LITMIR.BIZ

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letters to men, you say, my love?"

      "Your letters of business."

      "Completely myself in my letters of business?" He stared indeed.

      She relaxed the tension of his figure by remarking: "You are able to express yourself to men as your meaning dictates. In writing to . . . to us it is, I suppose, more difficult."

      "True, my love. I will not exactly say difficult. I can acknowledge no difficulty. Language, I should say, is not fitted to express emotion. Passion rejects it."

      "For dumb-show and pantomime?"

      "No; but the writing of it coldly."

      "Ah, coldly!"

      "My letters disappoint you?"

      "I have not implied that they do."

      "My feelings, dearest, are too strong for transcription. I feel, pen in hand, like the mythological Titan at war with Jove, strong enough to hurl mountains, and finding nothing but pebbles. The simile is a good one. You must not judge of me by my letters."

      "I do not; I like them," said Clara.

      She blushed, eyed him hurriedly, and seeing him complacent, resumed, "I prefer the pebble to the mountain; but if you read poetry you would not think human speech incapable of. . ."

      "My love, I detest artifice. Poetry is a profession."

      "Our poets would prove to you . . ."

      "As I have often observed, Clara, I am no poet."

      "I have not accused you, Willoughby."

      "No poet, and with no wish to be a poet. Were I one, my life would supply material, I can assure you, my love. My conscience is not entirely at rest. Perhaps the heaviest matter troubling it is that in which I was least wilfully guilty. You have heard of a Miss Durham?"

      "I have heard—yes—of her."

      "She may be happy. I trust she is. If she is not, I cannot escape some blame. An instance of the difference between myself and the world, now. The world charges it upon her. I have interceded to exonerate her."

      "That was generous, Willoughby."

      "Stay. I fear I was the primary offender. But I, Clara, I, under a sense of honour, acting under a sense of honour, would have carried my engagement through."

      "What had you done?"

      "The story is long, dating from an early day, in the 'downy antiquity of my youth', as Vernon says."

      "Mr. Whitford says that?"

      "One of old Vernon's odd sayings. It's a story of an early fascination."

      "Papa tells me Mr. Whitford speaks at times with wise humour."

      "Family considerations—the lady's health among other things; her position in the calculations of relatives—intervened. Still there was the fascination. I have to own it. Grounds for feminine jealousy."

      "Is it at an end?"

      "Now? with you? my darling Clara! indeed at an end, or could I have opened my inmost heart to you! Could I have spoken of myself so unreservedly that in part you know me as I know myself! Oh, but would it have been possible to enclose you with myself in that intimate union? so secret, unassailable!"

      "You did not speak to her as you speak to me?"

      "In no degree."

      "What could have! . . ." Clara checked the murmured exclamation.

      Sir Willoughby's expoundings on his latest of texts would have poured forth, had not a footman stepped across the lawn to inform him that his builder was in the laboratory and requested permission to consult with him.

      Clara's plea of a horror of the talk of bricks and joists excused her from accompanying him. He had hardly been satisfied by her manner, he knew not why. He left her, convinced that he must do and say more to reach down to her female intelligence.

      She saw young Crossjay, springing with pots of jam in him, join his patron at a bound, and taking a lift of arms, fly aloft, clapping heels. Her reflections were confused. Sir Willoughby was admirable with the lad. "Is he two men?" she thought; and the thought ensued, "Am I unjust?" She headed a run with young Crossjay to divert her mind.

      CHAPTER VIII

      A RUN WITH THE TRUANT; A WALK WITH THE MASTER

      The sight of Miss Middleton running inflamed young Crossjay with the passion of the game of hare and hounds. He shouted a view-halloo, and flung up his legs. She was fleet; she ran as though a hundred little feet were bearing her onward smooth as water over the lawn and the sweeps of grass of the park, so swiftly did the hidden pair multiply one another to speed her. So sweet was she in her flowing pace, that the boy, as became his age, translated admiration into a dogged frenzy of pursuit, and continued pounding along, when far outstripped, determined to run her down or die. Suddenly her flight wound to an end in a dozen twittering steps, and she sank. Young Crossjay attained her, with just breath enough to say: "You are a runner!"

      "I forgot you had been having your tea, my poor boy," said she.

      "And you don't pant a bit!" was his encomium.

      "Dear me, no; not more than a bird. You might as well try to catch a bird."

      Young Crossjay gave a knowing nod. "Wait till I get my second wind."

      "Now you must confess that girls run faster than boys."

      "They may at the start."

      "They do everything better."

      "They're flash-in-the-pans."

      "They learn their lessons."

      "You can't make soldiers or sailors of them, though."

      "And that is untrue. Have you never read of Mary Ambree? and Mistress Hannah Snell of Pondicherry? And there was the bride of the celebrated William Taylor. And what do you say to Joan of Arc? What do you say to Boadicea? I suppose you have never heard of the Amazons."

      "They weren't English."

      "Then it is your own countrywomen you decry, sir!"

      Young Crossjay betrayed anxiety about his false position, and begged for the stories of Mary Ambree and the others who were English.

      "See, you will not read for yourself, you hide and play truant with Mr. Whitford, and the consequence is you are ignorant of your country's history."

      Miss Middleton rebuked him, enjoying his wriggle between a perception of her fun and an acknowledgment of his peccancy. She commanded him to tell her which was the glorious Valentine's day of our naval annals; the name of the hero of the day, and the name of his ship. To these questions his answers were as ready as the guns of the good ship Captain, for the Spanish four-decker.

      "And that you owe to Mr. Whitford," said Miss Middleton.

      "He bought me the books," young Crossjay growled, and plucked at grass blades and bit them, foreseeing dimly but certainly the termination of all this.

      Miss Middleton lay back on the grass and said: "Are you going to be fond of me, Crossjay?"

      The boy sat blinking. His desire was to prove to her that lie was immoderately fond of her already; and he might have flown at her neck had she been sitting up, but her recumbency and eyelids half closed excited wonder in him and awe. His young heart beat fast.

      "Because, my dear boy," she said, leaning on her elbow, "you are a very nice boy, but an ungrateful boy, and there is no telling whether you will not punish any one who cares for you. Come along with me; pluck me some of these cowslips, and the speedwells near them; I think we both love wild-flowers." She rose and took his arm. "You shall row me on the lake while I talk to you seriously."

      It was she, however, who took the sculls at the boat-house, for she had been a playfellow with boys, and knew that one of them engaged in a manly exercise is not likely to listen to a woman.

      "Now, Crossjay," she said. Dense gloom overcame him like a cowl. She bent across her hands to laugh. "As if I were going to lecture you, you silly boy!" He began to brighten dubiously.

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