
 
 ^56 P^IDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 He meant, even in bis petulance, he meant 
 only the village of Keevor, and Susan knew 
 it, but the words fell so painfully on her sad 
 and awakened mind, that she turned away to 
 conceal the momentary expression of emotion 
 which she could not restrain. 
 
 She walked to a little distance and took off 
 her bonnet, then returning to the pianoforte, 
 inquired, if it was too late for her playing to 
 be of use to them. 
 
 Ashamed and sorry for his ill-temper, Julian 
 made no answer ; but Florence spoke with un- 
 usual gentleness — thanked her for her offer, 
 and, placing some music on the desk, pointed 
 out the difficulties which she had been unable 
 to overcome. Susan had often been applied to 
 for her assistance when the vocal part was un- 
 usually intricate; for though but little of a 
 musician, she had a quick eye for reading, and 
 a ready power of accompanying. She sat 
 down and began to play. 
 
 The singers followed, at first without in- 
 terest — other thoughts were in their minds; 
 but the music was beautiful; quickly the in-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 257 
 
 spiration was caught, and, forgetful of all feel- 
 ings but their own, they sang on and on. 
 
 I have sometimes thought that Susan's 
 powers of self-command and self-control were 
 injurious to her happiness. It was, perhaps, 
 impossible that her two companions should 
 understand or appreciate the strength and 
 endurance which gave her power so calmly 
 and patiently to follow their voices — 
 
 " In many a bout 
 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out ;" 
 
 when every tone of linked sweetness was 
 piercing to her heart. The unrestrained, 
 though they are strangely influenced by it, 
 can rarely measure the depths of unexpressed 
 feeling. 
 
 They were satisfied at last, and Susan was 
 released. As she rose from her seat, she 
 stretched out her hand for her gloves, which 
 were lying among the pieces of music on the 
 pianoforte. In the movement, the bracelet 
 which Julian had given her caught in one of 
 the hooks of the desk, and fell with some 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 violence to the ground. He stooped to pick 
 it up ; and as he held it in his hand, some 
 words lightly spoken on a former day recurred 
 to his memory. ^'' If I ever see you without 
 this bracelet^ I shall hnow what to think — you 
 will have given me iip^ 
 
 His hand shook as he clasped it again upon 
 her arm. 
 
 " You have lost one of your lockets, Susan," 
 exclaimed Miss Vere. 
 
 Susan looked down, and it was with a feel- 
 ing of superstitious fear that she observed that 
 the locket which contained Julian's hair, was 
 missing. It would naturally seem that in 
 moments of strong feeling, such trifling inci- 
 dents could have little power to affect us ; but 
 it is precisely at such times that trifles, unob- 
 served in careless hours, are gifted with a 
 voice to speak. Susan felt as if the last link 
 between her and Julian was severed, and she 
 stood for a few unconscious instants gazing at 
 the vacant place, as if it was a type of the 
 coming void and desolation in her heart. 
 
 The locket had flown to a spot at some 
 distance. There was a long search for it, and
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 259 
 
 in silence the search was made — not one sound 
 or exclamation. The same thoughts were fill- 
 ing the breasts of all. It was found at length, 
 and Julian took Susan's hand, and held it 
 while he endeavoured to replace the locket on 
 the bracelet in safety. 
 
 Susan stood with downcast eyes — she dared 
 not speak, or raise her face from the ground, 
 for she felt the trembling pressure of his hand, 
 and the uncertain nervous movements of his 
 fingers, as he endeavoured to perform his task, 
 and in vain. It was perhaps but two minutes 
 that she stood thus, but there are feelings 
 under which two minutes are imbued with the 
 life and power of years. It seemed as if her 
 whole existence — hopes, fears, joys, sorrows, 
 love, and disappointment, passed in vision 
 before her eyes in the two silent minutes of 
 that evening hour. 
 
 The silence was broken at length. ^' It is 
 right now, Susan," Julian said, as he released 
 her hand, in a voice so tender and so sad, that 
 her strength could bear no more — without a 
 look, without a word, she glided from the room. 
 
 As she passed hastily along the corridor, 
 S2
 
 260 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 she observed George Vivian and Mr. Painter 
 approaching the house together on horseback. 
 Julian had left his business, his duty, his 
 occupation, to return to Keevor, and to return 
 — to whom?
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 261 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 In midst of plenty only to embrace, 
 
 Calm patience is not worthy of your praise ; 
 
 But he that can look sorrow in the face 
 And not be daunted, he deserves the bays. 
 
