"I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy."
"You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury."
"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said Lady Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite satisfied with herself as she picked them. "Did I hold your place, Mr. Booker, in the literature of my country,--"
"I hold no place, Lady Carbury."

"I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are thirsty. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy."
"You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury."
"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said Lady Carbury, picking her words carefully. "If I held your distinguished place, Mr. Booker,


"Yes;--and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you are I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this."
"I should be dismissed to-morrow," said Mr. Booker, getting up and laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that, as regarded Mr. Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could not do any harm. She had not expected to effect much through Mr. Booker's instrumentality. On the Tuesday evening,--her regular Tuesday as she called it,--all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but there came also a greater man than either of them. She had taken the bull by the horns, and without saying anything to anybody had written to Mr. Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with his presence. She had written a very pretty note to him, reminding him of their meeting at Caversham, telling him that on a former occasion Madame Melmotte and his daughter had been so kind as to come to her, and giving him to understand that of all the potentates now on earth he was the one to whom she could bow the knee with the purest satisfaction. He wrote back,--or Miles Grendall did for him,--a very plain note, accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's invitation.

 I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this."
"I should be dismissed tomorrow," said Mr. Booker, laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that she had only thrown out a word that could not do any harm. On the Tuesday evening - her regular Tuesday - all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but there came also a greater man. She had taken the bull by the horns, and had written a very pretty note to Mr. Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with his presence.


The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate wing with a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their dear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the "Pulpit." Her friend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr. Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of Mr. Melmotte's undertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. "Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf," said the lady. The introduction was effected, and Mr. Alf explained that it was hardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of Mr. Melmotte's guests.
"There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall see," said Mr. Melmotte.
"I was one of the unfortunates," said Mr. Alf.
"I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist-room you would have found me."

The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him gracefully under her wing. She said a word about their dear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements did not allow him to be there, and then boldly brought up the article in the Pulpit. Her friend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr. Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of his undertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something inaudible.
"Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf," said the lady. When she did, Mr. Alf explained that he had already been entertained as one of Mr. Melmotte's guests.
"There were a great many there I never saw," said Mr. Melmotte. "If you had come into the whist-room you would have found me."


"Ah,--if I had but known!" said Mr. Alf. The editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

"Ah - if I had but known!" said Mr. Alf. His irony was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.


Lady Carbury finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this last introduction, tried another. "Mr. Melmotte," she said, whispering to him, "I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune. Mr. Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr. Broune, as of course you know, manages the 'Breakfast Table.' There is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr. Broune. And they declare, you know," she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated the fact, "that his commercial articles are gospel,--absolutely gospel." Then the two men were named to each other, and Lady Carbury retreated;--but not out of hearing.
"Getting very hot," said Mr. Melmotte.
"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune.

Lady Carbury, finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this introduction, tried another.
"Mr. Melmotte," she whispered to him, "I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune, who manages the Breakfast Table. There is hardly a more influential man in London." The two men were introduced to each other, and Lady Carbury retreated; but not out of hearing.
"Getting very hot," said Mr. Melmotte.
"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune.


"It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June."
"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune again. Then the conversation was over. Mr. Broune sidled away, and Mr. Melmotte was left standing in the middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day. Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted.

"It was over 70 in the city today. I call that very hot for June."
"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune. Then the conversation was over, and Mr. Broune sidled away. Lady Carbury told herself that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks. Perseverance, however, was needed.


But Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left the house he said it. "It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;--very good." Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness was all on the other side. "And I came," continued Mr. Melmotte, "because I had something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter." Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes;--clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve. "My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man."
"You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmotte?"

But Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say before he left the house.
"It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury; very good. And I came because I had something particular to say. Your son has proposed to my daughter." Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes, and clasped her hands together. "My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man.


"I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board."
"I did;--I did."
"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am." Then Mr. Melmotte took his departure without another word.

I won't give her a shilling if she marries anyone else; that's all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board."
"I did."
"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll tell my daughter that he withdraws from his offer, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am." Then Mr. Melmotte departed without another word.


Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey him--accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give his son-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr. Melmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess. The wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absolute ruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed Marie Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them but what she could supply. It would kill her. And for those young people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse. As she thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts.

Here was a promise by the great man that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey him! There was much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr. Melmotte's city influences. But the wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absolute ruin! The young people would have nothing before them but beggary and the workhouse. As she thought of this she trembled.


Her beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world! Though the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble and disinterested.

Her beautiful boy - so glorious, so fit for all the graces of the grand world!


But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house of Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference, would of course do as he was now doing. That he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once effected? His daughter would return to him with a title, though with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. To herself personally, Lady Carbury felt that the great financier had been very rude. He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could pass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over.

But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house of Melmotte could settle on no other head. No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; but would he not make the best of the marriage if it took place? His daughter would return to him with a title, though a lower one than his ambition desired.


She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes. His advice would have been very clear. He would have told her to have nothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger was old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived in a world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which, whether bad or good, had now passed away. Then her eye settled on Mr. Broune. She was afraid of Mr. Alf. She had almost begun to think that Mr. Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her.

She looked round the room, longing for a friend whom she might consult. Her most natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even if he had been there she could not have consulted him about the Melmottes. Dear Roger was old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived in a world which had been good in its way; but which had now passed on.
Then her eye settled on Mr. Broune. She was afraid of Mr. Alf, who was proving difficult to manage.


But Mr. Broune was softer. Mr. Booker was serviceable for an article, but would not be sympathetic as a friend. Mr. Broune had been very courteous to her lately;--so much so that on one occasion she had almost feared that the "susceptible old goose" was going to be a goose again. That would be a bore; but still she might make use of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility would produce. When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word aside to him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutes after the rest of the company? He did stay, and when all the others were gone she asked her daughter to leave them. "Hetta," she said, "I have something of business to communicate to Mr. Broune." And so they were left alone.

But Mr. Broune was softer. He had been very courteous to her lately - so much so that she had almost feared that he was going to be a goose again. That would be a bore; but still she might make use of his susceptibility. When her guests began to leave, she spoke to him, saying she wanted his advice. Would he stay behind for a few minutes?
He did, and she asked her daughter to leave them.


"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said smiling. He had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair which she occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed. "I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man."
"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is no reason why he should not say the same of me;--for if he said little, I said less."
"It didn't just come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile. "But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend."
"Certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers.

"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said, smiling. He had seated himself close to her arm-chair. In reply, he shook his head and laughed.
"I was sorry for it," said Lady Carbury, "for he certainly is a wonderful man."
"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie in conversation. Though, indeed, if he said little, I said less."
"It didn't come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile. "But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend."
"Certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers.


She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again,--finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord. "Stupid old goose!" she said to herself. "And now to my story. You know my boy, Felix?" The editor nodded his head. "He is engaged to marry that man's daughter."

She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again. "Stupid old goose!" she thought; and then said, "You know my boy, Felix? He is engaged to marry that man's daughter."


"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?" Then Lady Carbury nodded her head. "Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale."
"She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with him,--as is he with her." She tried to tell her story truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;--but lying had become her nature. "Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she should not have a penny."
"Do you mean that he volunteered that,--as a threat?"

"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte? I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale."
"She is desperately in love with Felix, as is he with her. Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she should not have a penny."
"Do you mean that he volunteered that, as a threat?"


"Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it."
"He would be sure to make some such threat."
"Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people are not often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I must tell you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."
"That's bosh," said Broune with decision.
"Do you think it must be so;--certainly?"

"Just so. It was more candid than civil. In these days young people are not often stopped from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But he also told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."
"That's bosh," said Broune with decision.
"Do you think so?"


"Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held."
"He did make it."
"Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving."
"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American Railway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young man who was altogether unconnected with him."
"Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a title, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be likely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business."
"No;--he has no capital."

"Yes, I do. He must have meant to deceive you."
"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American Railway, so is connected to him."
"Sir Felix's name was put there merely because he has a title, and because Melmotte thought Felix would not interfere. It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business."
"No."


"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that."
"You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?"
Mr. Broune hesitated before he replied to this question. But it was to this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply. She wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an elopement. She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time. "Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do you think he would be wrong?"

"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that."
"You think he should marry the girl then, in spite of the father?"
Mr. Broune hesitated before he replied. But Lady Carbury wanted someone to support her in her view of an elopement.
"Felix is all but prepared to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do you think he would be wrong?"


"That is a question very hard to answer."
"People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them."
"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was the gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lord didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion."
"There would be nothing disgraceful."
"I didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards,--I think he would."
"I am so glad to hear you say that."

"That is very hard to answer," said Mr. Broune.
"People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them."
"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. You know it is said that Lady Julia's mother arranged the elopement herself, as the safest way of securing the young man and his fortune. Nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards - I think he would."
"I am so glad to hear you say that."


"And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placed on that promise of assistance."
"I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you," said Lady Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the girl. "You have been so very kind." Then again she gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell for the night.
"And now," he said, "I also have something to say to you."

"And I feel certain that you should not depend on that promise of assistance in the City."
"I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you," said Lady Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the girl. "You have been so very kind." She gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell.
"And now," he said, "I also have something to say to you."


Sir Felix Carbury made an appointment for meeting Ruby Ruggles a second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to Sheep's Acre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, made without any intention of keeping it. But Ruby was there, and remained hanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from Harlestone market. An early hour had been named; but hours may be mistaken, and Ruby had thought that a fine gentleman, such as was her lover, used to live among fine people up in London, might well mistake the afternoon for the morning. If he would come at all she could easily forgive such a mistake. But he did not come, and late in the afternoon she was obliged to obey her grandfather's summons as he called her into the house.
After that for three weeks she heard nothing of her London lover, but she was always thinking of him;--and though she could not altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible. One afternoon her grandfather returned from Bungay and told her that her country lover was coming to see her. "John Crumb be a coming over by-and-by," said the old man. "See and have a bit o' supper ready for him."

Sir Felix Carbury agreed to meet Ruby Ruggles a second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden of Sheep's Acre farm. He made this appointment without any intention of keeping it. But Ruby was there, and hung about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from Harlestone market. She thought that a fine London gentleman like her lover might well be late. But he did not come, and she was obliged at last to go into the house.
After that for three weeks she heard nothing of him, but she was always thinking of him; and though she could not altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible.
One afternoon her grandfather told her that her country lover was coming to see her.
"John Crumb be a coming over by-and-by," said the old man. "See and have a bit o' supper ready for him."


"John Crumb coming here, grandfather? He's welcome to stay away then, for me."
"That be dommed." The old man thrust his old hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the kitchen-fire. Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the custom was well understood by Ruby. "Why not welcome, and he all one as your husband? Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an eend o' this. John Crumb is to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said."

"John Crumb? He's welcome to stay away, for me."
"That be dommed." The old man thrust his hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair by the kitchen-fire. Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, as Ruby knew. "Why not welcome? Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an end o' this. John Crumb is to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said."


"The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop his saying of 'em. It isn't likely I shall try, neither. But no parson among 'em all can marry me without I'm willing."
"And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?"
"You've been a' drinking, grandfather."
He turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her head;--nothing to Ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which she was well accustomed. She picked it up, and returned it to him with a cool indifference which was intended to exasperate him. "Look ye here, Ruby," he said, "out o' this place you go. If you go as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay."

"The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop him. But no parson can marry me without I'm willing."
"And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?"
"You've been a' drinking, grandfather."
He turned round sharp, and threw his old hat at her. She picked it up, and returned it to him with cool indifference.
"Look ye here, Ruby," he said, "if you go from here as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner, and a dance, and all Bungay."


"Who cares for all Bungay,--a set of beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking;--and John Crumb the main of 'em all? There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb."
"Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life." And the old farmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down upon the table.
"It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills. You can't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb. I knows him."
"Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye give him a promise?"
"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word,--and I shan't be the last."

"Who cares for all Bungay - beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking? There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb."
"Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life." And the old farmer rattled his fist upon the table.
"It just makes him stoopider."
"Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye promise?"
"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word."


"You means you won't have him?"
"That's about it, grandfather."
"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty sharp,--for you won't have me."
"There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather."
"Very well. He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it along wi' him. Out o' this ye shall go. I know of your doings."

"You means you won't have him?"
"That's about it, grandfather."
"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, for you won't have me."
"There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather."
"Very well. John Crumb's a coming here tonight, and you may settle it along wi' him. I know of your doings."


"What doings! You don't know of no doings. There ain't no doings. You don't know nothing ag'in me."
"He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well and good. There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner and the dance and all Bungay. He ain't a going to be put off no longer;--he ain't."
"Whoever wanted him to be put on? Let him go his own gait."
"If you can't make it up wi' him--"

"What doings! There ain't no doings."
"If you can make it up wi' him, well and good.


"Well, grandfather, I shan't anyways."
"Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you? There's five hun'erd pound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying rent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that,--let alone only a granddarter. You never thinks o' that;--you don't. If you don't like to take it,--leave it. But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too."
"Bother Sheep's Acre. Who wants to stop at Sheep's Acre? It's the stoopidest place in all England."

There's five hun'erd pound, and if you don't like to take it - leave it. But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too."
"Bother Sheep's Acre. Who wants to stop at Sheep's Acre? It's the stoopidest place in all England."


"Then find another. Then find another. That's all aboot it. John Crumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper. You tell him your own mind. I'm dommed if I trouble aboot it. On'y you don't stay here. Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home. Stoopid, is it? You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor Sheep's Acre, afore you've done."

"Stoopid, is it? Then find another. If Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, you'd best find another home."


