Perhaps Guy was conscious of the effect he produced; at all events, he rather avoided the Forresters, finding in Mohun more congenial society.  The latter probably regretted what had happened; perhaps he felt an approach to sympathy, after his rough fashion, but with this mingled a dreary sort of satisfaction at the sight of a strong mind and hardy nature rapidly descending to his own misanthropical level.  Such an exultation was breathed in that ghastly chorus of the dead kings and chief ones of the earth when they rose, each on his awful throne, and Hell beneath was moved at the advent of the Son of the Morning.

These two did not stay long in Paris before they took their departure for Vienna.

We who were left behind in England talked a little at first, of course, about the broken engagement, but I had no occasion to throw down the gauntlet that had been left in my hands.  I never heard any thing more spiteful about Miss Brandon than that “she was never suited to her fiance—­far too good for him.”  Others “had always thought how it would be; it would take a good deal more yet to tame Livingstone.”  Sir Henry Fallowfield observed, “Nothing could be more natural and correct.  The lady was a saint, and there is always a sort of incompleteness about saints if they are not made martyrs.  Suffering is their normal state.”

It was remarked that he was unusually cheerful for some days afterward; and when Guy’s conduct was canvassed, seemed inclined to quote the old school-master’s words on witnessing his pupil’s success, “Bless the boy!  I taught him.”

Some other subject soon came up and replaced the week’s wonder.

Constance left town with her uncle almost immediately, and I heard nothing of her for many months.  Miss Bellasys remained.  Very few persons even guessed at the share she had had in breaking off the match; so her credit was not much impaired, and her campaign was as brilliantly successful as usual.  If she felt any disappointment at Guy’s abrupt departure, she concealed it remarkably well.  In some things, though naturally impetuous and impatient, she was as cool as a Red Indian, and would wait and watch forever if she saw a prospect of ultimate success.  So the days rolled on, bringing swiftly and surely the bitter harvest-time, when he who had sown the wind was to reap the whirlwind.

CHAPTER XXIII.

     “And from his lips those words of insult fell—­
     His sword is good who can maintain them well.”

It was the middle of October; the reflux of the winter season was beginning to fill Paris, and thither Mohun and Livingstone had returned from their German tour, the latter decidedly the worse for his wanderings.  He had not suffered much physically, for the hard living that would have utterly broken up some constitutions had only been able to make his face thinner, to deepen the bistre tints under the eyes, and to give a more angular gauntness to his massive frame.