* * *

A Fortuitous Collision
by afrai

* * *

Clark could not find it in him to admire the Luthor house very much; its builders had preferred grandeur to beauty or even taste, and it had a most forbidding aspect. It was such a house in which its inhabitants' heavy spirits would find no relief from their surroundings, but only more things to remind them of the fallen state of the world and put them out of temper with every one else in it. However, the windows of the drawing-room commanded a very fine prospect of the grounds, and upon seeing it, Clark was relieved to abandon civility for genuine admiration, for in the estate human ingenuity and taste had enhanced the abundant natural beauties very pleasingly, regulating the wilderness without forcing unnatural order upon it.

Yet neither his civility nor his admiration seemed to please Lex -- rather the reverse, in fact, for Lex seemed to regard his estate more with the sharp, impersonal eye of the critic than with the partiality of the householder.

"It looks well enough, but I assure you it is the last place one would wish to pass a harsh winter," was all he said in reply to Clark's praise. "The draughts are very bad! -- However, it pleased my father's pride that we should have a large estate in the country, and so he purchased it without considering whether it would serve as well as an abode as for a topic of conversation among his great friends."

Clark felt extremely awkward, and did not know where to look. He could not approve of the lack of deference with which Lex spoke of his father, for though, if Lionel Luthor were indeed all that rumour represented him to be, then all that Lex said was more than deserved, yet Clark had been brought up to regard the forms of decorum very highly, and Lex's words seemed to him to be evidence of a distressing lack of propriety -- of that natural respect and consideration that should subsist between a son and his father, whatever the faults of the parent. Clark believed the defect to be the influence of bad society rather than a failing in Lex's own character, and, conscious that any attempt at reproof, besides being the height of discourtesy, could only be attended by failure, decided to ignore the lapse, chusing to enthuse over the landscape instead of replying.

"Oh, yes, it is charming," said Lex, giving the view but a swift, irritated glance, as if it had somehow offended him, "but I can take no credit for it, nor for any exertions or exercise of taste on my ancestors' part. The estate was not originally in our family, you know. My father was in trade before he earned his baronetcy."

"That does not injure the view, surely," Clark answered. "Your enjoyment of the beauties surrounding you must only be increased by the pleasure in reflecting that they are the fruits of your father's hard work and perseverance."

Lex laughed.

"How I would enjoy that pleasure, if indeed it could be afforded to me!" he said. "But I fear the labours in which my father has expended his hard work and perseverance over the years are not of the sort that I admire. I must not bore you with tales of our family history, however. I hear you are fond of riding. Would you do me the honour of stepping down to look at our stables with me? I have recently acquired a very fine mare, and I would like your opinion on it."

"You are very good, sir," Clark said. Fearing he had affronted Lex, he spoke little more for the rest of his visit, despite his real pleasure in seeing the mare, which was as fine as Lex claimed, and the sight of which lifted his reserve somewhat. It descended again very quickly when they were away from the stables, however, and he insisted on making his farewell despite Lex's civil request that he stay for dinner. He went away displeased with himself -- yet how else could he have behaved? It certainly affected him not at all to learn that Lex's father had been a tradesman; Clark was no Jacobin, no ranting democrat, but he did not consider that true gentility lay in petty distinctions of birth and rank. Perhaps he should have made his opinions clearer; perhaps Lex had taken his remarks, made in good faith, as sarcasm -- had not that laugh been tinged with mockery? Despite their brief acquaintance, Clark had already seen Lex respond many times to insult with mockery, concealing what Clark was convinced was the most implacable resentment beneath a light-hearted manner.

"There -- I have made an enemy of him I should most rejoice to call a friend," he said to himself. "But perhaps it is best. A man of the world such as Lex Luthor cannot have much use for a friend such as I, who have only moved in the confined circles of country society, and have only what education my mother and father could bestow upon me -- which, though excellent, cannot possibly compare with the benefits of the best masters and governesses that Lex no doubt enjoyed in his childhood. He is grateful that I rescued him, but it is no more than gratitude for a favour -- a small thing, indeed, that any one else would have done, had they been in my situation. He is very kind, but he does not mean to make a friend of me, and nothing in the world requires that he do so, except my own foolish wishes. I will think no more on it."

Clark could scarcely have been more incorrect in his judgement of Lex's feelings, however. He was as inaccurate in that as he was in believing that any one else who had been bowled over by Lex's carriage would have saved Lex from drowning; quite apart from any other consideration, any one else who had been so unfortunate as to be in the path of Lex's carriage on that fateful day would have expired, and so it would have been quite out of their power to succour Lex, even had they wanted to do so. That they would was by no means certain, for the Luthors were not a popular family in that country, or indeed in any country where there was even an imperfect knowledge of Sir Lionel Luthor's ill nature and equally ill deeds.

Lex was fully conscious of this, and so Clark's candour had surprized and delighted him. He could not but believe that Clark had spoken as he had felt; Clark could have no motive to deceive him, and in truth, Lex was willing to believe Clark's appearance of good will sincere on much less evidence than he had, for he had never been so taken with another human being. Clark's manners were as gentle as his form was pleasing, and that his fine eyes, for which Lex would have forgiven a good deal, were accompanied by such a sweet disposition and excellent understanding, seemed to Lex nothing short of extraordinary. He was beginning to regard his meeting with Clark as a special gift from a heretofore uncaring Providence, not only because his life had been saved in that meeting, but because it put him on peculiar terms with Clark, and gave him, he felt, precisely the excuse he desired to promote their acquaintance -- nay, their friendship. It could take only a little effort to strengthen such strong ties as those by which he and Clark were already bound by the happy chance of Clark's rescuing him. Indeed, who was to say that their association should stop at mere friendship?

With such pleasing reflections Lex entertained himself during his solitary dinner, and with such an inclination on Lex's part to like every thing that Clark was, and to believe that every chance occurrence had been ordained to bring him and Clark together, it will scarcely surprize the reader to learn that Lex had acquired the fine mare he had shewn Clark solely as a gift for that same person, and he had waited only to ascertain that Clark approved of the beast before ordering that it be presented to him the very next day, with Lex's compliments.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Kent were overcome with astonishment the next morning to discover their son caressing a bay mare of unusual beauty outside the house. When they had done with expressing their extreme surprize, Clark handed them a note, explaining that he had received it that very morning from a messenger when he had ventured out for some exercise.

