Sydney Campion and Anna Pynsent were married early in September, while Lettice was still in Italy. There had been a death in the Pynsent family since the death of Sydney's mother, and Nan was not sorry to make this a pretext for arranging every thing in the simplest possible manner. She had no bridesmaids, and did without a wedding-feast; and, strange to say, Sydney was perfectly well content.

For it might have been expected that Sydney—with whom the roots of worldliness and selfishness had struck very deep—would desire a wedding that would make a noise in the world, and would not be satisfied with a bride in a severely simple white dress and a complete absence of all display. But it seemed as if all that was good in his character had been brought to the surface by a marriage which his club-friends chuckled over as so absolutely unexceptionable from a worldly point of view. For almost the first time in his life he was a little ashamed of his worldliness. His marriage with Nan Pynsent was making—or so he thought—everything easy for him! His selfishness was pampered by the girl's adoring love, by her generosity, even by her beauty and her wealth; and it recoiled upon itself in an utterly unexpected way. Finding life no longer a battle, Sydney became suddenly ashamed of some of his past methods of warfare; and, looking at his betrothed, could only breathe a silent and fervent aspiration that she might never know the story of certain portions of his life.

He was thoroughly in love with his wife; and—what was more important in a man of his temperament—he admired as well as loved her. Her personal charm was delightful to him, and the high-bred quietness of her manner, the refinement of her accent, the aroma of dignity and respect which surrounded the Pynsent household in general, were elements of his feeling for her as strong as his sense of her grace and beauty. With his high respect for position and good birth, it would have been almost impossible for him to yield his heart for long to a woman in a lower grade of society than his own; even a woman who might be considered his equal was not often attractive to him; he preferred one—other considerations apart—who was socially a little his superior, and could make a link for him with the great families of England. Had Nan been the pretty governess whom he thought her at first, not all her charm, her talent and her originality of character, would have prevailed to make him marry her.

But in spite of these defects, when once his judgment had assented, he gave free rein to his heart. Nan satisfied his taste and his intellect, to begin with; his senses were equally well content with her beauty; and then—then—another kind of emotion came into play. He was a little vexed and impatient with himself at first, to find the difference that she made in his life. She interested him profoundly, and he had never been profoundly interested in any woman before. Her earnestness charmed while it half-repelled him. And her refinement, her delicacy of feeling, her high standard of morality, perpetually astonished him. He remembered that he had heard his sister Lettice talk as Nan sometimes talked. With Lettice he had pooh-poohed her exalted ideas and thought them womanish; in Nan, he was inclined to call them beautiful. Of course, he said to himself, her ideas did not affect him; men could not guide their lives by a woman's standard; nevertheless, her notions were pretty, although puritanical; and he had no desire to see them changed. He would not have Nan less conscientious for the world.

An appeal to Sydney's self-love had always been a direct appeal to his heart. It was sometimes said of him that he cared for others chiefly in proportion as they conferred benefits and advantages upon himself; but he was certainly capable of warm affection when it had been called into existence. He began to display a very real and strong affection for Nan. She had found the way to his heart—though she little suspected it—through his very weaknesses: she had conquered the man she loved by means of his selfishness. The worldly advantages she conferred took his nature by storm. It was not a high-minded way of contracting an engagement for life; but, as a fragrant flower may easily grow upon a very unpleasant dunghill, so the sweet flower of a true, pure love began to flourish on the heap of refuse with which the good in Sydney's nature had been overlaid.

Sydney was treated with considerable generosity by Nan's guardian and trustees. Her fortune was of course to remain largely at her own disposal; but an ambitious man like Sydney Campion was certain to profit by it in some degree. Sir John Pynsent had always known that he was not likely to possess the management of it for long, and the next best thing was that it should be utilized for a member of the Conservative party, one of his own special connection, whose future career he should be able to watch over and promote. Campion must clearly understand that he owed his position and prospects to the Pynsents. He was apt to be somewhat off-hand and independent, but he would improve with a little judicious coaching. A man cannot be independent who owes his seat to the Oligarchy, his introduction in Parliament to individual favor, and his private fortune to the daughter of a house which had always been devoted to the interests of a particular party. This was Campion's position, and Sir John felt that his brother-in-law would soon fall into line.

