seemed to have enthroned herself, a true Venus victrix, in the centre of his heart, and would not be dispossessed.  He tried to avoid seeing her:  but even for that he had not strength:  more miserable each time, as fierce against himself and his own weakness as if he had given way to wine or to oaths.  In vain, too, he represented to himself the ridiculous hopelessness of his passion; the impossibility of the London beauty ever stooping to marry the poor country curate.  Fancies would come in, how such things, strange as they might seem, had happened already; might happen again.  It was a class of marriages for which he had always felt a strong dislike, even suspicion and contempt; and though he was far more fitted, in family as well as personal excellence, for such a match, than three out of four who make them, yet he shrank with disgust from the notion of being himself classed at last among the match-making parsons.  Whether there was “carnal pride” or not in that last thought, his soul so loathed it, that he would gladly have thrown up his cure at Aberalva; and would have done so actually, but for one word which Tom Thurnall had spoken to him, and that was—­Cholera.

That the cholera might come; that it probably would come, in the course of the next two months, was news to him which was enough to keep him at his post, let what would be the consequence.  And gradually he began to see a way out of his difficulty—­and a very simple one; and that was to die.

“That is the solution after all,” said he.  “I am not strong enough for God’s work:  but I will not shrink from it, if I can help.  If I cannot master it, let it kill me; so at least I may have peace.  I have failed utterly here:  all my grand plans have crumbled to ashes between my fingers.  I find myself a cumberer of the ground, where I fancied that I was going forth like a very Michael—­fool that I was!—­leader of the armies of heaven.  And now, in the one remaining point on which I thought myself strong, I find myself weakest of all.  Useless and helpless!  I have one chance left, one chance to show these poor souls that I really love them, really wish their good—­Selfish that I am!  What matter whether I do show it or not?  What need to justify myself to them?  Self, self, creeping in everywhere!  I shall begin next, I suppose, longing for the cholera to come, that I may show off myself in it, and make spiritual capital out of their dying agonies!  Ah me! that it were all over!—­That this cholera, if it is to come, would wipe out of this head what I verily believe nothing but death will do!” And therewith Frank laid his head on the table, and cried till he could cry no more.

It was not over manly:  but he was weakened with overwork and sorrow:  and, on the whole, it was perhaps the best thing he could do; for he fell asleep there, with his head on the table, and did not wake till the dawn blazed through his open window.

CHAPTER XIV.