“Did the bar’net kiss ye when you wished him goodnight?” she asked.  Lucy said he had not.  “Then bide awake as long as ye can,” was Mrs. Berry’s rejoinder.  “And now let us pray blessings on that simple-speaking gentleman who does so much ’cause he says so little.”

Like many other natural people, Mrs. Berry was only silly where her own soft heart was concerned.  As she secretly anticipated, the baronet came into her room when all was quiet.  She saw him go and bend over Richard the Second, and remain earnestly watching him.  He then went to the half-opened door of the room where Lucy slept, leaned his ear a moment, knocked gently, and entered.  Mrs. Berry heard low words interchanging within.  She could not catch a syllable, yet she would have sworn to the context.  “He’ve called her his daughter, promised her happiness, and given a father’s kiss to her.”  When Sir Austin passed out she was in a deep sleep.

CHAPTER XLII

Briareus reddening angrily over the sea—­what is that vaporous Titan?  And Hesper set in his rosy garland—­why looks he so implacably sweet?  It is that one has left that bright home to go forth and do cloudy work, and he has got a stain with which he dare not return.  Far in the West fair Lucy beckons him to come.  Ah, heaven! if he might!  How strong and fierce the temptation is! how subtle the sleepless desire! it drugs his reason, his honour.  For he loves her; she is still the first and only woman to him.  Otherwise would this black spot be hell to him? otherwise would his limbs be chained while her arms are spread open to him.  And if he loves her, why then what is one fall in the pit, or a thousand?  Is not love the password to that beckoning bliss?  So may we say; but here is one whose body has been made a temple to him, and it is desecrated.

A temple, and desecrated!  For what is it fit for but for a dance of devils?  His education has thus wrought him to think.

He can blame nothing but his own baseness.  But to feel base and accept the bliss that beckons—­he has not fallen so low as that.

Ah, happy English home! sweet wife! what mad miserable Wisp of the Fancy led him away from you, high in his conceit?  Poor wretch! that thought to be he of the hundred hands, and war against the absolute Gods.  Jove whispered a light commission to the Laughing Dame; she met him; and how did he shake Olympus? with laughter?

Sure it were better to be Orestes, the Furies howling in his ears, than one called to by a heavenly soul from whom he is for ever outcast.  He has not the oblivion of madness.  Clothed in the lights of his first passion, robed in the splendour of old skies, she meets him everywhere; morning, evening, night, she shines above him; waylays him suddenly in forest depths; drops palpably on his heart.  At moments he forgets; he rushes to embrace her; calls her his beloved, and lo, her innocent kiss brings agony of shame to his face.