Her mood of ecstatic fidelity was a dangerous exaltation; one that in a desert will distort the brain, and in the world where the idol dwells will put him, should he come nigh, to its own furnace-test, and get a clear brain out of a burnt heart.  She was frequently at the Hall, helping to nurse Lady Patterne.  Sir Willoughby had hitherto treated her as a dear insignificant friend, to whom it was unnecessary that he should mention the object of his rides to Upton Park.

He had, however, in the contemplation of what he was gaining, fallen into anxiety about what he might be losing.  She belonged to his brilliant youth; her devotion was the bride of his youth; he was a man who lived backward almost as intensely as in the present; and, notwithstanding Laetitia’s praiseworthy zeal in attending on his mother, he suspected some unfaithfulness:  hardly without cause:  she had not looked paler of late; her eyes had not reproached him; the secret of the old days between them had been as little concealed as it was exposed.  She might have buried it, after the way of woman, whose bosoms can be tombs, if we and the world allow them to be; absolutely sepulchres, where you lie dead, ghastly.  Even if not dead and horrible to think of, you may be lying cold, somewhere in a corner.  Even if embalmed, you may not be much visited.  And how is the world to know you are embalmed?  You are no better than a rotting wretch to the world that does not have peeps of you in the woman’s breast, and see lights burning and an occasional exhibition of the services of worship.  There are women—­tell us not of her of Ephesus!—­that have embalmed you, and have quitted the world to keep the tapers alight, and a stranger comes, and they, who have your image before them, will suddenly blow out the vestal flames and treat you as dust to fatten the garden of their bosoms for a fresh flower of love.  Sir Willoughby knew it; he had experience of it in the form of the stranger; and he knew the stranger’s feelings toward his predecessor and the lady.

He waylaid Laetitia, to talk of himself and his plans:  the project of a run to Italy.  Enviable?  Yes, but in England you live the higher moral life.  Italy boasts of sensual beauty; the spiritual is yours.  “I know Italy well; I have often wished to act as a cicerone to you there.  As it is, I suppose I shall be with those who know the land as well as I do, and will not be particularly enthusiastic:—­if you are what you were?” He was guilty of this perplexing twist from one person to another in a sentence more than once.  While he talked exclusively of himself it seemed to her a condescension.  In time he talked principally of her, beginning with her admirable care of his mother; and he wished to introduce “a Miss Middleton” to her; he wanted her opinion of Miss Middleton; he relied on her intuition of character, had never known it err.