Читать книгу: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 38, December, 1860», страница 11
Richard Lovell Edgeworth, the ambassador and counsellor of Mr. Day in this affair, was at the very moment of the rejection himself enamored of Miss Sneyd. But Edgeworth had a wife already,–a pining, complaining woman, he tells us, who did not make his home cheerful,–and honor and decency forbade him to open his mouth on the subject that occupied his heart. He wisely sought refuge in flight, and in other scenes the natural exuberance of his disposition afforded a relief from the pangs of an unlawful and secret passion. Lord Byron, who met him forty years afterwards, in five lines shows us the man: if he was thus seen in the dry wood, we can imagine what he was in the green:–"I thought Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of a clarety, elderly, red complexion, but active, brisk, and endless. He was seventy, but did not look fifty,–no, nor forty-eight even." He was in France when the death of his father left him to the possession of a good estate,–and that of his wife occurring in happy concurrence, he lost little time in opening in his own behalf the communications that had failed when he spoke for Mr. Day. His wooing was prosperous; in July, 1773, he married Miss Sneyd.
It is a mistake, sanctioned by the constant acceptance of historians, to suppose that it was this occasion that prompted André to abandon a commercial life. The improbability of winning Honora's hand, and the freedom with which she received the addresses of other men, undoubtedly went far to convince him of the folly of sticking to trade with but one motive; and so soon as he attained his majority, he left the desk and stool forever, and entered the army. This was a long time before the Edgeworth marriage was undertaken, or even contemplated.
Lieutenant André of the Royal Fusileers had a very different line of duty to perform from Mr. André, merchant, of Warnford Court, Throgmorton Street; and the bustle of military life, doubtless, in some degree diverted his mind from the disagreeable contemplation of what was presently to occur at Lichfield. Some months were spent on the Continent and among the smaller German courts about the Rhine. After all was over, however, and the nuptial knot fairly tied that destroyed all his youthful hopes, he is related to have made a farewell expedition to the place of his former happiness. There, at least, he was sure to find one sympathizing heart. Miss Seward, who had to the very last minute contended with her friend against Mr. Edgeworth and in support of his less fortunate predecessor, now met him with open arms. No pains were spared by her to alleviate, since she could not remove, the disappointment that evidently possessed him. A legend is preserved in connection with this visit that is curious, though manifestly of very uncertain credibility. It is said that an engagement had been made by Miss Seward to introduce her friend to two gentlemen of some note in the neighborhood, Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Newton. On the appointed morning, while awaiting their expected guests, Cunningham related to his companion a vision–or rather, a series of visions–that had greatly disturbed his previous night's repose. He was alone in a wide forest, he said, when he perceived a rider approaching him. The horseman's countenance was plainly visible, and its lines were of a character too interesting to be readily forgotten. Suddenly three men sprang forth from an ambush among the thickets, and, seizing the stranger, hauled him from his horse and bore him away. To this succeeded another scene. He stood with a great multitude near by some foreign town. A bustle was heard, and he beheld the horseman of his earlier dream again led along a captive. A gibbet was erected, and the prisoner was at once hanged. In narrating this tale, Cunningham averred that the features of its hero were still fresh in his recollection; the door opened, and in the face of André, who at that moment presented himself, he professed to recognize that which had so troubled his slumbers.
Such is the tale that is recorded of the supernatural revelation of André's fate. If it rested on somewhat better evidence than any we are able to find in its favor, it would be at least more interesting. But whether or no the young officer continued to linger in the spirit about the spires of Lichfield and the romantic shades of Derbyshire, it is certain that his fleshly part was moving in a very different direction. In 1774, he embarked to join his regiment, then posted in Canada, and arrived at Philadelphia early in the autumn of the year.
It is not within the design of this paper to pursue to any length the details of André's American career. Regimental duties in a country district rarely afford matter worthy of particular record; and it is not until the troubles of our Revolutionary War break out, that we find anything of mark in his story. He was with the troops that Carleton sent down, after the fall of Ticonderoga, to garrison Chambly and St. John's, and to hold the passage of the Sorel against Montgomery and his little army. With the fall of these forts, he went into captivity. There is too much reason to believe that the imprisonment of the English on this occasion was not alleviated by many exhibitions of generosity on the part of their captors. Montgomery, indeed, was as humane and honorable as he was brave; but he was no just type of his followers. The articles of capitulation were little regarded, and the prisoners were, it would seem, rapidly despoiled of their private effects. "I have been taken by the Americans," wrote André, "and robbed of everything save the picture of Honora, which I concealed in my mouth. Preserving that, I think myself happy." Sent into the remote parts of Pennsylvania, his companions and himself met with but scant measure of courtesy from the mountaineers of that region; nor was he exchanged for many long and weary months. Once more free, however, his address and capacity soon came to his aid. His reports and sketches speedily commended him to the especial favor of the commander-in-chief, Sir William Howe; and ere long he was promoted to a captaincy and made aide-de-camp to Sir Charles Grey. This was a dashing, hard-fighting general of division, whose element was close quarters and whose favorite argument was the cold steel. If, therefore, André played but an inactive part at the Brandywine, he had ample opportunity on other occasions of tasting the excitement and the horrors of war. The night-surprises of Wayne at Paoli, and of Baylor on the Hudson,–the scenes of Germantown and Monmouth,–the reduction of the forts at Verplanck's Ferry, and the forays led against New Bedford and the Vineyard,–all these familiarized him with the bloody fruits of civil strife. But they never blunted for one moment the keenness of his humanity, or warped those sentiments of refinement and liberality that always distinguished him. Within the limited range of his narrow sphere, he was constantly found the friend and reliever of the wounded or captive Americans, and the protector and benefactor of the followers of his own banner. Accomplished to a degree in all the graces that adorn the higher circles of society, he was free from most of their vices; and those who knew him well in this country have remarked on the universal approbation of both sexes that followed his steps, and the untouched heart that escaped so many shafts. Nor, while foremost in the brilliant pleasures that distinguished the British camp and made Philadelphia a Capua to Howe, was he ever known to descend to the vulgar sports of his fellows. In the balls, the theatricals, the picturesque Mischianza, he bore a leading hand; but his affections, meanwhile, appear to have remained where they were earliest and last bestowed. In our altered days, when marriage and divorce seem so often interchangeable words, and loyal fidelity but an Old-World phrase, ill-fashioned and out of date, there is something very attractive in this hopeless constancy of an exiled lover.
Beyond the seas, meanwhile, the object of this unfortunate attachment was lending a happy and a useful life in the fulfilment of the various duties of a wife, a mother, and a friend. Her husband was a large landed proprietor, and in public spirit was inferior to no country-gentleman of the kingdom. Many of his notions were fanciful enough, it must be allowed; but they were all directed to the improvement and amelioration of his native land and its people. In these pursuits, as well as in those of learning, Mrs. Edgeworth was the active and useful coadjutor of her husband; and it was probably to the desire of this couple to do something that would make the instruction of their children a less painful task than had been their own, that we are indebted for the adaptation of the simpler rudiments of science to a childish dress. In 1778 they wrote together the First Part of "Harry and Lucy," and printed a handful of copies in that largo black type which every one associates with the first school-days of his childhood. From these pages she taught her own children to read. The plan was communicated to Mr. Day, who entered into it eagerly; and an educational library seemed about to be prepared for the benefit of a far-away household in the heart of Ireland. But a hectic disorder, that had threatened Mrs. Edgeworth's life while yet a child, now returned upon her with increased virulence; and the kind and beautiful mistress of Edgeworthstown was compelled to forego this and every other earthly avocation. Mr. Day expanded his little tale into the delightful story of "Sandford and Merton," a book that long stood second only to "Robinson Crusoe" in the youthful judgment of the great boy-world; and in later years, Maria Edgeworth included "Harry and Lucy" in her "Early Lessons." It is thus a point to be noticed, that nothing but the res angusta domi, the lack of wealth, on the part of young André, was the cause of that series of little volumes being produced by Miss Edgeworth, which so long held the first place among the literary treasures of the nurseries of England and America. Lazy Lawrence, Simple Susan, and a score more of excellently conceived characters, might never have been called from chaos to influence thousands of tender minds, but for André's narrow purse.
The ravages of the insidious disease with which she was afflicted soon came to an end; and after a term of wedlock as brief as it was prosperous, Mrs. Edgeworth's dying couch was spread.–"I have every blessing," she wrote, "and I am happy. The conversation of my beloved husband, when my breath will let me have it, is my greatest delight: he procures me every comfort, and, as he always said he thought he should, contrives for me everything that can ease and assist my weakness,–
"'Like a kind angel, whispers peace,
And smooths the bed of death.'"
Rightly viewed, the closing scenes in the life of this estimable woman are not less solemn, not less impressive, than those of that memorable day, when, with all the awful ceremonials of offended justice and the stern pageantries of war, her lover died in the full glare of noonday before the eyes of assembled thousands. He had played for a mighty stake, and he had lost. He had perilled his life for the destruction of our American empire, and he was there to pay the penalty: and surely never, in all the annals of our race, has a man more gallantly yielded up his forfeited breath, or under circumstances more impressive. He perished regretted alike by friend and foe; and perhaps not one of the throng that witnessed his execution but would have rejoicingly hailed a means of reconciling his pardon with the higher and inevitable duties which they owed to the safety of the army and the existence of the state. And in the aspect which the affair has since taken, who can say that André's fate has been entirely unfortunate? He drank out the wine of life while it was still sparkling and foaming and bright in his cup: he tasted none of the bitterness of its lees till almost his last sun had risen. When he was forever parted from the woman whom he loved, a new, but not an earthly mistress succeeded to the vacant throne; and thenceforth the love of glory possessed his heart exclusively. And how rarely has a greater lustre attached to any name than to his! His bones are laid with those of the wisest and mightiest of the land; the gratitude of monarchs cumbers the earth with his sepulchral honors; and his memory is consecrated in the most eloquent pages of the history not only of his own country, but of that which sent him out of existence. Looked upon thus, death might have been welcomed by him as a benefit rather than dreaded as a calamity, and the words applied by Cicero to the fate of Crassus be repeated with fresh significancy,–"Mors dortata quam vita erepta."
The same year that carries on its records the date of André's fall witnessed the death of a second Honora Edgeworth, the only surviving daughter of Honora Sneyd. She is represented as having inherited all the beauty, all the talents of her mother. The productions of her pen and pencil seem to justify this assertion, so far as the precocity of such a mere child may warrant the ungarnered fruits of future years. But with her parent's person she received the frailties of its constitution; and, ere girlhood had fairly opened upon her way of life, she succumbed to the same malady that had wrecked her mother.
WE SHALL RISE AGAIN
We know the spirit shall not taste of death:
Earth bids her elements,
"Turn, turn again to me!"
But to the soul, unto the soul, she saith,
"Flee, alien, flee!"
And circumstance of matter what doth weigh?
Oh! not the height and depth of this to know
But reachings of that grosser element,
Which, entered in and clinging to it so,
With earthlier earthiness than dwells in clay,
Can drag the spirit down, that, looking up,
Sees, through surrounding shades of death and time,
With solemn wonder, and with new-born hope,
The dawning glories of its native clime;
And inly swell such mighty floods of love,
Unutterable longing and desire,
For that celestial, blessed home above,
The soul springs upward like the mounting fire,
Up, through the lessening shadows on its way,
While, in its raptured vision, grows more clear
The calm, the high, illimitable day
To which it draws more near and yet more near.
Draws near? Alas! its brief, its waning strength
Upward no more the fetters' weight can bear:
It falters,–pauses,–sinks; and, sunk at length,
Plucks at its chain in frenzy and despair.
Not forever fallen! Not in eternal prison!
No! hell with fire of pain
Melteth apart its chain;
Heaven doth once more constrain:
It hath arisen!
And never, never again, thus to fall low?
Ah, no!
Terror, Remorse, and Woe,
Vainly they pierced it through with many sorrows;
Hell shall regain it,–thousand times regain it;
But can detain it
Only awhile from ruthful Heaven's to-morrows.
That sin is suffering,
It knows,–it knows this thing;
And yet it courts the sting
That deeply pains it;
It knows that in the cup
The sweet is but a sup,
That Sorrow fills it up,
And who drinks drains it.
It knows; who runs may read.
But, when the fetters dazzle, heaven's far joy seems dim;
And 'tis not life but so to be inwound.
A little while, and then–behold it bleed
With madness of its throes to be unbound!
It knows. But when the sudden stress
Of passion is resistlessness,
It drags the flood that sweeps away,
For anchorage, or hold, or stay,
Or saving rock of stableness,
And there is none,–
No underlying fixedness to fasten on:
Unsounded depths; unsteadfast seas;
Wavering, yielding, bottomless depths:
But these!
