Some moralists tell us that, even in the best natures, love is essentially a selfish passion. What amount of egotism, then, does it not include in those who are far--very far--from being “the best”? With all this, let us be just to poor Beecher. Whatever there was of heart about him, she _had_ touched; whatever of good or kind or gentle in his neglected being existed, she had found the way to it. If he were capable of being anything better, she alone could have aided the reformation. If he were not to sink still lower and lower, it was to her helping hand his rescue would be owing. And somehow--though I cannot explain how--he felt and knew this to be the case. He could hear generous sentiments from _her_, and not deem them hypocrisy. He could listen to words of trust and hopefulness, and yet not smile at her credulity. _She_ had gained that amount of ascendancy over his mind which subjugated all his own prejudices to her influence, and, like all weak natures, he was never so happy as in slavery. Last of all, what a prize it would be to be the husband of the most beautiful woman in Europe! There was a notoriety in that, far above the fame of winning “Derbys” or breaking Roulette Banks; and he pictured to himself how they would journey through the Continent, admired, worshipped, and envied,--for already he had invested himself with the qualities of his future wife, and gloried in the triumphs she was so sure to win. “By Jove! I'll do it,” cried he, at last, as he slapped his hand on the table. “I don't care what they'll say, I _will_ do it; and if there's any fellow dares to scoff or sneer at it, Grog shall shoot him. I'll make that bargain with him; and he 'll like it, for he loves fighting.” He summed up his resolution by imagining that the judgment of the world would run somehow in this fashion: “Wonderful fellow, that Annesley Beecher! It's not above a year since his brother lost the title, and there he is now, married to the most splendid woman in all Europe, living like a prince,--denying himself nothing, no matter what it cost,--and all by his own wits! Show me his equal anywhere! Lackington used to call him a 'flat.' I wonder what he 'd say now!” CHAPTER XIII. A DARK CONFIDENCE What a wound would it inflict upon our self-love were we occasionally to know that the concessions we have extorted from our own hearts by long effort and persuasion would be deemed matters of very doubtful acceptance by those in whose favor they were made. With what astonishment should we learn that there was nothing so very noble in our forgiveness, nothing so very splendid in our generosity! I have been led to this reflection by thinking over Annesley Beecher's late resolve, and wondering what effect it might have had on him could he have overheard what passed in the very chamber next his own.