"My dear sir," Mrs. Kent read aloud, "You have been so pleased as to bestow your good opinion upon this beast, and so I beg you will do me the honour of accepting it as a token of my appreciation of the exceptional favour you have done me in restoring me to life. I do not pretend to suppose I could repay such an enormous debt by any means within my power, but I hope that this humble gift may go some little way towards assuring you of my gratitude.

"I remain, &c.,

Alexander Luthor"

"What an extraordinary letter!" cried Mr. Kent, when Mrs. Kent had concluded the letter. "What can he mean by this? Does he truly expect you to accept such an inappropriate gift, on such a brief acquaintance as you have had?"

"I do not see that it is so very inappropriate," said Clark, who seemed unable to decide which better deserved his admiration, the horse or Lex's remarkable handwriting, and so divided his looks between the two that he had very little attention left for his parents.

"I am sure he meant it kindly, but you must allow that it is not proper that he should expect you to accept his gift happily, on only three days' acquaintance," Mrs. Kent interposed gently. "To acquire such a mare must have cost him very dear! I make no doubt that we could as easily expand our land for miles around as purchase this beast."

"A great man such as Luthor can not be expected to be as attentive to the demands of economy as we are required to be," said Mr. Kent. "Yet I wonder at him. Surely he does not think we believe his claim of presenting this creature merely as a token of his good will? He can not think us so gullible as all that. We know very well that rich men do not bestow such grand gifts without demanding any thing in return. Why, it is monstrous impertinence to believe we should think otherwise!"

"Indeed it is not, for I harbour no such suspicions," said Clark angrily. "Forgive me, father, but you mistake Mr. Luthor's meaning. He means only as he says, to thank me for my exertions that day he fell into the river, and if he estimates his obligation too highly, if his thanks do not befit the lowly nature of my endeavours, that is only evidence of his good nature, and of nothing else -- certainly nothing as bad you say."

In the exasperating manner of all parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kent declined to take offence at Clark's rudeness, but only smiled at his enthusiasm, which they regarded as springing from such innocent habits of thought as they were pleased to see in their son. Yet though they were enchanted with Clark's willingness to believe all the world as good as he, they lost no time in attempting to defraud him of the notion and implant him with some conception of the faithlessness of others, with an energy most illustrative of the inconsistency of human nature.

"That may be so, but decorum demands that you reject this gift," Mrs. Kent began, but Mr. Kent interrupted her.

"Certainly Clark can have no notion of accepting it!" he declared. "To encourage these importunate attentions would be the height of impropriety! No, I trust our son knows better than that."

To which Clark replied that he was very happy to have his parents' confidence, but could they not contrive to retain the horse without offending society's notions of propriety?

"It is a very fine creature! -- And," he added, "I am loath to offend Mr. Luthor, after the kindness and I may say hospitality he has shewn me. It would be very much like an insult to return his gift, I am sure, sir; it would seem as if we were unaware of or, worse, indifferent to the honour he has granted us in singling me out so particularly."

"That would only be the truth," said Mr. Kent. "I am not convinced that he has done us such a prodigiously great honour in condescending to give you his notice, but even if it were, it is an honour I would gladly do without. I have never known any good of the Luthor family, and all I have lately learnt has only confirmed me in my opinion that the best I could wish for from them is that they keep their distance from me and mine."

"Even if that is the truth, sir," said Clark quietly, "I do not know that our family has ever placed an extraordinarily high value on the truth."

To this his parents could not immediately find a satisfactory answer; indeed, even had they been about to reply, Clark gave them no opportunity to speak, for he then announced that he would go to the Luthor estate and return the gift personally to Lex.

"And I can only hope he does not cast me off from his acquaintance forever, for I am sure he will think me the most disobliging scrub he ever knew," he added. And if the reader should feel inclined to blame him for his petulance, I beg you to remember that it is unlikely that a prodigy should ever be found among youths who are not yet eighteen, who would not feel a little dissatisfaction upon being required by his parents' good sense to give up not only the prospect of a very desirable acquaintance with a wealthy neighbour, but a horse whose merits he has never yet seen equalled and which, upon his first sight of it, immediately became the one horse in all the world that he would most like to call his own.

Consequently Clark rode over to Lex's house that very morning on the horse that should have been his, if all could have gone according to his and Lex's wishes, and if ever a mare had been designed to strike grief in the heart of he who was about to lose her, it was that mare, for her disposition was lively, yet sweet; her spirits high but not wild; and her intelligence most extraordinary in a being of an order presumably below mankind's. Clark doubted not at all that had he been allowed to keep her, he could never have been blessed with a companion so suited to his temper and so calculated to increase his pleasure in riding, and these reflections, and other thoughts of how such a rebuff of Lex's kindly offices would impede the progress of their acquaintance, so worked upon him that when he reached the Luthor estate he was in tolerably low spirits.

He composed himself, however, and when he had been led to the master of the house he was able to make his replies to Lex's greetings with a sufficiently convincing shew of cheerfulness. Lex seemed uncommonly pleased to see him, and his attentions to Clark were so assiduous, his kindness so marked, that Clark felt ever more downcast that this visit, which seemed so to delight Lex, should have the sole purpose of making it clear to him that his kindness was not welcome and his friendship not desired, at least by Clark's father and mother.

Lex had been fencing, and when Clark, eager to forestall the dreaded conversation about the morning's gift, apologised for interrupting him and made some civil inquiries about the pursuit in which he had been engaged, he said,

"A visit from you can not be any thing but a pleasure" -- Clark bowed -- "but I assure you that if any one else had required me to leave off I should have taken it very ill, for there is no other sport that affords me such delight. A delight, too, that is entirely healthy, which I am afraid I can not claim for all my former amusements. I confess I have not always led the quiet life I do now. I have done things I regret -- am ashamed to recall, indeed. I have reason to thank my father for sending me to the countryside, for in doing so he has granted me the opportunity to begin anew and to rebuild my reputation, as well as inadvertently allowing me to gain the pleasure of your acquaintance."

