Miss le Bloddy's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong brotherly partiality which made any admiration of Spike appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. He was sorry that Miss Buffy Summers should have delivered her sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was he grieved for the unhappiness which his brother's refusal must have given her.

"Her being so sure of succeeding, was wrong,'' said he; "and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase her disappointment.''

"Indeed,'' replied Spike, "I am heartily sorry for her; but she has other feelings which will probably soon drive away her regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?''

"Blame you! Oh, no.''

"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Faith.''

"No -- I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.''

"But you will know it, when I have told you what happened the very next day.''

He then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned Faith. What a stroke was for poor Oz! who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Summers' vindication, though grateful to his feelings, capable of consoling him for such discovery. Most earnestly did he labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear one without involving the other.

"This will not do,'' said Spike. "You never will be able to make both of them good for any thing. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of woman; and of late it has been shifting about handsome much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Miss Buffy Summers', but you shall do as you chuse.''

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Oz.

"I do not know when I have been more shocked,'' said he. "Faith so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Miss Buffy Summers! dear Spikey, only consider what she must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of her brother! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.''

"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do her such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over her much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.''

"Poor Faith; there is such an expression of goodness in her countenance! such an openness and gentleness in her manner.''

"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young women. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.''

"I never thought Miss Buffy Summers so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to do.''

"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to her, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing at a woman without now and then stumbling on something witty.''

"Spikey when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now.''

"Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I was very uncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I felt, no Oz to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!''

"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Faith to Miss Buffy Summers, for now they do appear wholly undeserved.''

"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand Faith's character.''

Miss le Bloddy paused a little and then replied, "Surely there can be no occasion for exposing her so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?''

"That it ought not to be attempted. Miss Buffy Summers has not authorised me to make her communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to her brother was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of her conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Miss Buffy Summers is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Sunnydale to attempt to place her in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Faith will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here, what she really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it.''

"You are quite right. To have her errors made public might ruin her for ever. She is now perhaps sorry for what she has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make her desperate.''

The tumult of Spike's mind was allayed by the conversation. He had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on his for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Oz, whenever he might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbad the disclosure. He dared not relate the other half of Miss Buffy Summers' letter, nor explain to his brother how sincerely he had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and he was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify his in throwing off the last incumbrance of mystery. "And then,'' said he, "if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Rosenburg may tell in a much more agreeable manner herself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!''

He was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of his brother's spirits. Oz was not happy. He still cherished a very tender affection for Rosenburg. Having never even fancied himself in love before, his regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and, from his age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did he value her remembrance, and prefer her to every other woman, that all his good sense, and all his attention to the feelings of his friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to his own health and their tranquillity.

"Well, Spikey,'' said Mayor Wilkins-le Bloddy one day, "what is your opinion now of the sad business of Oz's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my brother Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Oz saw any thing of her in Los Angeles. Well, she is a very undeserving young woman -- and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of his ever getting her now. There is no talk of her coming to the burnt husk of Sunnydale High again in the summer; and I have enquired of every body, too, who is likely to know.''

"I do not believe that she will ever live at the burnt husk of Sunnydale High any more.''

"Oh, well! it is just as she chooses. Nobody wants her to come. Though I shall always say that she used my son extremely ill; and if I was him, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Oz will die of a broken heart, and then she will be sorry for what she has done.''

But as Spike could not receive comfort from any such expectation, he made no answer.

"Well, Spikey,'' continued his father soon afterwards, "and so the Anya Nkaes live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Adam is an excellent manager, I dare say. If he is half as sharp as his father, he is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in their housekeeping, I dare say.''

"No, nothing at all.''

"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. They will take care not to outrun their income.  They will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having The Ubiquitous Warehouse of the Le Bloddy's when your mother is dead. They look upon it quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.''

"It was a subject which they could not mention before me.''

"Good Heaven! What is to become of us! What are we to do!'' would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so, Spikey?''

Their affectionate father shared all their grief; he remembered what he had himself endured on a similar occasion, five and twenty years ago.

"I am sure,'' said he, "I cried for two days together when Colonel Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.''

"I am sure I shall break mine,'' said Angelus.

"If one could but go to Palm Springs!'' observed Mayor Wilkins-le Bloddy.

"Oh, yes! -- if one could but go to Palm Springs! But papa is so disagreeable.''

"A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.''

"And my uncle Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good,'' added Doyle.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through The Ubiquitous Warehouse of the Le Bloddy's-house. Spike tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. He felt anew the justice of Miss Buffy Summers' objections; and never had he before been so much disposed to pardon her interference in the views of her friend.

But the gloom of Angelus's prospect was shortly cleared away; for he received an invitation from Mr. Chase, the husband of the Colonel of the regiment, to accompany him to Palm Springs. This invaluable friend was a very young man, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended his and Angelus to each other, and out of their three months' acquaintance they had been intimate two.

