" was Mrs. Berry's
rejoinder. "And now let us pray blessings on that simple-speaking
gentleman who does so much 'cause he says so little."

Like many other natural people, Mrs. Berry was only silly where her own
soft heart was concerned. As she secretly anticipated, the baronet came
into her room when all was quiet. She saw him go and bend over Richard
the Second, and remain earnestly watching him. He then went to the
half-opened door of the room where Lucy slept, leaned his ear a moment,
knocked gently, and entered. Mrs. Berry heard low words interchanging
within. She could not catch a syllable, yet she would have sworn to the
context. "He've called her his daughter, promised her happiness, and
given a father's kiss to her." When Sir Austin passed out she was in a
deep sleep.

CHAPTER XLII

Briareus reddening angrily over the sea--what is that vaporous Titan?
And Hesper set in his rosy garland--why looks he so implacably sweet?
It is that one has left that bright home to go forth and do cloudy work,
and he has got a stain with which he dare not return. Far in the West
fair Lucy beckons him to come. Ah, heaven! if he might! How strong and
fierce the temptation is! how subtle the sleepless desire! it drugs his
reason, his honour. For he loves her; she is still the first and only
woman to him. Otherwise would this black spot be hell to him? otherwise
would his limbs be chained while her arms are spread open to him. And
if he loves her, why then what is one fall in the pit, or a thousand? Is
not love the password to that beckoning bliss? So may we say; but here
is one whose body has been made a temple to him, and it is desecrated.

A temple, and desecrated! For what is it fit for but for a dance of
devils? His education has thus wrought him to think.

He can blame nothing but his own baseness. But to feel base and accept
the bliss that beckons--he has not fallen so low as that.

Ah, happy English home! sweet wife! what mad miserable Wisp of the Fancy
led him away from you, high in his conceit? Poor wretch! that thought
to be he of the hundred hands, and war against the absolute Gods. Jove
whispered a light commission to the Laughing Dame; she met him; and how
did he shake Olympus? with laughter?

Sure it were better to be Orestes, the Furies howling in his ears, than
one called to by a heavenly soul from whom he is for ever outcast. He
has not the oblivion of madness. Clothed in the lights of his first
passio