Yea, sometimes seemeth gone
The Everlasting Arm we lean upon!
So blind, as well as maimed and halt and lame,
What sometimes makes it see?
Oppressed with guilt and gnawed upon of shame,
What comes upon it so,
Faster and faster stealing,
Flooding it like an air or sea
Of warm and golden feeling?
What makes it melt,
Dissolving from the earthiness that made it hard and heavy?
What makes it melt and flow,
And melt and melt and flow,–
Till light, clear-shining through its heart of dew,
Makes all things new?
Loosed from the spirit of infirmity, listen its cry.
"Was it I that longed for oblivion,
O wonderful Love! was it I,
That deep in its easeful water
My wounded soul might lie?
That over the wounds and anguish
The easeful flood might roll?
A river of loving-kindness
Has healed and hidden the whole.
Lo! in its pitiful bosom
Vanish the sins of my youth,–
Error and shame and backsliding
Lost in celestial ruth.
"O grace too great!
O excellency of my new estate!
"No more, for the friends that love me,
I shall veil my face or grieve
Because love outrunneth deserving;
I shall be as they believe.
And I shall be strong to help them,
Filled of Thy fulness with stores
Of comfort and hope and compassion.
Oh, upon all my shores,
With the waters with which Thou dost flood me,
Bid me, my Father, o'erflow!
Who can taste Thy divineness,
Nor hunger and thirst to bestow?
Send me, oh, send me!
The wanderers let me bring!
The thirsty let me show
Where the rivers of gladness spring,
And fountains of mercy flow!
How in the hills shall they sit and sing,
With valleys of peace below!"
Oh that the keys of our hearts the angels would bear in their bosoms!
For revelation fades and fades away,
Dream-like becomes, and dim, and far-withdrawn;
And evening comes to find the soul a prey,
That was caught up to visions at the dawn;
Sword of the spirit,–still it sheathes in rust,
And lips of prophecy are sealed with dust.
High lies the better country,
The land of morning and perpetual spring;
But graciously the warder
Over its mountain-border
Leans to us, beckoning,–bids us, "Come up hither!"
And though we climb with step unfixed and slow,
From visioning heights of hope we look off thither,
And we must go.
And we shall go! And we shall go!
We shall not always weep and wander so,–
Not always in vain,
By merciful pain,
Be upcast from the hell we seek again!
How shall we,
Whom the stars draw so, and the uplifting sea?
Answer, thou Secret Heart! how shall it be,
With all His infinite promising in thee?
Beloved! beloved! not cloud and fire alone
From bondage and the wilderness restore
And guide the wandering spirit to its own;
But all His elements, they go before:
Upon its way the seasons bring,
And hearten with foreshadowing
The resurrection-wonder,
What lands of death awake to sing
And germs of hope swell under;
And full and fine, and full and fine,
The day distils life's golden wine;
And night is Palace Beautiful, peace-chambered.
All things are ours; and life fills up of them
Such measure as we hold.
For ours beyond the gate,
The deep things, the untold,
We only wait.
THE PROFESSOR'S STORY.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WILD HUNTSMAN
The young master had not forgotten the old Doctor's cautions. Without attributing any great importance to the warning he had given him, Mr. Bernard had so far complied with his advice that he was becoming a pretty good shot with the pistol. It was an amusement as good as many others to practise, and he had taken a fancy to it after the first few days.
The popping of a pistol at odd hours in the back-yard of the Institute was a phenomenon more than sufficiently remarkable to be talked about in Rockland. The viscous intelligence of a country-village is not easily stirred by the winds which ripple the fluent thought of great cities, but it holds every straw and entangles every insect that lights upon it. It soon became rumored in the town that the young master was a wonderful shot with the pistol. Some said he could hit a fo'pence-ha'penny at three rod; some, that he had shot a swallow, flying, with a single ball; some, that he snuffed a candle five times out of six at ten paces, and that he could hit any button in a man's coat he wanted to. In other words, as in all such cases, all the common feats were ascribed to him, as the current jokes of the day are laid at the door of any noted wit, however innocent he may be of them.