 This is prosperity where'er we find 
 
 A heavenly solace in an earthly mind. 
 
 Hugh Crompton. 
 
 And turning from his ovm sweet maid. 
 The aged knight Sir Leoline 
 Led forth the Lady Geraldine. 
 
 Christabel. 
 
 An unusually large party was expected on 
 that evening at Keevor Hall. Mr. Painter, 
 in furtherance of Julian's interests, had advised 
 that some degree of hospitality should be shown, 
 and though Mr. Greville was naturally averse 
 to the society of strangers, he agreed to the 
 propriety of the advice with the same willing
 
 262 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 ness with which he would have agreed- to any- 
 other proposal which had received the sanction 
 of his daughter's favourable opinion. A series 
 of dinners had in consequence been decided on, 
 and the first of the series was on this evening 
 to take place. 
 
 I was in the drawing-room with Mr. Painter 
 and another gentleman when Susan entered, 
 hastening down to receive her guests. 
 
 My attention was immediately and forcibly 
 attracted by her appearance. Not because her 
 dress was more studied than was usual to her, 
 for now and at all times her taste was so 
 simple and quiet, that her dress excited little 
 observation — not from any frown of pain, or 
 expression of inward turmoil, which jarred 
 with the duties which were expected of her. 
 But I was struck and even alarmed by the 
 ethereal look of her whole frame. Her cheeks 
 were as white as the white muslin of her dress 
 — her skin as wan and transparent, her figure 
 as fragile and drooping as the leaves of the 
 white rose which Mr. Greville had gathered 
 for her hair, and yet at the same time there 
 was an unearthly look of steadfast and unrufiled
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 263 
 
 serenity on her brow, wliicli, though in one 
 sense it harmonized, yet in another most 
 strangely contrasted with her countenance. 
 
 That some, I might say fearful, struggle 
 had taken place, I felt at once — nor was it 
 hard to guess what that struggle had been. 
 The moment for decision had come— the reso- 
 lution had been taken. Julian, whose love 
 had become a portion of herself, was to be 
 yielded up — her bright hopes for his future 
 life, her high desires for his welfare, were, so 
 far as she was concerned, to be laid aside, and 
 with doubt and fear he was to be consigned to 
 another. The struggle I might guess, but 
 that which I saw with surprise was that the 
 struggle was past, the gravity was gone ; she 
 had that peculiar charm of countenance and 
 sweetness of smile which is often observable in 
 those who have come out of great suflering, 
 whether of body or mind, but which never 
 appears till hope and fear alike have with- 
 drawn their conflict from the soul. As I 
 observed her, some verses which I had once 
 read, as addressed by Coleridge " to a lady in 
 great pain," came to my memory.
 
 264 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 *' As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, 
 That gracious thing made up of tears and light, 
 Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below, 
 Stands smiling forth unmoved and freshly bright ; 
 
 Even so — upon that face of thine, 
 
 On that beloved face whose look alone 
 
 (The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine) 
 
 Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own. 
 
 A beauty hovers still and ne'er takes wing, 
 But with a silent charm compels the stern 
 And torturing Genius of the bitter spring 
 To shrink aback and cower upon its turn." 
 
 The guests began to arrive, and Susan, 
 though unused to society, received them with 
 that quiet grace and self-possession, that in- 
 tuitive power of saying and doing what is 
 right, which I had often before remarked as 
 peculiar to her, and which had sometimes 
 caused me to wonder if any circumstances 
 could have arisen in which she would have 
 found herself at a loss how to act. She was 
 sitting in the midst of an assembly of seven 
 or eight ladies, most of whom were unknown 
 to her, when Julian entered, his countenance 
 as full of the cares and passions of this world 
 as hers was above them. He looked at her, 
 and I think he also was struck by her appear-
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 265 
 
 ance ; for, after speaking to one or two of the 
 gentlemen with whom he was acquainted, and 
 after having been introduced to others, he 
 went and stood by Susan's side. 
 
