Her eyes were lively at their meeting—­so were his.  She liked to see him on the steps, with young Crossjay under his arm.  Sir Willoughby told her in his pleasantest humour of the boy’s having got into the laboratory that morning to escape his task-master, and blown out the windows.  She administered a chiding to the delinquent in the same spirit, while Sir Willoughby led her on his arm across the threshold, whispering:  “Soon for good!” In reply to the whisper, she begged for more of the story of young Crossjay.  “Come into the laboratory,” said he, a little less laughingly than softly; and Clara begged her father to come and see young Crossjay’s latest pranks.  Sir Willoughby whispered to her of the length of their separation, and his joy to welcome her to the house where she would reign as mistress very won.  He numbered the weeks.  He whispered:  “Come.”  In the hurry of the moment she did not examine a lightning terror that shot through her.  It passed, and was no more than the shadow which bends the summer grasses, leaving a ruffle of her ideas, in wonder of her having feared herself for something.  Her father was with them.  She and Willoughby were not yet alone.

Young Crossjay had not accomplished so fine a piece of destruction as Sir Willoughby’s humour proclaimed of him.  He had connected a battery with a train of gunpowder, shattering a window-frame and unsettling some bricks.  Dr. Middleton asked if the youth was excluded from the library, and rejoiced to hear that it was a sealed door to him.  Thither they went.  Vernon Whitford was away on one of his long walks.

“There, papa, you see he is not so very faithful to you,” said Clara.

Dr Middleton stood frowning over Ms notes on the table, in Vernon’s handwriting.  He flung up the hair from his forehead and dropped into a seat to inspect them closely.  He was now immoveable.  Clara was obliged to leave him there.  She was led to think that Willoughby had drawn them to the library with the design to be rid of her protector, and she began to fear him.  She proposed to pay her respects to the ladies Eleanor and Isabel.  They were not seen, and a footman reported in the drawing-room that they were out driving.  She grasped young Crossjay’s hand.  Sir Willoughby dispatched him to Mrs. Montague, the housekeeper, for a tea of cakes and jam.

“Off!” he said, and the boy had to run.

Clara saw herself without a shield.

“And the garden!” she cried.  “I love the garden; I must go and see what flowers are up with you.  In spring I care most for wild flowers, and if you will show me daffodils and crocuses and anemones . . .”

“My dearest Clara! my bride!” said he.

“Because they are vulgar flowers?” she asked him, artlessly, to account for his detaining her.

Why would he not wait to deserve her!—­no, not deserve—­to reconcile her with her real position; not reconcile, but to repair the image of him in her mind, before he claimed his apparent right!