A DAY'S RIDE: A LIFE'S ROMANCE.

CHAPTER X.

"YOUNG lady in deep mourning, sir—crape
shawl and bonnet, sir," said the official, in
answer to my question, aided by a shilling fee;
"the same as asked where was the station for
the Dover line."

"Yes, yes; that must be she."

"Got into a cab, sir, and drove off straight
for the Sou'-Eastern."

"She was quite alone?"

"Quite, sir; but she seems used to travelling
—got her traps together in no time, and was off
in a jiffy."

"Stupid dog!" thought I; "with every
advantage position and accident can confer, how
little this fellow reads of character. In this
poor forlorn, heart-weary orphan, he only sees
something like a commercial traveller!"

"Any luggage, sir? Is this yours?" said he,
pointing to a woolsack.

"No," said I, haughtily; " my servants have
gone forward with my luggage. I have nothing
but a knapsack." And with an air of dignity I
flung it into a Hansom, and ordered the driver
to set me down at the South-Eastern. Although
using every exertion, the train had just started
when I arrived, and a second time was I obliged
to wait some hours at a station. Resolving to
free myself from all the captivations of that
tendency to day-dreaming—that fatal habit of
suffering my fancy to direct my steps, as though
in pursuit of some settled purpose—I calmly
asked myself whither I was going—and for
what? Before I had begun the examination,
I deemed myself a most candid, truth-observing,
frank witness, and now I discovered that I was
casuistical and " dodgy " as an Old Bailey
lawyer. I was haughty and indignant at being
so catechised. My conscience, on the shallow
pretext of being greatly interested about me,
was simply prying and inquisitive. Conscience
is all very well when one desires to appeal to it,
and refer some distinct motive or action to its
appreciation; but it is scarcely fair, and
certainly not dignified, for conscience to go about
seeking for little accusations of this kind or
that. What liberty of action is there, besides,
to a man who carries a " detective" with him
wherever he goes? And lastly, conscience has
the intolerable habit of obtruding its opinion
upon details, and will not wait to judge
results. Now, when I have won the race, come
in first, amid the enthusiastic cheers of
thousands, I don't care to be asked, however privately,
whether I did not practise some little bit of
rather unfair jockeyship. I never could rightly
get over my dislike to the friend who would
take this liberty with me; and this is exactly
the part conscience plays, and with an
insufferable air of superiority too, as though to say,
"None of your shuffling with me, Potts! That
will do all mighty well with the outer world,
but I am not to be humbugged. You never
devised a scheme in your life that I was not by
at the cookery and saw how you mixed the
ingredients and stirred the pot! No, no, old
fellow, all your little secret rogueries will avail
you nothing here!"

Had these words been actually addressed to
me by a living individual, I could not have
heard them more plainly than now they fell
upon my ear, uttered, besides, in a tone of
cutting, sarcastic derision. " I will stand this
no longer!" cried I, springing up from my seat
and flinging my cigar angrily away. " I'm
certain no man ever accomplished any high and
great destiny in life who suffered himself to be
bullied in this wise; such irritating, pestering
impertinence would destroy the temper of a
saint, and break down the courage and damp
the ardour of the boldest. Could great
measures of statecraft be carried out—could battles
be won—could new continents be discovered,
if at every strait and every emergency one was
to be interrupted by a low voice, whispering,
' Is this all right? Are there no flaws here?
You live in a world of frailties, Potts. You are
playing at a round game, where every one
cheats a little, and where the rogueries are
never remembered against him who wins. Bear
that in your mind, and keep your cards " up." '"

When I was about to take my ticket, a
dictum of the great moralist struck my mind:
"Desultory reading has slain its thousands and
tens of thousands;" and if desultory reading,
why not infinitely more so desultory acquaintance.
Surely, our readings do not impress us
as powerfully as the actual intercourse of life.
It must be so. It is in this daily conflict with
our fellow-men that we are moulded and
fashioned, and the danger is, to commingle and
confuse the impressions made upon our hearts—
to cross the writing on our natures so often