CHAPTER XXVI.

"Comes he thus-my friend?

Is this the end of all my care?

Is this the end? Is this the end?"

TENNYSON.

EVER since Clement Morton's return from London, there had been some slight difference in his manner, imperceptible perhaps to all but Ion, who, too much accustomed to note his every mood, could not fail to see it; and to see also, with sinking heart, that it was a change for the worse. Clement had become more discontented and exacting, more dissatisfied with his present circumstances; and so impatient, too, of the slightest remonstrance, that he was continually irritable towards Ion, until the manner of the latter towards him iced over with a cold reserve, utterly foreign to the brotherly confidence of their past intercourse. And then Clement, ever intensely susceptible to the slightest change, even in tone, disturbed himself about it, and imagined all possible causes for it, save the right. He fancied that Ion had expected too much of him, and was consequently disappointed in the result; or else why was he now so often, it seemed, indifferent to his presence, so absorbed in what appeared regretful memories, that he had not a smile or a word with which to answer him? Why did he start sometimes when his voice disturbed a

reverie, with so unwilling an attention to his words? and why were the eyes that then met his own so inexplicably sad, unless they had gazed in thought upon some vision of the past, before which the present was a disappointing, unsatisfying reality. Clement indeed saw that at such times Ion endeavoured to shake off the feelings, whatever they were, that pressed upon him; that he parried his questions gaily, and seemed pained by his notice; but both, from false pride, were silent.

Ion was playing chess with Ken one evening, while Miss Pellew, surrounded by her manuscripts, was busily writing, undisturbed by Con, who was reading at the fireside with unwonted quietness, and whose good-will she had entirely gained by her good-tempered endurance of his many mischievous tricks, much as they had endangered the progress of the Encyclopædia, when a servant entering informed his master that Mr. Morton was in the studio, wishing to see him. Con threw down the book he had been attempting to read, and stretching himself in utter weariness of his unwontedly long repose, he rose and took his brother's place, as Ion passed from the room and slowly descended the stairs.

Upon entering the studio, he found himself face to face with Clement, who was standing before the fire, looking eager and excited. He scarcely noticed his friend's offered hand, but hurriedly, and without any prelude, exclaimed, "Well, Ion, at last I am going to London on my own affairs.'

"Are you ?" returned Ion, vaguely.

"Is that all you have to say ?" asked Clement, in a tone of disappointment; "you don't understand me, I think. I mean that I am going up to the publisher's, going to leave business for ever, and begin a literary life, free at last."

Ion looked up inquiringly, with an instinctive

feeling that there was something wrong. did Mr. Morton consent to this ?"

"When

"Consent! when do you think he would consent? No, indeed; I think my own consent sufficient, so long as I have been kept in chains."

"Then, Clement, you will not leave Illingham,” said Ion, quietly.

"And what should keep me?" "Your own sense of duty."

"Duty is a cold word, Ion."

"Yes, to an unwilling mind; but a stern fact, nevertheless."

"And so it is my duty to submit to my father's tyranny, keeping me to a business I have always detested! I am not going to submit to that, if it be your idea of my duty, Ion."

"Do not say that, Clement."

It was difficult to resist that tone, seconded too by the earnest glance of those deep grey eyes, a shade of sorrow's own hue; but Clement was in an evil mood that would have crossed an angel, and he was determined to resist that influence which had checked many a hasty and unconsidered word before it had passed the lips which were ashamed to give it utterance beneath that calm, sad look.

"I do say it, Ion, and will say it! You must not think you are speaking to any one undecided. When I was up in London, I went to a publisher, and showed him my manuscript, and he advised my leaving business, and devoting myself to literature: he offered me plenty of employment."

"You never told me of that," said Ion, half reproachfully; "but that is no argument: if you can pursue both employments fairly, there is nothing to be said against it; but to throw off all submission to a parent, and abandon his interests, must be wrong: you know it as well as I do.”

It was true indeed that Ion's words spoke to an

answering voice within, but Clement's perverse nature would still struggle against conviction, and he only answered, "I thought you cared about my writing, and would have been pleased for me to have my long-deferred wishes crowned with success, and to earn some slight title to a poet's name."

"I do care, Clement, GOD only knows how much -more than you give me credit for, it seems, or you would know that it is at the sacrifice of any wishes I may have for your earthly career, I desire to see you do your duty. I care so much for your welfare, that I would rather our path in life were separated for ever here, than for any present gratification it should be separated in eternity."

"You will separate them yourself, I believe, one day," said Clement, sullenly; "in spite of your professions, it seems as if you care little now, or indeed have done lately, for me or my welfare."

"Seems!" repeated Ion; "I think you ought to know better than to judge from mere seeming." But there was a depth of sorrow in his earnest eyes, in spite of his quiet manner.

"I don't judge from mere seeming; your words and manner are enough."

But Ion neither spoke nor moved; his cheek, pale as death, no slightest shade of colour suffused at the words: only his grasp upon the back of the chair over which he leaned betrayed the inward struggle between an angry sense of injustice, and the demands of self-discipline.

"If you quarrel with my words, Clement," he said at length, "I cannot give you any renewed profession of my sincerity; if you could but seebut now you seem even to doubt the evidence of my actions."

"I do doubt you now-I think you unjust."

The flush of wounded feeling rushed to Ion's brow as he drew himself up with a haughty move

ment, and said proudly, "I should degrade myself by repelling such an accusation. You can indeed know little of my character to make it."

"I thought I did know it once. I thought you were, and would be for ever, a friend-more than a brother to me; now I know it all for a passing fancy of the moment, false as the conduct that conjured up a thought so vain."

An angry light gleamed in Ion's eyes for one moment, like a pale flash of lightning, as he said with suppressed anger, "Take care, Clement; my patience has its limits."

"I care not; be as impatient as you will. I say you are false as a friend to me this day-false and unjust."

Clement knew not what madness possessed him to say those words, for which in after days he would have sacrificed all his earthly hopes for the power of recalling; half repented of, even now, when he looked up and saw those calm, sad eyes, intense in their power, fixed on him as though they would read his very soul, and as though they sought to find some other meaning for those harsh, bitter words. No words, however passionate or severe, could have carried with them the reproachful force of that momentary glance; there was no mistaking the tale those eyes uttered. Ion's very soul was wounded, but in the next moment he had turned away slowly, noiselessly, and was gone.

Clement stood motionless for a few moments, not realising what he had done. Then the thought came over him that he and Ion were severed for ever by his own act, and he hastily left the house. It was a bitterly cold night, but he heeded not the piercing wind nor the heavy rain; for there are words and tones before which the spirit shrinks into itself, shuddering more than the delicate frame before the keenest blast.