cause he was not
only a man of thought, but a Vanderpoel of the blood of the first
Reuben--these were things he did not contemplate without restlessness.
When Rosy had gone away and seemed lost to them, he had been glad when
he had seen Betty growing, day by day, into a strong thing. Feminine
though she was, she sometimes suggested to him the son who might have
been his, but was not. As the closeness of their companionship increased
with her years, his admiration for her grew with his love. Power left in
her hands must work for the advancement of things, and would not be idly
disseminated--if no antagonistic influence wrought against her. He had
found himself reflecting that, after all was said, the marriage of such
a girl had a sort of parallel in that of some young royal creature,
whose union might make or mar things, which must be considered. The man
who must inevitably strongly colour her whole being, and vitally mark
her life, would, in a sense, lay his hand upon the lever also. If he
brought sorrow and disorder with him, the lever would not move steadily.
Fortunes such as his grow rapidly, and he was a richer man by millions
than he had been when Rosalie had married Nigel Anstruthers. The memory
of that marriage had been a painful thing to him, even before he
had known the whole truth of its results. The man had been a common
adventurer and scoundrel, despite the facts of good birth and the air of
decent breeding. If a man who was as much a scoundrel, but cleverer--it
would be necessary that he should be much cleverer--made the best of
himself to Betty----! It was folly to think one could guess what a
woman--or a man, either, for that matter--would love. He knew Betty, but
no man knows the thing which comes, as it were, in the dark and claims
its own--whether for good or evil. He had lived long enough to see
beautiful, strong-spirited creatures do strange things, follow strange
gods, swept away into seas of pain by strange waves.

"Even Betty," he had said to himself, now and then. "Even my Betty. Good
God--who knows!"

Because of this, he had read each letter with keen eyes. They were long
letters, full of detail and colour, because she knew he enjoyed them.
She had a delightful touch. He sometimes felt as if they walked the
English lanes together. His intimacy with her neighbours, and her
neighbourhood, was one of his relaxations. He found himself thinking of
old Doby and Mrs. Welden, as a sort of soporific mea