Clark was heard indistinctly to say that he hoped his acquaintance would be as much of a pleasure as Lex seemed to expect, for nothing would suit his wishes better. His embarrassment was due solely to his being unaccustomed to such compliments as Lex persisted in paying him; if Lex feared that his account of his past sins would make Clark wary of him he was mistaken, for hearing that Lex had been a rake and was now sorry for it only served to pique Clark's interest in him, and to make Clark wonder what deplorable deeds Lex had done, and how he had suffered for them. That he had suffered admitted of no doubt in Clark's mind; he spoke bravely, Clark thought, with dignity and forbearance, yet to those who could discern the unspoken, his conversation hinted clearly at his having been ill-used.

That Lex had not enjoyed an easy life was only the truth, but the possibility that he used the knowledge of it on occasion to gain sympathy where it served him can not be discounted. Who can say, indeed, whether he would have refrained from telling Clark of his unsavoury history if he had not been fairly sure that it would have a rather favourable effect on Clark's opinion of him than otherwise? For though in this case Lex was as sincere in his desire to earn Clark's approval for its own sake, as he had very rarely been in his life, yet he had before had cause to desire that others should like him, for reasons much less noble, and so he had become learned in the devices a man may use to make himself popular. It is likely that he suspected that Clark would not be so unlike other young people whose families have sheltered them from vice all their lives, as not to be rather intrigued by the hint of a mysteriously dark past -- as long, of course, as that dark past were now attended by a suitable remorse, and a resolution to lead a life as guided by rigorous principles as was Clark's own.

Be that as it may, however, Lex clearly thought that a little insinuation of past sins went a long way, for he then endeavoured to turn the subject by asking Clark if he sparred. Clark went red, as he was still unfortunately given to doing at the least excuse, despite his advanced age of seventeen years, and replied that he had never had the pleasure. Lex was impolitic enough to express surprize, but before he could do anything but heartily repent the lapse of manners, Clark hastened to explain.

"My education had not the advantage of a fencing master," he said, "for I was rather sickly when I was a child, and my father and mother judged it best that they should be my only instructors. And I am sure I could not have had better, for though it was not in their power to teach me everything that they would have liked me to know, their kindness and perspicacity ever made my lessons a joy to me, and their teaching has instilled in me a love of learning, which I would not have, I am sure, if I had been taught by masters less to my liking. I dare say, however, they could not find their task of teaching me as pleasant as my task of learning was to me, for I expect I was as cross as I was sickly, and that no tutor could have been persuaded to stay to instruct me, even had he been asked."

Upon finishing, Clark blushed again; it had been his purpose to draw away attention from the peculiarity of his irregular education, of which he was intensely conscious, and which made any reference to his childhood an agony to him. For his education had been out of the usual way, which was cause enough for embarrassment, and the true reason for it was that from which had been born all the other abnormalities that haunted Clark's life -- which was worse. It was to avoid Lex's suspecting this secret, and to avoid the necessity of practising more of the deception which had been Clark's wearying responsibility since he was old enough to speak, that Clark had embarked upon his speech, but he felt that he had had indifferent success; that, indeed, he had done rather the reverse, by fixing Lex's thoughts even more firmly on his curious upbringing.

However, whether through kindness or because he thought it better to pursue that line of questioning later, Lex did not remark on how unlikely it seemed that Clark should ever have been sickly, judging from his almost oppressively robust appearance now. Instead, with a smile, the gentleness of which only added to Clark's disturbance of mind, Lex said,

"I should never forget myself so far as to accuse you of deceit, but I am afraid I can not believe that you were ever cross. Sickly, perhaps -- how often do we see examples of fate's malice, in imposing upon the best-natured and most forbearing of us the cruellest afflictions! But it is as impossible that you should have been cross as an infant as it is that you should be grasping now. I am not surprised, however, at your parents' wishing to keep you to themselves, and to withhold from strangers the privilege of influencing your mind and shaping your character. Had I any such strong claim on you, I would not permit others to infringe upon my right to you and the pleasure of your company either."

It would be no matter for wonder if such a declaration, attended as it was by a look pregnant with the most serious meaning, had not frightened Clark out of Lex's house and back to his parents straightaway, and indeed had Clark more cold sense and less warm sensibility, more of a reasonable distrust of the Luthor name and less of an inclination fervently to admire Lex, he would have retreated without a backward glance, and this story would have been curtailed, saving the concerned parties a good deal of unnecessary grief and unhealthy excitement. Fortunately for the story, however, Clark was young, and Lex's indiscreet warmth only excited his sympathy and admiration, rather than inspiring caution, as it ought to have done. And to Clark's youth and romantic turn of nature was added another incentive for him to be charmed by Lex's forthrightness: it was that he had never been allowed such directness in his own dealings with the world. To one sickened of constant pretense, the best of whose nature was always pleading in vain for candour, even an injudicious excess of sincerity, such as Lex had displayed, was more calculated to endear than to alarm.

Instead of running away as a wiser young man would have, therefore, Clark merely cast down his eyes and coloured, replying,

"I am glad you should believe that I am not grasping, for it is with the desire not to appear so -- with the desire that you, that no one should suspect my wish to forward our acquaintance to be based on self-interest, or on anything but a most genuine respect for you, that I have come to return your kind gift."

Lex was all surprize. Clark hurried on,

"I beg you will not think that I do not appreciate the very great honour you do me in giving -- but it will not do. Pray accept my thanks and apologies, but I can not accept your gift."

As Clark had feared, Lex was less than pleased. Conscious that he had already failed in civility once, he said nothing that could be taken as expressing his affront, saying only that he very much regretted the apparent necessity of the return of the horse. He had believed the creature to be to Clark's liking, else he would not have taken the liberty of proffering it for Clark's use; if he did not find it worthy of his good opinion, however, Lex could only apologise for his mistake. If there were anything Lex could do to make amends ...

"Oh! Not at all," said Clark. "That is to say, the mare is very much to my liking. I did not feign my admiration yesterday; I have never seen a horse that so suited -- but she is far too good. I have done nothing to merit such a grand present, and -- forgive me, sir, you must allow me to continue. I do not deserve your kindness, and even if I did, I could not accept it without the action's casting doubts on my disinterestedness in wishing -- that is, in considering myself your friend, if I may be allowed to do so."

Nothing would give Lex greater pleasure, Lex assured him, but once this had been established in no uncertain terms, he seemed at a loss as to what to say next. He was silent for so long that Clark half-rose, intending to take his leave and flee silently to berate himself and extol Lex in the privacy of his own home, but Lex forestalled him.

