CHAPTER III.
CONFERENCES.
The next day Sir Miles did not appear at breakfast,--not that he was
unwell, but that he meditated holding certain audiences, and on such
occasions the good old gentleman liked to prepare himself. He belonged
to a school in which, amidst much that was hearty and convivial, there
was much also that nowadays would seem stiff and formal, contrasting the
other school immediately succeeding him, which Mr. Vernon represented,
and of which the Charles Surface of Sheridan is a faithful and admirable
type. The room that Sir Miles appropriated to himself was, properly
speaking, the state apartment, called, in the old inventories, "King
James's chamber;" it was on the first floor, communicating with the
picture-gallery, which at the farther end opened upon a corridor
admitting to the principal bedrooms. As Sir Miles cared nothing for
holiday state, he had unscrupulously taken his cubiculum in this chamber,
which was really the handsomest in the house, except the banquet-hall,
placed his bed in one angle with a huge screen before it, filled up the
space with his Italian antiquities and curiosities; and fixed his
favourite pictures on the faded gilt leather panelled on the walls. His
main motive in this was the communication with the adjoining gallery,
which, when the weather was unfavourable, furnished ample room for his
habitual walk. He knew how many strides by the help of his crutch made a
mile, and this was convenient. Moreover, he liked to look, when alone,
on those old portraits of his ancestors, which he had religiously
conserved in their places, preferring to thrust his Florentine and
Venetian masterpieces into bedrooms and parlours, rather than to dislodge
from the gallery the stiff ruffs, doublets, and farthingales of his
predecessors. It was whispered in the house that the baronet, whenever
he had to reprove a tenant or lecture a dependant, took care to have him
brought to his sanctum, through the full length of this gallery, so that
the victim might be duly prepared and awed by the imposing effect of so
stately a journey, and the grave faces of all the generations of St.
John, which could not fail to impress him with the dignity of the family,
and alarm him at the prospect of the injured frown of its representative.
Across this gallery now, following the steps of the powdered valet,
strode young Ardworth, staring now and then at some portrait more than
usually grim, more often wondering why his boots, that never creaked
before, should creak on those particular boards, and feeling a quiet
curiosity, without the least mixture of fear or awe as to what old
Squaretoes intended to say to him. But all feeling of irreverence ceased
when, shown into the baronet's room, and the door closed, Sir Miles rose
with a smile, and cordially shaking his hand, said, dropping the
punctilious courtesy of Mister: "Ardworth, sir, if I had a little
prejudice against you before you came, you have conquered it. You are a
fine, manly, spirited fellow, sir; and you have an old man's good
wishes,--which are no bad beginning to a young man's good fortune."
The colour rushed over Ardworth's forehead, and a tear sprang to his
eyes. He felt a rising at his throat as he stammered out some not very
audible reply.
"I wished to see you, young gentleman, that I might judge myself what you
would like best, and what would best fit you. Your father is in the
army: what say you to a pair of colours?"
"Oh, Sir Miles, that is my utmost ambition! Anything but law, except the
Church; anything but the Church, except the desk and a counter!"
The baronet, much pleased, gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Ha,
ha! we gentlemen, you see (for the Ardworths are very well born, very),
we gentlemen understand each other! Between you and me, I never liked
the law, never thought a man of birth should belong to it. Take money
for lying,--shabby, shocking! Don't let that go any farther! The
Church-Mother Church--I honour her! Church and State go together! But
one ought to be very good to preach to others,--better than you and I
are, eh? ha, ha! Well, then, you like the army,--there's a letter for
you to the Horse Guards. Go up to town; your business is done. And, as
for your outfit,--read this little book at your leisure." And Sir Miles
thrust a pocketbook into Ardworth's hand.
"But pardon me," said the young man, much bewildered. "What claim have
I, Sir Miles, to such generosity? I know that my uncle offended you."
"Sir, that's the claim!" said Sir Miles, gravely. "I cannot live long,"
he added, with a touch of melancholy in his voice; "let me die in peace
with all! Perhaps I injured your uncle,--who knows but, if so, he hears
and pardons me now?"
"Oh, Sir Miles!" exclaimed the thoughtless, generous-hearted young man;
"and my little playfellow, Susan, your own niece!"
