Meanwhile--for absence, as is universally acknowledged, is apt to increase _les grandes passions_, while it has a directly contrary effect upon minor ones--meanwhile the rector of Switcham, in that pretty but dull study of his, sat ruminating, sometimes by the hour together, on the perfections of Rhoda Vavasour; on their mutual attachment (for George Wallingford felt as assured of the young girl’s love as if she had told him the sweet truth in words), and on the maddening possibility that in London, in the midst of the gay and exciting scenes of which he had heard and read so much, some man less faint of heart or more attractive than himself, might step between him and his love, and thus deprive him of all that made life dear and valuable. The idea that such _might_, by some terrible contingency, be the case, was, as I have just said, very distracting to the rector; so distracting, that his usually well-balanced mind tottered a little on its throne, and the judgments and resolves--so calm habitually, and prudent--of sensible George Wallingford, gave token of the emotion that was going on within his breast. That it would be an act little short of insanity to request of Lady Millicent Vavasour the hand of her daughter in marriage, Rhoda’s clerical lover would, no later than three days before, have been quite willing to acknowledge; but, whether it is true that _quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat_, or that the _man_ as well as “the woman who deliberates is lost,” it is needless to inquire, the fact remaining the same--namely, that poor George Wallingford, believing his position could not be worse, and might by some strange freak of Fortune be bettered by his desperate act, arrived at the somewhat rash resolution of proposing himself to Lady Millicent Vavasour as the future husband of her daughter. The determination was no sooner arrived at than it was acted upon. Alone with his own thoughts, his own fears, and the hopes which the last tender smile which he had seen on Rhoda’s quivering lip had raised within his heart, the unfortunate young rector, unable to endure suspense, rushed madly to his fate. Alas for him, poor fellow!--where was at that crisis of his life the outspoken, sensible, hard-headed college friend, who with a strong grip--painful, perhaps, but salutary--would have plucked him from the edge of the abyss, and with a “Don’t make a fool of yourself, old fellow!” would have given wholesome counsel, and have staved off much of the unhappiness soon to be recorded? The letter on which--as he touchingly explained to the _sympathising_ Lady Millicent--the happiness of his future life depended was written just four days after the departure of the Castle family for London. Under what circumstances it was received, how Lady Millicent behaved on its perusal, and the consequences resulting from its perpetration, will form subject-matter for another chapter. CHAPTER XXIV. FAST DOWNHILL.