In regard to the hospitality promised to Mr. Crumb, Miss Ruggles went about her work with sufficient alacrity. She was quite willing that the young man should have a supper, and she did understand that, so far as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service to her grandfather. She therefore went to work herself, and gave directions to the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her grandfather's house. But as she did this, she determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife. Upon that she was now fully resolved. As she went about the kitchen, taking down the ham and cutting the slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could see, as though present to her at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hair stiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy dark well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was ever longing to twine her fingers among them. And she remembered the heavy, flat, broad honest face of the meal-man, with his mouth slow in motion, and his broad nose looking like a huge white promontory, and his great staring eyes, from the corners of which he was always extracting meal and grit;--and then also she remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover. Surely a lease of Paradise with the one, though but for one short year, would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other! "It's no good going against love," she said to herself, "and I won't try.

Miss Ruggles prepared supper for John Crumb; she knew that she owed that service to her grandfather. But she determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife. As she went about the kitchen, cutting slices of ham, and trussing the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could see the mealy, floury head of the one, his hair stiff with dust, and the sweet glossy well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was always longing to twine her fingers among them.
And she remembered the heavy, flat, honest face of the meal-man, with his slowly-moving mouth, and his broad white nose, and his great staring eyes; and then she remembered the white teeth, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover. Surely even one year of Paradise with him would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other!
"It's no good going against love," she said to herself.


He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. He cares more for his supper than he do for me." And then, with this final resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl into the pot. Her grandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre. Very well. She had a little money of her own, and would take herself off to London. She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales. She would know how to take care of herself, and could always say in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out of Sheep's Acre.

"He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. He cares more for his supper than he do for me." And with this resolution she popped the fowl into the pot. Her grandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre. Very well. She had a little money of her own, and would take herself off to London. She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales. She knew how to take care of herself.


Seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John Crumb knocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. Nor did he come alone. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of Bungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man at his marriage. John Crumb's character was not without many fine attributes. He could earn money,--and having earned it could spend and keep it in fair proportion. He was afraid of no work, and,--to give him his due,--was afraid of no man. He was honest, and ashamed of nothing that he did. And after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women. He was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainly be a most dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a woman belonging to him. But Ruby had told the truth of him in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to all forms of expression.

At seven o'clock John Crumb knocked at the door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of Bungay, who was to be his best man at his wedding. John Crumb had many fine attributes. He was not afraid of work, nor of any man, and he was honest. After his fashion he had chivalrous ideas: he was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman.
But Ruby had told the truth in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to expressing himself.


He knew good meal from bad as well as any man, and the price at which he could buy it so as to leave himself a fair profit at the selling. He knew the value of a clear conscience, and without much argument had discovered for himself that honesty is in truth the best policy. Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that any one buying John Crumb for a fool would lose his money. Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been a want of prudence, a lack of worldly sagacity, in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip to all Bungay. His love was now an old affair; and, though he never talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked about that. He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his own status as her acknowledged lover,--and he did not hide his light under a bushel. Perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in prejudicing Ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly once accepted. Now when he came to settle the day,--having heard more than once or twice that there was a difficulty with Ruby,--he brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph. "If here isn't Joe Mixet," said Ruby to herself. "Was there ever such a stoopid as John Crumb?

Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that anyone taking John Crumb for a fool would lose his money. Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been a lack of worldly wisdom in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip. He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of his status as her lover; and he did not hide it. Now, when he came to settle the wedding day - having heard that there was a difficulty with Ruby - he brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph.


There's no end to his being stoopid."
The old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had been preparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests. "What, Joe Mixet; is that thou? Thou'rt welcome. Come in, man. Well, John, how is it wi' you? Ruby's a stewing o' something for us to eat a bit. Don't 'e smell it?"--John Crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffed and grinned.

The old man roused himself to entertain his guests.
"Joe Mixet; is that thou? Come in, man. Well, John, how is it wi' you? Ruby's a stewing o' something for us to eat."


"John didn't like going home in the dark like," said the baker, with his little joke. "So I just come along to drive away the bogies."
"The more the merrier;--the more the merrier. Ruby 'll have enough for the two o' you, I'll go bail. So John Crumb's afraid of bogies;--is he? The more need he to have some 'un in his house to scart 'em away."


The lover had seated himself without speaking a word; but now he was instigated to ask a question. "Where be she, Muster Ruggles?" They were seated in the outside or front kitchen, in which the old man and his granddaughter always lived; while Ruby was at work in the back kitchen. As John Crumb asked this question she could be heard distinctly among the pots and the plates. She now came out, and wiping her hands on her apron, shook hands with the two young men. She had enveloped herself in a big household apron when the cooking was in hand, and had not cared to take it off for the greeting of this lover. "Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so I've been a seeing to it. You'll excuse the apron, Mr. Mixet."

"Where be she, Muster Ruggles?" asked John Crumb. Ruby was at work in the back kitchen, where she could be heard among the pots and plates. She now came out, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so I've been a seeing to it. You'll excuse the apron, Mr. Mixet."


"You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try it ever so. My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What do you say, John?"
"I loiks to see her loik o' that," said John rubbing his hands down the back of his trowsers, and stooping till he had brought his eyes down to a level with those of his sweetheart.
[Illlustration: "I loiks to see her loik o' that."]
"It looks homely; don't it, John?" said Mixet.
"Bother!" said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other kitchen. John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend, and then grinned at the old man.

"You couldn't look nicer, miss. My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What do you say, John?"
"I loiks to see her loik o' that," said John rubbing his hands down the back of his trousers.
"Bother!" said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other kitchen. John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend and the old man.


"You've got it all afore you," said the farmer,--leaving the lover to draw what lesson he might from this oracular proposition.
"And I don't care how soon I ha'e it in hond;--that I don't," said John.
"That's the chat," said Joe Mixet. "There ain't nothing wanting in his house;--is there, John? It's all there,--cradle, caudle-cup, and the rest of it. A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed." This he declared in a loud voice for the benefit of Ruby in the back kitchen.
"That she do," said John, grinning again. "There's a hun'erd and fifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her."

"You've got it all afore you," said the farmer.
"There ain't nothing wanting in John's house," said Joe Mixet. "A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed." This he declared in a loud voice for Ruby's benefit.
"That she do," said John, grinning again. "There's a hun'erd and fifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her."


After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with the boiled fowl, and without her apron. She was followed by the girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. Then the old man got up slowly and opening some private little door of which he kept the key in his breeches pocket, drew a jug of ale and placed it on the table. And from a cupboard of which he also kept the key, he brought out a bottle of gin. Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table, John Crumb looking at his chair again and again before he ventured to occupy it. "If you'll sit yourself down, I'll give you a bit of something to eat," said Ruby at last. Then he sank at once into his chair. Ruby cut up the fowl standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself at the table,--and apparently not expected to do so, for no one invited her. "Is it to be spirits or ale, Mr. Crumb?" she said, when the other two men had helped themselves.

After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with the boiled fowl. She was followed by the servant-girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. Then the old man got up slowly and from a little private door drew a jug of ale and a bottle of gin. Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table.
Ruby cut up the fowl standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself at the table - and no one invited her to do so.
"Spirits or ale, Mr. Crumb?" she said.