Sir Miles drew back haughtily; but the burst that offended him rose so
evidently from the heart, was so excusable from its motive and the
youth's ignorance of the world, that his frown soon vanished as he said,
calmly and gravely,--
"No man, my good sir, can allow to others the right to touch on his
family affairs; I trust I shall be just to the poor young lady. And so,
if we never meet again, let us think well of each other. Go, my boy;
serve your king and your country!"
"I will do my best, Sir Miles, if only to merit your kindness."
"Stay a moment: you are intimate, I find, with young Mainwaring?"
"An old college friendship, Sir Miles."
"The army will not do for him, eh?"
"He is too clever for it, sir."
"Ah, he'd make a lawyer, I suppose,--glib tongue enough, and can talk
well; and lie, if he's paid for it?"
"I don't know how lawyers regard those matters, Sir Miles; but if you
don't make him a lawyer, I am sure you must leave him an honest man."
"Really and truly--"
"Upon my honour I think so."
"Good-day to you, and good luck. You must catch the coach at the lodge;
for I see by the papers that, in spite of all the talk about peace, they
are raising regiments like wildfire."
With very different feelings from those with which he had entered the
room, Ardworth quitted it. He hurried into his own chamber to thrust his
clothes into his portmanteau, and while thus employed, Mainwaring
entered.
"Joy, my dear fellow, wish me joy! I am going to town,--into the army;
abroad; to be shot at, thank Heaven! That dear old gentleman! Just
throw me that coat, will you?"
A very few more words sufficed to explain what had passed to Mainwaring.
He sighed when his friend had finished: "I wish I were going with you!"
"Do you? Sir Miles has only got to write another letter to the Horse
Guards. But no, you are meant to be something better than food for
powder; and, besides, your Lucretia! Hang it, I am sorry I cannot stay
to examine her as I had promised; but I have seen enough to know that she
certainly loves you. Ah, when she changed flowers with you, you did not
think I saw you,--sly, was not I? Pshaw! She was only playing with
Vernon. But still, do you know, Will, now that Sir Miles has spoken to
me so, that I could have sobbed, 'God bless you, my old boy!' 'pon my
life, I could! Now, do you know that I feel enraged with you for
abetting that girl to deceive him?"
"I am enraged with myself; and--"
Here a servant entered, and informed Mainwaring that he had been
searching for him; Sir Miles requested to see him in his room.
Mainwaring started like a culprit.
"Never fear," whispered Ardworth; "he has no suspicion of you, I'm sure.
Shake hands. When shall we meet again? Is it not odd, I, who am a
republican by theory, taking King George's pay to fight against the
French? No use stopping now to moralize on such contradictions. John,
Tom,--what's your name?--here, my man, here, throw that portmanteau on
your shoulder and come to the lodge." And so, full of health, hope,
vivacity, and spirit, John Walter Ardworth departed on his career.
Meanwhile Mainwaring slowly took his way to Sir Miles. As he approached
the gallery, he met Lucretia, who was coming from her own room. "Sir
Miles has sent for me," he said meaningly. He had time for no more, for
the valet was at the door of the gallery, waiting to usher him to his
host. "Ha! you will say not a word that can betray us; guard your looks
too!" whispered Lucretia, hurriedly; "afterwards, join me by the cedars."
She passed on towards the staircase, and glanced at the large clock that
was placed there. "Past eleven! Vernon is never up before twelve. I
must see him before my uncle sends for me, as he will send if he
suspects--" She paused, went back to her room, rang for her maid,
dressed as for walking, and said carelessly, "If Sir Miles wants me, I am
gone to the rectory, and shall probably return by the village, so that I
shall be back about one." Towards the rectory, indeed, Lucretia bent her
way; but half-way there, turned back, and passing through the plantation
at the rear of the house, awaited Mainwaring on the bench beneath the
cedars. He was not long before he joined her. His face was sad and
thoughtful; and when he seated himself by her side, it was with a
weariness of spirit that alarmed her.
"Well," said she, fearfully, and she placed her hand on his.
"Oh, Lucretia," he exclaimed, as he pressed that hand with an emotion
that came from other passions than love, "we, or rather I, have done
great wrong. I have been leading you to betray your uncle's trust, to
convert your gratitude to him into hypocrisy. I have been unworthy of
myself. I am poor, I am humbly born, but till I came here, I was rich
and proud in honour. I am not so now. Lucretia, pardon me, pardon me!
