wer, a knot of
riband, has been for men luridly illuminated by such small sparks to
fling their beams on shadows and read the monstrous things for truths.
Her purer virgin blood was, not inflamed. She read the signification of
the card sadly as she did clearly. What she could not so distinctly
imagine was, how he could reconcile the devotion to his country, which he
had taught her to put her faith in, with his unhappy subjection to Madame
de Rouaillout. How could the nobler sentiment exist side by side with one
that was lawless? Or was the wildness characteristic of his political
views proof of a nature inclining to disown moral ties? She feared so; he
did not speak of the clergy respectfully. Reading in the dark, she was
forced to rely on her social instincts, and she distrusted her personal
feelings as much as she could, for she wished to know the truth of him;
anything, pain and heartrending, rather than the shutting of the eyes in
an unworthy abandonment to mere emotion and fascination. Cecilia's love
could not be otherwise given to a man, however near she might be drawn to
love--though she should suffer the pangs of love cruelly.

She placed his card in her writing-desk; she had his likeness there.
Commander Beauchamp encouraged the art of photography, as those that make
long voyages do, in reciprocating what they petition their friends for.
Mrs. Rosamund Culling had a whole collection of photographs of him, equal
to a visual history of his growth in chapters, from boyhood to
midshipmanship and to manhood. The specimen possessed by Cecilia was one
of a couple that Beauchamp had forwarded to Mrs. Grancey Lespel on the
day of his departure for France, and was a present from that lady,
purchased, like so many presents, at a cost Cecilia would have paid
heavily in gold to have been spared, namely, a public blush. She was
allowed to make her choice, and she chose the profile, repeating a remark
of Mrs. Culling's, that it suggested an arrow-head in the upflight;
whereupon Mr. Stukely Culbrett had said, 'Then there is the man, for he
is undoubtedly a projectile'; nor were politically-hostile punsters on an
arrow-head inactive. But Cecilia was thinking of the side-face she (less
intently than Beauchamp at hers) had glanced at during the drive into
Bevisham. At that moment, she fancied Madame de Rouaillout might be doing
likewise; and oh that she had the portrait of the French lady as well!

Next day her father tossed her a