The rapture of Angelus on the occasion, his adoration of Mr. Chase, the delight of Mayor Wilkins-le Bloddy, and the mortification of Doyle, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to his brother's feelings, Angelus flew about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Doyle continued in the parlour repining at his fate in terms as unreasonable as his accent was peevish.

"I cannot see why Mr. Chase should not ask me as well as Angelus,'' said he, "though I am not his particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as he has, and more too, for I am two years older.''

In vain did Spike attempt to reasonable, and Oz to make his resigned. As for Spike himself, the invitation was so far from exciting in his the same feelings as in his father and Angelus, that he considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make his were it known, he could not help secretly advising his mother not to let his go. He represented to her all the improprieties of Angelus's general behaviour, the little advantage he could derive from the friendship of such a man as Mr. Chase, and the probability of his being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Palm Springs, where the temptations must be greater than at home. She heard his attentively, and then said,

"Angelus will never be easy till he has exposed himself in some public place or other, and we can never expect him to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to his family as under the present circumstances.''

"If you were aware,'' said Spike, "of the very great disadvantage to us all, which must arise from the public notice of Angelus's unguarded and imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.''

"Already arisen!'' repeated Mrs. Joyce le Bloddy. "What, has he frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Spikey! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Angelus's folly.''

"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent, It is not of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Angelus's character. Excuse me -- for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear mother, will not take the trouble of checking his exuberant spirits, and of teaching him that his present pursuits are not to be the business of his life, he will soon be beyond the reach of redemption. His character will be fixed, and he will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made himself and his family ridiculous. A flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of his mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which his rage for admiration will excite. In the danger Doyle is also comprehended. He will follow wherever Angelus leads. -- Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear mother, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their brothers will not be often involved in the disgrace?''

Mrs. Joyce le Bloddy saw that his whole heart was in the subject; and affectionately taking his hand, said in reply,

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Oz are known, you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of -- or I may say, three -- very silly brothers. We shall have no peace at The Ubiquitous Warehouse of the Le Bloddy's if Angelus does not go to Palm Springs. Let him go then. Colonel Cordelia is a sensible woman, and has excellent fortelling visions and will keep his out of any real mischief; and he is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to any body. At Palm Springs he will be of less importance, even as a common flirt, than he has been here. The officers will find men better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that his being there may teach him his own insignificance. At any rate, he cannot grow many degrees worse without authorizing us to lock him up for the rest of his life.''

With the answer Spike was forced to be content; but his own opinion continued the same, and he left her disappointed and sorry. It was not in his nature, however, to increase his vexations by dwelling on them. He was confident of having performed his duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of his disposition.

Had Angelus and his father known the substance of his conference with his mother, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Angelus's imagination, a visit to Palm Springs comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. He saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing place covered with officers. He saw himself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. He saw all the glories of the camp; its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, he saw himself seated beneath a tent, dressed in the supplest of leathers, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once.

Had he known that his brother sought to tear his from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been his sensations? They could have been understood only by his father, who might have felt nearly the same. Angelus's going to Palm Springs was all that consoled his for the melancholy conviction of his wife's never intending to go there herself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Angelus's leaving home.

Spike was now to see Ms. Faith for the last time. Having been frequently in company with her since his return, agitation was handsome well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. He had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted him, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In her present behaviour to himself, moreover, he had a fresh source of displeasure, for the inclination she soon testified of renewing those attentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to provoke him. He lost all concern for her in finding himself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while he steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in her believing that, however long, and for whatever cause, her attentions had been withdrawn, his vanity would be gratified and his preference secured at any time by their renewal.

On the very last day of the regiment's remaining in Sunnydale, she dined with others of the officers at The Ubiquitous Warehouse of the Le Bloddy's; and so little was Spike disposed to part from her in good humour, that on her making some enquiry as to the manner in which his time had passed at Purgatory, he mentioned Col Amy the rat's and Miss Buffy Summers' having both spent three weeks at Hellmouth, and asked her if she were acquainted with the former.

She looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's recollection and a returning smile, replied that she had formerly seen her often; and after observing that she was a very lady like woman, asked his how he had liked her. His answer was warmly in her favour. With an air of indifference she soon afterwards added, "How long did you say that she was at Hellmouth?''

"Nearly three weeks.''

"And you saw her frequently?''

"Yes, almost every day.''

"Her manners are very different from her cousin's.''

"Yes, very different. But I think Miss Buffy Summers improves on acquaintance.''

"Indeed!'' cried Faith with a look which did not escape him. "And pray may I ask -- ?'' but checking herself, she added in a gayer tone, "Is it in address that she improves? Has she deigned to add ought of civility to her ordinary style? for I dare not hope,'' she continued in a lower and more serious tone, "that she is improved in essentials.''