"You will have noticed my deformity, I am sure," he said. "It is only your good breeding that has restrained you from remarking upon it, as others have impertinently done. I refer to my lack -- my deficiency -- in short, to my baldness."

Clark murmured something to the effect of his not having noticed it, or at least not as a deformity, which, though as true as any thing else Clark had ever said -- more true than most, in fact, if a statement can indeed be assigned different degrees of the absolute truth -- Lex dismissed somewhat impatiently as a mere pleasantry.

"I have been bald since I was nine years of age," he said. "I am accustomed to being made the subject of brazen discussion, of unjust judgements. As I grew older I began to rebel against the status as an outcast from ordinary society that my lack of hair had forced upon me; I resolved to make every unjust judgement of me just by my behaviour. I am sorry to say that I succeeded only too well. But my revenge of making ill-natured rumour true served only to create more topics of conversation for the gossips, more scandal for them to bandy about, with the sole difference that now the rumours they spread were true. In the end, I had injured none so badly as myself, and those who were involved in my wildness.

"My father sent me to the countryside not to tend to the affairs of his estate, as he purported, but to punish me -- to tame me. Any one who knows any thing of my father is acquainted with his nature; I shall not dwell on it here, except to say that he is to blame for many things -- even more than the people of this town suspect, active as they have been in laying any number of transgressions at his door. In this particular matter, however, I do not blame my father. Blackguardly as my conduct was, unregarding as I was growing towards the dictates of propriety and of morality, I needed to be stopped. But I give him no credit in stopping me, except insofar as he was instrumental in sending me here. That credit lies elsewhere."

Lex paused. Clark, silent, wished very much that he were any where else, yet would have objected strongly to leaving Lex at that interesting point, or, indeed, ever. Happily for the continuation of the friendship between him and Lex, he believed this distressing confusion of feelings to be temporary, for he would have been decidedly dismayed to find that, in truth, it would soon grow familiar to him, as it was the sort of uncertainty Lex always inspired in those privileged to know him, it being precisely the sort of ambiguity to which Lex was most used to feeling.

"I do not know how to say this that will not make you laugh," Lex said finally. "But I have confidence in your candour. Your eyes are full of such a speaking goodness -- yes, I will tell you. That day, when you rescued me from drowning, before you revived me -- I believe I was on the brink of death, and was wandering in my wits. That can be the only explanation for the sensations I experienced. For in those endless seconds when my body was on the verge of giving up my spirit -- no doubt to head directly downwards -- I glimpsed, not the grim face of death, nor the flames that would have been a fitting reward for all my sins, nor even a celestial light; but fields, the dear green fields of England, stretched beneath me in all their familiar beauty. And it seemed to me that I was flying, free of pain or fear, free of the shackles of life or indeed death. I have never felt such happiness.

"Then I awoke, and you were there."

Clark was too moved and too embarrassed to reply; he was all blushes. With such speaking eyes as Lex had praised, and indeed he possessed, however, there was no need for speech. Lex saw enough to satisfy him, for he laughed.

"I shall accept the return of the mare, though it will remain yours in my thought, and a word from you will place it at your service in an instant," he said, "but do not apprehend from my willingness to leave my debt unpaid at the moment, that I shall be satisfied with any thing short of your full confidence. On the contrary, I am resolved that nothing shall stand in the way of our friendship, if it is in my power to remove it. I hope you do not look unkindly upon this resolve?"

"I do not, sir," Clark replied, leaving again the labour of expressing his heartfelt gratification to his eyes, and it may be trusted that they executed their duty full well. Lex, at least, was pleased, and he was not a man whom it was easy to please.

So it was that Clark returned to his home with far happier emotions in his breast than when he had left it, and lest the reader should think Jonathan Kent an unnatural parent, who grudged his only child any joy, let it be known that, far from being displeased, he rejoiced to see Clark in such spirits, for he had feared that his insistence that Clark return the mare would appear as an unreasonable despotism, and indeed it grieved him that he could not afford to give his son such luxuries himself.

It was Mrs. Kent who doubted Clark's high spirits, and though she was of far too generous a nature to wish that he had never met Lex, it was only with great effort that she managed to suppress the thought that, had Lex Luthor never been thrown into the river, she would still have been able honestly to claim that Clark had never occasioned her a moment's worry on his own account. From which it can be seen that Mrs. Kent merited everything Clark had said of his parents' perspicacity, and that, indeed, had he ascribed to her prophetic powers, he would not have been far wrong.

* * *

After the untoward reception of his first gift, Lex wisely resolved to exercise moderation; and beyond inviting Clark to hunt on his lands whenever he desired and promising him guns, hounds, fishing tackle and any other apparatus he should require on the occasion, making him free of his library and any part of his estate in which Clark felt the faintest curiosity, and putting himself and any person attached to his household at Clark's disposal, he displayed a most commendable restraint, refraining from paying Clark any marked attentions. However, as he had promised Clark, he spared no effort in advancing their friendship, and was as diligent in forwarding the acquaintance as Clark himself could wish.

It soon became a delightful habit for Clark to visit the Luthor household as early in the morning as his duties permitted; despite his many responsibilities as the master of the largest estate in the county, Lex was never indisposed to see him, or too busy to suggest some pleasant past-time -- there were always pheasant to shoot, billiards to play, or horses to ride, and whether pheasants, billiards tables or horses, Lex was sure to have the best specimens that money could obtain. He denied Clark no pleasure that he did not deny himself, and as Lex was not accustomed to exercising restraint in his amusements, despite his avowed resolution to lead a quiet, praiseworthy life to which even his new neighbours could not object, it is no surprize that these calls on Lex rapidly became one of Clark's first gratifications, and a day in which he could not make the visit was a dull one indeed.