He turned round and gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an Amazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and bobbed his head at the beer jug. Then she filled it to the brim, frothing it in the manner in which he loved to have it frothed. He raised it to his mouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though to a vat. Then she filled it again. He had been her lover, and she would be as kind to him as she knew how,--short of love.

He gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an Amazon; but instead of speaking he bobbed his head at the beer jug. She filled his tumbler to the brim. She would be as kind to him as she knew how - short of love.


There was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, and another mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was said. John Crumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl, sedulously picking the bones, and almost swallowing them; and then finished the second dish of ham, and after that the second instalment of cabbage. He did not ask for more beer, but took it as often as Ruby replenished his glass. When the eating was done, Ruby retired into the back kitchen, and there regaled herself with some bone or merry-thought of the fowl, which she had with prudence reserved, sharing her spoils however with the other maiden. This she did standing, and then went to work, cleaning the dishes. The men lit their pipes and smoked in silence, while Ruby went through her domestic duties. So matters went on for half an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went round into the house, got into her own room, and formed the grand resolution of going to bed. She began her operations in fear and trembling, not being sure but that her grandfather would bring the man up-stairs to her. As she thought of this she stayed her hand, and looked to the door. She knew well that there was no bolt there.

There was a good deal of eating done; but very little was said. John Crumb finished a second dish of ham, and a second instalment of cabbage, and Ruby replenished his glass. When the eating was done, she retired into the back kitchen, and there had a bit of the fowl, standing up, and then went to work cleaning the dishes. The men lit their pipes and smoked in silence.
So matters went on for half an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went round into the house, got into her own room, and resolved to go to bed. But she was afraid her grandfather would bring John Crumb upstairs to speak to her; and her door had no bolt.


It would be terrible to her to be invaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer. And, she declared to herself, that should he come he would be sure to bring Joe Mixet with him to speak his mind for him. So she paused and listened.

It would be terrible to be invaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer. And he would be sure to bring Joe Mixet with him. So she paused and listened.


When they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for his granddaughter, but called of course in vain. "Where the mischief is the jade gone?" he said, slowly making his way into the back kitchen. The maid as soon as she heard her master moving, escaped into the yard and made no response, while the old man stood bawling at the back door. "The devil's in them. They're off some gates," he said aloud. "She'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way." Then he returned to the two young men. "She's playing off her games somwheres," he said. "Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr. Crumb, and I'll see after her."

When they had smoked for half an hour the old man called for his granddaughter, in vain.
"Where the mischief is the jade gone?" he said, slowly making his way into the empty back kitchen. "She'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way."
Then he returned to the two young men. "She's playing off her games somewheres," he said. "Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr. Crumb, and I'll look for her."


"I'll just take a drop of y'ell," said John Crumb, apparently quite unmoved by the absence of his sweetheart.

"I'll just take a drop of ale," said John Crumb, apparently quite unmoved by his sweetheart's absence.


It was sad work for the old man. He went down the yard and into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, as he did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but still anxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him. He was not bound to give the girl a home at all. She was not his own child. And he had offered her 500! "Domm her," he said aloud as he made his way back to the house. After much search and considerable loss of time he returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting, leading Ruby in his hand. She was not smart in her apparel, for she had half undressed herself, and been then compelled by her grandfather to make herself fit to appear in public. She had acknowledged to herself that she had better go down and tell John Crumb the truth. For she was still determined that she would never be John Crumb's wife.

It was sad work for the old man. He went down into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud; but still anxious, and sore at heart about Ruby's ingratitude. She was not even his own child - yet he had offered her 500!
"Domm her," he said aloud as he made his way back to the house. After much searching he found Ruby, cuffed her and led her to the kitchen.


"You can answer him as well as I, grandfather," she had said. Then the farmer had cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot. "Oh, if it comes to that," said Ruby, "I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor yet of nobody else. Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather." "I'll knock the life out of thee, if thou goest on this gate," he had said. But she had consented to come down, and they entered the room together.
"We're a disturbing you a'most too late, miss," said Mr. Mixet.

"We're a disturbing you too late, miss," said Mr. Mixet.


"It ain't that at all, Mr. Mixet. If grandfather chooses to have a few friends, I ain't nothing against it. I wish he'd have a few friends a deal oftener than he do. I likes nothing better than to do for 'em;--only when I've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes and that like, I don't see why I ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves."
"But we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, Miss Ruby."
"I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr. Mixet. If you and Mr. Crumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper--"
"Which we ain't," said John Crumb very loudly;--"nor yet for beer;--not by no means."
"We've come for the smiles of beauty," said Joe Mixet.

"It ain't that at all, Mr. Mixet. If grandfather chooses to have a few friends, I ain't nothing against it. If you and Mr. Crumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper-"
"Which we ain't," said John Crumb very loudly; "nor yet for beer."
"We've come for the smiles of beauty," said Joe Mixet.


Ruby chucked up her head. "Mr. Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that! There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you."
"Except in the way of friendship," said Mixet.
"I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be," said Mr. Ruggles, who was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head forward. "I won't put up with it no more."

Ruby tossed her head. "Mr. Mixet, stow that! There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you."
"I'm just sick of all this," said Mr. Ruggles, who was sitting bent in his chair. "I won't put up with it no more."


"Who wants you to put up with it?" said Ruby. "Who wants 'em to come here with their trash? Who brought 'em to-night? I don't know what business Mr. Mixet has interfering along o' me. I never interfere along o' him."
"John Crumb, have you anything to say?" asked the old man.
Then John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his full height. "I hove," said he, swinging his head to one side.

"Who wants you to put up with it?" said Ruby. "Who brought 'em tonight? I don't know what business Mr. Mixet has interfering along o' me."
"John Crumb, have you anything to say?" asked the old man.
Then John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his full height. "I hove," said he, swinging his head to one side.


"Then say it."
"I will," said he. He was still standing bolt upright with his hands down by his side. Then he stretched out his left to his glass which was half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that would strengthen him. Having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which he still held in his right hand.
"Now speak your mind, like a man," said Mixet.
"I intends it," said John. But he still stood dumb, looking down upon old Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him. Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes intent upon the wall over the fire-place.

"Then say it."
"I will." He stretched out his left hand to his glass, and drained it of beer. Then he slowly put down his pipe.
"Now speak your mind, like a man," said Mixet.
"I intends it," said John. But he still stood dumb. Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes on the wall over the fire-place.


"You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times;--haven't you, John?" suggested Mixet.
"I hove."
"And you mean to be as good as your word?"
"I do."
"And she has promised to have you?"
"She hove."
"More nor once or twice?" To this proposition Crumb found it only necessary to bob his head. "You're ready,--and willing?"

"You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times, haven't you, John?" suggested Mixet.
"I hove."
"And she has promised to have you?"
"She hove."


