# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 28

CHAPTER IV.
"Thus death reigns in all the portions of our time. The autumn, with its fruits provides disorders for us, and the winter's cold turns them into sharp diseases; and the spring brings flowers to strew our hearse, and the summer gives green turf and brambles to bind upon our graves."
"You can go no whither, but you tread upon a dead man's bones."Jeremy Taylor.
In all the slowness of sorrow, in all the weariness of monotony, had the last few months worn away: Emily recovered from regretting her uncle only to find how much she missed him. It is a wretched thing to pass one's life among those utterly incapable of appreciating us; upon whom our sense or our sentiment, our wit or our affection, are equally thrown away: people who make some unreal and distorted picture of us—say it is our likeness, and act accordingly.
After the first grief, or rather fright, of Mr. Arundel's death, and when broad hems and deep crape-falls had been sufficiently discussed to ​have induced an uninitiated person to believe that people really died to oblige others to wear bombasin; Mrs. Arundel went back to her ordinary avocations—small savings and domestic inspections. To her the putting out of an extra candle, or detecting an unfortunate housemaid letting a sweetheart into the kitchen, were positive enjoyments. Intended by nature for a housekeeper, it was her misfortune, not her fault, that she was the mistress. She was one of those who, having no internal, are entirely thrown upon external resources: they must be amused and employed by the eye or the ear, and that in a small way. She never read—news was her only idea of conversation. As she often observed, "she had no notion of talking about what neither concerned herself nor her neighbours." Without being vulgar in her manners—that, early and accustomed habits forbade—she was vulgar in her mind. She had always some small, mean motive to ascribe to every action, and invariably judged the worst and took the most unfavourable view of whatever debateable subject came before her. Like most silly people, she was selfish; and the constant fear of being overreached, sometimes gave a degree of shrewdness to her apprehensions. ​Your weak animals are almost always cunning; and when any event, however improbable, justified suspicions, perhaps quite unjustifiable in the onset, then great was her small triumph—that ovation of the little mind: to borrow again one of her own favourite expressions, "Well, well, I don't set up for being so over clever; I'm none of your bookish people: but, thank Heaven, I have plenty of common sense"—as if common sense were occasioned by the mere absence of higher qualities!
The secret of Mrs. Arundel's character was, that she was a very vain woman, and had never had her vanity gratified. As an only child, she had enjoyed every indulgence but flattery. Her father and mother had been, after the fashion of their day, rather literary: the lady piqued herself upon writing such clever letters; and the gentleman had maintained a correspondence with the Gentleman's Magazine, touching the reign to which two brass candlesticks in the parish church belonged; which important and interesting discussion arrived at every thing but a conclusion.
Her deficiency in, and disinclination to, all kinds of literary pursuits—the utter impossibility of making the young idea shoot in any ​direction at all, occasioned such accomplished parents to undervalue, if possible, Mrs. Arundel's understanding. In short, as her mother justly observed, in a very clever letter to Mrs. Denbigh, her corresponding friend, "she was just fit to be married." And married she was, thanks to the affinities of landed property!
To prettiness—even with her most becoming cap, or her most indulgent mirror, she could make no pretension. Her ambition had hitherto been confined to being the best of wives,—so she scolded the servants—opened no book but her book of receipts—made soup without meat—decocted cowslips, parsneps, currants, and gooseberries, which, if not good wine, were very tolerable vinegar—bought bargains, for which no possible use could afterwards be found—worried her husband with petty economy, and yet contrived to combine all this with a very handsome share of personal expense; and as to her accounts, they would have puzzled the calculating boy himself.
While Mr. Arundel lived, the innate respectability of his character communicated itself in a degree to hers. Naturally of quiet and retired habits, the seclusion of his library, at first a refuge, soon became a necessity. At ​home he had no society; his wife's conversation was made up of small complaints, or smaller gossip; his health was too delicate, his tastes too refined, for the run of county sports and county dinners—he was therefore thrown much upon his own resources, and his books became, what Cicero emphatically calls them, his friends and companions. But though they employed, they did not absorb; and he early saw the propriety of a check on many domestic theories, equally destructive of credit and comfort; and little manœuvres to avoid his disapprobation, or conceal from his knowledge, were the grand employment of his lady's most abstruse faculties; so that if Emily missed his society, Mrs. Arundel still more missed his authority.