In all justice to Clark, it must be said that however willing to be shot the pheasant, however stimulating the games of billiards, however high-spirited the horses, Lex's company was the first and greatest attraction of these visits, and all these pursuits, no matter how usually agreeable to Clark's feelings, would very quickly have become impossibly tedious, had Lex not been at his side throughout. He had never had a companion so much to his taste; no-one whose temperament was so much in harmony with his, whose thoughts and opinions on every subject had such an absorbing interest for him, whose conversation so entertained and engaged his thoughts and feelings. Lex had a lively disposition, a brilliance of understanding and a distinction of appearance which Clark could not fail but appreciate, living as he did in society which, though irreproachable on every count of manner and morals, had little of fashion and even less of variety. Lex, who had been in what might be considered both the best and the worst society in town; who had experience of the world that exceeded that of any one Clark had ever known; who displayed, furthermore, an apparently unconquerable and most flattering interest in himself, was hence equipped with every virtue that Clark could possibly desire in a friend; if he had any failing, indeed, it was that of manner -- he was too eager to forward their acquaintance, practised no concealment of his feelings with respect to Clark, did not seem to have heard of such a thing as discretion. As we know, however, these were faults of manner more likely to recommend Lex to Clark than to lower him in Clark's estimation; and with the precipitancy of youth, it was not a fortnight from the day he had rescued Lex from the river that Clark, if asked, would have declared Lex the most valued friend of his acquaintance, and the intimacy between them the one he would be most reluctant to lose.

Lex's pleasure at this development can be imagined. On his part, a strong inclination to admire Clark had passed swiftly through the various intermediate stages of liking and affection to become a very real attachment to the young Mr. Kent. Genuine friendship, such as Clark offered, had been a rare commodity in Lex's life, unrooted as it was in any ties of affection at home or any connexion unalloyed by self-interest in society. His every expectation of benefit from an association with Clark had been fulfilled: Clark was as clever as he was unvaryingly gentle; despite the provinciality of his upbringing, he had read widely and thought deeply on a number of things, and, even more pleasingly, he was always ready to be instructed on the subjects on which he was less well-informed. To be sure, he did not agree with Lex in every thing -- did not like, sometimes, the conclusions Lex drew from certain circumstances, or admire the logic with which he attacked particular points of history or politics. Though Lex was not accustomed to any one's admitting a difference of opinion with him except as a calculated insult, Clark's occasional insubordination, lacking as it did any ill will, only served to heighten his charm, and Lex was very willing to admit that he might sometimes even be right.

The passage of their friendship was so smooth, the confidence between them so deep and, both believed, so well-deserved on both sides, that Clark soon had the pleasure of confounding his parents with his calmness of spirits when they announced that they had received an invitation to a ball to be held at the Luthor house. Upon being questioned as to the reason for his lack of surprize, he placidly explained that he had prior knowledge of the event, and indeed had been consulted on the important matter of seating that very morning. It was a happy chance that he had ridden over, he observed, for "Mr. Luthor had intended to seat Mr. and Mrs. Ross close to himself, which would have been very awkward on the night, but fortunately Clark had managed to explain matters to him, and he fancied there would be as few unhappy accidents with seating as are ever possible with these great events."

"I doubt there was much of chance in it at all," replied his father, "there has scarcely been a day gone by for the past fortnight that you have not visited the Luthor estate."

To say that Mr. Kent regarded the intimacy subsisting between his son and Lex Luthor with grave misgiving were to understate the passionate apprehension and doubt the connexion inspired in him -- disapproval, strong disapproval unqualified by a belief in the existence of any real sincerity or integrity in Lex's character, and only increased by his ceaseless anxious solicitude for his son's well-being, was the beginning and end of his feelings on the matter. Mr. Kent was honest to a fault, believed in speaking his mind however much unease this might cause his listeners -- in short, was not a man who ever allowed tact or common courtesy to have superior claims to what he considered the truth. His reserve in expressing his alarms to Clark was, therefore, surprizing. His son, too grateful for his father's unusual reticence to risk his rethinking it, had not inquired too deeply into the reasons for his restraint, lest his curiosity should imply a dissatisfaction with the state of affairs which was exactly the reverse of his true sentiments.

The cause of Mr. Kent's silence was not difficult to discern, however -- he regretted still what he viewed as the necessity of requiring Clark to refuse Luthor's gift of the mare, and this regret, joined to an acute consciousness of the limitations of an estate which, despite all his best efforts, would barely afford this most deeply-beloved son a respectable living when it reverted to him upon Mr. Kent's death, checked his tongue when he would have made his displeasure felt. However, his disquiet at this new evidence of the rapid progress of the dreaded connexion could not be suppressed; it must find voice; and he remonstrated with his son.

"I have no notion of this riding over every day to see a man with whom you have had only the briefest acquaintance," he said, "of whose family we know so little, and that little bad; for whose principles and character none can vouch; of whose sincerity we have no proof but that of his own word. I can not conceive that he should welcome you for any reason which would meet with our approval."

Clark flushed, but replied calmly,

"You must allow me, sir, to be the better judge of Mr. Luthor's sincerity than those who have done nothing but gossip about him since his arrival, on the basis of a few glimpses of him at a dinner, or at a crowded ball. The hours I have spent in his presence have shewn him to be all that is amiable; I can assure you that everything that is said about him is quite unfounded, and owe more to his father's misdeeds than to any of his own."

"My dear Clark, I should be exceedingly surprized if you should ever assure us that a man did fully deserve his ill reputation, and that we should not devote all our powers to the endeavour of compelling the world to do justice by him," said Mrs. Kent, "but I fear we would prefer sounder testimony of Mr. Luthor's good will than that of your own trusting disposition. To be sure, he has been nothing but obliging since you were first acquainted, but an eagerness to please is not necessarily joined to steadiness of character. He may be pleasant, but is he honest?"

"Mamma, you require too much of Mr. Luthor; you are too nice," said Clark. "Would any other gentleman, entering the neighbourhood with a clear intention of doing everything that is right and proper by his new neighbours, be subjected to the same rigorous scrutiny of his motives? Would his connexions be questioned, searching inquiries be made into his history, references be required before he could be trusted to be all that he appeared? No -- his actions would be taken as proof enough of his good will, without regard to his father's character or the size of his wealth. It is only Mr. Luthor who must suffer this suspicion."

"And for good reason," said Mr. Kent. "Once a man has lost the trust of his neighbours, he must exert himself unusually if he is to regain that trust; and the Luthors have long forfeited public confidence by their disgraceful conduct. It is not enough to know no evil of Mr. Alexander Luthor; it is certain that we know no uncommon good of him, and that is reason enough to be wary of him."

