Clara’s fibs and evasions disturbed her not in the least that morning.  She had chosen desperation, and she thought herself very brave because she was just brave enough to fly from her abhorrence.  She was light-hearted, or, more truly, drunken-hearted.  Her quick nature realized the out of prison as vividly and suddenly as it had sunk suddenly and leadenly under the sense of imprisonment.  Vernon crossed her mind:  that was a friend!  Yes, and there was a guide; but he would disapprove, and even he, thwarting her way to sacred liberty, must be thrust aside.

What would he think?  They might never meet, for her to know.  Or one day in the Alps they might meet, a middle-aged couple, he famous, she regretful only to have fallen below his lofty standard.  “For, Mr. Whitford,” says she, very earnestly, “I did wish at that time, believe me or not, to merit your approbation.”  The brows of the phantom Vernon whom she conjured up were stern, as she had seen them yesterday in the library.

She gave herself a chiding for thinking of him when her mind should be intent on that which he was opposed to.

It was a livelier relaxation to think of young Crossjay’s shame-faced confession presently, that he had been a laggard in bed while she swept the dews.  She laughed at him, and immediately Crossjay popped out on her from behind a tree, causing her to clap hand to heart and stand fast.  A conspirator is not of the stuff to bear surprises.  He feared he had hurt her, and was manly in his efforts to soothe:  he had been up “hours”, he said, and had watched her coming along the avenue, and did not mean to startle her:  it was the kind of fun he played with fellows, and if he had hurt her, she might do anything to him she liked, and she would see if he could not stand to be punished.  He was urgent with her to inflict corporal punishment on him.

“I shall leave it to the boatswain to do that when you’re in the navy,” said Clara.

“The boatswain daren’t strike an officer! so now you see what you know of the navy,” said Crossjay.

“But you could not have been out before me, you naughty boy, for I found all the locks and bolts when I went to the door.”

“But you didn’t go to the back door, and Sir Willoughby’s private door:  you came out by the hall door; and I know what you want, Miss Middleton, you want not to pay what you’ve lost.”

“What have I lost, Crossjay?”

“Your wager.”

“What was that?”

“You know.”

“Speak.”

“A kiss.”

“Nothing of the sort.  But, dear boy, I don’t love you less for not kissing you.  All that is nonsense:  you have to think only of learning, and to be truthful.  Never tell a story:  suffer anything rather than be dishonest.”  She was particularly impressive upon the silliness and wickedness of falsehood, and added:  “Do you hear?”

“Yes:  but you kissed me when I had been out in the rain that day.”