The delightful feeling of opposition—obstinacy is the heroism of little minds—was past; she had, however, found a great resource in the society of a Mrs. Clarke. That perfect knowledge of our neighbours—which, in spite of the selfishness ascribed to human nature, is always so much more interesting than our own—only to be obtained by personal inspection, from which Mrs. Arundel was, in her present early stage of widowhood, debarred, was supplied by this ​invaluable friend, with all the poetry of memory.
Pleasant was the sound of Mrs. Clarke's clogs deposited in the hall—a whole host of circumstantial details, inferences, and deductions, waited thereupon; or when the Doctor could be induced to stir out of an evening by the overpowering temptation of "my dear, poor Mrs. Arundel is all alone: it would be but kind if we stepped in to see how she is."
"All alone, indeed! Hasn't she got her niece?"
"Ah! that puts me in mind that Miss Emily was saying you owed her her revenge at chess."
"Did you tell cook to put by the leg of the turkey, to be deviled for my supper?"
"Talking of supper, poor Mrs. Arundel would keep a pheasant, sent yesterday, for our supper to-night. I can assure you she quite relied on our coming; and, to tell you the truth, I did not refuse. I am always glad when you go to the Hall—that old Port wine of poor dear Mr. Arundel's is quite a medicine to you."
"Well, as you say, poor thing! she is very lonely—I don't care if we do go; though Miss Emily is not much company, except to play chess."
​ Evening after evening was thus passed away—poor Emily tied to the chess-board with an adversary who seemed to look upon her as a machine to move the pieces, with which he could be cross when beaten; while the two ladies discussed such circumstantial evidence as the day had collected, and communicated their various fancies founded on the said facts. Can it be wondered at that Emily's thoughts would wander from scenes like these? Thoughts rarely wander without an object; and that object once found, they fix there with all the intensity which any thing of sentiment acquires in solitude or idleness.
Absence is a trial whose result is often fatal to love; but there are two sorts of absence. I would not advise a lover to stake his fortune or his feelings on the faith of the mistress whose absence is one of flattery, amusement, and that variety of objects so destructive to the predominance of one—at least not to trust an incipient attachment to such an ordeal; but he may safely trust absence which is passed in loneliness, where the heart, thrown upon itself, finds its resource in that most imaginative faculty—memory. The merits of that lover must be small indeed, whom a few lonely walks, ​the mind filled with those dreaming thoughts which haunt the favourite path in the shrubbery, or under the old trees of the avenue; a few evenings passed singing those songs he once heard; or during a chain of those romantic plans which occupy the thoughts while the fingers are busy with lacework or satin-stitch needlework—why, a love dream has no greater assistant;—again I say, a lover must have few merits indeed, whom a few such mornings and evenings do not raise into a standard of perfection; and till, from thinking how happy one might be with him, it seems next to an impossibility to be happy without him.
Every girl has a natural fancy for enacting the heroine—and, generally speaking, a very harmless fancy it is, after all. Certainly, the image of Lorraine was very often present to Emily. Occupation she had none but what she made for herself—objects of affection, none; and her uncle's death gave a shade of sadness to her sentiments, the best calculated for making them indelible; while the worst of her present mode of life—especially to one so imaginative, and whose feelings, though so timid, were so keen—was, that it passed in indolent melancholy, too likely to become habitual. One ​consequence of her recent loss was, that any return of gay spirits seemed—as it ever seems at first to grief—sacrilege to the memory of the dead; whereas the remembrance of Lorraine was so unallied to hope, that the sadness of her love was meet companion for the sorrow of her affection.
A long melancholy winter passed away, and Emily looked quite pale, and thin enough to justify her aunt's frequent and pleasant predictions, that she was either in a consumption or in love; both which were duly ascribed to her London visit. Mrs. Arundel recommended warm milk from the cow; and Mrs. Clarke turned in her mind the advantages of another lover.
Mrs. Arundel's lacteal plan came to nothing. Emily was "as obstinate as her poor dear uncle," and could never be persuaded or coaxed to rise on a raw cold morning—not for all the benefits of the milky way. Mrs. Clarke's sentimental system had its consequences.