In the natural course of things, Mr. Richard Venner, who had by this time made some acquaintances, as we have seen, among that class of the population least likely to allow a live cinder of gossip to go out for want of air, had heard incidentally that the master up there at the Institute was all the time practising with a pistol, that they say he can snuff a candle at ten rods, (that was Mrs. Blanche Creamer's version,) and that he could hit anybody he wanted to right in the eye, as far as he could see the white of it.
Dick did not like the sound of all this any too well. Without believing more than half of it, there was enough to make the Yankee schoolmaster too unsafe to be trifled with. However, shooting at a mark was pleasant work enough; he had no particular objection to it himself. Only he did not care so much for those little popgun affairs that a man carries in his pocket, and with which you couldn't shoot a fellow,–a robber, say,–without getting the muzzle under his nose. Pistols for boys; long-range rifles for men. There was such a gun lying in a closet with the fowling-pieces. He would go out into the fields and see what he could do as a marksman.
The nature of the mark that Dick chose for experimenting upon was singular. He had found some panes of glass which had been removed from an old sash, and he placed these successively before his target, arranging them at different angles. He found that a bullet would go through the glass without glancing or having its force materially abated. It was an interesting fact in physics, and might prove of some practical significance hereafter. Nobody knows what may turn up to render these out-of-the-way facts useful. All this was done in a quiet way in one of the bare spots high up the side of The Mountain. He was very thoughtful in taking the precaution to get so far away; rifle-bullets are apt to glance and come whizzing about people's ears, if they are fired in the neighborhood of houses. Dick satisfied himself that he could be tolerably sure of hitting a pane of glass at a distance of thirty rods, more or less, and that, if there happened to be anything behind it, the glass would not materially alter the force or direction of the bullet.
About this time it occurred to him also that there was an old accomplishment of his which he would be in danger of losing for want of practice, if he did not take some opportunity to try his hand and regain its cunning, if it had begun to be diminished by disuse. For his first trial, he chose an evening when the moon was shining, and after the hour when the Rockland people were like to be stirring abroad. He was so far established now that he could do much as he pleased without exciting remark.
The prairie horse he rode, the mustang of the Pampas, wild as he was, had been trained to take part in at least one exercise. This was the accomplishment in which Mr. Richard now proposed to try himself. For this purpose he sought the implement of which, as it may be remembered, he had once made an incidental use,–the lasso, or long strip of hide with a slip-noose at the end of it. He had been accustomed to playing with such a thong from his boyhood, and had become expert in its use in capturing wild cattle in the course of his adventures. Unfortunately, there were no wild bulls likely to be met with in the neighborhood, to become the subjects of his skill. A stray cow in the road, an ox or a horse in a pasture, must serve his turn,–dull beasts, but moving marks to aim at, at any rate.
Never, since he had galloped in the chase over the Pampas, had Dick Venner felt such a sense of life and power as when he struck the long spurs into his wild horse's flanks, and dashed along the road with the lasso lying like a coiled snake at the saddle-bow. In skilful hands, the silent, bloodless noose, flying like an arrow, but not like that leaving a wound behind it,–sudden as a pistol-shot, but without the tell-tale explosion,–is one of the most fearful and mysterious weapons that arm the hand of man. The old Romans knew how formidable, even in contest with a gladiator equipped with sword, helmet, and shield, was the almost naked retiarius with his net in one hand and his three-pronged javelin in the other. Once get a net over a man's head, or a cord round his neck, or, what is more frequently done nowadays, bonnet him by knocking his hat down over his eyes, and he is at the mercy of his opponent. Our soldiers who served against the Mexicans found this out too well. Many a poor fellow has been lassoed by the fierce riders from the plains, and fallen an easy victim to the captor who had snared him in the fatal noose.
But, imposing as the sight of the wild huntsmen of the Pampas might have been, Dick could not help laughing at the mock sublimity of his situation, as he tried his first experiment on an unhappy milky mother who had strayed from her herd and was wandering disconsolately along the road, laying the dust, as she went, with thready streams from her swollen, swinging udders. "Here goes the Don at the windmill!" said Dick, and tilted full speed at her, whirling the lasso round his head as he rode. The creature swerved to one side of the way, as the wild horse and his rider came rushing down upon her, and presently turned and ran, as only cows and–it wouldn't be safe to say it–can run. Just before he passed,–at twenty or thirty feet from her,–the lasso shot from his hand, uncoiling as it flew, and in an instant its loop was round her horns. "Well cast!" said Dick, as he galloped up to her side and dexterously disengaged the lasso. "Now for a horse on the run!"
