on's parliamentary
secretary to the humblest aspirant to a tide-waitership--Soane was not
the only one who had time on his hands and sought to while it away in
the company of the fair. The shades of Preshute churchyard, which lies
in the bosom of the trees, not three bowshots from the Castle Inn and
hard by the Kennet, formed the chosen haunt of one couple. A second pair
favoured a seat situate on the west side of the Castle Mound, and well
protected by shrubs from the gaze of the vulgar. And there were others.

These Corydons, however, were at ease; they basked free from care in the
smiles of their Celias. But Soane, in his philandering, had to do with
black care that would be ever at his elbow; black care, that always when
he was not with Julia, and sometimes while he talked to her, would jog
his thoughts, and draw a veil before the future. The prospect of losing
Estcombe, of seeing the family Lares broken and cast out, and the
family stem, tender and young, yet not ungracious, snapped off short,
wrung a heart that belied his cold exterior. Moreover, when all these
had been sacrificed, he was his own judge how far he could without means
pursue the life which he was living. Suspense, anxiety, sordid
calculation were ever twitching his sleeve, and would have his
attention. Was the claim a valid claim, and must it prevail? If it
prevailed, how was he to live; and where, and on what? Would the
Minister grant his suit for a place or a pension? Should he prefer that
suit, or might he still by one deep night and one great hand at hazard
win back the thirty thousand guineas he had lost in five years?

Such questions, troubling him whether he would or no, and forcing
themselves on his attention when they were least welcome, ruffled at
last the outward composure on which as a man of fashion he plumed
himself. He would fall silent in Julia's company, and turning his eyes
from her, in unworthy forgetfulness, would trace patterns in the dust
with his cane, or stare by the minute together at the quiet stream that
moved sluggishly beneath them.

On these occasions she made no attempt to rouse him. But when he again
awoke to the world, to the coach passing in its cloud of dust, or the
gaping urchin, or the clang of the distant dinner-bell, he would find
her considering him with an enigmatical smile, that lay in the region
between amusement and pity; her shapely chin resting on her hand, and
the lace falling from the whitest wrist i