It was one of those bright soft mornings,
"Like angel visits, few and far between,"
when spring and sunshine take February by surprise—when one faint tinge of green is seen on the southern side of the hedge—when every ​little garden has its few golden crocuses, and the shrubbery is overrun with thousands of snow-drops—the fair slight flower which so looks its name—that Emily was passing through the little wood, whose old trees and huge branches in winter gave warmth, as in summer they gave shade. The clear blue sky peering through the boughs—the sunshine reflected from the silvery stems of the birch—an occasional green old laurel, whose size was the only mark of its age—the warm air,—all seemed to bid a cheerful farewell to winter; and Emily loitered on her homeward path, lost in visionary creations, which perhaps took an unconscious brightness from the glad influences of sun and air—when her reverie was broken in upon by a strange step and voice. "The pleasure I feel at seeing Miss Arundel again will perhaps prove my excuse for thus trespassing on her solitary meditations." A primrose kid glove put aside the branches, a breath of perfume aux milles fleurs came upon the air, and a very good-looking cavalier stepped forward; though, what with pre-occupation, surprise, and actual forgetfulness, it was some minutes before she recalled the identity of the stranger with that of Mr. Boyne Sillery.
​ Now this recognition was any thing but pleasant. In the first place, he had broken in upon the pleasures of hope—his interruption had destroyed a most fair and fairy castle; secondly, he was connected with any thing but the pleasures of memory. The conversation at Howell and James's rose to her mind—the knowledge of which, however, was not sufficiently flattering for her to display it; a civil answer was therefore necessary, though, it must be owned, the civility was chilling enough.
Mr. Boyne Sillery was, however, not to be deterred—though his companion was not inclined to talk, he was. He enlarged on the beauty of the country, ventured to hint that his fair companion looked somewhat paler than in London, apropos to which he recounted some deaths, marriages, and fashions, which had taken place since her departure; when, suddenly, Emily thanked him for his escort, muttered some thing about her aunt's not being at home, and disappeared through the little gate of the shrubbery.
With what eyes of shame does a young lady look back to a flirtation of which she was heartily tired! That evening she lingered ​somewhat longer than usual in her own apartment, despite of divers summonings down stairs, when, what was her surprise, on entering the room, to see her aunt, Mrs. Clarke, and Mr. Boyne Sillery, seated, in apparently high good-humour, round the tea-table. Mrs. Clarke immediately bustled up, and left room for Emily between herself and the gentleman, whom she introduced as her brother; and, taking it for granted that the young people must make themselves agreeable to each other, forthwith directed her conversation entirely to Mrs. Arundel.
The young people, however, were not quite so agreeable as one of the party, at least, could have wished. Emily's coldness was neither to be animated by news nor softened by flattery: since Mrs. Danvers's ball, her taste had been sufficiently cultivated to see through the pretensions of affectation: moreover, she was past the season of innocent entire belief; and the thought would cross her mind, that the heiress of Arundel Hall was a more important person in Mr. Boyne Sillery's eyes than Lady Alicia's pretty protegée.
The evening passed heavily, and Emily extinguished her candle that night in the conviction that an equal extinguisher had been put ​on Mr. Boyne Sillery's hopes, and, she could not help adding, his sister's, too, from whose fertile brain she conceived that the plan of capture, or, at least, the information of the heiress, had emanated. She was not far wrong there.
Mrs. Clarke was one whose whole life had been a practical illustration of the doctrines of utility. The eldest daughter of a large family, with neither fortune, nor face meant to be one, Miss Sillery could not, at thirty, recollect a single opportunity which she had ever had of escaping the care of her mother's keys and her younger sisters. She had been saving and sensible to no purpose—in vain had the maternal side of the house eulogised her prudence, or the paternal her cookery—the house she was to manage with such perfection was not yet hers. However, as some Arabic poet says,
"The driest desert has its spring;"
or, as our own language less elegantly expresses it,
"Luck knocks once at every man's door;"
and the knock at Miss Sillery's door, and the spring in her desert, came in the shape of the Rev. Dr. Clarke; of whom little can be said, except that he was a lucky clergyman with ​two livings, who had the appetite of a glutton with the daintiness of a gourmet, and who had once, in a fit of delight at a haunch of venison done to a turn, narrowly escaped marrying the cook, when he fortunately remembered it would spoil her for her situation.
Distantly related to the Silleries, he paused there for a night on a journey—he hated sleeping at inns, the beds were so often damp; and they received him with that glad respect which poor relations pay to their rich ones. At dinner he was very much struck with the gravy to the wild ducks; a college pudding forced from him an inquiry: both were made by Miss Sillery. Some potted larks next morning completed the business: he finished the jar, and made her an offer, which was received with all the thankfulness due to unexpected benefits.
