at the floor, and lifting his eyes only when he
spoke. Fortunate! very fortunate! As he revolved his later history, and
remembered how clearly he had seen that his father must love Lucy if he
but knew her, and remembered his efforts to persuade her to come with
him, a sting of miserable rage blackened his brain. But could he blame
that gentle soul? Whom could he blame? Himself? Not utterly. His father?
Yes, and no. The blame was here, the blame was there: it was everywhere
and nowhere, and the young man cast it on the Fates, and looked angrily
at heaven, and grew reckless.

"Richard," said his father, coming close to him, "it is late to-night. I
do not wish Lucy to remain in expectation longer, or I should have
explained myself to you thoroughly, and I think--or at least hope--you
would have justified me. I had cause to believe that you had not only
violated my confidence, but grossly deceived me. It was not so, I now
know. I was mistaken. Much of our misunderstanding has resulted from that
mistake. But you were married--a boy: you knew nothing of the world,
little of yourself. To save you in after-life--for there is a period when
mature men and women who have married young are more impelled to
temptation than in youth,--though not so exposed to it,--to save you, I
say, I decreed that you should experience self-denial and learn something
of your fellows of both sexes, before settling into a state that must
have been otherwise precarious, however excellent the woman who is your
mate. My System with you would have been otherwise imperfect, and you
would have felt the effects of it. It is over now. You are a man. The
dangers to which your nature was open are, I trust, at an end. I wish you
to be happy, and I give you both my blessing, and pray God to conduct and
strengthen you both."

Sir Austin's mind was unconscious of not having spoken devoutly. True or
not, his words were idle to his son: his talk of dangers over, and
happiness, mockery.

Richard coldly took his father's extended hand.

"We will go to her," said the baronet. "I will leave you at her door."

Not moving: looking fixedly at his father with a hard face on which the
colour rushed, Richard said: "A husband who has been unfaithful to his
wife may go to her there, sir?"

It was horrible, it was cruel: Richard knew that. He wanted no advice on
such a matter, having fully resolved what to do. Yesterday he would have
listened to his father, and blamed himse