"I om."
"You're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?"
"There ain't no delay 'bout me;--never was."
"Everything is ready in your own house?"
"They is."
"And you will expect Miss Ruby to come to the scratch?"
"I sholl."


"That's about it, I think," said Joe Mixet, turning to the grandfather. "I don't think there was ever anything much more straightforward than that. You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows all about John Crumb. John Crumb didn't come to Bungay yesterday,--nor yet the day before. There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr. Ruggles." Mr. Ruggles made a slight gesture of assent with his head. "Five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has will make things that snug that things never was snugger. But John Crumb isn't after Miss Ruby along of her fortune."
"Nohow's," said the lover, shaking his head and still standing upright with his hands by his side.

"That's about it, I think," said Joe Mixet, turning to the grandfather. "There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr. Ruggles." Mr. Ruggles made a slight nod. "Five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has, will make things snug. But John Crumb isn't after Miss Ruby along of her fortune."
"Nohow's," said the lover, shaking his head.


"Not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of him. John has a heart in his buzsom."
"I has," said John, raising his hand a little above his stomach.
"And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let me make so free. He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has to say."
"That's what I has to say," repeated John Crumb, "and I means it."
"And now, miss," continued Mixet, addressing himself to Ruby, "you've heard what John has to say."
"I've heard you, Mr. Mixet, and I've heard quite enough."

"Not he. John has a heart in his buzsom."
"I has," said John, raising his hand a little above his stomach.
"And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night. He's a proposed to this young lady, and she's haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has to say."
"That's what I has to say," repeated John Crumb, "and I means it."
"And now, miss," continued Mixet,


"You can't have anything to say against it, miss; can you? There's your grandfather as is willing, and the money as one may say counted out,--and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there isn't a ha'porth to do. All we want is for you to name the day."
"Say to-morrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agon it," said John Crumb, slapping his thigh.
"I won't say to-morrow, Mr. Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow, nor yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as much before."
"That was only in fun, loike."
"Then now I tell you in earnest. There's some folk wants such a deal of telling."

 "you can't have anything to say against it, can you? Your grandfather is willing, and John Crumb is willing, and his house is ready. All we want is for you to name the day."
"Say tomorrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agon it," said John Crumb, slapping his thigh.
"I won't say tomorrow, Mr. Crumb, nor the day after tomorrow, nor yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as much before."
"That was only in fun, loike."
"Then now I tell you in earnest."


"You don't mean,--never?"
"I do mean never, Mr. Crumb."
"Didn't you say as you would, Ruby? Didn't you say so as plain as the nose on my face?" John as he asked these questions could hardly refrain from tears.
"Young women is allowed to change their minds," said Ruby.

"You don't mean - never?"
"I do mean never, Mr. Crumb."
"Didn't you say as you would, Ruby?" John was almost in tears.
"Young women is allowed to change their minds," said Ruby.


"Brute!" exclaimed old Ruggles. "Pig! Jade! I'll tell'ee what, John. She'll go out o' this into the streets;--that's what she wull. I won't keep her here, no longer;--nasty, ungrateful, lying slut."

"Brute!" exclaimed old Ruggles. "Pig! Jade! I'll tell'ee what, John. She'll go out into the streets. I won't keep her here no longer - nasty, ungrateful, lying slut."


"She ain't that;--she ain't that," said John. "She ain't that at all. She's no slut. I won't hear her called so;--not by her grandfather. But, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself."
"Dash it, Miss Ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that way," said the baker.
"If you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged to you, Mr. Mixet," said Ruby. "If you hadn't come here at all things might have been different."
"Hark at that now," said John, looking at his friend almost with indignation.

"She ain't that," said John. "She's no slut. I won't hear her called so. But, oh, she has put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself."
"Dash it, Miss Ruby, you can't do that," said the baker.
"If you'll keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged, Mr. Mixet," said Ruby.


Mr. Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the absolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement were to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this. He put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into the yard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by the pig-stye wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay. As soon as Mixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of his eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right hand as a feeler. "He's aff now, Ruby," said John.
"And you'd better be aff after him," said the cruel girl.
"And when'll I come back again?"
"Never. It ain't no use. What's the good of more words, Mr. Crumb?"

Mr. Mixet, not trusting himself to words, put on his hat and walked out into the yard, declaring that his friend would find him there whenever he was ready to return to Bungay.
As soon as Mixet was gone John made a slow motion towards his sweetheart, putting out his right hand as a feeler.
"You'd better be aff after him," she said.
"And when'll I come back again?"
"Never. It ain't no use. What's the good of more words, Mr. Crumb?"


"Domm her; domm her," said old Ruggles. "I'll even it to her. She'll have to be out on the roads this night."
"She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it," said John, "and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh her till she sends for me."
"I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr. Crumb." Old Ruggles sat grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off and putting it on again, and meditating vengeance. "And now if you please, Mr. Crumb, I'll go up-stairs to my own room."
"You don't go up to any room here, you jade you." The old man as he said this got up from his chair as though to fly at her. And he would have struck her with his stick but that he was stopped by John Crumb.

"Domm her; domm her," said old Ruggles. "She'll have to be out on the roads this night."
"She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it," said John, "and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh her till she sends for me."
"I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr. Crumb. And now if you please, I'll go upstairs to my own room."
"You don't go up to any room here, you jade you." The old man as he said this got up from his chair, and would have struck her with his stick had he not been stopped by John Crumb.


"Don't hit the girl, no gate, Mr. Ruggles."
"Domm her, John; she breaks my heart." While her lover held her grandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, again afraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her grandfather. "Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;--ain't it, Mr. Crumb?" said the grandfather appealing to the young man.
"It's the ways on 'em, Mr. Ruggles."
"Ways on 'em! A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on her. She's been and seen some young buck."

"Don't hit the girl, Mr. Ruggles."
"Domm her, John; she breaks my heart." While John held her grandfather, Ruby escaped to her bedroom.
"Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear?" appealed the old man. "She ought to have a whipping at the cart-tail. She's been and seen some young buck."


Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of anger flashed from his eyes. "You ain't a meaning of it, master?"
"I'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot,--him as they call the baronite."
"Been along wi' Ruby?" The old man nodded at him. "By the mortials I'll baronite him;--I wull," said John seizing his hat and stalking off through the back kitchen after his friend.

Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of anger flashed from his eyes. "You ain't a meaning it, master?"
"I'm told the squoire's cousin been about - him as they call the baronite."
"Been along wi' Ruby?" The old man nodded. "I'll baronite him - I wull," said John, seizing his hat and stalking off after his friend.


It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in adjusting his affairs with Hetta after the visit which he received from Roger Carbury. Early on the following morning he was once more in Welbeck Street, taking the brooch with him; and though at first Lady Carbury kept up her opposition, she did it after so weak a fashion as to throw in fact very little difficulty in his way. Hetta understood perfectly that she was in this matter stronger than her mother and that she need fear nothing, now that Roger Carbury was on her side. "I don't know what you mean to live on," Lady Carbury said, threatening future evils in a plaintive tone. Hetta repeated, though in other language, the assurance which the young lady made who declared that if her future husband would consent to live on potatoes, she would be quite satisfied with the potato-peelings; while Paul made some vague allusion to the satisfactory nature of his final arrangements with the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. "I don't see anything like an income," said Lady Carbury; "but I suppose Roger will make it right. He takes everything upon himself now it seems." But this was before the halcyon day of Mr. Broune's second offer.