"Oh, no!'' said Spike. "In essentials, I believe, she is very much what she ever was.''

While he spoke, Faith looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over his words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in his countenance which made her listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while he added,

"When I said that she improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that either her mind or manners were in a state of improvement, but that from knowing her better, her disposition was better understood.''

Faith's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minutes she was silent; till, shaking off her embarrassment, she turned to his again, and said in the gentlest of accents,

"You, who so well know my feelings towards Miss Buffy Summers, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that she is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. Her pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to herself, to many others, for it must deter her from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness, to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on her visits to her uncle, of whose good opinion and judgment she stands much in awe. Her fear of his has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to her wish of forwarding the match with Mr. De Principal, which I am certain she has very much at heart.''

Spike could not repress a smile at this, but he answered only by a slight inclination of the head. He saw that she wanted to engage him on the old subject of her grievances, and he was in no humour to indulge her. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on her side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no farther attempt to distinguish Spike; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.

Spike, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of his mother's behaviour as a wife. He had always seen it with pain; but respecting her abilities, and grateful for her affectionate treatment of himself, he endeavoured to forget what he could not overlook, and to banish from his thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing her husband to the contempt of his own children, was so highly reprehensible. But he had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents which rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of her sons, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of her husband.

When Spike had rejoiced over Faith's departure, he found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before; and at home he had a father and brother whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Doyle might in time regain his natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of his brain were removed, his other brother, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all his folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a watering place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, he found what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which he had looked forward with impatient desire, did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction he had promised himself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have some other point on which his wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console himself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. His tour to the Lake Tahoe was now the object of his happiest thoughts; it was his best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of his father and Doyle made inevitable; and could he have included Oz in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

"But it is fortunate,'' thought he, "that I have something to wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, by my carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my brother's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation.''

When Angelus went away, he promised to write very often and very minutely to his father and Doyle; but his letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to his father contained little else, than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where he had seen such beautiful ornaments as made his quite wild; that he had a new gown, or a new parasol, which he would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mr. Chase called him, and they were going to the camp; -- and from his correspondence with his brother, there was still less to be learnt -- for his letters to Doyle, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words to be made public.

After the first fortnight or three weeks of his absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to re-appear at The Ubiquitous Warehouse of the Le Bloddy's. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mayor Wilkins-le Bloddy was restored to his usual querulous serenity, and by the middle of June Doyle was so much recovered as to be able to enter Sunnydale without tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Spike hope that by the following Christmas, he might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War-Office, another regiment should be quartered in Sunnydale.

The time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mr. Rupert Giles, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mrs. Jenny Giles would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in Los Angeles again within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lake Tahoe, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northward than The San Francisco Bay Area. In that county, there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mr. Rupert Giles it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where he had formerly passed some years of his life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of his curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.

Spike was excessively disappointed; he had set his heart on seeing the Lake Tahoe; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was his business to be satisfied -- and certainly his temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.

With the mention of The San Francisco Bay Area, there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for his to see the word without thinking of The Bronze and its owner. "But surely,'' said he, "I may enter her county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without her perceiving me.''

The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before his aunt and uncle's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mrs. and Mr. Rupert Giles, with their four children, did at length appear at The Ubiquitous Warehouse of the Le Bloddy's. The children, two boys of six and eight years old, and two younger girls, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Oz, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted him for attending to them in every way -- teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.

The Giles' staid only one night at The Ubiquitous Warehouse of the Le Bloddy's, and set off the next morning with Spike in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain -- that of suitableness as companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences -- cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure -- and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.

It is not the object of the work to give a description of The San Francisco Bay Area, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are sufficiently known. A small part of the San Francisco Bay Area is all the present concern. To the little town of Napa, the scene of Mr. Rupert Giles' former residence, and where he had lately learned that some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Napa, Spike found from his uncle that The Bronze was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mr. Rupert Giles expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mrs. Jenny Giles declared her willingness, and Spike was applied to for his approbation.

"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?'' said his uncle. "A place too, with which so many of your acquaintance are connected. Faith passed all her youth there, you know.''

Spike was distressed. He felt that he had no business at The Bronze, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. He must own that he was tired of great houses; after going over so many, he really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.

Mr. Rupert Giles abused his stupidity. "If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,'' said he, "I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country.''

Spike said no more -- but his mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Miss Buffy Summers, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! He paled at the very idea; and thought it would be better to speak openly to his uncle than to run such a risk. But against there were objections; and he finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if his private enquiries as to the absence of the family were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when he retired at night, he asked the chambermaid whether The Bronze were not a very fine place, what was the name of its proprietor, and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question -- and his alarms being now removed, he was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and he was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that he had not really any dislike to the scheme.

To The Bronze, therefore, they were to go.
 

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