Henry VIII. rewarded the compounder of a pudding which pleased his palate by the gift of a monastery; Dr. Clarke did more—he gave himself. To say the truth, the marriage had turned out as well as marriages commonly do: she was fortunate in having a house to manage, and he in having a wife to scold; and certainly their dinners were as near perfect felicity as earthly enjoyments usually are.
​ Now it so happened that Francis was Mrs. Clarke's favourite: whether from having seen the least of him, or from the great difference between them—two common causes of liking—or because she felt some sort of vanity in her near relationship to so very fine a gentleman, are points too curious to be decided by any but a metaphysician. However, having his interest at heart, and some idea that his fortune must and ought to be made by marriage, she had sent the invitation and intelligence which led to Emily's meeting so interesting a companion in her morning's walk.
To be sure, the tête-à-tête to which Mrs. Clarke's good management had that evening consigned them had been rather a silent one; still, as it never entered the elder lady's head that such a nice young man could fail to be a very Cæsar of the affections—to come, see, and conquer—she only remarked, as they walked home, "a poor stupid thing—but never mind, Frank, she'll make the better wife;" and forthwith she commenced enumerating a series of divers alterations and reformations (now-a-days, we believe, the one word is synonymous with the other), which were to take place when her brother was master of Arundel Hall.
​ There never was woman yet who had not some outlet for disinterested affection. Mrs. Clarke was as worldly in a small way as a country lady could be, and possessed as much selfishness as ever moral essay ascribed to a fashionable one; and yet her desire for her brother's success was as entirely dictated by sincere and uncalculating attachment to him as ever was that of heroine of romance who prays for her lover's happiness with her rival.
Mr. Boyne Sillery did not interrupt her: a plan, in which, as Byron says,
"The images of things
Were dimly struggling into light,"
now floated before him, but in which it was something too premature to expect her co-operation—indeed, her absolute opinion was to be feared.
The next day a severe cold confined her to the house, with which piece of information he was duly despatched to the Hall: apparently, he found his visit pleasant, for he only reappeared at dinner-time, and then not till the Doctor had finished his first slice of mutton. The Doctor never waited—the warmth of a joint, like the warmth of a poet's first idea, ​was too precious to be lost. This system of never waiting was equally good for his constitution and his temper; so that Mr. Sillery's late entrance only produced pity, and a recommendation for a hot plate, as the gravy was getting quite cold.
He was sent again the next day, to ask Mrs. and Miss Arundel to dinner. But Emily's excuse could not be gainsayed—she had that morning received news of the death of Lady Alicia Delawarr. At all times this would have been a shock—but now, how forcibly did it recall her uncle! Two deaths in a few short months!—the grave became familiar only to seem more terrible.
Lady Alicia's summons was awfully sudden. She had returned from the opera, seemingly in perfect health: as she crossed the hall, Mr. Delawarr was entering his library; he stopped a moment, and fastened on her beautiful arm an exquisite cameo. To Delawarr his wife was a species of idol, on which he delighted to lavish offerings: perhaps her calm, placid temper suited best with his feverish and ambitious life; what to another would have been insipidity was to him repose. As usual, on entering the drawing-room she sank into an ​arm-chair, when, missing her shawl, which she had dropped while holding out her hand for the bracelet, she desired her maid to fetch it, as she was cold. On the attendant's return, which was delayed by some trifling accident, she was surprised to see that her lady's head had fallen on one side, and one hand had dropped nearly to the ground, her weight supported only by the arm of the chair: she hurried forward, and the first look on the face was enough—it was deadly pale, and the features set, as if by some sudden contraction.
Assistance was soon procured—but in vain; and Mr. Delawarr, who had himself been the first to enter, and had carried her to the sofa in her dressing-room, heard the physician pronounce that to be death, where there had been no thought of even danger. There she lay—so quiet, and looking so beautiful—for, to a face whose outline was perfect as a statue, the repose of utter stillness rather added to than diminished its beauty—the rich hair ornamented with gold flowers—the diamond necklace, catching the various colours of the room, and casting them on the neck—the slender fingers, so cold, so stiff, but glistening with gems—the crimson dress, whose contrast now ​seemed so unnatural to the skin, which had the cold whiteness of marble; and, as if every mockery of life were to be assembled round the dead, a large glass opposite reflected her whole face and figure—while a canary, to which she had lately taken a fancy, awakened by the light and noise, filled the room with his loud and cheerful song. The bird effected what no entreaties could effect: Mr. Delawarr started from the ground, where he was kneeling beside the body, as if insensible to the presence of every one, and hurried to his library. He locked the door, and no one that night ventured to disturb him.
