But it was his instinct so to act, and in times of trial great natures alone are not at the mercy of their instincts.  Moreover it would cost him pain to mask his face; pain worse than that he endured when there still remained an object for him to open his heart to in proportion; and he always reposed upon the Spartan comfort of bearing pain and being passive.  “Do nothing,” said the devil he nursed; which meant in his case, “Take me into you and don’t cast me out.”  Excellent and sane is the outburst of wrath to men, when it stops short of slaughter.  For who that locks it up to eat in solitary, can say that it is consumed?  Sir Austin had as weak a digestion for wrath, as poor Hippias for a green duckling.  Instead of eating it, it ate him.  The wild beast in him was not the less deadly because it did not roar, and the devil in him not the less active because he resolved to do nothing.

He sat at the springs of Richard’s future, in the forlorn dead-hush of his library there, hearing the cinders click in the extinguished fire, and that humming stillness in which one may fancy one hears the midnight Fates busily stirring their embryos.  The lamp glowed mildly on the bust of Chatham.

Toward morning a gentle knock fell at his door.  Lady Blandish glided in.  With hasty step she came straight to him, and took both his hands.

“My friend,” she said, speaking tearfully, and trembling, “I feared I should find you here.  I could not sleep.  How is it with you?”

“Well!  Emmeline, well!” he replied, torturing his brows to fix the mask.

He wished it had been Adrian who had come to him.  He had an extraordinary longing for Adrian’s society.  He knew that the wise youth would divine how to treat him, and he mentally confessed to just enough weakness to demand a certain kind of management.  Besides, Adrian, he had not a doubt, would accept him entirely as he seemed, and not pester him in any way by trying to unlock his heart; whereas a woman, he feared, would be waxing too womanly, and swelling from tears and supplications to a scene, of all things abhorred by him the most.  So he rapped the floor with his foot, and gave the lady no very welcome face when he said it was well with him.

She sat down by his side, still holding one hand firmly, and softly detaining the other.

“Oh, my friend! may I believe you?  May I speak to you?” She leaned close to him.  “You know my heart.  I have no better ambition than to be your friend.  Surely I divide your grief, and may I not claim your confidence?  Who has wept more over your great and dreadful sorrows?  I would not have come to you, but I do believe that sorrow shared relieves the burden, and it is now that you may feel a woman’s aid, and something of what a woman could be to you....”

“Be assured,” he gravely said, “I thank you, Emmeline, for your intentions.”

“No, no! not for my intentions!  And do not thank me.  Think of him...think of your dear boy...  Our Richard, as we have called him.—­Oh! do not think it a foolish superstition of mine, but I have had a thought this night that has kept me in torment till I rose to speak to you...  Tell me first you have forgiven him.”