Sydney was made the proprietor of the London house in which they were to live—the house at Vanebury was let for the present; but the whole of the domestic charges were to be borne by his wife. His professional income would be at his own disposal; and by special arrangement the sum of twenty thousand pounds was set apart as a fund to be drawn upon from time to time, by their joint consent, for the advancement of his purely political interests, in such a manner as might be deemed most expedient.

This was a better arrangement than Sydney had allowed himself to anticipate, and he was naturally elated by his success. He was so grateful to Nan for the good things she had brought him that he studied her tastes and consulted her inclinations in a way quite new to him. No doubt there was selfishness even in the repression of self which this compliance with her habits imposed upon him; but the daily repression was a gain to him.

And Nan recompensed his considerate behavior by giving him that incense of love and esteem and intellectual deference which is desired by every man; and by convincing him that his ambitions—as she knew them—had in her the most complete sympathy, and the most valuable aid. This she did for him, and satisfied all the wishes of his heart.

They had a delightful honeymoon in the Tyrol, and returned to town late in October. The house in Thurloe Square, where they were to reside, had been newly decorated and furnished for them, and was pronounced by critics to be a marvel of luxury and beauty. Sydney, though he did not pretend to be well acquainted with Æsthetic fashions, recognized that the rooms had an attractive appearance, and set off Nan's beauty to the best advantage. He fell easily and naturally into the position which his good fortune had marked out for him, and thought, in spite of certain bitter drops, in spite of a touch of gall in the honey, and a suspected thorn on the rose, in spite of a cloud no bigger than a man's hand in an otherwise clear sky, that Fate had on the whole been very kind to him.

Nan's first appearance as a bride was at her brother's house. Lady Pynsent's whole soul was wrapped up in the art and mystery of entertaining, and she hailed this opportunity of welcoming the Campions into her "set" with unfeigned joy. Her gifts as a hostess had been her chief recommendation in Sir John's eyes when he married her; he would never have ventured to espouse a woman who could not play her part in the drawing-room as well as he could play his part in the club.

A few days after the Campions' arrival in town, therefore, the Pynsents gave a dinner at their own house, to which Lady Pynsent had invited a number of men, Sydney Campion amongst the number, whom Sir John desired to assemble together. The Benedicts came with their wives, and Nan made her first entry into the charmed circle of matrons, where Sydney hoped that she would one day lead and rule.

Sir John had an object in gathering these half-dozen congenial spirits round his table. He always had, or invented, an object for his acts, whatever they might be; a dinner party at home would have bored him grievously if he could not have invested it with a distinct political purpose. And, indeed, it was this power of throwing fine dust in his own eyes which first made his party regard him as an important social factor, worthy of being taken seriously at his own valuation. The spirit of the age was just as strong in him, though in a somewhat different sense, as it was in Lord Montagu Plumley, one of his guests on the present occasion, who had shot up like a meteor from the comparative obscurity of cadetship in a ducal family to the front rank of the Tory pretenders, mainly by ticketing his own valuation on his breast, and keeping himself perpetually front foremost to the world. The fault was not so much Lord Montagu's as that of the age in which he lived. He had merit, and he felt his strength, precisely as Sir John felt his strength as a social pioneer, but in a generation of talented mediocrities he had no chance of making his merit known by simply doing his duty. At any rate, he had given up the attempt in despair, and on a memorable evening, of which the history shall one day be written full and fair, he had expounded to a select group of his intimate friends his great theory on the saving of the Commonwealth, and his method of obtaining the sceptre of authority, which implied the dispensation of honors to all who believed in him.

A very good fellow in his way was Montagu Plumley, and Sir John was anxious that Sydney Campion, now a connection as well as a friend, should be brought within the influence of one whom the baronet had always regarded as the Young Man of the future. Sydney had been wont to sneer a little, after his fashion, at the individuals who interpreted the new ideas, though he accepted the ideas themselves as irrefragable. The nation must be saved by its young men—yes, certainly. As a young man he saw that plainly enough, but it was not going to be saved by any young man who could be named in his presence. He had said something like this to Sir John Pynsent, not many days before his marriage, and Sir John, who had taken Sydney's measure to a nicety, had resolved that his promising brother-in-law should be converted at the earliest possible opportunity into a faithful follower and henchman of Lord Montagu Plumley.

