Beauclerc, whose promise all relied on, and for reasons good, none more implicitly than the general, promised that he would ask for no more than just what would do to put this Old Forest house in habitable trim; he said he would give up the new house for himself, till as many thousands as he now lent, spent, or wasted--take which word you will--should be again accumulated from his income. It was merely a sacrifice of his own vanity, and perhaps a little of his own comfort, he said, to save a friend, a human being, from destruction. “Well, well, let it rest so.” It was all settled, witness present--“two angels to witness,” as Beauclerc quoted from some old play. And now in high good-humour, up again to nonsense pitch, they all felt that delightful relief of spirits, of which friends, after perilous quarrel, are sensible in perfect reconciliation. They left this melancholy mansion now, with Beauclerc the happiest of the happy, in the generous hope that he should be the restorer of its ancient glories and comfort. The poor old woman was not forgotten as they passed, she courtesying, hoping, and fearing: Lady Cecilia whispered, and the deaf ear heard. “The roof will not fall--all will be well: and there is the man that will do it all.” “Well, well, my heart inclined to him from the first--at least from the minute I knew him not to be my young lord.” They were to go home by water. The boat was in readiness, and, as Beauclerc carefully handed Helen into it, the general said:--“Yes, you are right to take care of Miss Stanley, Beauclerc; she is a good friend in need, at least, as I have found this morning,” added he, as he seated himself beside her. Lady Cecilia was charming, and every thing was delightful, especially the cold chicken. CHAPTER XI. No two people could be more unlike in their habits of mind than this guardian and ward. General Clarendon referred in all cases to old experience, and dreaded innovation; Beauclerc took for his motto, “My mind leadeth me to new things.” General Clarendon was what is commonly called a practical man; Granville Beauclerc was the flower of theorists. The general, fit for action, prompt and decided in all his judgments, was usually right and just in his conclusions--but if wrong, there was no setting him right; for he not only would not, but could not go back over the ground--he could not give in words any explanation of his process of reasoning--it was enough for him that it was right, and that it was _his_; while Beauclerc, who cared not for any man’s opinion, was always so ingeniously wrong, and could show all the steps of his reasoning so plausibly, that it was a pity he should be quite out of the right road at last. The general hated metaphysics, because he considered them as taking a flight beyond the reach of discipline, as well as of common sense: he continually asked, of what use are they?--While Lady Davenant answered,--