 She was conversing, and listening, with no 
 affectation of strong interest, but with that 
 kindness and gentleness of manner, which 
 relieves from feelings of shyness and awkward- 
 ness, and encourages the communications of 
 others. The ladies to whom she was attend- 
 ing were, I doubt not, amiable and attractive 
 in their own homes and amid their own 
 acquaintances, but they were chiefly middle- 
 aged, and had no beauty or charm of manners 
 or conversation to seize upon the interest of 
 a stranger. They were talking, as people will 
 talk who have not mind or courage to strike 
 out of the beaten track, and who have no 
 peculiar subjects of interest or sympathy with 
 their companions. One lady's topic was the 
 weather; an interesting topic certainly, and 
 far preferable to others that could be men- 
 tioned, but which, after some discussion, is 
 apt to become tedious. Another lady, more 
 aspiring than the rest, selected her topics of
 
 2(}Q PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 conversation from the " Court Circular." She 
 spoke, not only of the movements of his late 
 Majesty King William the Fourth, but she 
 mentioned the day on which her Grace the 
 
 Duchess of had left London for Scotland, 
 
 and informed her hearers — who, as well as 
 herself, were perfectly unacquainted and un- 
 connected with the family — that his Grace 
 the Duke had been detained in London by 
 particular business. Another enlarged on the 
 never-failing subject of babies, and recounted 
 the marvellous number of teeth which her 
 youngest child had cut at the age of four 
 months; ending by asking Susan's opinion as 
 to the propriety of lancing the gums of infants 
 on such occasions. And to each and all she 
 was attending with the quiet kindness and 
 forbearance which was but the due of her 
 guests, and, assisted by one or two whose 
 minds and manners were in advance of the 
 more commonplace of the society, was wiling 
 away without weariness the tedious interval 
 before dinner; which had been, on this occa- 
 sion, prolonged by the non- arrival of some 
 families who lived at a distance from Keevor.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 267 
 
 But Julian — who guessed, perhaps, some 
 part, some small part, of that which had been 
 passing in her mind, and to whom the con- 
 quest of self, and forbearance towards others, 
 were principles unknown — stood by her side, 
 in a kind of wondering amazement and ad- 
 miration. And the feeling was at last ex- 
 pressed. At a pause in the conversation, he 
 stooped down, and, regardless as he ever was 
 of time and place, he said, in his low, me- 
 lodious voice — 
 
 " Susan, I believe you are an angel !" 
 
 A deep blush passed over her face, and she 
 raised her eyes to his; but at the moment, 
 the door opened, and Miss Vere entered. 
 
 I never shall forget her appearance. She 
 had on this day laid aside her mourning, but 
 in her dark morning gown it had scarcely 
 attracted my attention. Now she came in 
 like the fairy of some fairy tale, the brightest 
 vision on which my eyes have ever rested. I 
 do not know of what colours or materials her 
 dress was composed, — it was fanciful and yet 
 tasteful, bright and yet not gaudy ; — I do not 
 know that it would in general have been as
 
 268 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 becoming as a more sober toilette : I remem- 
 ber her only as she entered the drawing-room 
 on that evening. Her complexion, glowing 
 as from some inward light of joy, — her eyes 
 sparkling like brilliants. The cause of this 
 I cannot tell : it may have been the effect of 
 her dress, it may have been that the path of 
 temptation is alluring, and that hopes, on 
 which but a short time before she would not 
 have permitted her eyes to rest, were be- 
 ginning to excite her mind. I saw the sensa- 
 tion that her beauty made in the room; I 
 saw that Susan and Julian both averted their 
 eyes, as from a painful yet too attracting 
 sight : and then dinner was announced, and I 
 saw no more till I observed that Miss Yere 
 was seated next to Julian, and that though 
 sullen and gloomy at first, the suUenness and 
 gloom had vanished long before Susan made 
 her sign for the ladies to withdraw. 
 
 I remember little more of that evening. 
 My thoughts became so painful, and tlie maze 
 in which we appeared to be involved so 
 intricate, that my attention was abstracted 
 from those about me. But a short time
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 269 
 
 before the party broke up, I was again roused 
 to observation, by the unpleasant discovery 
 that Julian's attentions to Miss Yere were a 
 subject of conversation. A lady who sat near 
 me addressed a gentleman in a lively voice,— 
 
 " Why did you mislead me, Mr. French? — 
 you told me that our member was to marry 
 his cousin." 
 
 " So I was told," he replied, shortly. 
 
 " And you believe what you hear, — that is 
 a bad plan. / never believe anything but 
 that which my own eyes tell me is true." 
 
 '' Eyes are sometimes mistaken," he said. 
 " I was not acquainted with the gentleman, 
 and I do not know whether he spoke at 
 random, or from some knowledge of the cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 " Mine never are," replied the lively lady : 
 " and it would be hard to be mistaken in this 
 case. I don't wonder at Mr. Julian Greville's 
 choice. There is no comparison between the 
 two young ladies. Miss Vere is a fine girl, 
 and remarkably handsome." 
 