Another old friend of the reader was amongst the guests who sat over their wine round Sir John's hospitable board. This was the Honorable Tom Willoughby, whom his host had initiated at the Oligarchy into the art of fishing for men in the troubled waters of Liberalism. Tom Willoughby was, and always would be, a light weight in the political arena, but he was very useful when put to work that he could do. He was the spoiled child of Sir John Pynsent, and was fast earning a character as the chartered libertine of the House of Commons, where his unfailing good humor made him friends on both sides. Sir John told him one day that he was cut out to be an envoy extraordinary from the Conservative to the Liberal ranks, whereupon the Honorable Tom had answered that he did not mind discharging the function for his party to-day if he could see his way to doing the same thing for his country hereafter. Whereat Sir John laughed, and told him that if he wanted a mission of that kind he must bow down to the rising sun; and it was then that he asked his friend to come and dine with Lord Montagu.

Gradually, after the ladies had gone, the conversation shifted round to politics, and Sir John began to draw his guests out. People had been talking a good deal during the last few days about the resignation of Mr. Bright, which, coming in the same session with that of Mr. Forster, had made something of a sensation.

"How long will you give them now, Lord Montagu?" said the baronet. "Two of their strongest men are gone—one over Ireland and the other over Egypt. If the country could vote at this moment, I verily believe that we should get a majority. It almost makes one wish for annual Parliaments."

"I have more than once thought, Sir John, that the Tories would have had a much longer aggregate of power in the past fifty years if there had been a general election every year. When we come into office we make things perfectly pleasant all round for the first twelve month. When they come in, it rarely takes them a year to set their friends at loggerheads. As it is, they will stick in to the last moment—certainly until they have passed a Franchise Act."

"I suppose so. We must not go to the country on the Franchise."

"Rather not."

"And it will be too late to rely on Egypt."

"Heaven only knows what they are yet capable of in Egypt. But we shall have something stronger than that to go upon—as you know very well."

"Ireland," said Campion.

"Not exactly Ireland, though the seed may spring up on Irish soil. The main thing to do, the thing that every patriotic man ought to work for, is to break down the present One Old Man system of government in this country. The bane of Great Britain is that we are such hero-worshippers by nature that we can only believe in one man at a time. We get hold of a Palmerston or a Gladstone, and set him on a pedestal, and think that everybody else is a pygmy. It may be that our idol is a tolerably good one—that is, not mischievously active. In that case he cannot do much harm. But when, as in the case of Gladstone, you have a national idol who is actively mischievous, it is impossible to exaggerate the evil which may be done. Therefore the object which we should all pursue in the first instance is to throw off the old man of the sea, and not merely to get the better of him in parliament, but to cover him with so much discredit that he cannot wheedle another majority from the country. It does not signify whether we do this through Irish or Egyptian affairs, so long as we do it. Mr. Campion has shown us how seats are to be won. We want fifty or sixty men at least to do the same thing for us at the next election."

"There is no doubt," said Campion, "that with the present electorate we might safely go to the poll at once. Liberalism, minus Bright, Forster, and Goschen, and plus Alexandria and Phoenix Park, is no longer what it was in 1880. I had the most distinct evidence of that at Vanebury."

"There was a considerable turnover of votes, I suppose?"

"Unquestionably, and amongst all classes."

"Yes, that is encouraging, so far. But in view of the new franchise, it does not go nearly far enough. The idol must be overthrown."

"Who is to do it?" Sydney asked.

"That is hardly for me to say. But it will be done."

"The idol is doing it very fairly," said Willoughby, "on his own account, especially in London. Wherever I go his popularity is decidedly on the wane amongst his old supporters."

"Let that go on for a year or two," said Lord Montagu, "and then, when the inevitable compact is made with Parnell, the great party which has had its own way in England for so many years, at any rate up to 1874, will crumble to pieces."

The talk was commonplace as beseemed the occasion; but Sir John's object in bringing his men together was practically gained. Before the evening was over, Lord Montagu was favorably impressed by Campion's ability and shrewdness, whilst Sydney was more disposed from that time to regard Plumley as one of the most likely aspirants for the leadership of his party.

In the drawing-room, Nan had made herself as popular as her husband was making himself in the dining-room. She was greatly improved by her marriage, many of the matrons thought; she was more dignified and far less abrupt than she used to be. She had always been considered pretty, and her manners were gaining the finish that they had once perhaps lacked; in fact, she had found out that Sydney set a high value on social distinction and prestige; and, resolving to please him in this as in everything else, she had set herself of late to soften down any girlish harshness or brusquerie, such as Lady Pynsent used sometimes to complain of in her, and to develop the gracious softness of manner which Sydney liked to see.

