the well-known and much-liked Mr.
Wentworth, of Boston, who should, in the natural course of prosperity,
have married his pretty cousin, Lizzie Acton; should live in a
wide-fronted house, in view of the Common; and should drive, behind a
light wagon, over the damp autumn roads, a pair of beautifully matched
sorrel horses. Clifford's vision of the coming years was very simple;
its most definite features were this element of familiar matrimony and
the duplication of his resources for trotting. He had not yet asked his
cousin to marry him; but he meant to do so as soon as he had taken his
degree. Lizzie was serenely conscious of his intention, and she had made
up her mind that he would improve. Her brother, who was very fond of
this light, quick, competent little Lizzie, saw on his side no reason to
interpose. It seemed to him a graceful social law that Clifford and his
sister should become engaged; he himself was not engaged, but every one
else, fortunately, was not such a fool as he. He was fond of Clifford,
as well, and had his own way--of which it must be confessed he was a
little ashamed--of looking at those aberrations which had led to the
young man's compulsory retirement from the neighboring seat of learning.
Acton had seen the world, as he said to himself; he had been to China
and had knocked about among men. He had learned the essential difference
between a nice young fellow and a mean young fellow, and was satisfied
that there was no harm in Clifford. He believed--although it must be
added that he had not quite the courage to declare it--in the doctrine
of wild oats, and thought it a useful preventive of superfluous fears.
If Mr. Wentworth and Charlotte and Mr. Brand would only apply it in
Clifford's case, they would be happier; and Acton thought it a pity
they should not be happier. They took the boy's misdemeanors too much to
heart; they talked to him too solemnly; they frightened and bewildered
him. Of course there was the great standard of morality, which forbade
that a man should get tipsy, play at billiards for money, or cultivate
his sensual consciousness; but what fear was there that poor Clifford
was going to run a tilt at any great standard? It had, however, never
occurred to Acton to dedicate the Baroness Munster to the redemption of
a refractory collegian. The instrument, here, would have seemed to
him quite too complex for the operation. Felix, on the other hand, had
spoken in obedience to the belief