it as if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and his strength

to waste, under a tropical sun. With this persuasion I now answered-

'As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you

were to take to yourself the original at once.'

By this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on the

table before him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung

fondly over it. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my

audacity. I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he

had deemed unapproachable- to hear it thus freely handled- was

beginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure- an unhoped-for

relief. Reserved people often really need the frank discussion of

their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The

sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to 'burst' with

boldness and good-will into 'the silent sea' of their souls is often

to confer on them the first of obligations.

'She likes you, I am sure,' said I, as I stood behind his chair,

'and her father respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet girl- rather

thoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought for both yourself

and her. You ought to marry her.'

'Does she like me?' he asked.

'Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of you

continually: there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so

often.'

'It is very pleasant to hear this,' he said- 'very: go on for

another quarter of an hour.' And he actually took out his watch and

laid it upon the table to measure the time.

'But where is the use of going on,' I asked, 'when you are probably

preparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to

fetter your heart?'

'Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting,

as I am doing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in

my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have

so carefully and with such labour prepared- so assiduously sown with

the seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is

deluged with a nectarous flood- the young germs swamped- delicious

poison cankering them: now I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the

drawing-room at Vale Hall at my bride Rosamond Oliver's feet: she is

talking to me with her sweet voice- gazing down on me with those

eyes your skilful hand has copied so well- smiling at me with these

coral lips. She is mine- I am hers- this present life and passing

world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing- my heart is full of delight-

my senses are entranced- let the time I marked pass in peace.'

I humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low: I

stood silent. Amidst this hush the quarter sped; he replaced the

watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.

'Now,' said he, 'that little space was given to delirium and

delusion. I rested my temples on the breast of temptation, and put

my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers; I tasted her cup. The

pillow was burning: there is an asp in the garland: the wine has a

bitter taste: her promises are hollow- her offers false: I see and

know all this.'

I gazed at him in wonder.

'It is strange,' pursued he, 'that while I love Rosamond Oliver

so wildly- with all the intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the

object of which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful, and fascinating- I

experience at the same time a calm, unwarped consciousness that she

would not make me a good wife; that she is not the partner suited to

me; that I should discover this within a year after marriage; and that

to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of regret. This I

know.'

'Strange indeed!' I could not help ejaculating.

'While something in me,' he went on, 'is acutely sensible to her

charms, something else is as deeply impressed with her defects: they

are such that she could sympathise in nothing I aspired to- co-operate

in nothing I undertook. Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female

apostle? Rosamond a missionary's wife? No!'

'But you need not be a missionary. You might relinquish that

scheme.'

'Relinquish! What! my vocation? My great work? My foundation laid

on earth for a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered in the

band who have merged all ambitions in the glorious one of bettering

their race- of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance- of

substituting peace for war- freedom for bondage- religion for

superstition- the hope of heaven for the fear of hell? Must I

relinquish that? It is dearer than the blood in my veins. It is what I

have to look forward to, and to live for.'

After a considerable pause, I said- 'And Miss Oliver? Are her

disappointment and sorrow of no interest to you?'

'Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers: in

less than a month, my image will be effaced from her heart. She will

forget me; and will marry, probably, some one who will make her far

happier than I should do.'

'You speak coolly enough; but you suffer in the conflict. You are

wasting away.'

'No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxiety about my prospects,

yet unsettled- my departure, continually procrastinated. Only this

morning, I received intelligence that the successor, whose arrival I

have been so long expecting, cannot be ready to replace me for three

months to come yet; and perhaps the three months may extend to six.'

'You tremble and become flushed whenever Miss Oliver enters the

schoolroom.'

Again the surprised expression crossed his face. He had not

imagined that a woman would dare to speak so to a man. For me, I

felt at home in this sort of discourse. I could never rest in

communication with strong, discreet, and refined minds, whether male

or female, till I had passed the outworks of conventional reserve, and

crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by their

heart's very hearthstone.

'You are original,' said he, 'and not timid. There is something

brave in your spirit, as well as penetrating in your eye; but allow me

to assure you that you partially misinterpret my emotions. You think

them more profound and potent than they are. You give me a larger

allowance of sympathy than I have a just claim to. When I colour,

and when I shake before Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself. I scorn the

weakness. I know it is ignoble: a mere fever of the flesh: not, I

declare, the convulsion of the soul. That is just as fixed as a

rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know me to be what I

am- a cold, hard man.'

I smiled incredulously.

'You have taken my confidence by storm,' he continued, 'and now

it is much at your service. I am simply, in my original state-

stripped of that blood-bleached robe with which Christianity covers

human deformity- a cold, hard, ambitious man. Natural affection

only, of all the sentiments, has permanent power over me. Reason,

and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desire to

rise higher, to do more than others, insatiable. I honour endurance,

perseverance, industry, talent; because these are the means by which

men achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence. I watch your

career with interest, because I consider you a specimen of a diligent,

orderly, energetic woman: not because I deeply compassionate what

you have gone through, or what you still suffer.'

'You would describe yourself as a mere pagan philosopher,' I said.

'No. There is this difference between me and deistic

philosophers: I believe; and I believe the Gospel. You missed your

epithet. I am not a pagan, but a Christian philosopher- a follower

of the sect of Jesus. As His disciple I adopt His pure, His

merciful, His benignant doctrines. I advocate them: I am sworn to

spread them. Won in youth to religion, she has cultivated my

original qualities thus:- From the minute germ, natural affection, she

has developed the overshadowing tree, philanthropy. From the wild

stringy root of human uprightness, she has reared a due sense of the

Divine justice. Of the ambition to win power and renown for my

wretched self, she has formed the ambition to spread my Master's

kingdom; to achieve victories for the standard of the cross. So much

has religion done for me; turning the original materials to the best

account; pruning and training nature. But she could not eradicate

nature: nor will it be eradicated "till this mortal shall put on

immortality."'

Having said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table beside my

palette. Once more he looked at the portrait.

'She is lovely,' he murmured. 'She is well named the Rose of the

World, indeed!'

'And may I not paint one like it for you?'

'Cui bono? No.'

He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I was

accustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the card-board from

being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, it was

impossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. He took

it up with a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glance at

me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glance

that seemed to take and make note of every point in my shape, face,

and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lips

parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence, whatever

it was.

'What is the matter?' I asked.

'Nothing in the world,' was the reply; and, replacing the paper,

I saw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from the margin. It

disappeared in his glove; and, with one hasty nod and

'good-afternoon,' he vanished.

'Well!' I exclaimed, using an expression of the district, 'that

caps the globe, however!'

I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save

a few dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I

pondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and

being certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, and soon

forgot it.