—and
the
little
wiry
lump
of
courage
and
conceit
,
rascality
and
good
humour
,
flew
at
Lancelot
,
who
was
twice
his
size
,
‘with
a
heroism
worthy
of
a
better
cause
,
’
as
respectable
papers
,
when
they
are
not
too
frightened
,
say
of
the
French
.
*
*
*
*
*
‘Do
you
want
any
more
?
’
asked
Lancelot
.
‘Quite
a
pleasure
,
sir
,
to
meet
a
scientific
gen’lman
.
Beg
your
pardon
,
sir
;
stay
a
moment
while
I
wipes
my
face
.
Now
,
sir
,
time
,
if
you
please.’
Alas
for
the
little
man
!
in
another
moment
he
tumbled
over
and
lay
senseless
—
Lancelot
thought
he
had
killed
him
.
The
gang
saw
their
champion
fall
,
gave
ground
,
and
limped
off
,
leaving
three
of
their
party
groaning
on
the
ground
,
beside
as
many
Whitford
men
.
As
it
was
in
the
beginning
,
so
is
it
to
be
to
the
end
,
my
foolish
brothers
!
From
the
poacher
to
the
prime
minister
—
wearying
yourselves
for
very
vanity
!
The
soldier
is
not
the
only
man
in
England
who
is
fool
enough
to
be
shot
at
for
a
shilling
a
day
.
But
while
all
the
rest
were
busy
picking
up
the
wounded
men
and
securing
the
prisoners
,
Harry
Verney
alone
held
on
,
and
as
the
poachers
retreated
slowly
up
the
ride
,
he
followed
them
,
peering
into
the
gloom
,
as
if
in
hopes
of
recognising
some
old
enemy
.
‘Stand
back
,
Harry
Verney
;
we
know
you
,
and
we’d
be
loth
to
harm
an
old
man
,
’
cried
a
voice
out
of
the
darkness
.
‘Eh
?
Do
you
think
old
Harry’d
turn
back
when
he
was
once
on
the
track
of
ye
?
You
soft-fisted
,
gin-drinking
,
counter-skipping
Cockney
rascals
,
that
fancy
you’re
to
carry
the
county
before
you
,
because
you
get
your
fines
paid
by
London-tradesmen
!
Eh
?
What
do
you
take
old
Harry
for
?
’
‘Go
back
,
you
old
fool
!
’
and
a
volley
of
oaths
followed
.
‘If
you
follow
us
,
we’ll
fire
at
you
,
as
sure
as
the
moon’s
in
heaven
!
’
‘Fire
away
,
then
!
I’ll
follow
you
to
—
!
’
and
the
old
man
paced
stealthily
but
firmly
up
to
them
.
Tregarva
saw
his
danger
and
sprang
forward
,
but
it
was
too
late
.
‘What
,
you
will
have
it
,
then
?
’
A
sharp
crack
followed
,
—
a
bright
flash
in
the
darkness
—
every
white
birch-stem
and
jagged
oak-leaf
shone
out
for
a
moment
as
bright
as
day
—
and
in
front
of
the
glare
Lancelot
saw
the
old
man
throw
his
arms
wildly
upward
,
fall
forward
,
and
disappear
on
the
dark
ground
.
‘You’ve
done
it
!
off
with
you
!
’
And
the
rascals
rushed
off
up
the
ride
.
In
a
moment
Tregarva
was
by
the
old
man’s
side
,
and
lifted
him
tenderly
up
.
‘They’ve
done
for
me
,
Paul
.
Old
Harry’s
got
his
gruel
.
He’s
heard
his
last
shot
fired
.
I
knowed
it
’ud
come
to
this
,
and
I
said
it
.
Eh
?
Didn’t
I
,
now
,
Paul
?
’
And
as
the
old
man
spoke
,
the
workings
of
his
lungs
pumped
great
jets
of
blood
out
over
the
still
heather-flowers
as
they
slept
in
the
moonshine
,
and
dabbled
them
with
smoking
gore
.
‘Here
,
men
,
’
shouted
the
colonel
,
‘up
with
him
at
once
,
and
home
!
Here
,
put
a
brace
of
your
guns
together
,
muzzle
and
lock
.
Help
him
to
sit
on
them
,
Lancelot
.
There
,
Harry
,
put
your
arms
round
their
necks
.
Tregarva
,
hold
him
up
behind
.
Now
then
,
men
,
left
legs
foremost
—
keep
step
—
march
!
’
And
they
moved
off
towards
the
Priory
.
‘You
seem
to
know
everything
,
colonel
,
’
said
Lancelot
.
The
colonel
did
not
answer
for
a
moment
.
‘Lancelot
,
I
learnt
this
dodge
from
the
only
friend
I
ever
had
in
the
world
,
or
ever
shall
have
;
and
a
week
after
I
marched
him
home
to
his
deathbed
in
this
very
way.’
‘Paul
—
Paul
Tregarva
,
’
whispered
old
Harry
,
‘put
your
head
down
here
:
wipe
my
mouth
,
there’s
a
man
;
it’s
wet
,
uncommon
wet.’
It
was
his
own
life-blood
.
‘I’ve
been
a
beast
to
you
,
Paul
.
I’ve
hated
you
,
and
envied
you
,
and
tried
to
ruin
you
.
And
now
you’ve
saved
my
life
once
this
night
;
and
here
you
be
a-nursing
of
me
as
my
own
son
might
do
,
if
he
was
here
,
poor
fellow
!
I’ve
ruined
you
,
Paul
;
the
Lord
forgive
me
!
’
‘Pray
!
pray
!
’
said
Paul
,
‘and
He
will
forgive
you
.
He
is
all
mercy
.
He
pardoned
the
thief
on
the
cross
—
’
‘No
,
Paul
,
no
thief
,
—
not
so
bad
as
that
,
I
hope
,
anyhow
;
never
touched
a
feather
of
the
squire’s
.
But
you
dropped
a
song
,
Paul
,
a
bit
of
writing.’
Paul
turned
pale
.
‘And
—
the
Lord
forgive
me
!
—
I
put
it
in
the
squire’s
fly-book.’
‘The
Lord
forgive
you
!
Amen
!
’
said
Paul
,
solemnly
.
Wearily
and
slowly
they
stepped
on
towards
the
old
man’s
cottage
.
A
messenger
had
gone
on
before
,
and
in
a
few
minutes
the
squire
,
Mrs.
Lavington
,
and
the
girls
,
were
round
the
bed
of
their
old
retainer
.
They
sent
off
right
and
left
for
the
doctor
and
the
vicar
;
the
squire
was
in
a
frenzy
of
rage
and
grief
.
‘Don’t
take
on
,
master
,
don’t
take
on
,
’
said
old
Harry
,
as
he
lay
;
while
the
colonel
and
Honoria
in
vain
endeavoured
to
stanch
the
wound
.
‘I
knowed
it
would
be
so
,
sooner
or
later
;
’tis
all
in
the
way
of
business
.
They
haven’t
carried
off
a
bird
,
squire
,
not
a
bird
;
we
was
too
many
for
’em
—
eh
,
Paul
,
eh
?
’
‘Where
is
that
cursed
doctor
?
’
said
the
squire
.
‘Save
him
,
colonel
,
save
him
;
and
I’ll
give
you
—
’
Alas
!
the
charge
of
shot
at
a
few
feet
distance
had
entered
like
a
bullet
,
tearing
a
great
ragged
hole
.
—
There
was
no
hope
,
and
the
colonel
knew
it
;
but
he
said
nothing
.
‘The
second
keeper
,
’
sighed
Argemone
,
‘who
has
been
killed
here
!
Oh
,
Mr.
Smith
,
must
this
be
?
Is
God’s
blessing
on
all
this
?
’
Lancelot
said
nothing
.
The
old
man
lighted
up
at
Argemone’s
voice
.
‘There’s
the
beauty
,
there’s
the
pride
of
Whitford
.
And
sweet
Miss
Honor
,
too
,
—
so
kind
to
nurse
a
poor
old
man
!
But
she
never
would
let
him
teach
her
to
catch
perch
,
would
she
?
She
was
always
too
tender-hearted
.
Ah
,
squire
,
when
we’re
dead
and
gone
,
—
dead
and
gone
,
—
squire
,
they’ll
be
the
pride
of
Whitford
still
!
And
they’ll
keep
up
the
old
place
—
won’t
you
,
my
darlings
?
And
the
old
name
,
too
!
For
,
you
know
,
there
must
always
be
a
Lavington
in
Whitford
Priors
,
till
the
Nun’s
pool
runs
up
to
Ashy
Down.’
‘And
a
curse
upon
the
Lavingtons
,
’
sighed
Argemone
to
herself
in
an
undertone
.
Lancelot
heard
what
she
said
.
The
vicar
entered
,
but
he
was
too
late
.
The
old
man’s
strength
was
failing
,
and
his
mind
began
to
wander
.
‘Windy
,
’
he
murmured
to
himself
,
‘windy
,
dark
and
windy
—
birds
won’t
lie
—
not
old
Harry’s
fault
.
How
black
it
grows
!
We
must
be
gone
by
nightfall
,
squire
.
Where’s
that
young
dog
gone
?
Arter
the
larks
,
the
brute.’
Old
Squire
Lavington
sobbed
like
a
child
.
‘You
will
soon
be
home
,
my
man
,
’
said
the
vicar
.
‘Remember
that
you
have
a
Saviour
in
heaven
.
Cast
yourself
on
His
mercy.’
Harry
shook
his
head
.
‘Very
good
words
,
very
kind
,
—
very
heavy
gamebag
,
though
.
Never
get
home
,
never
any
more
at
all
.
Where’s
my
boy
Tom
to
carry
it
?
Send
for
my
boy
Tom
.
He
was
always
a
good
boy
till
he
got
along
with
them
poachers.’
‘Listen
,
’
he
said
,
‘listen
!
There’s
bells
a-ringing
—
ringing
in
my
head
.
Come
you
here
,
Paul
Tregarva.’
He
pulled
Tregarva’s
face
down
to
his
own
,
and
whispered
,
—
‘Them’s
the
bells
a-ringing
for
Miss
Honor’s
wedding.’
Paul
started
and
drew
back
.
Harry
chuckled
and
grinned
for
a
moment
in
his
old
foxy
,
peering
way
,
and
then
wandered
off
again
.
‘What’s
that
thumping
and
roaring
?
’
Alas
!
it
was
the
failing
pulsation
of
his
own
heart
.
‘It’s
the
weir
,
the
weir
—
a-washing
me
away
—
thundering
over
me
.
—
Squire
,
I’m
drowning
,
—
drowning
and
choking
!
Oh
,
Lord
,
how
deep
!
Now
it’s
running
quieter
—
now
I
can
breathe
again
—
swift
and
oily
—
running
on
,
running
on
,
down
to
the
sea
.
See
how
the
grayling
sparkle
!
There’s
a
pike
!
’Tain’t
my
fault
,
squire
,
so
help
me
—
Don’t
swear
,
now
,
squire
;
old
men
and
dying
maun’t
swear
,
squire
.
How
steady
the
river
runs
down
?
Lower
and
slower
—
lower
and
slower
:
now
it’s
quite
still
—
still
—
still
—
’
His
voice
sank
away
—
he
was
dead
!
No
!
once
more
the
light
flashed
up
in
the
socket
.
He
sprang
upright
in
the
bed
,
and
held
out
his
withered
paw
with
a
kind
of
wild
majesty
,
as
he
shouted
,
—
‘There
ain’t
such
a
head
of
hares
on
any
manor
in
the
county
.
And
them’s
the
last
words
of
Harry
Verney
!
’
He
fell
back
—
shuddered
—
a
rattle
in
his
throat
—
another
—
and
all
was
over
.
CHAPTER
X
:
‘MURDER
WILL
OUT
,
’
AND
LOVE
TOO
Argemone
need
never
have
known
of
Lancelot’s
share
in
the
poaching
affray
;
but
he
dared
not
conceal
anything
from
her
.
And
so
he
boldly
went
up
the
next
day
to
the
Priory
,
not
to
beg
pardon
,
but
to
justify
himself
,
and
succeeded
.
And
,
before
long
,
he
found
himself
fairly
installed
as
her
pupil
,
nominally
in
spiritual
matters
,
but
really
in
subjects
of
which
she
little
dreamed
.
Every
day
he
came
to
read
and
talk
with
her
,
and
whatever
objections
Mrs.
Lavington
expressed
were
silenced
by
Argemone
.
She
would
have
it
so
,
and
her
mother
neither
dared
nor
knew
how
to
control
her
.
The
daughter
had
utterly
out-read
and
out-thought
her
less
educated
parent
,
who
was
clinging
in
honest
bigotry
to
the
old
forms
,
while
Argemone
was
wandering
forth
over
the
chaos
of
the
strange
new
age
,
—
a
poor
homeless
Noah’s
dove
,
seeking
rest
for
the
sole
of
her
foot
and
finding
none
.
And
now
all
motherly
influence
and
sympathy
had
vanished
,
and
Mrs.
Lavington
,
in
fear
and
wonder
,
let
her
daughter
go
her
own
way
.
She
could
not
have
done
better
,
perhaps
;
for
Providence
had
found
for
Argemone
a
better
guide
than
her
mother
could
have
done
,
and
her
new
pupil
was
rapidly
becoming
her
teacher
.
She
was
matched
,
for
the
first
time
,
with
a
man
who
was
her
own
equal
in
intellect
and
knowledge
;
and
she
felt
how
real
was
that
sexual
difference
which
she
had
been
accustomed
to
consider
as
an
insolent
calumny
against
woman
.
Proudly
and
indignantly
she
struggled
against
the
conviction
,
but
in
vain
.
Again
and
again
she
argued
with
him
,
and
was
vanquished
,
—
or
,
at
least
,
what
is
far
better
,
made
to
see
how
many
different
sides
there
are
to
every
question
.
All
appeals
to
authority
he
answered
with
a
contemptuous
smile
.
‘The
best
authorities
?
’
he
used
to
say
.
‘On
what
question
do
not
the
best
authorities
flatly
contradict
each
other
?
And
why
?
Because
every
man
believes
just
what
it
suits
him
to
believe
.
Don’t
fancy
that
men
reason
themselves
into
convictions
;
the
prejudices
and
feelings
of
their
hearts
give
them
some
idea
or
theory
,
and
then
they
find
facts
at
their
leisure
to
prove
their
theory
true
.
Every
man
sees
facts
through
narrow
spectacles
,
red
,
or
green
,
or
blue
,
as
his
nation
or
his
temperament
colours
them
:
and
he
is
quite
right
,
only
he
must
allow
us
the
liberty
of
having
our
spectacles
too
.
Authority
is
only
good
for
proving
facts
.
We
must
draw
our
own
conclusions.’
And
Argemone
began
to
suspect
that
he
was
right
,
—
at
least
to
see
that
her
opinions
were
mere
hearsays
,
picked
up
at
her
own
will
and
fancy
;
while
his
were
living
,
daily-growing
ideas
.
Her
mind
was
beside
his
as
the
vase
of
cut
flowers
by
the
side
of
the
rugged
tree
,
whose
roots
are
feeding
deep
in
the
mother
earth
.
In
him
she
first
learnt
how
one
great
truth
received
into
the
depths
of
the
soul
germinates
there
,
and
bears
fruit
a
thousandfold
;
explaining
,
and
connecting
,
and
glorifying
innumerable
things
,
apparently
the
most
unlike
and
insignificant
;
and
daily
she
became
a
more
reverent
listener
,
and
gave
herself
up
,
half
against
her
will
and
conscience
,
to
the
guidance
of
a
man
whom
she
knew
to
be
her
inferior
in
morals
and
in
orthodoxy
.
