“Enough,” she replied with great calmness. “I can go and see him now. Karlo Magno! you have helped me to do what is right—I must have failed but for you.”
Ah! the bitter mockery of her words, to wear the star of honour on a heart conscious of shame.
Westby sought to change the current of the conversation.
“You talk about being ruined,” said he. “I hope things are not as bad as that!”
“Mr. Newton told me so!”
“Well, I’ve every hope when Newton gets away that we shall be able to make some compromise, so that after all his loss may not be very serious.”
“Why did he try me in that manner?” exclaimed Lilian vehemently; “it was cruel, very cruel.”
“Pardon me, it was only honourable to state the worst.”
“Well, well, he might have had my answer at once, this afternoon as we rode along—the words of assurance were on my lips, but he stopped me, he would hear nothing till I had thought the matter over—he left me, and then came thought and horrid doubt.”
“Lilian, he acted well!”
“Not ruined! Oh! thank God for that. Why then this is but a temporary affair, he may come back shortly.”
“He may! Nay, Lilian, I promise that he shall,” exclaimed Westby, earnestly. “I assure you, on my honour, that I will work for him in this business, as I would work for a brother, to set him right.”
Work was Westby’s ointment for remorse.
“Karlo Magno, you are my good genius—you always appear at the right moment—”
“Nonsense, Lilian.”
But she would clasp his hand, and her face bore the same expression he remembered so well that evening at Brienz. He had not begun to love then, and he had ceased to love now—his foolish, morbid love was utterly quenched in a deep sense of shame. She was no other to him now than Fred Temple’s sister, engaged to his oldest friend—fairy Lilian, if you will, the playmate of early years.
And he in her eyes still bore that same greatness which had fascinated her heart in Switzerland—a being too great and grand for her poor trivial nature—an idol to be admired, or rather worshipped at the heart’s shrine. Ah, Lilian, Lilian, our finest idols are only made of clay!
“Not ruined!” exclaimed Lilian to Mrs. Wilson, as that lady entered the room. “Not ruined! Mr. Westby tells me so. Mr. Newton will doubtless get over this misfortune without great loss.”
*****
“If you please, ma’am,” said the butler, entering the room, “there’s a man at the door inquiring for Mr. Newton. He wants to see him on particular business.”
“Detain him in conversation as long as you can,” replied Mrs. Wilson. “I know I can trust to your discretion, Simmons: mind, not a word in the house that we are gone. We will go through the French window in the library, instead of going out at the hall, and then by the garden to the stable-yard.”
Mrs. Wilson’s brougham was ready at the stable door—the man was at the horse’s head.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the man to Westby, “you’ll want a thick coat on the downs.”
“All right; jump up!” cried Westby, catching off the horsecloth, and throwing it over his shoulders.
The horse felt the cold wind, plunged, kicked, and then went a head.
“Frost, sir!” said the man.
“Is it?” rejoined Westby. He felt burning hot.
The wide sky was thick with stars at their brightest in the frosty air; the clear open plain was filled with a low undertone of light.
Pretty work for the “whip”—two wheels in a cart-rut all the way up-hill, and the other two wheels wherever they could manage to pitch, the horse remarkably fresh.
“Look out!” cried Westby, “that dip ahead!”
The man turned the horse, the brougham swerved to one side with a violent jerk, but at the speed they were going was caught up by a rise in the ground. All safe. Swish! swish! swish! they were driving right through a field of swedes. One deepish drop, and they got safe on to the Devizes road.
“Which way, sir?”
“Left.”
You could see the white chalk line of the road right ahead in the dim light.
“I can hardly hold him, sir.”
“Give him his head then!”
Up and down the sharp dippy hills in the chalk road, the frosty wind fanning Westby’s cheeks.
“Turn on to the turf now—to the left. That’s the track! We must leave that plantation to the right.”
“Now then, foolish!” The horse started and swerved at a white mass in front. “Whohooo! it’s only a sheep,” cried the man, flicking at it with his whip. Crish! crish! crish! went the wheels against the frosted furrows. “Whoa! they’ve been ploughing it up here. Back! back! That’s right! Now away to the left! We shall get to the road directly.”
*****
“Any breath left, ladies?” said Westby, as he opened the door.
“Let me hope the best for the springs,” replied Mrs. Wilson, goodhumouredly. “I trust we shall be allowed to go home in peace by the road.”
“Lilian,” said a voice behind. It was George Newton: he led her into the house.
THE HARVEST.
The way in which the prospect of any modern harvest is regarded in this country is a striking evidence of the change which a few years have wrought in our civilisation. At a time within my recollection, when the population of the three kingdoms was only two-thirds what it is now, when the general mind was narrower, and the interests of classes were locked up under protective laws, the question of the harvest was a mere bore in
