Then, when a secured position and the privileges of wealth had introduced him to that inner circle of English society which not wealth alone can penetrate, but where wealth in some due proportion is an element necessary to hold fast a place, it was thought most natural and proper that he should choose a wife from the class which seems set apart from the rest of womankind like the choice flowers of a conservatory, on whom no rude breath must blow.  The youthful, but nearly portionless, daughter of a poor Earl seemed the very bride decreed by some good angel for the merchant-prince.

But though the nuptials fulfilled nearly all the requirements of a mariage de convenance, there was in reality very much more of the ingredients in their hearts which amalgamate into very genuine “love,” than always meet at the altar; though of course “the World” resolutely refused to believe anything of the sort—­the World, which is capable of so much kindness, and goodness, and justice, among its individuals, taken “separately and singly,” and yet is such a false, malignant, many-headed monster in its corporate body!  Walter Ferrars had a warm heart, that yearned for affection, as well as a clear head; and, fascinated as he had been by the youthful grace and beauty, the high-bred repose of manner and cultivated talents of the Lady Lucy, he set himself resolutely to win and keep her girlish heart, not expecting that the man of forty was to obtain it without an effort.  Thus, when he assumed a husband’s name, he did not “drop the lover.”  His was still the watchful care, made up of the thousand little thoughtful kindnesses of daily life, neither relaxed in a tete-a-tete, nor increased in public.  He was the pleased and ready escort for every occasion, save only when some imperative business claimed his time and presence; and these calls now were rare, for he had long since arrived at the position when efficient servants and assistants carry out the plans a superior has organized.

Is there wonder that the wife was grateful?  Few—­few women indeed are insensible to the power of continued kindness; they may have a heart of stone for the impetuous impulsive lover, but habitual tenderness-that seems so unselfish—­touches the finest chords of their nature, and awakens affection that might have lain dormant through a long life, but for this one sweet influence.  Thus it was that the wife of five years loved her husband with an almost adoring worship.  She had felt her own mind expand in the intimate communion with his fine intellect; she had felt her own weaknesses grow less, as if she had absorbed some of his strength of character; and she had recognised the very dawn of principles and opinions which had been unknown to her in the days of her thoughtless, ignorant, inexperienced girlhood.  And yet with all her love, with all her matured intelligence, she had never lost a certain awe of her husband, which his seniority had perhaps first implanted, and alas! one fatal circumstance had gone far to render morbid.