It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in visiting Hetta after seeing Roger Carbury. Early on the following morning he was once more in Welbeck Street; and though at first Lady Carbury kept up her opposition, she did it so weakly as to throw very little difficulty in his way. Hetta understood that she need fear nothing, now that Roger was on her side.
"I don't know what you mean to live on," Lady Carbury said plaintively. Paul made some vague allusion to his final arrangements with the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.
"I don't see anything like an income," said Lady Carbury; "but I suppose Roger will make it right. He takes everything upon himself now, it seems." But this was before the halcyon day of Mr. Broune's second offer.


It was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the time fixed for the marriage was to be the following spring. When this was finally arranged Roger Carbury, who had returned to his own home, conceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta should pass the autumn and if possible the winter also down in Suffolk, so that she might get used to him in the capacity which he now aspired to fill; and with that object he induced Mrs. Yeld, the Bishop's wife, to invite her down to the palace. Hetta accepted the invitation and left London before she could hear the tidings of her mother's engagement with Mr. Broune.

It was decided that the marriage was to be the following spring. When this was arranged Roger Carbury conceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta should pass the autumn in Suffolk, so that she might get used to him in the capacity which he now aspired to fill. With that object he induced Mrs. Yeld, the Bishop's wife, to invite Hetta down to the Bishop's palace; and Hetta accepted the invitation.


Roger Carbury had not yielded in this matter,--had not brought himself to determine that he would recognise Paul and Hetta as acknowledged lovers,--without a fierce inward contest. Two convictions had been strong in his mind, both of which were opposed to this recognition,--the first telling him that he would be a fitter husband for the girl than Paul Montague, and the second assuring him that Paul had ill-treated him in such a fashion that forgiveness would be both foolish and unmanly. For Roger, though he was a religious man, and one anxious to conform to the spirit of Christianity, would not allow himself to think that an injury should be forgiven unless the man who did the injury repented of his own injustice. As to giving his coat to the thief who had taken his cloak,--he told himself that were he and others to be guided by that precept honest industry would go naked in order that vice and idleness might be comfortably clothed. If any one stole his cloak he would certainly put that man in prison as soon as possible and not commence his lenience till the thief should at any rate affect to be sorry for his fault. Now, to his thinking, Paul Montague had stolen his cloak, and were he, Roger, to give way in this matter of his love, he would be giving Paul his coat also. No! He was bound after some fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him before a jury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence of punishment might be at least pronounced. How then could he yield?

Roger Carbury had undergone a fierce inward contest before he yielded to a recognition of the lovers. Two convictions had been strong in his mind: firstly, that he would be a fitter husband for the girl than Paul Montague, and secondly, that Paul had so ill-treated him that forgiveness would be unmanly. For Roger did not think that an injury should be forgiven unless the man who did the injury repented of it. He felt bound after some fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him before a jury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence of punishment might be at least pronounced. How then could he yield?


And Paul Montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard to women. It might be,--no doubt it was true,--that Mrs. Hurtle's appearance in England had been distressing to him. But still he had gone down with her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to Roger's thinking, a man who could do that was quite unfit to be the husband of Hetta Carbury. He would himself tell no tales against Montague on that head. Even when pressed to do so he had told no tale. But not the less was his conviction strong that Hetta ought to know the truth, and to be induced by that knowledge to reject her younger lover.

And Paul Montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard to women. No doubt it was true that Mrs. Hurtle's appearance in England had been distressing to him. But still he had gone down with her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to Roger's thinking, a man who could do that was quite unfit to be the husband of Hetta Carbury. Although he would himself tell no tales, he still felt that Hetta ought to know the truth, and to be induced by that knowledge to reject Paul Montague.


But then over these convictions there came a third,--equally strong,--which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy. As he walked up and down the walk by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, stopping every now and again to sit on the terrace wall,--walking there, mile after mile, with his mind intent on the one idea,--he schooled himself to feel that that, and that only, could be his duty. What did love mean if not that? What could be the devotion which men so often affect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of the beloved one? A man would incur any danger for a woman, would subject himself to any toil,--would even die for her! But if this were done simply with the object of winning her, where was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalf of another is the truest proof? So, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done. The man, though he had been bad to his friend, was not all bad. He was one who might become good in good hands. He, Roger, was too firm of purpose and too honest of heart to buoy himself up into new hopes by assurances of the man's unfitness.

But then over these convictions there came a third, equally strong, which told him that the girl loved Montague and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy. As he walked up and down by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, mile after mile, he schooled himself to feel that that was his duty. What did love mean if not that? What was devotion if a man would not sacrifice himself on behalf of the beloved one?
So, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done. Montague was not all bad. He might become good in good hands.


What right had he to think that he could judge of that better than the girl herself? And so, when many many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart,--though in conquering it he crushed it,--and in bringing himself to the resolve that the energies of his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. Paul Montague a happy woman. We have seen how he acted up to this resolve when last in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger from Paul Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta.
When he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart and of assuring himself thoroughly that Hetta was to become his rival's wife, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit than he had been during those months in which there had still been doubt. The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself could certainly never be his. That he would never marry he was quite sure. Indeed he was prepared to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boy on condition that such boy should take the old name. He would never have a child whom he could in truth call his own. But if he could induce these people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at least a part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an interest in the property. But as a first step to this he must learn to regard himself as an old man,--as one who had let life pass by too far for the purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devote himself to make happy the homes of others.

What right had he, Roger, to think that he could judge the man's fitness better than the girl herself? And so, when many many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart - though in conquering it he crushed it - and brought himself to the resolve that his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. Paul Montague a happy woman.
When he had accomplished that task, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit. The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself would certainly never be his. He was quite sure that he would never marry, nor have a child of his own. But if he could induce these people to live at Carbury for at least part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he thought that he could awaken himself again, and take an interest in the property. But first he must learn to regard himself as an old man, who had let his life pass by, and must devote himself to making happy the homes of others.


So thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his story to his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of those revelations Mrs. Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace. Roger felt that he had still much to say to his cousin before her marriage which could be said in the country much better than in town, and he wished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county to which she should be attached and in which she was to find her home. The day before she came he was over at the palace with the pretence of asking permission to come and see his cousin soon after her arrival, but in truth with the idea of talking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble. "As to settling your property on her or her children," said the Bishop, "it is quite out of the question. Your lawyer would not allow you to do it. Where would you be if after all you were to marry?"
"I shall never marry."
"Very likely not,--but yet you may. How is a man of your age to speak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in that respect? You can make your will, doing as you please with your property;--and the will, when made, can be revoked."