"No uncommon good of him!" cried Clark. "No uncommon good? -- he, who has been kindness itself since the beginning of our acquaintance? who has, by his assiduous attentions, asking nothing in return, shewn himself to be all that is generous and disinterested? We know no uncommon good of Mr. Luthor? You astonish me, sir. Your prejudice against Mr. Luthor's name blinds you to his virtues."

"And your partiality will not allow you to see clearly the dangers of an association with him," said Mr. Kent. "Depend upon it, Clark, even if he believes his intentions to be pure, they are not as clear-cut as he would have them. As a Luthor, he will have known since his childhood no greater authority than his own self-interest; he will have lived in society accustomed to consulting only its own pleasure in every thing; every good impulse must battle years of self-indulgence and the ingrained selfishness that such a life will bestow. If I can not persuade you to break off the acquaintance -- "

"Forgive the interruption, but unless you make of it a question of disobedience, you can not, father," said Clark. "If it were only my convenience I had to consult -- but I am certain Mr. Luthor would take it hard if I were to abandon all intercourse with him after my professions of friendship, with no explanation that could civilly be given. The act would make of me a liar, sir; I should positively be a traitor to my word."

"Then I can but pray you to exercise the utmost caution; keep in mind the reservations that must attend an acquaintance with any Luthor, and do not on any account allow a hint of your secret to slip past your lips in his presence," said Mr. Kent, weary of an argument that, in the face of his son's determined resolve, seemed unlikely to bear any fruit. He thus admitted defeat for the nonce; and, freed from uneasiness that his father might forbid all intercourse between him and Lex, Clark was at liberty to concern himself wholly with the matter of the ball.

Clark was no fine young gentleman, always to be fretting over the fold of his neckcloth or the cut of his coat; he united with all his graces of nature and appearance an artlessness in attempting to please, and the caprices of fashion held but little sway over him. His artlessness would, perhaps, have been less attractive if it had not adorned a form so complete in all the perfections of healthy, youthful beauty, but with the abundant advantages with which Nature had blessed him, Clark needed no ornament to dazzle away defects of figure or physiognomy. His only concerns for the much anticipated ball were, therefore, that he should talk a great deal with Lex, and that he should dance a little with Miss Lana Lang.

Lana Lang was the niece of one Miss Ellen Potter, a spinster of moderate fortune. Her sister, Miss Laura as she had been, had made what in the world had been considered a very good marriage: the gentleman's fortune, and the lady's beauty, were both equally worthy of admiration; nothing could be more unexceptional. However, all premonitions of the perfect felicity of the union were proved disastrously in error, and all the hopes of elevation to superior society that Miss Ellen may have harboured upon her sister's marriage irrevocably dashed, when Mrs. Lang quitted her home in the company of a Mr. Henry Small; having discovered, perhaps, a house in town and a considerable income to be insufficient compensation for the misery of a union in which no harmony of temper or agreement of opinion existed between the partners.

Mrs. Lang was eventually retrieved by her concerned family, who immediately demonstrated their sympathy for the position in which they had been instrumental, through their unrelenting promotion of the marriage, in placing her, by confining her to a small establishment deep in the country, with a devoted governess to perform the dual roles of attendant and gaoler; Mr. Small returning to the society and pursuits which he had enjoyed in town before the affair, without much apparent regret. Mr. Lang divorced his wife and refused to countenance any further intercourse with her, but he never recovered from the scandal and died very soon after his wife had been carried away in her solitary retirement by a galloping consumption. The unhappy pair left a daughter, only three years old at the time, who, having no other living relations, fell to the charge of her maiden aunt.

There were whispers about the true parentage of the child, such as are always pronounced of children who have the misfortune of possessing parents who were not as guarded in their behaviour as they ought to have been, but these soon died away, by dint of the respect the Langs had long commanded in the area before the family's decline, and of the aunt's energetic opposition of the idea. Miss Potter was as estimable a guardian as Miss Lana's parents could have hoped for; though the vivacity that had distinguished her in her youth had acquired more than a touch of vinegar following her disappointment in the world, she had not been wholly embittered by her experience, and her niece, far from becoming an object of dislike for the part her parents had had to play in the extinguishing of Miss Potter's hopes of marriage, became the one object of her solicitude, and she cared for her with unfailing affection through her childhood.

Miss Potter had denied her niece no improving attention, and by seventeen, Miss Lang had, in addition to the charms nature had granted her in a pleasing person, an amiable disposition and a good understanding, all the elegances of manner, address and accomplishment that an expensive education could bestow; besides the inestimable attraction of a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, the legacy of her father, which had benefited over the years from judicious investment by her aunt. Added to a melancholy history, it is not wonderful that these charms should not have escaped the notice of the young men of the country; indeed, Miss Lang attracted beaus to an extraordinary degree, even considering her beauty, sweetness of nature and wealth, and Clark was only one of many who had fallen prey to the bewitchment of Miss Lang's eyes.

Her popularity neither added to her conceit nor caused her to become the insufferable sort of affected young person whom it might have been reasonable to expect; far from making her into a coquette, universal admiration had equipped Miss Lang with a power of discrimination beyond her years. She was all affability with her suitors, but nothing could make her venture upon any declaration of a return of their affections; acknowledgements of attachment had become, to her, so much in the common way that she required more than that to find a man, even one in the peculiarly attractive position of a lover, worthy of interest. She had been blessed by nature with sensibility, but experience had taught her to unite this with common sense. With all men she was perfectly civil and friendly, but no deeper feeling, nor any wish to suggest the existence of such feeling, could ever be imputed to her conduct or conversation -- in short, from receiving far more than her fair share of admiration from an early age, Miss Lang had discovered that which very few young ladies possess or strive for: a facility not to flirt.

She was not at all lowered in Clark's estimation for it. He loved Miss Lang as violently as it was possible for an ardent young man of seventeen years to love: believed her the most charming girl in all the world; would have given his right arm to receive one kind word from her; and thought of her quite twenty times a day. With the tempestuous entrance of Lex into his life, her dominance over Clark's thoughts had diminished somewhat, but his admiration was still as fervent as it had ever been, and his first object at the ball was to procure a dance with her -- no easy feat, as he well knew, for he was only one of a crowd that would all be clamouring for the privilege; and despite the circumstance of their being close neighbours, there existed but a slight acquaintance between them, due to the coolness between the two families, for Mrs. Kent and Miss Potter's tempers did not agree, and Miss Potter's decided attentions towards Mr. Kent did little to foster cordial relations between the neighbours.