Let the dream be over; we must not sin thus; for it is sin, and the worst
of sin,--treachery. We must part: forget me!"
"Forget you! Never, never, never!" cried Lucretia, with suppressed but
most earnest vehemence, her breast heaving, her hands, as he dropped the
one he held, clasped together, her eyes full of tears,--transformed at
once into softness, meekness, even while racked by passion and despair.
"Oh, William, say anything,--reproach, chide, despise me, for mine is all
the fault; say anything but that word 'part.' I have chosen you, I have
sought you out, I have wooed you, if you will; be it so. I cling to you,
you are my all,--all that saves me from--from myself," she added
falteringly, and in a hollow voice. "Your love--you know not what it is
to me! I scarcely knew it myself before. I feel what it is now, when
you say 'part.'"
Agitated and tortured, Mainwaring writhed at these burning words, bent
his face low, and covered it with his hands.
He felt her clasp struggling to withdraw them, yielded, and saw her
kneeling at his feet. His manhood and his gratitude and his heart all
moved by that sight in one so haughty, he opened his arms, and she fell
on his breast. "You will never say 'part' again, William!" she gasped
convulsively.
"But what are we to do?"
"Say, first, what has passed between you and my uncle."
"Little to relate; for I can repeat words, not tones and looks. Sir
Miles spoke to me, at first kindly and encouragingly, about my prospects,
said it was time that I should fix myself, added a few words, with
menacing emphasis, against what he called 'idle dreams and desultory
ambition,' and observing that I changed countenance,--for I felt that I
did,--his manner became more cold and severe. Lucretia, if he has not
detected our secret, he more than suspects my--my presumption. Finally,
he said dryly, that I had better return home, consult with my father, and
that if I preferred entering into the service of the Government to any
mercantile profession, he thought he had sufficient interest to promote
my views. But, clearly and distinctly, he left on my mind one
impression,--that my visits here are over."
"Did he allude to me--to Mr. Vernon?"
"Ah, Lucretia! do you know him so little,--his delicacy, his pride?"
Lucretia was silent, and Mainwaring continued:--
"I felt that I was dismissed. I took my leave of your uncle; I came
hither with the intention to say farewell forever."
"Hush! hush! that thought is over. And you return to your father's,--
perhaps better so: it is but hope deferred; and in your absence I can the
more easily allay all suspicion, if suspicion exist. But I must write to
you; we must correspond. William, dear William, write often,--write
kindly; tell me, in every letter, that you love me,--that you love only
me; that you will be patient, and confide."
"Dear Lucretia," said Mainwaring, tenderly, and moved by the pathos of
her earnest and imploring voice, "but you forget: the bag is always
brought first to Sir Miles; he will recognize my hand. And to whom can
you trust your own letters?"
"True," replied Lucretia, despondingly; and there was a pause. Suddenly
she lifted her head, and cried: "But your father's house is not far from
this,--not ten miles; we can find a spot at the remote end of the park,
near the path through the great wood: there I can leave my letters; there
I can find yours."
"But it must be seldom. If any of Sir Miles's servants see me, if--"
"Oh, William, William, this is not the language of love!"
"Forgive me,--I think of you!"
"Love thinks of nothing but itself; it is tyrannical, absorbing,--it
forgets even the object loved; it feeds on danger; it strengthens by
obstacles," said Lucretia, tossing her hair from her forehead, and with
an expression of dark and wild power on her brow and in her eyes. "Fear
not for me; I am sufficient guard upon myself. Even while I speak, I
think,--yes, I have thought of the very spot. You remember that hollow
oak at the bottom of the dell, in which Guy St. John, the Cavalier, is
said to have hid himself from Fairfax's soldiers? Every Monday I will
leave a letter in that hollow; every Tuesday you can search for it, and
leave your own. This is but once a week; there is no risk here."
Mainwaring's conscience still smote him, but he had not the strength to
resist the energy of Lucretia. The force of her character seized upon
the weak part of his own,--its gentleness, its fear of inflicting pain,
its reluctance to say "No,"--that simple cause of misery to the over-
timid. A few sentences more, full of courage, confidence, and passion,
on the part of the woman, of constraint and yet of soothed and grateful
affection on that of the man, and the affianced parted.