When he asked the Bishop's wife to invite Hetta to stay, Roger wished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county in which she was to find her home. The day before she came he was over at the Bishop's palace, talking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble.
"As to settling your property on her or her children," said the Bishop, "it is quite out of the question. Your lawyer would not allow it. Where would you be if you were to marry?"
"I shall never marry."
"Very likely not - but yet you may. How is a man of your age to be certain? You can make your will, doing as you please with your property; and the will, when made, can be revoked."


"I think you hardly understand just what I feel," said Roger, "and I know very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had a son, would be my natural heir."
"But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you might have a son of your own. A man should never put the power, which properly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properly belong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think very highly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise than well of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should have some effect in producing a more complete observance of your wishes."
"I do not believe it in the least, my lord," said Roger somewhat angrily.

"I think you hardly understand what I feel," said Roger. "I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had one, would be my natural heir."
"But even if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a chance that you might have a son of your own. A man should never put power which properly belongs to him out of his own hands. I think very highly of your cousin. But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should produce a more complete observance of your wishes."
"I do not believe it in the least, my lord," said Roger somewhat angrily.


"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the present moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of the old king. 'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.' The world, I take it, thinks that the fool was right."
The Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea of settling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was not on that account the less resolute in his determination to make himself and his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours. "I hope all our troubles are over now," he said smiling.
"You mean about Felix," said Hetta,--"and mamma?"

"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters; but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of King Lear. 'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.'"
The Bishop succeeded in so far as Roger abandoned the idea of settling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was still resolute in his determination to make his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her, he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours.
"I hope all our troubles are over now," he said smiling.
"You mean about Felix," said Hetta, "and mamma?"


"No, indeed. As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has done the best thing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, and Mr. Broune seems to be a prudent man. And about your mother herself, I hope that she may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to Felix and your mother. I was thinking of you--and of myself."
"I hope that you will never have any troubles."

"No, indeed. As to Felix, I think that Lady Carbury has done the best thing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, who seems to be a prudent man. And I hope your mother may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to them. I was thinking of you - and of myself."
"I hope that you will never have any troubles."


"I have had troubles. I mean to speak very freely to you now, dear. I was nearly upset,--what I suppose people call broken-hearted,--when I was assured that you certainly would never become my wife. I ought not to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I should have known that I was too old to have a chance."
"Oh, Roger,--it was not that."

"I have had troubles. I mean to speak very freely to you now, dear. I was nearly upset - what I suppose people call broken-hearted - when I was assured that you would never become my wife. I ought not to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I should have known that I was too old to have a chance."
"Oh, Roger, it was not that."


"Well,--that and other things. I should have known it sooner, and have got over my misery quicker. I should have been more manly and stronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man's life, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties plainly marked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawn from them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow. But it is done now. I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that I look forward to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as the source of all my future happiness. I will make him welcome as though he were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. All I ask of you is that you will not be chary of your presence there." She only answered him by a close pressure on his arm.

"Well - that and other things. I should have got over my misery quicker. I should have been stronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man's life, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties marked out for me. But I have conquered my regrets, and I can safely say that I look forward to your presence at Carbury as the source of all my future happiness. I will make Mr. Montague welcome as though he were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter.


"That is what I wanted to say to you. You will teach yourself to regard me as your best and closest friend,--as he on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all,--except your husband."
"There is no teaching necessary for that," she said.
"As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta. You will soon come to find that I am very old. I grow old quickly, and already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish."
"You never were foolish."
"Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise me this. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence."

Please regard me as your best and closest friend, on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all - except your husband."
"There is no teaching necessary for that," she said.
"As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta. You will soon come to find that I am very old. I already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish."
"You never were foolish."
"Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise to do all you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence."


"We have no plans as yet at all, Roger."
"Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my plan. Of course you will be married at Carbury?"
"What will mamma say?"
"She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. That I regard as settled. Then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you should learn really to care about and to love the place. It will be your home really, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position." With all his love to her and his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should be Squire of Carbury.

"We have no plans as yet, Roger."
"Then it will be so much the easier. Of course you will be married at Carbury?"
"What will mamma say?"
"She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. Then, after that, let this be your home - so that you should learn to care about and love the place. It will be your home really, you know, one of these days. You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position." With all his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should be Squire of Carbury.


"Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that."
"But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know what my wishes are, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are yours. My mind is quite made up as to my future life. Of course, I do not wish to dictate to you,--and if I did, I could not dictate to Mr. Montague."
"Pray,--pray do not call him Mr. Montague."

"Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that."
"But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know my wishes, and, if possible, I would learn what yours are. Of course, I do not wish to dictate to you - and I could not dictate to Mr. Montague."
"Pray, do not call him Mr. Montague."


"Well, I will not;--to Paul then. There goes the last of my anger." He threw his hands up as though he were scattering his indignation to the air. "I would not dictate either to you or to him, but it is right that you should know that I hold my property as steward for those who are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my stewardship will be infinitely increased if I find that those for whom I act share the interest which I shall take in the matter. It is the only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble."
[Illustration: "There goes the last of my anger."]
"But Felix, Roger!"

"Well - to Paul then. There goes the last of my anger." He threw his hands up as though he were scattering his indignation to the air. "I would not dictate to either of you, but it is right that you should know that I hold my property as steward for you, and that I fervently hope that you both will share the interest which I take in the matter. It is the only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble."
"But Felix, Roger!"


His brow became a little black as he answered her. "To a sister," he said very solemnly, "I will not say a word against her brother; but on that subject I claim a right to come to a decision on my own judgment. It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I may say, suffered much. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I need not pause to explain to you now. If we are as much together as I hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them. The disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in accordance with his own caprices,--or even with his own affections. He owes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to his country. And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestly wished that the property should be continued in the hands of their descendants. These things are to me very holy. In what I am doing I am in some respects departing from the theory of my life,--but I do so under a perfect conviction that by the course I am taking I shall best perform the duties to which I have alluded.

"To a sister," he said very solemnly, "I will not say a word against her brother; but on that subject I must make my own judgment. In handing on a family property - even one so small as mine - a man owes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to his country. And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to his ancestors. These things are to me very holy. I am convinced that by the course I am taking I shall best perform these duties.


I do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that." He had spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understand all that he had said, she did not venture to dispute his will any further. He did not endeavour to exact from her any promise, but having explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then left her and rode home without going into the house.
Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul was received quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidly kept his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings. As to his love for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had so nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate rival. Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity that any allusion should be made to past misfortunes. Roger indeed made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his fidelity. But he spoke much of the land and of the tenants and the labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the necessity of so living that the income might always be more than sufficient for the wants of the household.

I do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that."
He then kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, left her and rode home.
Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul was received quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, Roger rigidly kept his promise, whatever the cost to his own feelings. Indeed he made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his fidelity. But he spoke much of the land and tenants and labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the necessity of a household budget.