 " I also think there is no comparison be- 
 tween the two," said the gentleman, gravely.
 
 270 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 " Miss Greville has the sweetest countenance 
 that I have ever seen." 
 
 " Now, Mr^ French, you should have left 
 that for me to say. Gentlemen may admire 
 heauty, but ladies always discover the charms 
 of a plain face. I am, however, more mag- 
 nanimous than my sex, and I repeat boldly, 
 that Mr. Julian Greville's admiration is justly 
 bestowed. What a handsome couple they will 
 make; and they sing like syrens too." 
 
 I turned away, sick at heart; and again 
 my eyes rested, with a mixture of admiration, 
 pain, fear, and wonder, on the sweet serene 
 brow of her who was forsaken, — with wonder 
 at her serenity, with pain at the fading fra- 
 gile look of her whole appearance.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 271 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 Imagine sometliing purer far, 
 
 More free from stain of clay, 
 Than Friendship, Love, or passion are, 
 
 Yet human still as they. 
 And if thy lip for love like this 
 
 No mortal word can frame. 
 Go ask of angels what it is, 
 
 And call it by that name. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 The following morning, as we left the 
 breakfast-table, Susan followed Julian to the 
 window, and looking up at him, said quietly, 
 
 " I wish to speak to you alone, Julian, be- 
 fore you go out. Will you come in half an 
 hour to my father's room?" 
 
 He turned pale, and looked at her earnestly 
 and inquiringly, but he said nothing. 
 
 " In half an hour," she repeated, and left 
 him.
 
 272 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 He folded his arms and stood gloomily lean- 
 ing in the recess where she had found him. 
 
 " You are very thoughtful, Julian," Miss 
 Yere said, gaily, as she passed. 
 
 He turned from her impatiently, and threw 
 open the window ; but it was a chilly autumnal 
 day, and with the same hasty, irritated move- 
 ment, he closed it again. 
 
 George Vivian, who had heen talking to 
 Mr. Painter, now approached him. 
 
 " Mr. Painter is anxious not to be later 
 than eleven this morning," he said, persua- 
 sively; " you will be ready, will you not? It 
 will not do to be absent another day. He 
 was not pleased at your returning yesterday." 
 
 " I wish Mr. Painter was hanged!" Julian 
 said, petulantly ; then hastily adding — " Yes, 
 I suppose I shall go," left the room. 
 
 He could endure the suspense of his agi- 
 tated imaginations no longer, but went at 
 once to Mr. Greville's study. As he raised 
 his hand to knock at the door, that voice 
 which still had so strange a power over his 
 waywardness and fretfulness, in soft, calm ac- 
 cents, fell upon his ear.
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 273 
 
 ^^ Praise the Lord^ oh! my soul, and forget 
 not all Ms benefits. 
 
 " Who forgiveth all thy sin and healeth all 
 thy hifirniities. 
 
 " Who savetli thy life from destruction^ 
 and croicneth thee icith mercy and loving 
 kindness''' 
 
 The words were familiar to him, but they 
 startled him now ; tlieir calmness so strangely- 
 contrasted with the turmoil of his troubled 
 heart; their tone of thankful confidence so 
 difierent from the tone which he had expected 
 to greet his appearance ; — he paused, irresolute ; 
 then the temper of restless petulance vanish- 
 ing from its dominion, in an altered mood of 
 mind he knocked and entered the room. 
 
 Susan was seated by her father, reading, as 
 from her childhood upwards she had been in 
 the habit of doing, the Psalms and Lessons 
 for the day. 
 
 *' Go on, Susan," Julian said, seating him- 
 self in a large arm-chair, " I like to hear 
 you." 
 
 She blushed deeply at his entrance, but 
 read on, steadily and unfalteringly, no other 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 sign betraying to her father or to him the 
 agitation which his unexpected appearance 
 had caused her. 
 
 Mr. Greville traced with his finger, on his 
 own large Bible, every word she read. When 
 she ceased, he looked at her with his kind 
 smile, and closing the book, said to Julian — 
 " How prettily Susan reads — I am glad you 
 heard her." 
 
 • His usual habit was to go to his flowers 
 immediately after his daughter's reading, but 
 considering Julian's visit as paid to himself, 
 he remained seated, endeavouring in his 
 childish way to entertain him. Julian's rest- 
 lessness began to return, he got up, fidgeted 
 from side to side of the roasting fire which 
 Mr. Greville loved, and answered his questions 
 at random. 
 