Nor did Miss Potter look kindly on Clark's attachment; though she could not take exception to his family, which had been long established in --shire and was very much esteemed in that country, its fortune had been sadly straitened by the mishandling and extravagance of earlier generations. Jonathan Kent had done his best to expand his family's means, but despite his industry and care, his career had been encumbered by ill luck and misadventure; upon his death he would leave his affairs in hardly better state than had his father, who had run the household with an imprudent liberality that had entirely cut up its finances. The inheritance would be sufficient to support Clark in the rank of a gentleman, but making any more of it must be left to his endeavour, and Miss Potter did not intend that her niece should throw herself away on a man who, whatever his personal virtues, had still a vast portion of his fortune to make.

She was pleased, therefore, to note at Mr. Luthor's ball that dear Lana had no eyes at all for Clark Kent, and that she was wholly and agreeably occupied with receiving the attentions of her numerous admirers -- that, indeed, if her interest were drawn by any one young man, it was their host, to whose station and fortune no conceivable objection could be made, so long as one were willing to ignore the evil reputation which the Luthor name had acquired in the county; and Miss Potter had never put much stock in such rumours -- thought it all so much ill-natured gossip, which it was little to her neighbours' credit that they believed it -- could not allow there to be a handsomer, pleasanter, more obliging young man than Mr. Alexander Luthor.

Miss Potter had not judged of matters inaccurately; Miss Lang did regard Mr. Luthor with a special interest, and think him, of all the men at the ball, the one she should most like to dance with. No ignoble considerations of rank or wealth had entered her thoughts, however; her sudden unaccountable fascination with Lex was due solely to the fact that he had not distinguished her with any particular attention, or even seemed to have noticed her as any thing other than a guest, to be fed, prated at, listened to, danced with, and sent away again with relief. Naturally this grand disregard invested him with a peculiar air of romance and mystery, such as no other man of Miss Lang's acquaintance had ever possessed; within half an hour of entering the room Miss Lang had decided that his features, though not regular, were more interesting than those of any other man; that his height was precisely the height one would wish for in the ideal gentleman; and that none of the earnest gallantries paid her by her admirers could possibly equal in interest, wit or genius the words he was speaking to Mr. Clark Kent by the window.

Lex's abstraction had had, indeed, its source in the same Mr. Kent. Lex took no delight in a ball; that his should be as perfect in every respect as human agency could achieve and that no expense should be seen to have been spared for the sake of his family's reputation, were all that he asked from it; he expected little enjoyment, either from rational intercourse with his guests, with whom, in the main, he was barely acquainted, or from the dancing, which was in a style he did not favour. His only prospect for pleasure in the evening was that he might have the opportunity to speak with Clark -- a pleasure always eagerly anticipated, and dearly cherished when it came, however frequent its occurrence --; and if not, to see Clark amongst the society to which he was most accustomed, and perhaps to watch him dance.

He was thus dismayed when he did not at first see Clark among the guests. A fleeting glimpse of him in the crush put to rest fears that he had decided not to attend the ball, but when Lex was next at liberty to please himself, his duties as host safely to be put aside for the moment, Clark was nowhere to be seen. A country ball, even on such a scale as Lex had considered necessary to maintain his family's reputation, was a considerably humbler affair than the gatherings to which Lex had grown accustomed in town; to his vexation, however, Lex soon discovered that there was not a pin to chuse between the two in the obstacles they placed in one's way when one wished to find a friend. Quite against his will, he was presented to respectable old gentlemen who wished to speak of matters political, military and agricultural, in which he had no interest; he was introduced to dazzling young creatures whom he had neither the time nor the inclination to admire; he was flattered by solicitous mothers and aunts, for whose opinion he had no value.

He was in no inconsiderable irritation of spirits when he finally attained his purpose; upon sighting Clark half-concealed by the drapery by a window, however, his spirits rose remarkably, and if it had been possible for him to think of those guests whose hopeless stupidity had so provoked him but a few minutes ago, he would have declared them very decent people after all.

"You do not appear to derive much enjoyment from the ball, sir," he spoke, addressing Clark, "I hope you do not dislike the arrangements."

Clark had not observed his approach, and Lex's voice was the only warning he had of his presence; the start, and consequent marvellous change in his expression, which had been somewhat despondent, were vastly gratifying to Lex's feelings, and, he felt, ample return for the night's aggravations and cares.

"That is but a poor shift; do not think I am deceived. You seek flattery," Clark replied, with a smile that nevertheless spoke his pleasure at being thus importuned. "You know very well I have scarce had occasion to witness such magnificence as is now spread before me. You have quite overpowered us -- I do not believe the neighbourhood will talk of any thing else, though a twelvemonth should pass, unless it be of your next ball."

"I assure you, they need not expect that event to be soon in arriving," said Lex. "Attendance of a ball may have its small pleasures -- though to be sure they are almost always outweighed by the heat, the noise, the total confusion and discomfort -- but hosting one has none. It obliges one to overlook, with wearying attention, so many inconsequential details, the neglect of which nonetheless would have the gravest consequences, that any pleasure one might hope to gain from conversation or dancing is quite out of the question -- one is far too occupied in countless trivialities, in pleasing those whose only claim to your attentions is that they have graciously agreed to make their appearance, in compelling the guests to be civil to one another, and in ensuring that there is sufficient soup to go around."

Despite the impropriety of the speech, Clark laughed; he had grown accustomed to Lex's manner of speaking by this time, and though he could not approve of his friend's habit of making light of circumstances in which decorum demanded either civil pretense, or silent forbearance, he could not deny its charm, and was so swayed by his affection for Lex as to consent to laugh at things which he knew well would make his parents frown. Clark excused his conduct to himself by the argument that this was neither here nor there: his father might tut, but it was only Lex's way; he meant no harm by it, as any one who was acquainted with his good nature would know. As Clark was, he was fully persuaded, the only person in the county so blessed as to appreciate Lex's true disposition, this pretext had the double advantages of enabling Clark to feel, in his superior knowledge, above accusation, and of allowing him to pity every body else, who were in comparison so ignorant, and hence certain to place the wrong understanding on every one of Lex's words and actions.

