I was selfishly enough devoted to my own passions and my own interests, at this period of my life; but I was not so totally dead to every one of the influences which had guided me since childhood, as to lose all thought of Clara and my father, and the ancient house that was associated with my earliest and happiest recollections.  Sometimes, even in Margaret’s beloved presence, a thought of Clara put away from me all other thoughts.  And, sometimes, in the lonely London house, I dreamed—­with the strangest sleeping oblivion of my marriage, and of all the new interests which it had crowded into my life—­of country rides with my sister, and of quiet conversations in the old gothic library at the Hall.  Under such influences as these, I twice resolved to make amends for my long absence, by joining my father and my sister in the country, even though it were only for a few days—­and, each time, I failed in my resolution.  On the second occasion, I had actually mustered firmness enough to get as far as the railway station; and only at the last moment faltered and hung back.  The struggle that it cost me to part for any length of time from Margaret, I had overcome; but the apprehension, as vivid as it was vague, that something—­I knew not what—­might happen to her in my absence, turned my steps backward at starting.  I felt heartily ashamed of my own weakness; but I yielded to it nevertheless.

At last, a letter arrived from Clara, containing a summons to the country, which I could not disobey.

“I have never asked you,” she wrote, “to come and see us for my sake; for I would not interfere with any of your interests or any of your plans; but I now ask you to come here for your own sake—­just for one week, and no more, unless you like to remain longer.  You remember papa telling you, in your room in London, that he believed you kept some secret from him.  I am afraid this is preying on his mind:  your long absence is making him uneasy about you.  He does not say so; but he never sends any message, when I write; and if I speak about you, he always changes the subject directly.  Pray come here, and show yourself for a few days—­no questions will be asked, you may be sure.  It will do so much good; and will prevent—­what I hope and pray may never happen—­a serious estrangement between papa and you.  Recollect, Basil, in a month or six weeks we shall come back to town; and then the opportunity will be gone.”

As I read these lines, I determined to start for the country at once, while the effect of them was still fresh on my mind.  Margaret, when I took leave of her, only said that she should like to be going with me—­“it would be such a sight for her, to see a grand country house like ours!” Mr. Sherwin laughed as coarsely as usual, at the difficulties I made about only leaving his daughter for a week.  Mrs. Sherwin very earnestly, and very inaccountably as I then thought, recommended me not to be away any longer than I had proposed.  Mr. Mannion privately assured me, that I might depend on him in my absence from North Villa, exactly as I had always depended on him, during my presence there.  It was strange that his parting words should be the only words which soothed and satisfied me on taking leave of London.