 " I am sure, papa," Susan said, after wait- 
 ing for a few minutes, ^' Julian would not 
 ii^ish to keep you from going out. I asked 
 him to come here this morning, as I wished to 
 talk to him without being disturbed." 
 
 "Thank you, Susan; then I think I had
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 275 
 
 better go as usual. You will entertain Julian 
 better than I can do; won't slie, my dear 
 Julian?" with a smile and a shake of the head; 
 *' and it is a pity that I should lose this 
 morning sun^these autumn days are sadly 
 chilly. Marshall will be waiting, too," and 
 having thus excused bimself for his incivility, 
 he got up from his seat. 
 
 Susan helped him to put on his hat and 
 great coat, and opened the glass door that 
 led from the study into the garden. 
 
 ^' You will remember to look after the fire, 
 Susan," he said, looking back; "but you 
 always do remember." 
 
 His movements were very slow, and Julian's 
 patience could scarcely endure the delay; yet 
 when he was gone, and Susan had closed the 
 door, he almost wished to recal him again. 
 He looked flushed and heated, and made some 
 nervous remark on the size of the fire. 
 
 " You are not used to papa's room," Susan 
 
 said, with a smile, and she placed a screen 
 
 before it, and pushed the large arm-chair 
 
 nearer to the window ; then with a look in- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 viting him to sit down, and placing her work 
 before her, though she did not touch it, she 
 began at once in a quiet, steady voice — 
 
 " I want to speak to you, Julian — on what 
 subject, perhaps, you can guess; and you 
 must let me speak, and not interrupt me, for 
 there are two or three. things which I wish 
 you to understand. You must promise me, 
 too, not to be hurt or angry at anything I 
 say, for I assure you that I only mean what 
 is best for both of us." 
 
 She paused, and looked at him. He was 
 sitting nearly opposite to her, with downcast 
 eyes; and to this beginning he made no re- 
 mark. But the beginning was made, and 
 she went on more easily. 
 
 " You know, Julian, that I have never 
 thought you perfectly understood the circum- 
 stances in which we were placed. We both 
 gave our promises that v/e would consider our 
 grandfather's wish, and that we would en- 
 deavour to fulfil it ; but this was all. We 
 were free, as any other two people are free. 
 I don't think that when first you came to 
 Keevor you remembered this sufficiently ; and
 
 PRIDE AND IKRESOLUTION. 277 
 
 I myself — I had been so accustomed to the 
 idea of the engagement — that I think I, as 
 well as you, looked upon it in a wrong light. 
 I feel now that we were both mistaken, and 
 that I was wrong, very wrong to allow you 
 on so short an acquaintance to bind yourself to 
 me. I feel it now; and, dear Julian, I will 
 do all in my power to undo what has been 
 done. I see now, very strongly, that I am 
 not suited to you, and .... we will be free 
 again.'' 
 
 She ended rather abruptly; when it came 
 to the point her voice trembled, and she 
 paused at once, before Julian could discover 
 the symptoms of agitation or regret. 
 
 He looked at her as if he scarcely under- 
 stood her. 
 
 " Free 1" at last, he repeated fearfully. 
 
 " Yes, Julian, it must be so." 
 
 Perhaps there had been moments when, fol- 
 lowing where his restless spirit, his impetuous 
 desires led him, the wish for freedom had 
 crossed his mind ; but it was forgotten now. 
 
 " Ah, Susan !" he said, humbly, '^ your pa- 
 tience with me is quickly worn out."
 
 278 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 She had been prepared for vehement re- 
 proaches : for his tone of tenderness she was not 
 prepared, and her voice was less steady, and 
 her colour a little heightened, as she said, 
 
 " I feared you must have thought me only 
 too patient." 
 
 " Susan," he exclaimed, passionately, " why 
 will you speak to me thus?" and he came to- 
 wards her as he spoke; but she was herself 
 again. 
 
 " My dear Julian," she said, with a slight 
 movement of her head, "you must let me 
 speak to you quietly. We must not allow a 
 moment's feeling to be our guide. Once we 
 did so, and, I fear, it has caused you much 
 unhappiness — it shall not be so again. I pro- 
 mised to think for you, and I have thought — 
 it is best for both of us that this engagement 
 should be broken. — And it is broken," she 
 added, with emphasis. 
 
