Fame, the shadow, I
should lose the substance, Independence. Why, that very thought would
paralyze my tongue. No, no, my generous friend. As labour is the arch
elevator of man, so patience is the essence of labour. First let me
build the foundation; I may then calculate the height of my tower. First
let me be independent of the great; I will then be the champion of
the lowly. Hold! Tempt me no more; do not lure me to the loss of
self-esteem. And now, Percival," resumed Ardworth, in the tone of one
who wishes to plunge into some utterly new current of thought, "let us
forget for awhile these solemn aspirations, and be frolicsome and
human. 'Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit.' 'Neque semper arcum tendit
Apollo.' What say you to a cigar?"

Percival stared. He was not yet familiarized to the eccentric whims of
his friend.

"Hot negus and a cigar!" repeated Ardworth, while a smile, full of
drollery, played round the corners of his lips and twinkled in his
deep-set eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"Not serious; I have been serious enough," and Ardworth sighed, "for
the last three weeks. Who goes 'to Corinth to be sage,' or to the Cider
Cellar to be serious?"

"I subscribe, then, to the negus and cigar," said Percival, smiling; and
he had no cause to repent his compliance as he accompanied Ardworth to
one of the resorts favoured by that strange person in his rare hours of
relaxation.

For, seated at his favourite table, which happened, luckily, to be
vacant, with his head thrown carelessly back, and his negus steaming
before him, John Ardworth continued to pour forth, till the clock struck
three, jest upon jest, pun upon pun, broad drollery upon broad drollery,
without flagging, without intermission, so varied, so copious, so ready,
so irresistible that Percival was transported out of all his melancholy
in enjoying, for the first time in his life, the exuberant gayety of a
grave mind once set free,--all its intellect sparkling into wit, all
its passion rushing into humour. And this was the man he had pitied,
supposed to have no sunny side to his life! How much greater had been
his compassion and his wonder if he could have known all that had
passed, within the last few weeks, through that gloomy, yet silent
breast, which, by the very breadth of its mirth, showed what must be the
depth of its sadness!

CHAPTER XIII. THE LOSS OF THE CROSSING.

Despite the lateness of the hour before he got to rest, Percival
had alre