He had the good luck to find one, presently, grazing in a pasture at the roadside. Taking down the rails of the fence at one point, he drove the horse into the road and gave chase. It was a lively young animal enough, and was easily roused to a pretty fast pace. As his gallop grew more and more rapid, Dick gave the reins to the mustang, until the two horses stretched themselves out in their longest strides. If the first feat looked like play, the one he was now to attempt had a good deal the appearance of real work. He touched the mustang with the spur, and in a few fierce leaps found himself nearly abreast of the frightened animal he was chasing. Once more he whirled the lasso round and round over his head, and then shot it forth, as the rattlesnake shoots his head from the loops against which it rests. The noose was round the horse's neck, and in another instant was tightened so as almost to stop his breath. The prairie horse knew the trick of the cord, and leaned away from the captive, so as to keep the thong tensely stretched between his neck and the peak of the saddle to which it was fastened. Struggling was of no use with a halter round his windpipe, and he very soon began to tremble and stagger,–blind, no doubt, and with a roaring in his ears as of a thousand battle-trumpets,–at any rate, subdued and helpless. That was enough. Dick loosened his lasso, wound it up again, laid it like a pet snake in a coil at his saddle-bow, turned his horse, and rode slowly along towards the mansion-house.
The place had never looked more stately and beautiful to him than as he now saw it in the moonlight. The undulations of the land,–the grand mountain-screen which sheltered the mansion from the northern blasts, rising with all its hanging forests and parapets of naked rock high towards the heavens,–the ancient mansion, with its square chimneys, and bodyguard of old trees, and cincture of low walls with marble-pillared gateways,–the fields, with their various coverings,–the beds of flowers,–the plots of turf, one with a gray column in its centre bearing a sun-dial on which the rays of the moon were idly shining, another with a white stone and a narrow ridge of turf,–over all these objects, harmonized with all their infinite details into one fair whole by the moonlight, the prospective heir, as he deemed himself, looked with admiring eyes.
But while he looked, the thought rose up in his mind like waters from a poisoned fountain, that there was a deep plot laid to cheat him of the inheritance which by a double claim he meant to call his own. Every day this ice-cold beauty, this dangerous, handsome cousin of his, went up to that place,–that usher's girltrap. Every day,–regularly now,–it used to be different. Did she go only to get out of his, her cousin's, reach? Was she not rather becoming more and more involved in the toils of this plotting Yankee?
If Mr. Bernard had shown himself at that moment a few rods in advance, the chances are that in less than one minute he would have found himself with a noose round his neck, at the heels of a mounted horseman. Providence spared him for the present. Mr. Richard rode his horse quietly round to the stable, put him up, and proceeded towards the house. He got to his bed without disturbing the family, but could not sleep. The idea had fully taken possession of his mind that a deep intrigue was going on which would end by bringing Elsie and the schoolmaster into relations fatal to all his own hopes. With that ingenuity which always accompanies jealousy, he tortured every circumstance of the last few weeks so as to make it square with this belief. From this vein of thought he naturally passed to a consideration of every possible method by which the issue he feared might be avoided.
Mr. Richard talked very plain language with himself in all these inward colloquies. Supposing it came to the worst, what could be done then? First, an accident might happen to the schoolmaster which should put a complete and final check upon his projects and contrivances. The particular accident which might interrupt his career must, evidently, be determined by circumstances; but it must be of a nature to explain itself without the necessity of any particular person's becoming involved in the matter. It would be unpleasant to go into particulars; but everybody knows well enough that men sometimes get in the way of a stray bullet, and that young persons occasionally do violence to themselves in various modes,–by fire-arms, suspension, and other means,–in consequence of disappointment in love, perhaps, oftener than from other motives. There was still another kind of accident which might serve his purpose. If anything should happen to Elsie, it would be the most natural thing in the world that his uncle should adopt him, his nephew and only near relation, as his heir. Unless, indeed, Uncle Dudley should take it into his head to marry again. In that case, where would he, Dick, be? This was the most detestable complication which he could conceive of. And yet he had noticed–he could not help noticing–that his uncle had been very attentive to, and, as it seemed, very much pleased with, that young woman from the school. What did that mean? Was it possible that he was going to take a fancy to her?