"She will be quite the grande dame, by and by," said one lady, watching her that night. "She has some very stately airs already, and yet she is absolutely without affectation. Mr. Campion is a very lucky man."

Nan was asked to play; but, although she acknowledged that she still kept up her practising, she had not brought her violin with her. She was half afraid, moreover, that Sydney did not like her to perform. She fancied that he had an objection to any sort of display of either learning or accomplishment on a woman's part; she had gathered this impression from the way in which he spoke of his sister Lettice. And she did not want to expose herself to the same sort of criticism.

One of the younger ladies at Lady Pynsent's that night was a Mrs. Westray, wife of the eminently respectable member for Bloomsbury, who, as a city merchant of great wealth and influence, was one of the invited guests. Mrs. Westray was by way of being a literary lady, having printed a volume of her "Travels." Unfortunately she had only traveled in France, over well-worn tracks, and her book appeared just after those of two other ladies, with whom the critics had dealt very kindly indeed; so that the last comer had not been treated quite so well as she deserved. Nevertheless she keenly enjoyed her reputation as a woman of letters; and having found on inquiry that Sydney Campion was the brother of the lady whose novel had gained such a brilliant success in the spring, she asked her husband to bring him to her.

"Oh, why does Miss Campion live out of England?" Mrs. Westray asked him, after gushing a little about his sister's "exquisite romance". "Surely she does not mean to do so always?"

"No," said Sydney. "I hope not. She was rather seriously ill last Christmas, and we thought it best for her to live in Italy until she quite recovered. I trust that we shall have her back again before the end of the year." He was as yet unacquainted with the history of his sister's movements.

"I am so glad to hear it. I want very much to make her acquaintance."

"We hope that my sister will come to stay with us for a time," said Sydney, "and in that case you will be sure to see her."

"That will be so very nice," said the lady; "I am quite certain I shall like her immensely."

Sydney felt a little doubtful whether Lettice would like Mrs. Westray; and he also doubted whether his wife and his sister would be found to have much in common. But he was more or less consciously building on the hope that Dalton's suit would prosper, and that Lettice would settle down quietly as the mistress of Angleford Manor, and so be weaned from the somewhat equivocal situation of a successful author. It did not so much as enter his mind, by the way, that there was anything equivocal in Mrs. Westray's authorship. Her book had failed, and her husband was very wealthy, so that she could not be suspected of having earned money by her pen. But Lettice had cheques for her romances!

The dinner was very successful, and the Pynsents were charmed with the result. "It is a most suitable union," said Sir John, alluding to Nan's marriage to Sydney Campion, and hoping to crush his wife a little, seeing that she had objected to it: "it does great credit to my discernment in bringing them together. I always knew that Campion would get on. Lord Montagu was very much pleased with him."

"Nan looked lovely," said Lady Pynsent, ignoring her husband's innuendo. "She tells me that Sydney is very particular about her dress, and she seems perfectly happy."

Meanwhile, as Sydney and his wife were driving home, Nan nestled up to him and said coaxingly,

"Now tell me, dear, just what you were thinking of to-night."

"I was thinking that my wife was the most beautiful woman in the room."

"Oh, I did not mean anything of that kind. When you were talking at dinner-time, and after we had gone up stairs, what was really the uppermost thought in your mind?"

"Well," said Sydney laughing, "you deserve all my candor, Nan. I was thinking, if you must know, that I could meet any one of those men in debate, or in council, and hold my own against him. There's vanity for you! Now it is your turn."

"Mine?" she said. "Why, it was just the same as your own. That you were as wise and great as any of them——"

"Ah, I didn't say that."

"—And that when you are a Minister of State, and I threw open my drawing-room, we will challenge comparison with any other house in London. Do you like the idea?"

He put his arm round her and kissed her very fondly. She had assimilated his ambitions to a remarkable degree, and he was as surprised as he was delighted to find her almost as eager for his success as he himself could be. The two were by no means destitute of that community of interests and pursuits which has been said to constitute the best hope of wedded bliss. But Nan's hopes were less material than Sydney's. It was as yet a doubtful matter whether he would draw her down from her high standard, or whether she would succeed in raising him to hers. At present, satisfied with themselves and with each other, they were a thoroughly happy couple.