“It is one not to be thought of.”

“It is not repulsive?”

“Nothing could be repulsive in Mr. Whitford.”

“I have no wish to annoy you, Clara.”

“I feel bound to listen to you, Willoughby.  Whatever I can do to please you, I will.  It is my life-long duty.”

“Could you, Clara, could you conceive it, could you simply conceive it—­give him your hand?”

“As a friend.  Oh, yes.”

“In marriage.”

She paused.  She, so penetrative of him when he opposed her, was hoodwinked when he softened her feelings:  for the heart, though the clearest, is not the most constant instructor of the head; the heart, unlike the often obtuser head, works for itself and not for the commonwealth.

“You are so kind . . .  I would do much . . .” she said.

“Would you accept him—­marry him?  He is poor.”

“I am not ambitious of wealth.”

“Would you marry him?”

“Marriage is not in my thoughts.”

“But could you marry him?”

Willoughby expected no.  In his expectation of it he hung inflated.

She said these words:  “I could engage to marry no one else.”  His amazement breathed without a syllable.

He flapped his arms, resembling for the moment those birds of enormous body which attempt a rise upon their wings and achieve a hop.

“Would you engage it?” he said, content to see himself stepped on as an insect if he could but feel the agony of his false friend Horace—­their common pretensions to win her were now of that comparative size.

“Oh! there can be no necessity.  And an oath—­no!” said Clara, inwardly shivering at a recollection.

“But you could?”

“My wish is to please you.”

“You could?”

“I said so.”

It has been known to the patriotic mountaineer of a hoary pile of winters, with little life remaining in him, but that little on fire for his country, that by the brink of the precipice he has flung himself on a young and lusty invader, dedicating himself exultingly to death if only he may score a point for his country by extinguishing in his country’s enemy the stronger man.  So likewise did Willoughby, in the blow that deprived him of hope, exult in the toppling over of Horace De Craye.  They perished together, but which one sublimely relished the headlong descent?  And Vernon taken by Clara would be Vernon simply tolerated.  And Clara taken by Vernon would be Clara previously touched, smirched.  Altogether he could enjoy his fall.

It was at least upon a comfortable bed, where his pride would be dressed daily and would never be disagreeably treated.

He was henceforth Laetitia’s own.  The bell telling of Dr. Corney’s return was a welcome sound to Willoughby, and he said good-humouredly:  “Wait, Clara, you will see your hero Crossjay.”

Crossjay and Dr. Corney tumbled into the hall.  Willoughby caught Crossjay under the arms to give him a lift in the old fashion pleasing to Clara to see.  The boy was heavy as lead.