With the self-devotion of a woman she grew patient and sweet the moment her daughter Clare was spoken of, and the business of her life in view.  Mrs. Doria’s maternal heart had betrothed the two cousins, Richard and Clare; had already beheld them espoused and fruitful.  For this she yielded the pleasures of town; for this she immured herself at Raynham; for this she bore with a thousand follies, exactions, inconveniences, things abhorrent to her, and heaven knows what forms of torture and self-denial, which are smilingly endured by that greatest of voluntary martyrs—­a mother with a daughter to marry.  Mrs. Doria, an amiable widow, had surely married but for her daughter Clare.  The lady’s hair no woman could possess without feeling it her pride.  It was the daily theme of her lady’s-maid,—­a natural aureole to her head.  She was gay, witty, still physically youthful enough to claim a destiny; and she sacrificed it to accomplish her daughter’s! sacrificed, as with heroic scissors, hair, wit, gaiety—­let us not attempt to enumerate how much! more than may be said.  And she was only one of thousands; thousands who have no portion of the hero’s reward; for he may reckon on applause, and condolence, and sympathy, and honour; they, poor slaves! must look for nothing but the opposition of their own sex and the sneers of ours.  O, Sir Austin! had you not been so blinded, what an Aphorism might have sprung from this point of observation!  Mrs. Doria was coolly told, between sister and brother, that during the Magnetic Age her daughter’s presence at Raynham was undesirable.  Instead of nursing offence, her sole thought was the mountain of prejudice she had to contend against.  She bowed, and said, Clare wanted sea-air—­she had never quite recovered the shock of that dreadful night.  How long, Mrs. Doria wished to know, might the Peculiar Period be expected to last?

“That,” said Sir Austin, “depends.  A year, perhaps.  He is entering on it.  I shall be most grieved to lose you, Helen.  Clare is now—­how old?”

“Seventeen.”

“She is marriageable.”

“Marriageable, Austin! at seventeen! don’t name such a thing.  My child shall not be robbed of her youth.”

“Our women marry early, Helen.”

“My child shall not!”

The baronet reflected a moment.  He did not wish to lose his sister.

“As you are of that opinion, Helen,” said he, “perhaps we may still make arrangements to retain you with us.  Would you think it advisable to send Clare—­she should know discipline—­to some establishment for a few months?”

“To an asylum, Austin?” cried Mrs. Doria, controlling her indignation as well as she could.

“To some select superior seminary, Helen.  There are such to be found.”

“Austin!” Mrs. Doria exclaimed, and had to fight with a moisture in her eyes.  “Unjust! absurd!” she murmured.  The baronet thought it a natural proposition that Clare should be a bride or a schoolgirl.