She
had
worshipped
intellect
,
and
now
it
had
become
her
tyrant
;
and
she
was
ready
to
give
up
every
belief
which
she
once
had
prized
,
to
flutter
like
a
moth
round
its
fascinating
brilliance
.
Who
can
blame
her
,
poor
girl
?
For
Lancelot’s
humility
was
even
more
irresistible
than
his
eloquence
.
He
assumed
no
superiority
.
He
demanded
her
assent
to
truths
,
not
because
they
were
his
opinions
,
but
simply
for
the
truth’s
sake
;
and
on
all
points
which
touched
the
heart
he
looked
up
to
her
as
infallible
and
inspired
.
In
questions
of
morality
,
of
taste
,
of
feeling
,
he
listened
not
as
a
lover
to
his
mistress
,
but
rather
as
a
baby
to
its
mother
;
and
thus
,
half
unconsciously
to
himself
,
he
taught
her
where
her
true
kingdom
lay
,
—
that
the
heart
,
and
not
the
brain
,
enshrines
the
priceless
pearl
of
womanhood
,
the
oracular
jewel
,
the
‘Urim
and
Thummim
,
’
before
which
gross
man
can
only
inquire
and
adore
.
And
,
in
the
meantime
,
a
change
was
passing
upon
Lancelot
.
His
morbid
vanity
—
that
brawl-begotten
child
of
struggling
self-conceit
and
self-disgust
—
was
vanishing
away
;
and
as
Mr.
Tennyson
says
in
one
of
those
priceless
idyls
of
his
,
before
which
the
shade
of
Theocritus
must
hide
his
diminished
head
,
—
‘He
was
altered
,
and
began
To
move
about
the
house
with
joy
,
And
with
the
certain
step
of
man.’
He
had
,
at
last
,
found
one
person
who
could
appreciate
him
.
And
in
deliberate
confidence
he
set
to
work
to
conquer
her
,
and
make
her
his
own
.
It
was
a
traitorous
return
,
but
a
very
natural
one
.
And
she
,
sweet
creature
!
walked
straight
into
the
pleasant
snare
,
utterly
blind
,
because
she
fancied
that
she
saw
clearly
.
In
the
pride
of
her
mysticism
,
she
had
fancied
herself
above
so
commonplace
a
passion
as
love
.
It
was
a
curious
feature
of
lower
humanity
,
which
she
might
investigate
and
analyse
harmlessly
as
a
cold
scientific
spectator
;
and
,
in
her
mingled
pride
and
purity
,
she
used
to
indulge
Lancelot
in
metaphysical
disquisitions
about
love
and
beauty
,
like
that
first
one
in
their
walk
home
from
Minchampstead
,
from
which
a
less
celestially
innocent
soul
would
have
shrunk
.
She
thought
,
forsooth
,
as
the
old
proverb
says
,
that
she
could
deal
in
honey
,
without
putting
her
hand
to
her
mouth
.
But
Lancelot
knew
better
,
and
marked
her
for
his
own
.
And
daily
his
self-confidence
and
sense
of
rightful
power
developed
,
and
with
them
,
paradoxical
as
it
may
seem
,
the
bitterest
self-abasement
.
The
contact
of
her
stainless
innocence
,
the
growing
certainty
that
the
destiny
of
that
innocence
was
irrevocably
bound
up
with
his
own
,
made
him
shrink
from
her
whenever
he
remembered
his
own
guilty
career
.
To
remember
that
there
were
passages
in
it
which
she
must
never
know
—
that
she
would
cast
him
from
her
with
abhorrence
if
she
once
really
understood
their
vileness
?
To
think
that
,
amid
all
the
closest
bonds
of
love
,
there
must
for
ever
be
an
awful
,
silent
gulf
in
the
past
,
of
which
they
must
never
speak
!
—
That
she
would
bring
to
him
what
he
could
never
,
never
bring
to
her
!
—
The
thought
was
unbearable
.
And
as
hideous
recollections
used
to
rise
before
him
,
devilish
caricatures
of
his
former
self
,
mopping
and
mowing
at
him
in
his
dreams
,
he
would
start
from
his
lonely
bed
,
and
pace
the
room
for
hours
,
or
saddle
his
horse
,
and
ride
all
night
long
aimlessly
through
the
awful
woods
,
vainly
trying
to
escape
himself
.
How
gladly
,
at
those
moments
,
he
would
have
welcomed
centuries
of
a
material
hell
,
to
escape
from
the
more
awful
spiritual
hell
within
him
,
—
to
buy
back
that
pearl
of
innocence
which
he
had
cast
recklessly
to
be
trampled
under
the
feet
of
his
own
swinish
passions
!
But
,
no
;
that
which
was
done
could
never
be
undone
,
—
never
,
to
all
eternity
.
And
more
than
once
,
as
he
wandered
restlessly
from
one
room
to
another
,
the
barrels
of
his
pistols
seemed
to
glitter
with
a
cold
,
devilish
smile
,
and
call
to
him
,
—
‘Come
to
us
!
and
with
one
touch
of
your
finger
,
send
that
bursting
spirit
which
throbs
against
your
brow
to
flit
forth
free
,
and
nevermore
to
defile
her
purity
by
your
presence
!
’
But
no
,
again
:
a
voice
within
seemed
to
command
him
to
go
on
,
and
claim
her
,
and
win
her
,
spite
of
his
own
vileness
.
And
in
after
years
,
slowly
,
and
in
fear
and
trembling
,
he
knew
it
for
the
voice
of
God
,
who
had
been
leading
him
to
become
worthy
of
her
through
that
bitter
shame
of
his
own
unworthiness
.
As
One
higher
than
them
would
have
it
,
she
took
a
fancy
to
read
Homer
in
the
original
,
and
Lancelot
could
do
no
less
than
offer
his
services
as
translator
.
She
would
prepare
for
him
portions
of
the
Odyssey
,
and
every
day
that
he
came
up
to
the
Priory
he
used
to
comment
on
it
to
her
;
and
so
for
many
a
week
,
in
the
dark
wainscoted
library
,
and
in
the
clipt
yew-alleys
of
the
old
gardens
,
and
under
the
brown
autumn
trees
,
they
quarried
together
in
that
unexhausted
mine
,
among
the
records
of
the
rich
Titan-youth
of
man
.
And
step
by
step
Lancelot
opened
to
her
the
everlasting
significance
of
the
poem
;
the
unconscious
purity
which
lingers
in
it
,
like
the
last
rays
of
the
Paradise
dawn
;
its
sense
of
the
dignity
of
man
as
man
;
the
religious
reverence
with
which
it
speaks
of
all
human
ties
,
human
strength
and
beauty
—
ay
,
even
of
merely
animal
human
appetites
,
as
God-given
and
Godlike
symbols
.
She
could
not
but
listen
and
admire
,
when
he
introduced
her
to
the
sheer
paganism
of
Schiller’s
Gods
of
Greece
;
for
on
this
subject
he
was
more
eloquent
than
on
any
.
He
had
gradually
,
in
fact
,
as
we
have
seen
,
dropped
all
faith
in
anything
but
Nature
;
the
slightest
fact
about
a
bone
or
a
weed
was
more
important
to
him
than
all
the
books
of
divinity
which
Argemone
lent
him
—
to
be
laid
by
unread
.
‘What
do
you
believe
in
?
’
she
asked
him
one
day
,
sadly
.
‘In
this
!
’
he
said
,
stamping
his
foot
on
the
ground
.
‘In
the
earth
I
stand
on
,
and
the
things
I
see
walking
and
growing
on
it
.
There
may
be
something
beside
it
—
what
you
call
a
spiritual
world
.
But
if
He
who
made
me
intended
me
to
think
of
spirit
first
,
He
would
have
let
me
see
it
first
.
But
as
He
has
given
me
material
senses
,
and
put
me
in
a
material
world
,
I
take
it
as
a
fair
hint
that
I
am
meant
to
use
those
senses
first
,
whatever
may
come
after
.
I
may
be
intended
to
understand
the
unseen
world
,
but
if
so
,
it
must
be
,
as
I
suspect
,
by
understanding
the
visible
one
:
and
there
are
enough
wonders
there
to
occupy
me
for
some
time
to
come.’