Mainwaring had already given orders to have his trunks sent to him at his
father's; and, a hardy pedestrian by habit, he now struck across the
park, passed the dell and the hollow tree, commonly called "Guy's Oak,"
and across woodland and fields golden with ripening corn, took his way to
the town, in the centre of which, square, solid, and imposing, stood the
respectable residence of his bustling, active, electioneering father.
Lucretia's eye followed a form as fair as ever captivated maiden's
glance, till it was out of sight; and then, as she emerged from the shade
of the cedars into the more open space of the garden, her usual
thoughtful composure was restored to her steadfast countenance. On the
terrace, she caught sight of Vernon, who had just quitted his own room,
where he always breakfasted alone, and who was now languidly stretched on
a bench, and basking in the sun. Like all who have abused life, Vernon
was not the same man in the early part of the day. The spirits that rose
to temperate heat the third hour after noon, and expanded into glow when
the lights shone over gay carousers, at morning were flat and exhausted.
With hollow eyes and that weary fall of the muscles of the cheeks which
betrays the votary of Bacchus,--the convivial three-bottle man,--Charley
Vernon forced a smile, meant to be airy and impertinent, to his pale
lips, as he rose with effort, and extended three fingers to his cousin.
"Where have you been hiding? Catching bloom from the roses? You have
the prettiest shade of colour,--just enough; not a hue too much. And
there is Sir Miles's valet gone to the rectory, and the fat footman
puffing away towards the village, and I, like a faithful warden, from my
post at the castle, all looking out for the truant."
"But who wants me, cousin?" said Lucretia, with the full blaze of her
rare and captivating smile.
"The knight of Laughton confessedly wants thee, O damsel! The knight of
the Bleeding Heart may want thee more,--dare he own it?"
And with a hand that trembled a little, not with love, at least, it
trembled always a little before the Madeira at luncheon,--he lifted hers
to his lips.
"Compliments again,--words, idle words!" said Lucretia, looking down
bashfully.
"How can I convince thee of my sincerity, unless thou takest my life as
its pledge, maid of Laughton?"
And very much tired of standing, Charley Vernon drew her gently to the
bench and seated himself by her side. Lucretia's eyes were still
downcast, and she remained silent; Vernon, suppressing a yawn, felt that
he was bound to continue. There was nothing very formidable in
Lucretia's manner.
"'Fore Gad!" thought he, "I suppose I must take the heiress after all;
the sooner 't is over, the sooner I can get back to Brook Street."
"It is premature, my fair cousin," said he, aloud,--"premature, after
less than a week's visit, and only some fourteen or fifteen hours'
permitted friendship and intimacy, to say what is uppermost in my
thoughts; but we spendthrifts are provokingly handsome! Sir Miles, your
good uncle, is pleased to forgive all my follies and faults upon one
condition,--that you will take on yourself the task to reform me. Will
you, my fair cousin? Such as I am, you behold me. I am no sinner in the
disguise of a saint. My fortune is spent, my health is not strong; but a
young widow's is no mournful position. I am gay when I am well, good-
tempered when ailing. I never betrayed a trust,--can you trust me with
yourself?"
This was a long speech, and Charley Vernon felt pleased that it was over.
There was much in it that would have touched a heart even closed to him,
and a little genuine emotion had given light to his eyes, and color to
his cheek. Amidst all the ravages of dissipation, there was something
interesting in his countenance, and manly in his tone and his gesture.
But Lucretia was only sensible to one part of his confession,--her uncle
consented to his suit. This was all of which she desired to be assured,
and against this she now sought to screen herself.
"Your candour, Mr. Vernon," she said, avoiding his eye, "deserves candour
in me; I cannot affect to misunderstand you. But you take me by
surprise; I was so unprepared for this. Give me time,--I must reflect."
"Reflection is dull work in the country; you can reflect more amusingly
in town, my fair cousin."
"I will wait, then, till I find myself in town."
"Ah, you make me the happiest, the most grateful of men," cried Mr.
Vernon, rising, with a semi-genuflection which seemed to imply, "Consider
yourself knelt to,"--just as a courteous assailer, with a motion of the
hand, implies, "Consider yourself horsewhipped."
Lucretia, who, with all her intellect, had no capacity for humour,
recoiled, and looked up in positive surprise.
"I do not understand you, Mr. Vernon," she said, with austere gravity.
