'You speak in parables.' 'You are yet in twilight, dear Constance.' The Professor rose and laid her hand on the young Countess's arm. 'Child, your generous heart has divined what your logic would have made it impossible for you to perceive--a great truth, perhaps the greatest of truths. Go on.' 'Have I? The House would not allow me to say it, then; my own friends deserted me; a vote of want of confidence was hurriedly passed by a majority of 235 to 22; and'--the young Minister laughed bitterly--'there is an end of my great schemes.' 'For a time--yes,' said the Professor. 'But, Constance, there is a greater work before you than you suspect or dream. Greatest of the women of all time, my child, shall you be--if what I hope may be brought to pass. Let not this little disappointment of an hour vex you any longer. Go--gain strength in the country--meditate--and read.' 'Oh, read!' cried the girl, impatiently; 'I am sick of reading.' 'Read,' continued the Professor; 'read--with closed doors--the _forbidden books_. They stand in your own castle, locked up in cases; they have not been destroyed because they are not known to exist. Read Shakespeare.' Events which followed prevented the Countess from undertaking this course of study; for she remained in town. From time to time the Professor was wont to startle her by reading or quoting some passage which appealed to her imagination as nothing in modern poetry seemed able to do. She knew that the passage came from one of the old books which had been put away, locked up, or destroyed. It was generally a passage of audacity, clothing a revolutionary sentiment in words which burned themselves into her brain, and seemed alive. She never forgot these words, but she dared not repeat them. And she knew herself that the very possession of the sentiments, the knowledge that they existed, made her 'dangerous,' as her enemies called her; for most of them were on the attributes of man. The conversation was interrupted by a servant, who brought the Countess a note. 'How very imprudent!' cried Constance, reddening with vexation. 'Why will the boy do these wild things? Help me, Professor. My cousin, Lord Chester, wants to see me, and is coming, _by himself_, to my house--here--immediately.' 'Surely I am sufficient guardian of the proprieties, Constance. We will say, if you like, that the boy came to see his old tutor. Let him come, and, unless he has anything for your ear alone, I can be present.' 'Heaven knows what he has to say,' his cousin sighed. 'Always some fresh escapade, some kicking over the limits of convention.' She was standing at the window, and looked out. 'And here he comes, riding along Park Lane as if it were an open common.' CHAPTER II THE EARL OF CHESTER