To say that Emily felt very passionate grief would be untrue; but her heart was softened by her own recent loss, though her regret was scarcely powerful enough to prevent the thought, that with Lady Alicia was lost the only link between herself and Lorraine. But the hopelessness of her attachment gave it a species of elevation; and love, driven from one place of refuge to another, only made an altar of the last.
There was something odd that day about Mrs. Arundel which very much puzzled Mrs. Clarke—surely her friend had put on a little rouge; and hair, on whose curl evident pains had been ​bestowed, took off much of the precision of the widow's cap; moreover, there was a flutter in her manner—a little girlish laugh—less interest than usual was taken in the news of the village—no allusion was made to poor dear Mr. Arundel—and there was that fidgety mysterious air which seems to say, there is a secret longing to be told. There were two reasons why it was not told—first, Mrs. Arundel was not quite sure whether she really had a secret to tell; and, secondly, what with hoarseness, headach, and water-gruel, Mrs. Clarke was not in the best possible condition for cross questioning.
Well, a fortnight passed by, during which that lady did not see Mrs. Arundel, when her principles received a shock by the astounding news that Miss Barr, the glass of fashion, the milliner of the adjacent town, had sent to the Hall two caps—not widow's caps, but, as the young person, who called on her way home, said, "such light tasty things;" and a servant who had been there with a message brought back word that one of these "light tasty things" was actually on Mrs. Arundel's head.
Now, Mrs. Clarke was one of those to whom caps and crape were the very morality of mourning—she was not the only one, by the by, with ​whom propriety stands for principle,—and this deviation of her friend at first excited surprise, then softened into sorrow, and finally roused into anger—which anger, under the name of opinion, she forthwith set out to vent on the offender, after having bestowed a portion of it on her husband, who encountering her, cold, cloak, and all, had raised her indignation by not being so much astonished as herself, and calmly replying,
"Well, my dear, this said cap—I dare-say she is setting it at your brother."
If there be two things in the world—to use a common domestic expression—enough to provoke a saint, it is, first to have your husband not enter into your feelings—(your feelings sound so much better than your temper)—and, in the second place, laughing at them. Now, Dr. Clarke's not regarding a widow's conduct in leaving off her cap as absolutely immoral, was not very tenable ground, for men are not supposed to know much about such matters; but this allusion to Boyne was a very respectable outlet for resentment.
"Her brother, indeed, to marry such an old woman! She was very much deceived if there were not younger ones who would be ​glad to get him; and really she did not think Dr. Clarke was at all justified in speaking so lightly of Mrs. Arundel—she could not bear such ill-natured insinuations."
Amid a shower of similar sentences, the Doctor escaped, and his lady proceeded on her way.
People in general little know how much they are indebted to those matrimonial discussions. Many a storm has fallen softly on the offender's head, from a part having been previously expended on a husband or wife,—it is so convenient to have somebody at hand to be angry with;—and whether it was the quarrel with her husband, or the walk, that did Mrs. Clarke good, she certainly arrived at the Hall in a better humour than could have been expected. She was met at the door by Emily, whose slight confusion at encountering her was immediately interpreted mysteriously and favourably; and when the young lady evidently hesitated as she said, "I have left my aunt and Mr. Sillery in the breakfast-room," Mrs. Clarke was very near congratulating her future sister, who, however, disappeared too rapidly.
She found Mrs. Arundel in a lace cap, and a dress—black, it is true, but black silk! Had ​she bade farewell to her senses, decency, and bombasin together? All those delicate inquiries were, however, postponed by the presence of her brother; but, as we say poetically, "her thoughts were too great for utterance;" conversation languished; and but for discussing the merits of some black-currant jam, which had been sent for, as Mrs. Clarke seemed hoarse, it would have sunk into silence.
The visit was short and embarrassed; and she was scarcely out of the house, before severe animadversions were poured forth, on Mrs. Arundel's most improper dress, to Mr. Boyne Sillery, her companion home.
"Why, you see, my dear sister, it is quite unnecessary for a lady to lament one husband who is meditating taking another."
"Stuff!—you are just as silly as the doctor: I should like to see who would put such nonsense into her head."
"I am glad you would like to see the individual—for, my dear Elizabeth, he is now walking with you."
"Why, you have never been so silly as to advise her to marry?"
"Indeed I have most strongly advised it."