 "Is it come to this ?" he said again, in his 
 humble, reproachful tone. " Ah, Susan ! I see 
 how it is; I am too weak, too erring, too 
 earthly, for you and your purity ; and yet, I 
 did not think you would so soon have forsaken 
 me."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 279 
 
 " Was it to forsake, Julian— to wait as I 
 have done — when I have seen, long seen, that 
 you love me no more?" She stooped her head, 
 and took up her needle, to conceal the deep 
 blush that mounted to her temples. 
 
 And he, too, cast down his eyes, and re- 
 mained silent. The delusion was over. He 
 saw Susan's love, and his unworthiness ; he 
 felt his weakness, and her strength, and awak- 
 ing " from the spells that bound him, he sighed 
 only for her who so fondly loved him." We 
 cling, it has been said, with a strange fondness, 
 to that which we must abandon, and the strong 
 resolve to separate often makes separation im- 
 possible. It may have been this feeling that 
 guided him, or it may have been, that when 
 he searched his heart, Susan was even dearer 
 to him than all beside ; but certainly Florence 
 was at this moment forgotten. 
 
 He spoke at last, and it was in that softened 
 sorrowful tone which touched her so deeply, 
 and almost destroyed the perceptions of right 
 and wrong in her mind. 
 
 " You do not know me, Susan — you do not 
 even yet understand me. I know well tliat I
 
 280 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 am not what I should be — unworthy, oh, how 
 unworthy of you ! — led astray by every breath 
 that passes by ; but I told you how it would be 
 — I told you that to be my wife would be no 
 easy happy task — that I wanted a guide to be 
 loving and gentle with me, as my mother would 
 have been — and you promised to be such a 
 one to me : — even if I wandered from the right 
 way, you promised to bear with me, and never 
 to forsake me ; and now, Susan, now you re- 
 pent — you cast me away — you do not love 
 me?" 
 
 With a violent effort she preserved her com- 
 posure, but she did preserve it. 
 
 " My promise, Julian," she said, gently, but 
 seriously, " was to be fulfilled as your wife — 
 as your wife I never would forsake you ; but 
 my duty now is different ; and I should indeed 
 be false to my promise to love you, and to 
 think for you, if I allowed you to speak your 
 vows to me in the sight of God, while your 
 heart was given to another." 
 
 He was awed by the seriousness of her 
 manner, but at every word she spoke her
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 281 
 
 power over him revived, and there was the 
 earnestness of truth in the tones that burst 
 from him — "Susan, I love but you; Susan, 
 dearest Susan, can you not forgive me?" 
 
 She was silent — she dared not speak. 
 
 He came towards her, and took her hand in 
 his, while bending low he said, with reproach- 
 ful tenderness — " You doubt my love — ah, 
 Susan ! forgive me, you may have cause to do 
 so ; but have I not cause to doubt yours ? I 
 know that you have been like an angel, Susan 
 — that you have borne with me as none others 
 would; but now, now, you talk of resigning 
 me, and your eye is tearless, and your voice is 
 calmer than mine. Is it nothing to give me 
 up? if you truly loved me, would you not 
 bear with me still?" 
 
 " No, Julian," she said, in a low voice, and 
 not daring to raise her eyes to his face; "for 
 those who truly love, love the happiness and 
 the welfare of others more than their own joy. 
 I do, most willingly," and though her voice 
 was low, it was firm — " resign your love, be- 
 cause I feel that I am no longer able to make 
 
 !
 
 282 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 you happy, and because, dear Julian, the en- 
 gagement, as it now stands, does but lead you 
 into temptation." 
 
 " Temptation !" he exclaimed, passionately ; 
 "Ah, Susan, without you what will become of 
 me? I have, I own it, I have sinned against 
 the perfect love I promised you. Would she 
 had never come here to destroy my happiness 
 and yours — is it not yours also? Will you 
 not tell me so ?" — but he did not wait for an 
 answer; he went on, excitedly — "I am not 
 happy, Susan, I am wretched — miserable ; and 
 you only, your voice only, can give me peace. 
 It is not my love that has wandered ; it is my 
 weakness, it is my sinking, dark, troubled 
 heart that tempts me ; and where will it lead 
 me if you forsake me? Ah, Susan ! are you so 
 hard, so unforgiving? Will you not pity me 
 — will you not bear with me still?" 
 
 Her reason, her judgment, her resolution 
 were failing. She was weak also, where Julian 
 was concerned — but before she yielded, she 
 spoke once more with seriousness and gravity. 
 
