sehold; and his ultimatum was, that the Apology should
be delivered in terms to satisfy him within three months of the date of
the demand for it: otherwise blank; but the shadowy index pointed to the
destitution of Nevil Beauchamp.

No stroke of retributive misfortune could have been severer to Rosamund
than to be thrust forward as the object of humiliation for the man she
loved. She saw at a glance how much more likely it was (remote as the
possibility appeared) that her lord would perform the act of penitence
than her beloved Nevil. And she had no occasion to ask herself why. Lord
Avonley had done wrong, and Nevil had not. It was inconceivable that
Nevil should apologize to her. It was horrible to picture the act in
her mind. She was a very rational woman, quite a woman of the world, yet
such was her situation between these two men that the childish tale of
a close and consecutive punishment for sins, down to our little
naughtinesses and naturalnesses, enslaved her intelligence, and amazed
her with the example made of her, as it were to prove the tale true of
our being surely hauled back like domestic animals learning the habits
of good society, to the rueful contemplation of certain of our deeds,
however wildly we appeal to nature to stand up for them.

But is it so with all of us? No, thought Rosamund, sinking dejectedly
from a recognition of the heavenliness of the justice which lashed
her and Nevil, and did not scourge Cecil Baskelett. That fine eye for
celestially directed consequences is ever haunted by shadows of unfaith
likely to obscure it completely when chastisement is not seen to fall
on the person whose wickedness is evident to us. It has been established
that we do not wax diviner by dragging down the Gods to our level.

Rosamund knew Lord Avonley too well to harass him with further petitions
and explanations. Equally vain was it to attempt to persuade Beauchamp.
He made use of the house in London, where he met his uncle occasionally,
and he called at Steynham for money, that he could have obtained upon
the one condition, which was no sooner mentioned than fiery words
flew in the room, and the two separated. The leaden look in Beauchamp,
noticed by Cecilia Halkett in their latest interview, was deepening,
and was of itself a displeasure to Lord Avonley, who liked flourishing
faces, and said: 'That fellow's getting the look of a sweating smith':
presumptively in the act of heating his poker at the furnac