tter them,
and a certain modesty and habitual awe kept her silent upon subjects so
very sacred, went deeper yet. She had been bred to measure her actions
by a standard which the world may nominally admit, but which it leaves
for the most part unheeded. Worship, love, duty, as taught her by the
devout study of the Sacred Law which interprets and defines it--if these
formed the outward practice of her life, they were also its constant
and secret endeavours and occupation. She spoke but very seldom of her
religion, though it filled her heart and influenced all her behaviour.
Whenever she came to that sacred subject, her demeanour appeared to her
husband so awful that he scarcely dared to approach it in her company,
and stood without as this pure creature entered into the Holy of Holies.
What must the world appear to such a person? Its ambitious rewards,
disappointments, pleasures, worth how much? Compared to the possession
of that priceless treasure and happiness unspeakable, a perfect faith,
what has Life to offer? I see before me now her sweet grave face, as
she looks out from the balcony of the little Richmond villa we occupied
during the first happy year after our marriage, following Ethel Newcome,
who rides away, with a staid groom behind her, to her brother's summer
residence, not far distant. Clive had been with us in the morning, and
had brought us stirring news. The good Colonel was by this time on his
way home. "If Clive could tear himself away from London," the good man
wrote (and we thus saw he was acquainted with the state of the young
man's mind), "why should not Clive go and meet his father at Malta?" He
was feverish and eager to go; and his two friends strongly counselled
him to take the journey. In the midst of our talk Miss Ethel came among
us. She arrived flushed and in high spirits; she rallied Clive upon his
gloomy looks; she turned rather pale, as it seemed to us, when she heard
the news. Then she coldly told him she thought the voyage must be a
pleasant one, and would do him good: it was pleasanter than that journey
she was going to take herself with her dreary grandmother, to those
German springs which the old Countess frequented year after year. Mr.
Pendennis having business, retired to his study, whither presently Mrs.
Laura followed, having to look for her scissors, or a book she wanted,
or upon some pretext or other. She sate down in the conjugal study; not
one word did either of us say for a whil