onfess I should like a barrel-organ
better; that reminds one of town and the opera; and besides, it plays
more than one tune. However, since you think my society bad for him, let
him stop away."

With the self-devotion of a woman she grew patient and sweet the moment
her daughter Clare was spoken of, and the business of her life in view.
Mrs. Doria's maternal heart had betrothed the two cousins, Richard
and Clare; had already beheld them espoused and fruitful. For this she
yielded the pleasures of town; for this she immured herself at Raynham;
for this she bore with a thousand follies, exactions, inconveniences,
things abhorrent to her, and heaven knows what forms of torture and
self-denial, which are smilingly endured by that greatest of voluntary
martyrs--a mother with a daughter to marry. Mrs. Doria, an amiable
widow, had surely married but for her daughter Clare. The lady's hair no
woman could possess without feeling it her pride. It was the daily theme
of her lady's-maid,--a natural aureole to her head. She was gay, witty,
still physically youthful enough to claim a destiny; and she sacrificed
it to accomplish her daughter's! sacrificed, as with heroic scissors,
hair, wit, gaiety--let us not attempt to enumerate how much! more than
may be said. And she was only one of thousands; thousands who have
no portion of the hero's reward; for he may reckon on applause, and
condolence, and sympathy, and honour; they, poor slaves! must look for
nothing but the opposition of their own sex and the sneers of ours. O,
Sir Austin! had you not been so blinded, what an Aphorism might have
sprung from this point of observation! Mrs. Doria was coolly told,
between sister and brother, that during the Magnetic Age her daughter's
presence at Raynham was undesirable. Instead of nursing offence, her
sole thought was the mountain of prejudice she had to contend against.
She bowed, and said, Clare wanted sea-air--she had never quite recovered
the shock of that dreadful night. How long, Mrs. Doria wished to know,
might the Peculiar Period be expected to last?

"That," said Sir Austin, "depends. A year, perhaps. He is entering on
it. I shall be most grieved to lose you, Helen. Clare is now--how old?"

"Seventeen."

"She is marriageable."

"Marriageable, Austin! at seventeen! don't name such a thing. My child
shall not be robbed of her youth."

"Our women marry early, Helen."

"My child shall not!"

The baronet reflected a moment. He