"Good Lord! don't you know that her ​fortune is all at her own disposal, and would certainly go to Miss Emily at her death?"
"I do not see any reason why I should be so careful of Miss Emily's interests: I freely confess I prefer my own."
"Don't you see they are all one? Mrs. Arundel's property will be a very pretty windfall when you have been married a few years—not but that Emily has a handsome fortune—still, I don't see any necessity for being so disinterested: and pray, who has the foolish woman taken into her head?"
"Her choice will, I flatter myself, at least please you, as I myself am the fortunate man."
"I do beg you will not be so provoking—I am not in a humour for a joke."
"Joke, my dear sister?—marriage is a very serious piece of business."
"You don't mean to say that you are going to marry Mrs. Arundel?"
"Indeed I do. Now, to speak plainly—as I ought to do to a woman of sense like yourself—I am in debt over head and ears. Desperate diseases require desperate remedies. Miss Arundel has some silly fancy of her own: I remember she and Lord Merton flirted desperately. Besides, to tell you the truth, in town ​I rather slighted her: women are d——d unforgiving. I like the aunt quite as well as I do the niece; her fortune is at her own disposal, and your brother may as well benefit by it as another—I shall make her an excellent husband."
Surprise is the only power that works miracles now-a-days; it fairly silenced Mrs. Clarke for full five minutes. Vexation at what she thought her brother's throwing himself away—mortification beforehand at her husband—for Dr. Clarke had a love for ponderous and orthodox jokes, whose edge had worn off by long use—anger at Emily, whom she considered the cause of all this—wonder at Mrs. Arundel—together with a gradual awakening to the pecuniary advantages of the match—all crossed and jostled her mind at once. At last she gasped out—"Are you sure Mrs. Arundel will have you?"
"I suppose so. I made her an offer this morning, which she accepted."
True enough: for the last fortnight he had been a constant visitor at the Hall; and Emily, who naturally supposed she was the object of his attraction, gave his visits only one thought—and that was, how to avoid them. Lady ​Alicia's death had, even more than usual, thrown her among her own reflections: once or twice, to be sure, her maid had said, "Lord, miss, you see if your aunt does not run away with your beau!"
A young man, in the country, is always disposed of, whether with or without his consent; and Emily considered it quite in the common course of things that Mr. Sillery should be set down to her account;—and as for the remark about her aunt, she held it to be an impertinence which it would be wrong to encourage by even listening to such an absurdity.
One morning, however, entering the breakfast-room rather suddenly, to her surprise she saw her aunt and Mr. Sillery seated, her hand in his, while he was speaking with great earnestness. Retreat she could not, without being perceived—and she stood one moment in all the embarrassment of indecision; when Mr. Sillery, who had seen her enter, rose—and, before she could speak, led her forward, and with the utmost coolness entreated her to plead for him. "Yes, dear Miss Arundel, join your persuasions with mine—implore our kind friend to make me the happiest of men."
This was really too good; and Emily hurried ​from the room. At the door she encountered Mrs. Clarke; and the late conversation proved that the gentleman needed no eloquence but his own.
The next meeting between Emily and her aunt was awkward enough. Emily could not but feel how little respect had been shown to her uncle's memory. Of course, she saw through and despised Mr. Sillery's mercenary motives; but equally saw that remonstrance would be vain. Mrs. Arundel, like most people who have done a silly thing, was rather ashamed to confess it, and yet glad to have it come out—we judge of others by ourselves—and had screwed her courage up for taunts and reproaches; and when Emily indulged in neither, but only quietly and distantly alluded to the subject, she felt rather grateful to her than otherwise.
At the vicarage—for Dr. Clarke's parish lay close enough to be always disputing with its neighbour about boundaries and paupers—at the vicarage the disclosure was made. After dinner, the Doctor was in high good humour at what he called his penetration—joked Mr. Boyne Sillery—was, or at least did his best to be, witty about widows—and really did remember a prodigious number of jests, ​respectable at least for their antiquity. Mrs. Clarke comforted herself by the moral reflection of, "Money is every thing in this world," and giving vent to her spleen by an occasional sneer; while Mr. Sillery bore it all with a tolerably good grace, and meditated how soon he should be able to manage a separation.
In a few days the news was whispered through the village. Nothing circulates so rapidly as a secret. One made one remark, and another made another;—some said, "how shameful!"—others, "how silly!"—but the sum total of all their remarks seemed to be the old proverb, "No fool like an old one!"