When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishop at the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away the bride. All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had not seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who was there with his wife,--himself now one of Roger's tenants, having occupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old Daniel Ruggles,--declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own. "John, what a fool you are!" Ruby said to her spouse, when this opinion was expressed with rather a loud voice. "Yes, I be," said John,--"but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you." "No, John; it was I was the fool then," said Ruby. "We'll see about that when the bairn's born," said John,--equally aloud. Then Ruby held her tongue. Mrs. Broune, and Mr. Broune, were also at Carbury,--thus doing great honour to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Montague, and showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an end.

When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishop at the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away the bride. All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had not seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who was there with his wife, loudly declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own.
"John, what a fool you are!" Ruby said.
"Yes, I be," said John, "but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you."
"No, John; I was the fool then," said Ruby.
"We'll see about that when the bairn's born," said John, equally loudly. Then Ruby held her tongue.
Mr. and Mrs. Broune were also at Carbury, showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an end.


Sir Felix was not there. Happily up to this time Mr. Septimus Blake had continued to keep that gentleman as one of his Protestant population in the German town,--no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.

Sir Felix was not there. Happily up to this time, Mr. Septimus Blake had continued to keep that gentleman in the German town - no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.


When Paul got down into the dining-room Mrs. Hurtle was already there, and the waiter was standing by the side of the table ready to take the cover off the soup. She was radiant with smiles and made herself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that everything was not well with her. Though she smiled, and talked and laughed, there was something forced in her manner. He almost knew that she was only waiting till the man should have left the room to speak in a different strain. And so it was. As soon as the last lingering dish had been removed, and when the door was finally shut behind the retreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubt had been on her mind since she had walked across the strand to the hotel. "Your friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?"
"Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was true that he had dined."

When Paul went into the dining-room Mrs. Hurtle was already there, radiant with smiles. She made herself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that everything was not well with her. Though she talked and laughed, there was something forced in her manner. He knew that she was only waiting till the serving-man should have left the room to speak in a different strain.
And when the door was finally shut behind the retreating waiter, she asked, "Your friend was hardly civil, was he, Paul?


"I am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways of declining as there are of accepting. I suppose he is on very intimate terms with you?"
"Oh, yes."


"Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. In point of fact he disapproves of me. Is not that it?" To this question Montague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediate answer. "I can well understand that it should be so. An intimate friend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence. But unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his friend's friend, when accident brings them together. You have told me that Mr. Carbury was your beau ideal of an English gentleman."
"So he is."

"Then his want of courtesy was intended for me. He disapproves of me. I can understand that it should be so. But he should have been civil to his friend's friend. You have told me that Mr. Carbury was your ideal of an English gentleman."
"So he is."


"Then why didn't he behave as such?" and Mrs. Hurtle again smiled. "Did not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here with me, when he expressed surprise at your journey? Has he authority over you?"
"Of course he has not. What authority could he have?"

"Then why didn't he behave as such?" Mrs. Hurtle again smiled. "Has he authority over you?"
"Of course not. What authority could he have?"


"Nay, I do not know. He may be your guardian. In this safe-going country young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are past thirty. I should have said that he was your guardian, and that he intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he did after I had gone."

"I do not know. I should have said that he was your guardian, and that he intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he did after I had gone."


This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it. Nor was he sure that it would be well that he should deny it. The time must come, and why not now as well as at any future moment? He had to make her understand that he could not join his lot with her,--chiefly indeed because his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he could hardly insist because she could allege that she had a prior right to his heart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as to cause all his friends to warn him against such a marriage. So he plucked up courage for the battle. "It was nearly that," he said.

This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it. Nor was he sure that he should. Why not say it now as well as at any future moment? He had to make her understand that he could not marry her - chiefly indeed because his heart was elsewhere - but also because her history caused all his friends to warn him against such a marriage. So he plucked up courage for the battle.
"It was nearly that," he said.


There are many,--and probably the greater portion of my readers will be among the number,--who will declare to themselves that Paul Montague was a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance to face this woman with the truth. His folly in falling at first under the battery of her charms will be forgiven him. His engagement, unwise as it was, and his subsequent determination to break his engagement, will be pardoned. Women, and perhaps some men also, will feel that it was natural that he should have been charmed, natural that he should have expressed his admiration in the form which unmarried ladies expect from unmarried men when any such expression is to be made at all;--natural also that he should endeavour to escape from the dilemma when he found the manifold dangers of the step which he had proposed to take. No woman, I think, will be hard upon him because of his breach of faith to Mrs. Hurtle. But they will be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice,--as, I think, unjustly. In social life we hardly stop to consider how much of that daring spirit which gives mastery comes from hardness of heart rather than from high purpose, or true courage. The man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, the master who succumbs to his servant, is as often brought to servility by a continual aversion to the giving of pain, by a softness which causes the fretfulness of others to be an agony to himself,--as by any actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one may have produced. There is an inner softness, a thinness of the mind's skin, an incapability of seeing or even thinking of the troubles of others with equanimity, which produces a feeling akin to fear; but which is compatible not only with courage, but with absolute firmness of purpose, when the demand for firmness arises so strongly as to assert itself. With this man it was not really that.

There are many of my readers who will declare that Paul Montague was a poor creature, in his reluctance to face this woman with the truth. His folly in falling for her charms will be forgiven him; his unwise engagement, and his determination to break it, will be pardoned as natural. But readers will be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice - I think unjustly. Mastery often comes from hardness of heart rather than true courage. The man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, often does so because of an aversion to giving pain.


He feared the woman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to be silent; but he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter desertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bring himself to tell her that he wanted her no further and to bid her go. But that was what he had to do. And for that his answer to her last question prepared the way. "It was nearly that," he said.
"Mr. Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing yourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?"
"He knew of the letter which I wrote to you."
"You have canvassed me between you?"

Paul feared the woman; but he also shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter desertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bring himself to tell her that he wanted her no further. But that was what he had to do.
"Mr. Carbury rebuked you for showing yourself on the sands at Lowestoft with me?"
"He knew of the letter which I wrote to you."
"You have discussed me between you?"


"Of course we have. Is that unnatural? Would you have had me be silent about you to the oldest and the best friend I have in the world?"
"No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and best friend. I presume you would declare your purpose. But I should not have supposed you would have asked his leave. When I was travelling with you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your own actions. I had heard that in your country girls sometimes hold themselves at the disposal of their friends,--but I did not dream that such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world to make his fortune."

"Of course we have. Would you have had me be silent about you to the oldest and best friend I have in the world?"
"No. But I should not have supposed you would have asked his leave. I thought you were a man capable of managing your own actions. I had heard that in your country, girls sometimes hold themselves at the disposal of their friends, but I did not dream that such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world."


Paul Montague did not like it. The punishment to be endured was being commenced. "Of course you can say bitter things," he replied.

Paul Montague's punishment was begun, and he did not like it. "Of course you can say bitter things," he replied.