rilliant countenance had not
only disappeared, but she had quite forgotten, and certainly would not
admit, that she was anything but the most sanguine and energetic of
beings, and rallied Endymion unmercifully for his careworn countenance
and too frequent air of depression. The truth is, the great change that
was impending was one which might well make him serious, and sometimes
sad.

The withdrawal of a female influence, so potent on his life as that of
his sister, was itself a great event. There had been between them from
the cradle, which, it may be said, they had shared, a strong and perfect
sympathy. They had experienced together vast and strange vicissitudes of
life. Though much separated in his early youth, there had still been a
constant interchange of thought and feeling between them. For the last
twelve years or so, ever since Myra had become acquainted with the
Neuchatel family, they may be said never to have separated--at least
they had maintained a constant communication, and generally a personal
one. She had in a great degree moulded his life. Her unfaltering, though
often unseen, influence had created his advancement. Her will was more
powerful than his. He was more prudent and plastic. He felt this keenly.
He was conscious that, left to himself, he would probably have achieved
much less. He remembered her words when they parted for the first time
at Hurstley, "Women will be your best friends in life." And that brought
his thoughts to the only subject on which they had ever differed--her
wished-for union between himself and Adriana. He felt he had crossed her
there--that he had prevented the fulfilment of her deeply-matured plans.
Perhaps, had that marriage taken place, she would never have quitted
England. Perhaps; but was that desirable? Was it not fitter that so
lofty a spirit should find a seat as exalted as her capacity? Myra was
a sovereign! In this age of strange events, not the least strange.
No petty cares and griefs must obtrude themselves in such majestic
associations. And yet the days at Hainault were very happy, and the
bright visits to Gaydene, and her own pleasant though stately home. His
heart was agitated, and his eyes were often moistened with emotion.
He seemed to think that all the thrones of Christendom could be no
compensation for the loss of this beloved genius of his life, whom
he might never see again. Sometimes, when he paid his daily visit to
Berengaria, she who knew him by hear