"Allow me the bliss of flattering myself that you, at least, are
understood," replied Charley Vernon, with imperturbable assurance. "You
will wait to reflect till you are in town,--that is to say, the day after
our honeymoon, when you awake in Mayfair."
Before Lucretia could reply, she saw the indefatigable valet formally
approaching, with the anticipated message that Sir Miles requested to see
her. She replied hurriedly to this last, that she would be with her
uncle immediately; and when he had again disappeared within the porch,
she said, with a constrained effort at frankness,--
"Mr. Vernon, if I have misunderstood your words, I think I do not mistake
your character. You cannot wish to take advantage of my affection for my
uncle, and the passive obedience I owe to him, to force me into a step of
which--of which--I have not yet sufficiently considered the results. If
you really desire that my feelings should be consulted, that I should
not--pardon me--consider myself sacrificed to the family pride of my
guardian and the interests of my suitor--"
"Madam!" exclaimed Vernon, reddening.
Pleased with the irritating effect her words had produced, Lucretia
continued calmly, "If, in a word, I am to be a free agent in a choice on
which my happiness depends, forbear to urge Sir Miles further at present;
forbear to press your suit upon me. Give me the delay of a few months; I
shall know how to appreciate your delicacy."
"Miss Clavering," answered Vernon, with a touch of the St. John
haughtiness, "I am in despair that you should even think so grave an
appeal to my honour necessary. I am well aware of your expectations and
my poverty. And, believe me, I would rather rot in a prison than enrich
myself by forcing your inclinations. You have but to say the word, and I
will (as becomes me as a man and gentleman) screen you from all chance of
Sir Miles's displeasure, by taking it on myself to decline an honour of
which I feel, indeed, very undeserving."
"But I have offended you," said Lucretia, softly, while she turned aside
to conceal the glad light of her eyes,--"pardon me; and to prove that you
do so, give me your arm to my uncle's room."
Vernon, with rather more of Sir Miles's antiquated stiffness than his own
rakish ease, offered his arm, with a profound reverence, to his cousin,
and they took their way to the house. Not till they had passed up the
stairs, and were even in the gallery, did further words pass between
them. Then Vernon said,--
"But what is your wish, Miss Clavering? On what footing shall I remain
here?"
"Will you suffer me to dictate?" replied Lucretia, stopping short with
well-feigned confusion, as if suddenly aware that the right to dictate
gives the right to hope.
"Ah, consider me at least your slave!" whispered Vernon, as, his eye
resting on the contour of that matchless neck, partially and
advantageously turned from him, he began, with his constitutional
admiration of the sex, to feel interested in a pursuit that now seemed,
after piquing, to flatter his self-love.
"Then I will use the privilege when we meet again," answered Lucretia;
and drawing her arm gently from his, she passed on to her uncle, leaving
Vernon midway in the gallery.
Those faded portraits looked down on her with that melancholy gloom which
the effigies of our dead ancestors seem mysteriously to acquire. To
noble and aspiring spirits, no homily to truth and honour and fair
ambition is more eloquent than the mute and melancholy canvas from which
our fathers, made, by death, our household gods, contemplate us still.
They appear to confide to us the charge of their unblemished names. They
speak to us from the grave, and heard aright, the pride of family is the
guardian angel of its heirs. But Lucretia, with her hard and scholastic
mind, despised as the veriest weakness all the poetry that belongs to the
sense of a pure descent. It was because she was proud as the proudest in
herself that she had nothing but contempt for the virtue, the valour, or
the wisdom of those that had gone before. So, with a brain busy with
guile and stratagem, she trod on, beneath the eyes of the simple and
spotless Dead.
Vernon, thus left alone, mused a few moments on what had passed between
himself and the heiress; and then, slowly retracing his steps, his eye
roved along the stately series of his line. "Faith!" he muttered, "if my
boyhood had been passed in this old gallery, his Royal Highness would
have lost a good fellow and hard drinker, and his Majesty would have had
perhaps a more distinguished soldier,--certainly a worthier subject. If
I marry this lady, and we are blessed with a son, he shall walk through
this gallery once a day before he is flogged into Latin!"
