CHAPTER XIV.

SUN-GLIMPSE AFTER STORM.

I Do not know how other people may feel after experiencing strong excitement, but the effect which it has on me is painful in the extreme. It somewhat resembles the sensation produced by laying hold of the wires of a galvanic battery—a twitching of the nerves, a contraction of the muscles, and an apparent diminution of physical power. I have been told by more than one public speaker, that when rising under the influence of more than common excitement to address an audience, they have felt as if smitten by a sudden stroke of paralysis, when volition loses its habitual control over the limbs. That, I suppose, is an extreme case; but I can bear testimony to the subsequent langour and depression, both of mind and body, when the passions have been violently agitated.

The gross and extravagant affront which I had received from Mr Beaton did not move me much.

No

one is entitled to be seriously offended by the virulent ravings of a madman; and I could attribute the fury

of the merchant to nothing but temporary insanity. Some people there are, generally regarded as wise and even temperate, who nevertheless, when thwarted or contradicted, become absolute maniacs for the time; and many a scene which, if it occurred publicly, would be deemed sufficient to justify the removal of the principal actor to Bedlam, takes place in the privacy of a family regarded, even by familiars, as a model of forbearance, harmony, and affection. In presence of a witness, Beaton durst not have spoken as he did. No one was by when Saul, under the instigation of the evil spirit, sought to smite David to the wall with his javelin; for madness has a cunning of its own which always dreads detection. The entrance even of a lackey would have made the railway potentate lower his tone; and conscious as I was that, in maintaining my undoubted rights, I had done nothing to call down the discharge of such a vial of wrath upon my head, I felt in no way humiliated by the contumely to which I had been exposed.

I did, however, feel, on reflection, a consciousness that I had been a little too stiff and defiant-perhaps even peppery—throughout this unfortunate interview. I had neither cared for soothing, nor studied to ingratiate myself with the man. I had acted under the influence of pride rather than discretion; and I had not borne with sufficient meekness, or made the proper allowance for that arrogant assumption which is so often the concomitant of successful enterprise. Prudence might have dictated a different line of conduct;

but then Prudence is twin-sister to that jade Hypocrisy, whom I abhor, and it is not always possible to distinguish the one from the other. But, attributing to myself the largest admissible quota of blame, that could never be held, in the opinion of any jury, to justify the conduct of Beaton.

My sorrow-nay, my grief, almost amounting to despair-lay in the thought that now, after this violent and apparently irreconcilable rupture with her father, I must abandon all thought of approaching Mary Beaton as a suitor for her hand. That was what unmanned me. Granting that, in the most sanguine view, my chance of gaining acceptance was but a slight one, still it afforded at least a rational ground for hope, but that hope had disappeared for ever. Without her father's consent I felt sure that Mary Beaton would never wed, even if she had bestowed her affection; but of that as yet I had no proof, and now I was banished from her presence. Even worse than that-the old man in his irritated mood might speak of me in her presence as a designing knave or a selfish sordid adventurer, and so degrade me in the eyes of her whom I loved with as pure a passion as ever burned in the heart of man. Life has many bitter hours, and in its course we must all expect to meet with heavy sorrows that will bear down the strongest man, and depress the most undaunted spirit; but perhaps the sharpest pang, though not the most enduring, is caused by the annihilation of those cherished hopes of love that have

given light and lustre to our existence in the hey-day of our youth and expectancy.

I am not a demonstrative man; so I went through no pantomime expressive of anguish even in my own chamber but I doubt not that I looked gloomy enough when the door opened, and my dear friend George Carlton appeared. He at least was not gloomy. There was more fire in his eye, and animation in his face, than I had remarked since the days of our early travel; and a certain listlessness and indifference of manner, which he had contracted since our return to England, had now entirely disappeared.

"Norman-my dear fellow-how goes it with you? Gad! this is a decided improvement on old Mother Lewson's establishment! But what is the matter? You look pale and out of sorts. Have you been unwell?"

"No, Carlton-not in health, but somewhat vexed, I own, in spirit. However, let that stand over. You, I rejoice to see, are strong aud sprightly."

"And no wonder, Norman! The demon who, somehow or other, had got possession of me, and compelled me to wander among tombs, is fairly exorcised; and I am now, if not a free, at least a happy man."

"And who, if I may ask, was the exorciser?"

Love, Norman, love-the most potent deity of the old faiths, and the culminating principle of that which is purely divine! In one word, I have proposed to Amy Stanhope, and she has honoured me by acceptance."

"What!-without fame?"

'Ah, Norman! Spare me your ridicule. I admit that I was an ass; which, being a candid and broad confession, should protect me from any observations founded upon the past. I have abandoned the Paladin theory, and shall take that place which God has assigned to me; only too happy if, in the great and final account, it shall be admitted that I have striven to discharge my duty. But I grieve to see you in this plight, for something serious must have occurred to overcome your spirit. May I know what it is?”

"Imprimis, I have succeeded to what, for me at least, is a fortune.”

"I would wish you joy, with my whole heart, if it were not that you give the intelligence with the dismal tone of an undertaker.”

'Say a mourner, and you are right. I mourn over a perished hope. But do not let us speak of that now, Carlton; I would rather hear of your happiness."

"Nay; when grief and joy chance to meet, grief ought to have the precedence. What has happened? Can I aid you?"

"No, Carlton. But you are so true a friend that I will tell you all, certain at least that you will give me your sympathy; and to confess the truth, I do stand much in need of consolation."

So, without reservation, I imparted to him the secret of my attachment, the circumstances which brought me into contact with the speculative merchant, and the untoward consequences of our interview.