‘But
the
Bible
?
’
(
Argemone
had
given
up
long
ago
wasting
words
about
the
‘Church.’
)
‘My
only
Bible
as
yet
is
Bacon
.
I
know
that
he
is
right
,
whoever
is
wrong
.
If
that
Hebrew
Bible
is
to
be
believed
by
me
,
it
must
agree
with
what
I
know
already
from
science.’
What
was
to
be
done
with
so
intractable
a
heretic
?
Call
him
an
infidel
and
a
Materialist
,
of
course
,
and
cast
him
off
with
horror
.
But
Argemone
was
beginning
to
find
out
that
,
when
people
are
really
in
earnest
,
it
may
be
better
sometimes
to
leave
God’s
methods
of
educating
them
alone
,
instead
of
calling
the
poor
honest
seekers
hard
names
,
which
the
speakers
themselves
don’t
understand
.
But
words
would
fail
sometimes
,
and
in
default
of
them
Lancelot
had
recourse
to
drawings
,
and
manifested
in
them
a
talent
for
thinking
in
visible
forms
which
put
the
climax
to
all
Argemone’s
wonder
.
A
single
profile
,
even
a
mere
mathematical
figure
,
would
,
in
his
hands
,
become
the
illustration
of
a
spiritual
truth
.
And
,
in
time
,
every
fresh
lesson
on
the
Odyssey
was
accompanied
by
its
illustration
,
—
some
bold
and
simple
outline
drawing
.
In
Argemone’s
eyes
,
the
sketches
were
immaculate
and
inspired
;
for
their
chief
,
almost
their
only
fault
,
was
just
those
mere
anatomical
slips
which
a
woman
would
hardly
perceive
,
provided
the
forms
were
generally
graceful
and
bold
.
One
day
his
fancy
attempted
a
bolder
flight
.
He
brought
a
large
pen-and-ink
drawing
,
and
laying
it
silently
on
the
table
before
her
,
fixed
his
eyes
intensely
on
her
face
.
The
sketch
was
labelled
,
the
‘Triumph
of
Woman.’
In
the
foreground
,
to
the
right
and
left
,
were
scattered
groups
of
men
,
in
the
dresses
and
insignia
of
every
period
and
occupation
.
The
distance
showed
,
in
a
few
bold
outlines
,
a
dreary
desert
,
broken
by
alpine
ridges
,
and
furrowed
here
and
there
by
a
wandering
watercourse
.
Long
shadows
pointed
to
the
half-risen
sun
,
whose
disc
was
climbing
above
the
waste
horizon
.
And
in
front
of
the
sun
,
down
the
path
of
the
morning
beams
,
came
Woman
,
clothed
only
in
the
armour
of
her
own
loveliness
.
Her
bearing
was
stately
,
and
yet
modest
;
in
her
face
pensive
tenderness
seemed
wedded
with
earnest
joy
.
In
her
right
hand
lay
a
cross
,
the
emblem
of
self-sacrifice
.
Her
path
across
the
desert
was
marked
by
the
flowers
which
sprang
up
beneath
her
steps
;
the
wild
gazelle
stept
forward
trustingly
to
lick
her
hand
;
a
single
wandering
butterfly
fluttered
round
her
head
.
As
the
group
,
one
by
one
,
caught
sight
of
her
,
a
human
tenderness
and
intelligence
seemed
to
light
up
every
face
.
The
scholar
dropt
his
book
,
the
miser
his
gold
,
the
savage
his
weapons
;
even
in
the
visage
of
the
half-slumbering
sot
some
nobler
recollection
seemed
wistfully
to
struggle
into
life
.
The
artist
caught
up
his
pencil
,
the
poet
his
lyre
,
with
eyes
that
beamed
forth
sudden
inspiration
.
The
sage
,
whose
broad
brow
rose
above
the
group
like
some
torrent
furrowed
Alp
,
scathed
with
all
the
temptations
and
all
the
sorrows
of
his
race
,
watched
with
a
thoughtful
smile
that
preacher
more
mighty
than
himself
.
A
youth
,
decked
out
in
the
most
fantastic
fopperies
of
the
middle
age
,
stood
with
clasped
hands
and
brimming
eyes
,
as
remorse
and
pleasure
struggled
in
his
face
;
and
as
he
looked
,
the
fierce
sensual
features
seemed
to
melt
,
and
his
flesh
came
again
to
him
like
the
flesh
of
a
little
child
.
The
slave
forgot
his
fetters
;
little
children
clapped
their
hands
;
and
the
toil-worn
,
stunted
,
savage
woman
sprung
forward
to
kneel
at
her
feet
,
and
see
herself
transfigured
in
that
new
and
divine
ideal
of
her
sex
.
Descriptions
of
drawings
are
clumsy
things
at
best
;
the
reader
must
fill
up
the
sketch
for
himself
by
the
eye
of
faith
.
Entranced
in
wonder
and
pleasure
,
Argemone
let
her
eyes
wander
over
the
drawing
.
And
her
feelings
for
Lancelot
amounted
almost
to
worship
,
as
she
apprehended
the
harmonious
unity
of
the
manifold
conception
,
—
the
rugged
boldness
of
the
groups
in
front
,
the
soft
grandeur
of
the
figure
which
was
the
lodestar
of
all
their
emotions
—
the
virginal
purity
of
the
whole
.
And
when
she
fancied
that
she
traced
in
those
bland
aquiline
lineaments
,
and
in
the
crisp
ringlets
which
floated
like
a
cloud
down
to
the
knees
of
the
figure
,
some
traces
of
her
own
likeness
,
a
dream
of
a
new
destiny
flitted
before
her
,
—
she
blushed
to
her
very
neck
;
and
as
she
bent
her
face
over
the
drawing
and
gazed
,
her
whole
soul
seemed
to
rise
into
her
eyes
,
and
a
single
tear
dropped
upon
the
paper
.
She
laid
her
hand
over
it
,
and
then
turned
hastily
away
.
‘You
do
not
like
it
!
I
have
been
too
bold
,
’
—
said
Lancelot
,
fearfully
.
‘Oh
,
no
!
no
!
It
is
so
beautiful
—
so
full
of
deep
wisdom
!
But
—
but
—
You
may
leave
it.’
Lancelot
slipped
silently
out
of
the
room
,
he
hardly
knew
why
;
and
when
he
was
gone
,
Argemone
caught
up
the
drawing
,
pressed
it
to
her
bosom
,
covered
it
with
kisses
,
and
hid
it
,
as
too
precious
for
any
eyes
but
her
own
,
in
the
farthest
corner
of
her
secrétaire
.
And
yet
she
fancied
that
she
was
not
in
love
!
The
vicar
saw
the
growth
of
this
intimacy
with
a
fast-lengthening
face
;
for
it
was
very
evident
that
Argemone
could
not
serve
two
masters
so
utterly
contradictory
as
himself
and
Lancelot
,
and
that
either
the
lover
or
the
father-confessor
must
speedily
resign
office
.
The
vicar
had
had
great
disadvantages
,
by
the
bye
,
in
fulfilling
the
latter
function
;
for
his
visits
at
the
Priory
had
been
all
but
forbidden
;
and
Argemone’s
‘spiritual
state’
had
been
directed
by
means
of
a
secret
correspondence
,
—
a
method
which
some
clergymen
,
and
some
young
ladies
too
,
have
discovered
,
in
the
last
few
years
,
to
be
quite
consistent
with
moral
delicacy
and
filial
obedience
.
John
Bull
,
like
a
stupid
fellow
as
he
is
,
has
still
his
doubts
upon
the
point
;
but
he
should
remember
that
though
St.
Paul
tells
women
when
they
want
advice
to
ask
their
husbands
at
home
,
yet
if
the
poor
woman
has
no
husband
,
or
,
as
often
happens
,
her
husband’s
advice
is
unpleasant
,
to
whom
is
she
to
go
but
to
the
next
best
substitute
,
her
spiritual
cicisbeo
,
or
favourite
clergyman
?