Lucretia's interview with her uncle was a masterpiece of art. What pity
that such craft and subtlety were wasted in our little day, and on such
petty objects; under the Medici, that spirit had gone far to the shaping
of history. Sure, from her uncle's openness, that he would plunge at
once into the subject for which she deemed she was summoned, she evinced
no repugnance when, tenderly kissing her, he asked if Charles Vernon had
a chance of winning favour in her eyes. She knew that she was safe in
saying "No;" that her uncle would never force her inclinations,--safe so
far as Vernon was concerned; but she desired more: she desired thoroughly
to quench all suspicion that her heart was pre-occupied; entirely to
remove from Sir Miles's thoughts the image of Mainwaring; and a denial of
one suitor might quicken the baronet's eyes to the concealment of the
other. Nor was this all; if Sir Miles was seriously bent upon seeing her
settled in marriage before his death, the dismissal of Vernon might only
expose her to the importunity of new candidates more difficult to deal
with. Vernon himself she could use as the shield against the arrows of a
host. Therefore, when Sir Miles repeated his question, she answered, with
much gentleness and seeming modest sense, that Mr. Vernon had much that
must prepossess in his favour; that in addition to his own advantages he
had one, the highest in her eyes,--her uncle's sanction and approval.
But--and she hesitated with becoming and natural diffidence--were not his
habits unfixed and roving? So it was said; she knew not herself,--she
would trust her happiness to her uncle. But if so, and if Mr. Vernon
were really disposed to change, would it not be prudent to try him,--try
him where there was temptation, not in the repose of Laughton, but amidst
his own haunts of London? Sir Miles had friends who would honestly
inform him of the result. She did but suggest this; she was too ready to
leave all to her dear guardian's acuteness and experience.
Melted by her docility, and in high approval of the prudence which
betokened a more rational judgment than he himself had evinced, the good
old man clasped her to his breast and shed tears as he praised and
thanked her. She had decided, as she always did, for the best; Heaven
forbid that she should be wasted on an incorrigible man of pleasure!
"And," said the frank-hearted gentleman, unable long to keep any thought
concealed,--"and to think that I could have wronged you for a moment, my
own noble child; that I could have been dolt enough to suppose that the
good looks of that boy Mainwaring might have caused you to forget what--
But you change colour!"--for, with all her dissimulation, Lucretia loved
too ardently not to shrink at that name thus suddenly pronounced. "Oh,"
continued the baronet, drawing her still nearer towards him, while with
one hand he put back her face, that he might read its expression the more
closely,--"oh, if it had been so,--if it be so, I will pity, not blame
you, for my neglect was the fault: pity you, for I have known a similar
struggle; admire you in pity, for you have the spirit of your ancestors,
and you will conquer the weakness. Speak! have I touched on the truth?
Speak without fear, child,--you have no mother; but in age a man
sometimes gets a mother's heart."
Startled and alarmed as the lark when the step nears its nest, Lucretia
summoned all the dark wile of her nature to mislead the intruder. "No,
uncle, no; I am not so unworthy. You misconceived my emotion."
"Ah, you know that he has had the presumption to love you,--the puppy!--
and you feel the compassion you women always feel for such offenders? Is
that it?"
Rapidly Lucretia considered if it would be wise to leave that impression
on his mind. On one hand, it might account for a moment's agitation; and
if Mainwaring were detected hovering near the domain, in the exchange of
their correspondence, it might appear but the idle, if hopeless, romance
of youth, which haunts the mere home of its object,--but no; on the other
hand, it left his banishment absolute and confirmed. Her resolution was
taken with a promptitude that made her pause not perceptible.
"No, my dear uncle," she said, so cheerfully that it removed all doubt
from the mind of her listener; "but M. Dalibard has rallied me on the
subject, and I was so angry with him that when you touched on it, I
thought more of my quarrel with him than of poor timid Mr. Mainwaring
himself. Come, now, own it, dear sir! M. Dalibard has instilled this
strange fancy into your head?"
"No, 'S life; if he had taken such a liberty, I should have lost my
librarian. No, I assure you, it was rather Vernon; you know true love is
jealous."
"Vernon!" thought Lucretia; "he must go, and at once." Sliding from her
uncle's arms to the stool at his feet, she then led the conversation more
familiarly back into the channel it had lost; and when at last she
escaped, it was with the understanding that, without promise or
compromise, Mr. Vernon should return to London at once, and be put upon
the ordeal through which she felt assured it was little likely he should
pass with success.