"Yet despite the absorbing nature of your duties, I see you have sufficient liberty to be able to speak to me," Clark responded. "To be sure, you can not often be in want of the pleasure of my conversation. Perhaps your obligations as host allow you only the time to conduct conversations which you do not particularly desire, while speaking to the people you do wish to speak to, for any satisfactory length of time, is quite out of your power -- in which case, I can not but agree that the duties of hosting a ball must be very onerous indeed."

Lex smiled.

"Is any length of time ever satisfactory, when one is speaking to those whose company one enjoys, and profoundly feels the want of when they are absent?" he said. "But indeed, though you laugh, these moments of conversation with you are stolen from my obligations -- soon, much sooner than I prefer, I must leave you and do my duty to my other guests. I wished only to gain some pleasure from the evening, which you have vouchsafed me."

"If so, you are the most easily gratified creature I ever knew!" Clark exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you require only my being abominably impudent to you, to account for your entire evening's pleasure?

"No," replied Lex, "the sight of your face would have been sufficient. So many minutes' conversation with you was a piece of good fortune I did not venture to hope for."

At this Clark fell silent, nor, in spite of his growing ease with his friend, could he immediately frame an appropriate reply. Fortunately, however, he was not compelled to devise one; Lex, well-satisfied with his response, turned the subject, and asked Clark why he did not dance. "Could he find no partners to please him?"

"Quite the reverse, indeed," came the reply. "He could find a partner easily enough, if it were only a matter of pleasing his own taste; alas, it was customary in these affairs also to consult the lady's opinion, and he feared he was not in high demand as a partner -- had not the power of recommending himself to the ladies he should most desire to please."

At this his eyes strayed to Miss Lang, and as Lex was far from lacking in penetration, he found no great difficulty in discerning that Clark was not, in truth, speaking of ladies in the general, but rather of one person, in the specific.

Clark was possessed of a most expressive countenance: the passage of every sentiment, every lightest shade of feeling, was marked clearly in his eyes and in every mobile feature for those who had eyes to see. Lex had more interest than most in seeing, and it was soon clear to him that this was no mere admiration. If a man had ever had the look of pining away from an excess of attachment, it was Clark; his face spoke the most complete tenderness ever to be coupled with a Christian resignation to hopelessness. In short, Clark was in love -- his love was not returned -- and hence he would not dance, though Lex could not credit the notion that Clark was as repulsive to the ladies in the room as he represented himself to be.

What Lex's feelings were upon this discovery of the state of Clark's affections we will not venture to inquire, for he was apt to regard any uninvited intrusion into his private thoughts as an intolerable liberty, and was always very quick to offence at any impudence of the sort. However, we may conjecture that he wished Clark possessed of a greater mastery of the art of deception, and less of the openness of nature that allowed every feeling to be perceived by even a casually observant eye, much less the keen scrutiny, sharpened by a peculiar interest and affection, to which Lex subjected Clark.

For though they continued to converse for some few minutes, it was clear that Lex's heart was no longer in the exchange: he seemed disinclined to further discourse, and soon took his leave of Clark. His farewell was quite as kind as it had ever been -- contained all of cordiality and friendly regret that Clark had come to expect -- yet something of ease in it had vanished; there was awkwardness, there was restraint. Fortunately Clark was distracted enough by his melancholy in being so wholly excluded from the content of any thought of Miss Lang's that the change, slight as it was, escaped his notice, but Lex could not but feel that he had concealed his feelings ill, and to the ordinary irritations of hosting the ball was added anger at himself, for being so easily perturbed -- and worse, allowing his perturbation to be seen by any observer of ordinary penetration, whose mind was not distracted with thoughts of unattainable ladies.

The entire duration of the rest of the night was required to calm his spirits, and bring order to his hurrying thoughts, and though he had begged the duties of a host when he had taken his leave of Clark, he performed them with but half a mind: the other half being occupied with reconciling himself to his own folly. It was the greatest short-sightedness to have assumed that Clark's affections were not already engaged; at seventeen, possessed of an ardent temperament and romantic mind, there was nothing more natural in the world than that he should have found an object to whom he could pay the dues of admiration and devotion; the only surprize in the matter was that Lex should not have foreseen it himself. He had not, however; nothing of the sort had been accounted for in his calculations. Clark was so young! and then, the society at --shire so limited! Yet that would only make it even more likely that Clark should form an attachment within that society: he had never seen any better, and Miss Lang was pretty enough, and no doubt amiable enough, to merit the attachment of one who had not encountered greater attractions.

Lex would not allow himself to admit to experiencing disappointment; eventually, indeed, he had regained control of his feelings enough to be able honestly to say that he felt none -- none, at least, that was not overpowered by his determination to promote Clark's wishes, and thus to promote the match, whatever his private feelings on the suitability of Clark's chosen mate. Clark desired Miss Lang: very well, then he must have Miss Lang. This would be a gift even his parents' excessive prudence could not refuse; it was a connexion unobjectionable in every way, with every thing to recommend it. In the same county, with no difference in birth or station, disparity of age, or evil reputation on either side to provoke comment; no distinction separating the two even in the article of beauty; and any inequality of fortune entirely in Clark's favour. Such a union could only be cause for approval amongst their friends and family, or by any body who wished them well.

In this strain Lex represented the matter to himself: and if he did any great violence to his own feelings in the process, this was no occasion for surprize, for as blessed in elegance of address, excellence of understanding, and distinction of person as Lex was, he was equally rich in the talent, rarely cried up, for inflicting suffering upon himself when persons less elegant, intelligent or handsome, yet better able to preserve their own peace of mind, would have decided wisely to think no more of the matter. Sensibility of feeling was no gift to Lex; it had caused him only to be more affected by his wrongs than a duller person might have been, and he had, from long experience, learnt to use himself quite as ill as his own father could have done.

He resolved, therefore, to further that connexion which he could not regard with any thing but dread, by all the means in his power; and if his thus actively hastening his own doom alone were not sufficient to strike pity and concern in the breasts of his friends and family, the reflection that this was only a piece of his usual behaviour, in laying himself out to wreak destruction on all his own hopes and ambitions, surely must have done so. Fortunately for the comfort of these friends and relations, however, they were purely imaginary; and Lex was left to set whatever course he thought best to annihilate his every hope for happiness as he wished.

smallville | fanfiction | mail