In
sad
earnest
,
neither
husband
nor
parent
deserves
pity
in
the
immense
majority
of
such
cases
.
Woman
will
have
guidance
.
It
is
her
delight
and
glory
to
be
led
;
and
if
her
husband
or
her
parents
will
not
meet
the
cravings
of
her
intellect
,
she
must
go
elsewhere
to
find
a
teacher
,
and
run
into
the
wildest
extravagances
of
private
judgment
,
in
the
very
hope
of
getting
rid
of
it
,
just
as
poor
Argemone
had
been
led
to
do
.
And
,
indeed
,
she
had
,
of
late
,
wandered
into
very
strange
paths
:
would
to
God
they
were
as
uncommon
as
strange
!
Both
she
and
the
vicar
had
a
great
wish
that
she
should
lead
a
‘devoted
life
;
’
but
then
they
both
disdained
to
use
common
means
for
their
object
.
The
good
old
English
plan
of
district
visiting
,
by
which
ladies
can
have
mercy
on
the
bodies
and
souls
of
those
below
them
,
without
casting
off
the
holy
discipline
which
a
home
,
even
the
most
ungenial
,
alone
supplies
,
savoured
too
much
of
mere
‘Protestantism.’
It
might
be
God’s
plan
for
christianising
England
just
now
,
but
that
was
no
reason
,
alas
!
for
its
being
their
plan
:
they
wanted
something
more
‘Catholic
,
’
more
in
accordance
with
Church
principles
(
for
,
indeed
,
is
it
not
the
business
of
the
Church
to
correct
the
errors
of
Providence
!
)
;
and
what
they
sought
they
found
at
once
in
a
certain
favourite
establishment
of
the
vicar’s
,
a
Church-of-England
béguinage
,
or
quasi-Protestant
nunnery
,
which
he
fostered
in
a
neighbouring
city
,
and
went
thither
on
all
high
tides
to
confess
the
young
ladies
,
who
were
in
all
things
nuns
,
but
bound
by
no
vows
,
except
,
of
course
,
such
as
they
might
choose
to
make
for
themselves
in
private
.
Here
they
laboured
among
the
lowest
haunts
of
misery
and
sin
,
piously
and
self-denyingly
enough
,
sweet
souls
!
in
hope
of
‘the
peculiar
crown
,
’
and
a
higher
place
in
heaven
than
the
relations
whom
they
had
left
behind
them
‘in
the
world
,
’
and
unshackled
by
the
interference
of
parents
,
and
other
such
merely
fleshly
relationships
,
which
,
as
they
cannot
have
been
instituted
by
God
merely
to
be
trampled
under
foot
on
the
path
to
holiness
,
and
cannot
well
have
instituted
themselves
(
unless
,
after
all
,
the
Materialists
are
right
,
and
this
world
does
grind
of
itself
,
except
when
its
Maker
happens
to
interfere
once
every
thousand
years
)
,
must
needs
have
been
instituted
by
the
devil
.
And
so
more
than
one
girl
in
that
nunnery
,
and
out
of
it
,
too
,
believed
in
her
inmost
heart
,
though
her
‘Catholic
principles
,
’
by
a
happy
inconsistency
,
forbade
her
to
say
so
.
In
a
moment
of
excitement
,
fascinated
by
the
romance
of
the
notion
,
Argemone
had
proposed
to
her
mother
to
allow
her
to
enter
this
béguinage
,
and
called
in
the
vicar
as
advocate
;
which
produced
a
correspondence
between
him
and
Mrs.
Lavington
,
stormy
on
her
side
,
provokingly
calm
on
his
:
and
when
the
poor
lady
,
tired
of
raging
,
had
descended
to
an
affecting
appeal
to
his
human
sympathies
,
entreating
him
to
spare
a
mother’s
feelings
,
he
had
answered
with
the
same
impassive
fanaticism
,
that
‘he
was
surprised
at
her
putting
a
mother’s
selfish
feelings
in
competition
with
the
sanctity
of
her
child
,
’
and
that
‘had
his
own
daughter
shown
such
a
desire
for
a
higher
vocation
,
he
should
have
esteemed
it
the
very
highest
honour
;
’
to
which
Mrs.
Lavington
answered
,
naively
enough
,
that
‘it
depended
very
much
on
what
his
daughter
was
like.’
—
So
he
was
all
but
forbidden
the
house
.
Nevertheless
he
contrived
,
by
means
of
this
same
secret
correspondence
,
to
keep
alive
in
Argemone’s
mind
the
longing
to
turn
nun
,
and
fancied
honestly
that
he
was
doing
God
service
,
while
he
was
pampering
the
poor
girl’s
lust
for
singularity
and
self-glorification
.
But
,
lately
,
Argemone’s
letters
had
become
less
frequent
and
less
confiding
;
and
the
vicar
,
who
well
knew
the
reason
,
had
resolved
to
bring
the
matter
to
a
crisis
.
So
he
wrote
earnestly
and
peremptorily
to
his
pupil
,
urging
her
,
with
all
his
subtle
and
refined
eloquence
,
to
make
a
final
appeal
to
her
mother
,
and
if
that
failed
,
to
act
‘as
her
conscience
should
direct
her
;
’
and
enclosed
an
answer
from
the
superior
of
the
convent
,
to
a
letter
which
Argemone
had
in
a
mad
moment
asked
him
to
write
.
The
superior’s
letter
spoke
of
Argemone’s
joining
her
as
a
settled
matter
,
and
of
her
room
as
ready
for
her
,
while
it
lauded
to
the
skies
the
peaceful
activity
and
usefulness
of
the
establishment
.
This
letter
troubled
Argemone
exceedingly
.
She
had
never
before
been
compelled
to
face
her
own
feelings
,
either
about
the
nunnery
or
about
Lancelot
.
She
had
taken
up
the
fancy
of
becoming
a
Sister
of
Charity
,
not
as
Honoria
might
have
done
,
from
genuine
love
of
the
poor
,
but
from
‘a
sense
of
duty.’
Almsgiving
and
visiting
the
sick
were
one
of
the
methods
of
earning
heaven
prescribed
by
her
new
creed
.
She
was
ashamed
of
her
own
laziness
by
the
side
of
Honoria’s
simple
benevolence
;
and
,
sad
though
it
may
be
to
have
to
say
it
,
she
longed
to
outdo
her
by
some
signal
act
of
self-sacrifice
.
She
had
looked
to
this
nunnery
,
too
,
as
an
escape
,
once
and
for
all
,
from
her
own
luxury
,
just
as
people
who
have
not
strength
to
be
temperate
take
refuge
in
teetotalism
;
and
the
thought
of
menial
services
towards
the
poor
,
however
distasteful
to
her
,
came
in
quite
prettily
to
fill
up
the
little
ideal
of
a
life
of
romantic
asceticisms
and
mystic
contemplation
,
which
gave
the
true
charm
in
her
eyes
to
her
wild
project
.
But
now
—
just
as
a
field
had
opened
to
her
cravings
after
poetry
and
art
,
wider
and
richer
than
she
had
ever
imagined
—
just
as
those
simple
childlike
views
of
man
and
nature
,
which
she
had
learnt
to
despise
,
were
assuming
an
awful
holiness
in
her
eyes
—
just
as
she
had
found
a
human
soul
to
whose
regeneration
she
could
devote
all
her
energies
,
—
to
be
required
to
give
all
up
,
perhaps
for
ever
(
and
she
felt
that
if
at
all
,
it
ought
to
be
for
ever
)
;
—
it
was
too
much
for
her
little
heart
to
bear
;
and
she
cried
bitterly
;
and
tried
to
pray
,
and
could
not
;
and
longed
for
a
strong
and
tender
bosom
on
which
to
lay
her
head
,
and
pour
out
all
her
doubts
and
struggles
;
and
there
was
none
.
Her
mother
did
not
understand
—
hardly
loved
her
.