 "Julian, I must ask you, and you must 
 look at me and answer me truly. Is Florence
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 283 
 
 nothing to you? — you are destroying, perhaps 
 you have already destroyed, her peace of mind. 
 There must be no more wandering — we cannot 
 both have your love. Henceforward, Julian, 
 forgive me if I speak harshly, you must hear 
 the truth before it is too late — henceforward, 
 if we renew our vows, you cannot love her, 
 and be free from guilt." She paused, and 
 fixed her eyes anxiously upon him — " Dear 
 Julian, ponder well — do not deceive yourself 
 or me. It may make me happy to receive 
 your love, but not a love falsely or weakly 
 given. Dear Julian, if you were to repent 
 when it is too late, think what our misery 
 would be !" 
 
 " I have no choice, Susan," he said, with a 
 calm decision which carried conviction to her 
 mind — " I am not free, I am yours — yours 
 only, if you will but let me be so." He took 
 her hand, looked fondly and anxiously at her, 
 then with his sweet, playful smile, added — 
 " Will you not revoke youc words? — we are not 
 free?" 
 
 And so once more the engagement was re- 
 newed.
 
 284 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 As Julian entered the hall, he found George 
 Yivian and Mr. Painter waiting ; the former 
 endeavouring to soothe his companion, who, 
 notwithstanding his small voice and meek de- 
 meanour, was betraying symptoms of a dis- 
 pleasure that was far from " satisfactory/' 
 
 ^' It will never do, Mr. Vivian. Mr. Julias 
 is not fit to be a member of the most distin- 
 guished assembly in the world. Punctuality 
 is the soul of business. I am sorry to say 
 that Mr. Julias has disappointed me. I con- 
 sider his conduct as very far from satis- 
 factory." 
 
 George Vivian shook his head at Julian, 
 with a smile ; and while he was looking for 
 his hat, approached him to recommend an 
 apology to Mr. Painter. 
 
 " Oh, George !" Julian said, with much 
 feeling, '^ I cannot think of Mr. Painter now. 
 You do not know how miserable I have been, 
 or what Susan is. You blame me as she does 
 — but you would not have forgiven me as she 
 has done. I am happy again now, and only 
 wonder why such an angel has been sent from 
 heaven to bless me."
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 285 
 
 And George Vivian was disposed to wonder 
 also, and, perhaps, at times more than to 
 wonder ; but not often. His was one of those 
 rare natures which can love without a spark 
 of hope, or a thought of self. 
 
 It has been often said, that lovers' quarrels 
 are a renewal of love. I am rather disposed 
 to agree with those who doubt the truth of 
 this observation. Something of outward ar- 
 dour it may renew, but it destroys something 
 inward and far more precious — the perfect 
 rest — the perfect confidence of an unshaken 
 attachment. Perhaps, however, it was my 
 observation of Susan and Julian which gave 
 me this opinion. 
 
 No one could doubt, who saw them on that 
 evening (excepting Mr. Greville, who slum- 
 bered as peacefully as if his dearest hopes had 
 not been within an inch of destruction) that 
 some reconciliation, some " renewal of love," 
 had taken place ; but the feeling which it in- 
 spired in me was not one of peace. Susan's 
 cheek and eye were bright again, thougli she 
 looked very fragile still, but they had not the
 
 286 PRIDE AND IRKESOLUTION. 
 
 serenity of the last evening. She had then 
 been above, she was now again in the midst 
 of the agitations of earthly passion. 
 
 Julian was devoted to her. He scarcely 
 left her side. His eyes sought hers at every 
 word he spoke, as if to read approval there. 
 It was not that repose which had once been 
 between them, and which, even though inter- 
 rupted of late, had rather seemed interrupted 
 than broken. 
 
 We were quite alone. Mr. Painter had 
 only been an occasional guest, and the change, 
 therefore, the transfer of Julian's attentions, 
 was very apparent. I saw the first dawn of 
 fear on Miss Yere's countenance. When we 
 came into the drawing-room, Julian placed 
 himself by Susan's side, and began to talk to 
 her very earnestly ; he had returned late, and 
 had not seen her since the morning. Miss 
 Vere approached him and asked him to sing. 
 He declined, not coldly, but gravely. I am 
 sure he was anxious to do right — to undo as 
 quickly, yet as gently as possible, what he 
 had done. As soon as he had answered her, 
 he resumed his conversation with Susan. She
 
