denied having committed it for his own sake. But he never troubled himself to consider what other people might think of him, so long as their opinion had no power to affect his personal comfort or safety.
The cloth had been removed, for old fashions held their ground at Tolldale Priory, where a dinner à la Russe, would have been looked upon as an absurd institution, more like children playing at a feast, than sensible people bent upon enjoying a substantial meal. The cloth had been removed, and that dreary ceremonial, a good old English dessert was in progress, when a servant brought Launcelot Darrell a card upon a salver, and presented it to him solemnly amid the silence of the company.
The young man was sitting next Eleanor Monckton, and she saw that the card was of a highly glazed and slippery nature, and of an abnormal size, between the ordinary sizes of a gentleman’s and a lady’s card.
The blood rushed to Launcelot Darrell’s forehead as he read the name upon the card, and Eleanor saw his under lip contract with a sudden movement, expressive of intense vexation.
“How did this—this gentleman come here?” he asked, turning to the servant.
“The gentleman has driven over from Hazlewood, sir. Hearing you were dining here, he came on to see you, he says; is he to be shown into the drawing-room.”
“Yes—no; I’ll come out and see him. Will you excuse me, Mr. Monckton: this is an old acquaintance of mine? Rather a pertinacious acquaintance, as you may perceive by his manner of following me up to-night.”
Mr. Darrell rose, pushed aside his chair, and went out of the dining-room, followed by the servant.
The hall was brilliantly lighted, and in the few moments during which the servant slowly followed Launcelot Darrell, Eleanor had an opportunity of seeing the stranger who had come to the Priory.
He was standing under the light of the large gas-lamp, shaking the rain-drops from his hat, and with his face turned towards the dining-room door.
He was short and stout, smartly dressed, and foppish-looking even in his travelling costume; and he was no other than the talkative Frenchman who had persuaded George Vane to leave his daughter alone upon the Boulevard on the night of August 11th, 1853.
WHAT NEXT FOR CHRISTENDOM?
In the “Saturday Review” of May 30th there is an interesting article on Gibbon’s great work; and, of many striking passages in the article, none is more impressive than a suggestion, dwelt upon once and again, that the civilised world is now in circumstances and in a temper strongly resembling those of human society in the ages which witnessed the rise of Christianity and Mohammedanism, amidst the decline and fall of the Roman empire. Gibbon’s work, says the “Saturday Beviewer” “is a comprehensive view of one great stage in the history of the world; and those who stand at the beginning of another stage, probably still more momentous, must contemplate the prospect which his work opens with endless interest and sympathy.” As the question then was, why Christianity, and Mohammedanism in its early and progressive stage, did not prevent the fall of the Roman empire, so the question is now, why the disclosure and development of new natural and social science are not preventing the lapse of the civilised world into barbaric disturbance, which had been supposed to be left behind for ever, within the bounds of Christendom. As the two great monotheistic faiths proved to have a relation to a period beyond that of the Roman civilisation, so, we may suppose, the new natural and political philosophy of our time may be in affinity with the new condition of human society, on the verge of which we are now standing.
The condition of Christendom at this hour is, in fact, so remarkable,—so unlike what was anticipated by our fathers when the last development of physical, political, and economical science became recognised by all—that it is to the last degree interesting to ascertain where the mistakes of anticipation lay, and what will be the destiny of the coming generations.
Ours has been the generation for a great development—we might say the invention—of the philosophy of History. Its leading principles may be regarded as established, and the key to the interpretation of human experience in social affairs as found and proved: but it was inevitable that some anticipations based on so new an arrangement of facts should turn out to be erroneous. One instance of this concerns us here. The successive phases of human society have been correctly described and distinguished, up to the close of the Military Period. To this has succeeded, by natural laws, the Commercial Period. It has been too hastily concluded that the combative tendencies of mankind would steadily decline when the interests and occupations of all ranks of society related to objects of a pacific and uniting quality. It is true that philosophers have always insisted that there is no sharp line of division between one social period and another, but that, on the contrary, the temper and practices of one period must extend far forward into the next succeeding stage. Thus, for instance, it was not to be expected that the warlike spirit and habit of life should at once disappear when commerce and the other arts of peace should prevail; but we were told that such wars as should occur would be for commercial objects, in some way or other.
The first great contradiction which awaited this expectation was the career of the first Bonaparte: and great has been the lamentation over the untoward appearance of a great military genius, which has turned back for a time the course of civilisation, and plunged Europe once more into turmoils which have deprived at least one generation of those blessings of progression to which they had a natural right. This was the interpretation of a quarter of a century ago. But now, still another generation is rising up to witness and