Honoria
loved
her
;
but
understood
her
even
less
than
her
mother
.
Pride
—
the
pride
of
intellect
,
the
pride
of
self-will
—
had
long
since
sealed
her
lips
to
her
own
family
...
And
then
,
out
of
the
darkness
of
her
heart
,
Lancelot’s
image
rose
before
her
stronger
than
all
,
tenderer
than
all
;
and
as
she
remembered
his
magical
faculty
of
anticipating
all
her
thoughts
,
embodying
for
her
all
her
vague
surmises
,
he
seemed
to
beckon
her
towards
him
.
—
She
shuddered
and
turned
away
.
And
now
she
first
became
conscious
how
he
had
haunted
her
thoughts
in
the
last
few
months
,
not
as
a
soul
to
be
saved
,
but
as
a
living
man
—
his
face
,
his
figure
,
his
voice
,
his
every
gesture
and
expression
,
rising
clear
before
her
,
in
spite
of
herself
,
by
day
and
night
.
And
then
she
thought
of
his
last
drawing
,
and
the
looks
which
had
accompanied
it
,
—
unmistakable
looks
of
passionate
and
adoring
love
.
There
was
no
denying
it
—
she
had
always
known
that
he
loved
her
,
but
she
had
never
dared
to
confess
it
to
herself
.
But
now
the
earthquake
was
come
,
and
all
the
secrets
of
her
heart
burst
upward
to
the
light
,
and
she
faced
the
thought
in
shame
and
terror
.
‘How
unjust
I
have
been
to
him
!
how
cruel
!
thus
to
entice
him
on
in
hopeless
love
!
’
She
lifted
up
her
eyes
,
and
saw
in
the
mirror
opposite
the
reflection
of
her
own
exquisite
beauty
.
‘I
could
have
known
what
I
was
doing
!
I
knew
all
the
while
!
And
yet
it
is
so
delicious
to
feel
that
any
one
loves
me
!
Is
it
selfishness
?
It
is
selfishness
,
to
pamper
my
vanity
on
an
affection
which
I
do
not
,
will
not
return
.
I
will
not
be
thus
in
debt
to
him
,
even
for
his
love
.
I
do
not
love
him
—
I
do
not
;
and
even
if
I
did
,
to
give
myself
up
to
a
man
of
whom
I
know
so
little
,
who
is
not
even
a
Christian
,
much
less
a
Churchman
!
Ay
!
and
to
give
up
my
will
to
any
man
!
to
become
the
subject
,
the
slave
,
of
another
human
being
!
I
,
who
have
worshipped
the
belief
in
woman’s
independence
,
the
hope
of
woman’s
enfranchisement
,
who
have
felt
how
glorious
it
is
to
live
like
the
angels
,
single
and
self-sustained
!
What
if
I
cut
the
Gordian
knot
,
and
here
make
,
once
for
all
,
a
vow
of
perpetual
celibacy
?
’
She
flung
herself
on
her
knees
—
she
could
not
collect
her
thoughts
.
‘No
,
’
she
said
,
‘I
am
not
prepared
for
this
.
It
is
too
solemn
to
be
undertaken
in
this
miserable
whirlwind
of
passion
.
I
will
fast
,
and
meditate
,
and
go
up
formally
to
the
little
chapel
,
and
there
devote
myself
to
God
;
and
,
in
the
meantime
,
to
write
at
once
to
the
superior
of
the
Béguines
;
to
go
to
my
mother
,
and
tell
her
once
for
all
—
What
?
Must
I
lose
him
?
—
must
I
give
him
up
?
Not
his
love
—
I
cannot
give
up
that
—
would
that
I
could
!
but
no
!
he
will
love
me
for
ever
.
I
know
it
as
well
as
if
an
angel
told
me
.
But
to
give
up
him
!
Never
to
see
him
!
never
to
hear
his
voice
!
never
to
walk
with
him
among
the
beech
woods
any
more
!
Oh
,
Argemone
!
Argemone
!
miserable
girl
!
and
is
it
come
to
this
?
’
And
she
threw
herself
on
the
sofa
,
and
hid
her
face
in
her
hands
.
Yes
,
Argemone
,
it
is
come
to
this
;
and
the
best
thing
you
can
do
,
is
just
what
you
are
doing
—
to
lie
there
and
cry
yourself
to
sleep
,
while
the
angels
are
laughing
kindly
(
if
a
solemn
public
,
who
settles
everything
for
them
,
will
permit
them
to
laugh
)
at
the
rickety
old
windmill
of
sham-Popery
which
you
have
taken
for
a
real
giant
.
At
that
same
day
and
hour
,
as
it
chanced
,
Lancelot
,
little
dreaming
what
the
said
windmill
was
grinding
for
him
,
was
scribbling
a
hasty
and
angry
answer
to
a
letter
of
Luke’s
,
which
,
perhaps
,
came
that
very
morning
in
order
to
put
him
into
a
proper
temper
for
the
demolishing
of
windmills
.
It
ran
thus
,
—
‘Ay
,
my
good
Cousin
,
—
So
I
expected
—
‘Suave
mari
magno
turbantibus
æquora
ventis
E
terra
magnum
alterius
spectare
laborem
...
Pleasant
and
easy
for
you
Protestants
(
for
I
will
call
you
what
you
are
,
in
spite
of
your
own
denials
,
a
truly
consistent
and
logical
Protestant
—
and
therefore
a
Materialist
)
—
easy
for
you
,
I
say
,
to
sit
on
the
shore
,
in
cold
,
cruel
self-satisfaction
,
and
tell
the
poor
wretch
buffeting
with
the
waves
what
he
ought
to
do
while
he
is
choking
and
drowning
...
Thank
Heaven
,
the
storm
has
stranded
me
upon
the
everlasting
Rock
of
Peter
;
—
but
it
has
been
a
sore
trouble
to
reach
it
.
Protestants
,
who
look
at
creeds
as
things
to
be
changed
like
coats
,
whenever
they
seem
not
to
fit
them
,
little
know
what
we
Catholic-hearted
ones
suffer
...
If
they
did
,
they
would
be
more
merciful
and
more
chary
in
the
requirements
of
us
,
just
as
we
are
in
the
very
throe
of
a
new-born
existence
.
The
excellent
man
,
to
whose
care
I
have
committed
myself
,
has
a
wise
and
a
tender
heart
...
he
saw
no
harm
in
my
concealing
from
my
father
the
spiritual
reason
of
my
giving
up
my
curacy
(
for
I
have
given
it
up
)
,
and
only
giving
the
outward
,
but
equally
true
reason
,
that
I
found
it
on
the
whole
an
ineligible
and
distressing
post
...
.
I
know
you
will
apply
to
such
an
act
that
disgusting
monosyllable
of
which
Protestants
are
so
fond
.
He
felt
with
me
and
for
me
—
for
my
horror
of
giving
pain
to
my
father
,
and
for
my
wearied
and
excited
state
of
mind
;
and
strangely
enough
—
to
show
how
differently
,
according
to
the
difference
of
the
organs
,
the
same
object
may
appear
to
two
people
—
he
quoted
in
my
favour
that
very
verse
which
you
wrest
against
me
.
He
wished
me
to
show
my
father
that
I
had
only
changed
my
heaven
,
and
not
my
character
,
by
becoming
an
Ultramontane-Catholic
...
that
,
as
far
as
his
esteem
and
affection
were
founded
on
anything
in
me
,
the
ground
of
it
did
not
vanish
with
my
conversion
.
If
I
had
told
him
at
once
of
my
altered
opinions
,
he
would
have
henceforth
viewed
every
word
and
action
with
a
perjudiced
eye
...
Protestants
are
so
bigoted
...
but
if
,
after
seeing
me
for
a
month
or
two
the
same
Luke
that
he
had
ever
known
me
,
he
were
gradually
informed
that
I
had
all
the
while
held
that
creed
which
he
had
considered
incompatible
with
such
a
life
as
I
hope
mine
would
be
—
you
must
see
the
effect
which
it
ought
to
have
...
I
don’t
doubt
that
you
will
complain
of
all
this
...
All
I
can
say
is
,
that
I
cannot
sympathise
with
that
superstitious
reverence
for
mere
verbal
truth
,
which
is
so
common
among
Protestants
...
It
seems
to
me
they
throw
away
the
spirit
of
truth
,
in
their
idolatry
of
its
letter
.
For
instance
,
—
what
is
the
use
of
informing
a
man
of
a
true
fact
but
to
induce
a
true
opinion
in
him
?
But
if
,
by
clinging
to
the
exact
letter
of
the
fact
,
you
create
a
false
opinion
in
his
mind
,
as
I
should
do
in
my
father’s
case
,
if
by
telling
him
at
once
of
my
change
,
I
gave
him
an
unjust
horror
of
Catholicism
,
—
you
do
not
tell
him
the
truth
...
You
may
speak
what
is
true
to
you
,
—
but
it
becomes
an
error
when
received
into
his
mind
...
.
If
his
mind
is
a
refracting
and
polarising
medium
—
if
the
crystalline
lens
of
his
soul’s
eye
has
been
changed
into
tourmaline
or
Labrador
spar
—
the
only
way
to
give
him
a
true
image
of
the
fact
,
is
to
present
it
to
him
already
properly
altered
in
form
,
and
adapted
to
suit
the
obliquity
of
his
vision
;
in
order
that
the
very
refractive
power
of
his
faculties
may
,
instead
of
distorting
it
,
correct
it
,
and
make
it
straight
for
him
;
and
so
a
verbal
wrong
in
fact
may
possess
him
with
a
right
opinion
...
‘You
see
the
whole
question
turns
on
your
Protestant
deification
of
the
intellect
...
If
you
really
believed
,
as
you
all
say
you
do
,
that
the
nature
of
man
,
and
therefore
his
intellect
among
the
rest
,
was
utterly
corrupt
,
you
would
not
be
so
superstitiously
careful
to
tell
the
truth
...
as
you
call
it
;
because
you
would
know
that
man’s
heart
,
if
not
his
head
,
would
needs
turn
the
truth
into
a
lie
by
its
own
corruption
...
The
proper
use
of
reasoning
is
to
produce
opinion
,
—
and
if
the
subject
in
which
you
wish
to
produce
the
opinion
is
diseased
,
you
must
adapt
the
medicine
accordingly.’
To
all
which
Lancelot
,
with
several
strong
curses
,
scrawled
the
following
answer
:
—
‘And
this
is
my
Cousin
Luke
!
—
Well
,
I
shall
believe
henceforward
that
there
is
,
after
all
,
a
thousand
times
greater
moral
gulf
fixed
between
Popery
and
Tractarianism
,
than
between
Tractarianism
and
the
extremest
Protestantism
.
My
dear
fellow
,
—
I
won’t
bother
you
,
by
cutting
up
your
charming
ambiguous
middle
terms
,
which
make
reason
and
reasoning
identical
,
or
your
theory
that
the
office
of
reasoning
is
to
induce
opinions
—
(
the
devil
take
opinions
,
right
or
wrong
—
I
want
facts
,
faith
in
real
facts
!
)
—
or
about
deifying
the
intellect
—
as
if
all
sound
intellect
was
not
in
itself
divine
light
—
a
revelation
to
man
of
absolute
laws
independent
of
him
,
as
the
very
heathens
hold
.
But
this
I
will
do
—
thank
you
most
sincerely
for
the
compliment
you
pay
us
Cismontane
heretics
.
We
do
retain
some
dim
belief
in
a
God
—
even
I
am
beginning
to
believe
in
believing
in
Him
.
And
therefore
,
as
I
begin
to
suppose
,
it
is
,
that
we
reverence
facts
,
as
the
work
of
God
,
His
acted
words
and
will
,
which
we
dare
not
falsify
;
which
we
believe
will
tell
their
own
story
better
than
we
can
tell
it
for
them
.
If
our
eyes
are
dimmed
,
we
think
it
safer
to
clear
them
,
which
do
belong
to
us
,
than
to
bedevil
,
by
the
light
of
those
very
already
dimmed
eyes
,
the
objects
round
,
which
do
not
belong
to
us
.
Whether
we
are
consistent
or
not
about
the
corruptness
of
man
,
we
are
about
the
incorruptness
of
God
;
and
therefore
about
that
of
the
facts
by
which
God
teaches
men
:
and
believe
,
and
will
continue
to
believe
,
that
the
blackest
of
all
sins
,
the
deepest
of
all
Atheisms
,
that
which
,
above
all
things
,
proves
no
faith
in
God’s
government
of
the
universe
,
no
sense
of
His
presence
,
no
understanding
of
His
character
,
is
—
a
lie
.
‘One
word
more
—
Unless
you
tell
your
father
within
twenty-four
hours
after
receiving
this
letter
,
I
will
.
And
I
,
being
a
Protestant
(
if
cursing
Popery
means
Protestantism
)
,
mean
what
I
say.’
As
Lancelot
walked
up
to
the
Priory
that
morning
,
the
Reverend
Panurgus
O’Blareaway
dashed
out
of
a
cottage
by
the
roadside
,
and
seized
him
unceremoniously
by
the
shoulders
.
He
was
a
specimen
of
humanity
which
Lancelot
could
not
help
at
once
liking
and
despising
;
a
quaint
mixture
of
conceit
and
earnestness
,
uniting
the
shrewdness
of
a
stockjobber
with
the
frolic
of
a
schoolboy
broke
loose
.
He
was
rector
of
a
place
in
the
west
of
Ireland
,
containing
some
ten
Protestants
and
some
thousand
Papists
.
Being
,
unfortunately
for
himself
,
a
red-hot
Orangeman
,
he
had
thought
fit
to
quarrel
with
the
priest
,
in
consequence
of
which
he
found
himself
deprived
both
of
tithes
and
congregation
;
and
after
receiving
three
or
four
Rockite
letters
,
and
a
charge
of
slugs
through
his
hat
(
of
which
he
always
talked
as
if
being
shot
at
was
the
most
pleasant
and
amusing
feature
of
Irish
life
)
,
he
repaired
to
England
,
and
there
,
after
trying
to
set
up
as
popular
preacher
in
London
,
declaiming
at
Exeter
Hall
,
and
writing
for
all
the
third-rate
magazines
,
found
himself
incumbent
of
Lower
Whitford
.
He
worked
there
,
as
he
said
himself
,
‘like
a
horse
;
’
spent
his
mornings
in
the
schools
,
his
afternoons
in
the
cottages
;
preached
four
or
five
extempore
sermons
every
week
to
overflowing
congregations
;
took
the
lead
,
by
virtue
of
the
‘gift
of
the
gab
,
’
at
all
‘religious’
meetings
for
ten
miles
round
;
and
really
did
a
great
deal
of
good
in
his
way
.
He
had
an
unblushing
candour
about
his
own
worldly
ambition
,
with
a
tremendous
brogue
;
and
prided
himself
on
exaggerating
deliberately
both
of
these
excellences
.
‘The
top
of
the
morning
to
ye
,
Mr.
Smith
.
Ye
haven’t
such
a
thing
as
a
cegar
about
ye
?
I’ve
been
preaching
to
school-children
till
me
throat’s
as
dry
as
the
slave
of
a
lime-burner’s
coat.’
‘I
am
very
sorry
;
but
,
really
,
I
have
left
my
case
at
home.’
‘Oh
!
ah
!
faix
and
I
forgot
.
Ye
mustn’t
be
smokin’
the
nasty
things
going
up
to
the
castle
.
Och
,
Mr.
Smith
,
but
you’re
the
lucky
man
!
’
‘I
am
much
obliged
to
you
for
the
compliment
,
’
said
Lancelot
,
gruffly
;
‘but
really
I
don’t
see
how
I
deserve
it.’
‘Desarve
it
!
Sure
luck’s
all
,
and
that’s
your
luck
,
and
not
your
deserts
at
all
.
To
have
the
handsomest
girl
in
the
county
dying
for
love
of
ye’
—
(
Panurgus
had
a
happy
knack
of
blurting
out
truths
—
when
they
were
pleasant
ones
)
.
‘And
she
just
the
beautifulest
creature
that
ever
spilte
shoe-leather
,
barring
Lady
Philandria
Mountflunkey
,
of
Castle
Mountflunkey
,
Quane’s
County
,
that
shall
be
nameless.’
‘Upon
my
word
,
O’Blareaway
,
you
seem
to
be
better
acquainted
with
my
matters
than
I
am
.
Don’t
you
think
,
on
the
whole
,
it
might
be
better
to
mind
your
own
business
?
’
‘Me
own
business
!
Poker
o’
Moses
!
and
ain’t
it
me
own
business
?
Haven’t
ye
spilte
my
tenderest
hopes
?
And
good
luck
to
ye
in
that
same
,
for
ye’re
as
pretty
a
rider
as
ever
kicked
coping-stones
out
of
a
wall
;
and
poor
Paddy
loves
a
sportsman
by
nature
.
Och
!
but
ye’ve
got
a
hand
of
trumps
this
time
.
Didn’t
I
mate
the
vicar
the
other
day
,
and
spake
my
mind
to
him
?
’
‘What
do
you
mean
?
’
asked
Lancelot
,
with
a
strong
expletive
.
‘Faix
,
I
told
him
he
might
as
well
Faugh
a
ballagh
—
make
a
rid
road
,
and
get
out
of
that
,
with
his
bowings
and
his
crossings
,
and
his
Popery
made
asy
for
small
minds
,
for
there
was
a
gun
a-field
that
would
wipe
his
eye
,
—
maning
yourself
,
ye
Prathestant.’
‘All
I
can
say
is
,
that
you
had
really
better
mind
your
own
business
,
and
I’ll
mind
my
own.’
‘Och
,
’
said
the
good-natured
Irishman
,
‘and
it’s
you
must
mind
my
business
,
and
I’ll
mind
yours
;
and
that’s
all
fair
and
aqual
.
Ye’ve
cut
me
out
intirely
at
the
Priory
,
ye
Tory
,
and
so
ye’re
bound
to
give
me
a
lift
somehow
.
Couldn’t
ye
look
me
out
a
fine
fat
widow
,
with
an
illigant
little
fortune
?
For
what’s
England
made
for
except
to
find
poor
Paddy
a
wife
and
money
?
Ah
,
ye
may
laugh
,
but
I’d
buy
me
a
chapel
at
the
West-end
:
me
talents
are
thrown
away
here
intirely
,
wasting
me
swateness
on
the
desert
air
,
as
Tom
Moore
says’
(
Panurgus
used
to
attribute
all
quotations
whatsoever
to
Irish
geniuses
)
;
‘and
I
flatter
meself
I’m
the
boy
to
shute
the
Gospel
to
the
aristocracy.’
Lancelot
burst
into
a
roar
of
laughter
,
and
escaped
over
the
next
gate
:
but
the
Irishman’s
coarse
hints
stuck
by
him
as
they
were
intended
to
do
.
‘Dying
for
the
love
of
me
!
’
He
knew
it
was
an
impudent
exaggeration
,
but
,
somehow
,
it
gave
him
confidence
;
‘there
is
no
smoke
,
’
he
thought
,
‘without
fire.’
And
his
heart
beat
high
with
new
hopes
,
for
which
he
laughed
at
himself
all
the
while
.
It
was
just
the
cordial
which
he
needed
.
That
conversation
determined
the
history
of
his
life
.
He
met
Argemone
that
morning
in
the
library
,
as
usual
;
but
he
soon
found
that
she
was
not
thinking
of
Homer
.
She
was
moody
and
abstracted
;
and
he
could
not
help
at
last
saying
,
—
‘I
am
afraid
I
and
my
classics
are
de
trop
this
morning
,
Miss
Lavington.’
‘Oh
,
no
,
no.
Never
that.’
She
turned
away
her
head
.
He
fancied
that
it
was
to
hide
a
tear
.
Suddenly
she
rose
,
and
turned
to
him
with
a
clear
,
calm
,
gentle
gaze
.
‘Listen
to
me
,
Mr.
Smith
.
We
must
part
to-day
,
and
for
ever
.
This
intimacy
has
gone
on
—
too
long
,
I
am
afraid
,
for
your
happiness
.
And
now
,
like
all
pleasant
things
in
this
miserable
world
,
it
must
cease
.
I
cannot
tell
you
why
;
but
you
will
trust
me
.
I
thank
you
for
it
—
I
thank
God
for
it
.
I
have
learnt
things
from
it
which
I
shall
never
forget
.
I
have
learnt
,
at
least
from
it
,
to
esteem
and
honour
you
.
You
have
vast
powers
.
Nothing
,
nothing
,
I
believe
,
is
too
high
for
you
to
attempt
and
succeed
.
But
we
must
part
;
and
now
,
God
be
with
you
.
Oh
,
that
you
would
but
believe
that
these
glorious
talents
are
His
loan
!
That
you
would
but
be
a
true
and
loyal
knight
to
him
who
said
—
“
Learn
of
me
,
for
I
am
meek
and
lowly
of
heart
,
and
ye
shall
find
rest
unto
your
souls
!
”
—
Ay
,
’
she
went
on
,
more
and
more
passionately
,
for
she
felt
that
not
she
,
but
One
mightier
than
herself
was
speaking
through
her
,
‘then
you
might
be
great
indeed
.
Then
I
might
watch
your
name
from
afar
,
rising
higher
and
higher
daily
in
the
ranks
of
God’s
own
heroes
.
I
see
it
—
and
you
have
taught
me
to
see
it
—
that
you
are
meant
for
a
faith
nobler
and
deeper
than
all
doctrines
and
systems
can
give
.
You
must
become
the
philosopher
,
who
can
discover
new
truths
—
the
artist
who
can
embody
them
in
new
forms
,
while
poor
I
—
And
that
is
another
reason
why
we
should
part
.
—
Hush
!
hear
me
out
.
I
must
not
be
a
clog
,
to
drag
you
down
in
your
course
.
Take
this
,
and
farewell
;
and
remember
that
you
once
had
a
friend
called
Argemone.’
She
put
into
his
hands
a
little
Bible
.
He
took
it
,
and
laid
it
down
on
the
table
.
For
a
minute
he
stood
silent
and
rooted
to
the
spot
.
Disappointment
,
shame
,
rage
,
hatred
,
all
boiled
up
madly
within
him
.
The
bitterest
insults
rose
to
his
lips
—
‘Flirt
,
cold-hearted
pedant
,
fanatic
!
’
but
they
sank
again
unspoken
,
as
he
looked
into
the
celestial
azure
of
those
eyes
,
calm
and
pure
as
a
soft
evening
sky
.
A
mighty
struggle
between
good
and
evil
shook
his
heart
to
the
roots
;
and
,
for
the
first
time
in
his
life
,
his
soul
breathed
out
one
real
prayer
,
that
God
would
help
him
now
or
never
to
play
the
man
.
And
in
a
moment
the
darkness
passed
;
a
new
spirit
called
out
all
the
latent
strength
within
him
;
and
gently
and
proudly
he
answered
her
,
—
‘Yes
,
I
will
go
.
I
have
had
mad
dreams
,
conceited
and
insolent
,
and
have
met
with
my
deserts
.
Brute
and
fool
as
I
am
,
I
have
aspired
even
to
you
!
And
I
have
gained
,
in
the
sunshine
of
your
condescension
,
strength
and
purity
.
—
Is
not
that
enough
for
me
?
And
now
I
will
show
you
that
I
love
you
—
by
obeying
you
.
You
tell
me
to
depart
—
I
go
for
ever.’
He
turned
away
.
Why
did
she
almost
spring
after
him
?
‘Lancelot
!
one
word
!
Do
not
misunderstand
me
,
as
I
know
you
will
.
You
will
think
me
so
cold
,
heartless
,