 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 287 
 
 looked annoyed, yet not very mucli so, and 
 turned away. Shortly afterwards, Susan left 
 the room on a message for her father, and 
 Julian took up a piece of paper, and began to 
 write. Susan returned while he was writing, 
 but, before he had finished, she was called away 
 again to make her father's tea. When he had 
 read over what he had written, he laid it on 
 the table, with a smile, and joined Mr. Vivian 
 and myself. Miss Yere had been w^atching 
 him with intense curiosity ; she now approached 
 the table, and laid her hand upon the paper, 
 with a glance at Julian. He did not forbid 
 her reading it, and her eye fell upon the fol- 
 lowing lines — 
 
 " Thy softly gliding step — thy light, fair form ; 
 
 The lingering music of thy gentle voice ; 
 
 Thine eye, nor sad, nor yet that bids rejoice — 
 
 Dark as the ebon of the gathering storm, 
 
 Yet with a lustre so serenely sweet, 
 
 It wins the heart, the while unconscious why. 
 
 The smile on thy pale cheek that suddenly 
 
 Plays as the lightning's flash the tempests greet. 
 
 These are thy charms — not beauty's matchless dower, 
 
 Speaking the sweetness of thine even mind — 
 
 Calm duty's steadfast strength if storms should lower. 
 
 And smiles of gentler love in days more kind ; 
 
 Shining above us as a pale, pure star, 
 
 Yet drooped to earth as fairest flowers arc."
 
 288 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 The verses certainly had the merit of giving 
 a faithful picture of Susan. Florence could 
 not doubt their meaning. She laid them 
 down, and went to the pianoforte, but her 
 eye still watched the table on which they 
 were laid, and she saw them placed before 
 SuSan on her return, and she watched the 
 deep blush that followed their perusal. Then 
 turning her head away, she began to play 
 vehemently and passionately, but the vehe- 
 mence lasted only for a time — it died away in 
 music unspeakably melancholy. 
 
 Susan's eye rested painfully upon her. 
 Willingly, most willingly, she would have sent 
 Julian to her side — her heart ached for her 
 cousin; and I am persuaded that Julian's re- 
 newed attention to herself did not compensate 
 for the sorrow that she felt in causing grief to 
 her. But Susan's judgment was a clear and 
 sound one ; and painful as it was to see Flo- 
 rence suffer, she felt that she now was but 
 learning what sooner or later must be learnt ; 
 and though, perhaps, abruptly taught, yet for 
 Julian's happiness, and possibly for her own 
 also, the more abruptly the less painfully —
 
 PEIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 289 
 
 the less of fear and hope, of anxiety and 
 doubt, those strengtheners of feeling and 
 additions to pain; and she endured (it was 
 endurance, doubt it who will) the unceasing 
 ,and apparent devotion which Julian showed, 
 without an attempt to conceal or to escape 
 from it. 
 
 I sometimes wondered by what magic 
 George Vivian so often, and so quickly en- 
 tered into Susan's feelings. He was reading 
 at the further end of the room, as he usually 
 did when we were alone. He had never 
 attempted to make much acquaintance with 
 Miss Vere. They were not suited to each 
 other. I saw Susan once or twice glance to- 
 wards him with an unexpressed wish in her 
 countenance, but I think even his back was 
 turned towards her ; yet, suddenly, he laid his 
 book aside, and went to the pianoforte. He 
 asked for a song, and he was coldly repulsed ; he 
 playfully pressed for it, and at length was 
 coldly gratified. He entered into conversa- 
 tion, as I had never heard him speak before, 
 gaily, animatedly ; and Florence relaxed 
 from her suUenness at last, and though her 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 PRIDE AND IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 laugh was louder than the laugh of happiness, 
 and her voice had occasionally a sad, occa- 
 sionally a harsh sound, yet he was rewarded 
 for his endeavours. Susan's spirit grew 
 lighter, and Miss Vere was saved from the 
 additional pain of neglect. 
 
 " Sunday, to-morrow, Julian," George 
 Vivian remarked, as they passed along the 
 corridor together; " a day of rest for you." 
 
 " A day of rest in more senses than one," 
 Julian answered, feelingly; "the beginning 
 •of a new week, and I trust of a new life 
 also." 
 
 Oh ! words, how falsely prophetic. It was 
 the beginning of a new and bitter life to him. 
 
 END OF VOL I. 
 
 Savill & Edwards, Printers, 4, Chandos-street, CoTcnt-garden.
 
 ^53^ 
 
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