“Women!” said he.

We do not expect so much of women; the heroic virtues as little as the vices.  They have not to unfold the scroll of character.

He resumed, and by his tone she understood that she was now in the inner temple of him:  “I tell you these things; I quite acknowledge they do not elevate me.  They help to constitute my character.  I tell you most humbly that I have in me much—­too much of the fallen archangel’s pride.”

Clara bowed her head over a sustained in-drawn breath.

“It must be pride,” he said, in a reverie superinduced by her thoughtfulness over the revelation, and glorying in the black flames demoniacal wherewith he crowned himself.

“Can you not correct it?” said she.

He replied, profoundly vexed by disappointment:  “I am what I am.  It might be demonstrated to you mathematically that it is corrected by equivalents or substitutions in my character.  If it be a failing—­assuming that.”

“It seems one to me:  so cruelly to punish Mr. Whitford for seeking to improve his fortunes.”

“He reflects on my share in his fortunes.  He has had but to apply to me for his honorarium to be doubled.”

“He wishes for independence.”

“Independence of me!”

“Liberty!”

“At my expense!”

“Oh, Willoughby!”

“Ay, but this is the world, and I know it, my love; and beautiful as your incredulity may be, you will find it more comforting to confide in my knowledge of the selfishness of the world.  My sweetest, you will?—­you do!  For a breath of difference between us is intolerable.  Do you not feel how it breaks our magic ring?  One small fissure, and we have the world with its muddy deluge!—­But my subject was old Vernon.  Yes, I pay for Crossjay, if Vernon consents to stay.  I waive my own scheme for the lad, though I think it the better one.  Now, then, to induce Vernon to stay.  He has his ideas about staying under a mistress of the household; and therefore, not to contest it—­he is a man of no argument; a sort of lunatic determination takes the place of it with old Vernon!—­let him settle close by me, in one of my cottages; very well, and to settle him we must marry him.”

“Who is there?” said Clara, beating for the lady in her mind.

“Women,” said Willoughby, “are born match-makers, and the most persuasive is a young bride.  With a man—­and a man like old Vernon!—­ she is irresistible.  It is my wish, and that arms you.  It is your wish, that subjugates him.  If he goes, he goes for good.  If he stays, he is my friend.  I deal simply with him, as with every one.  It is the secret of authority.  Now Miss Dale will soon lose her father.  He exists on a pension; she has the prospect of having to leave the neighbourhood of the Hall, unless she is established near us.  Her whole heart is in this region; it is the poor soul’s passion.  Count on her agreeing.  But she will require a little wooing: