Mr. Yorke's family was the first and oldest in the district; and he, though not the wealthiest, was one of the most influential men. His education had been good. In his youth, before the French Revolution, he had travelled on the Continent. He was an adept in the French and Italian languages. During a two years' sojourn in Italy he had collected many good paintings and tasteful rarities, with which his residence was now adorned. His manners, when he liked, were those of a finished gentleman of the old school; his conversation, when he was disposed to please, was singularly interesting and original; and if he usually expressed himself in the Yorkshire dialect, it was because he chose to do so, preferring his native Doric to a more refined vocabulary, "A Yorkshire burr," he affirmed, "was as much better than a cockney's lisp as a bull's bellow than a raton's squeak."

Mr. Yorke's family was the oldest and most respected in the district; and he was one of the most influential men. His education had been good. In his youth, he had travelled on the Continent, and spoke French and Italian; he had collected many good paintings and tasteful rarities. His manners, when he liked, were those of an old-fashioned gentleman; his conversation, when he wished to please, was singularly interesting; and if he usually expressed himself in the Yorkshire dialect, it was because he chose to do so.


Mr. Yorke knew every one, and was known by every one, for miles round; yet his intimate acquaintances were very few. Himself thoroughly original, he had no taste for what was ordinary: a racy, rough character, high or low, ever found acceptance with him; a refined, insipid personage, however exalted in station, was his aversion. He would spend an hour any time in talking freely with a shrewd workman of his own, or with some queer, sagacious old woman amongst his cottagers, when he would have grudged a moment to a commonplace fine gentleman or to the most fashionable and elegant, if frivolous, lady. His preferences on these points he carried to an extreme, forgetting that there may be amiable and even admirable characters amongst those who cannot be original. Yet he made exceptions to his own rule. There was a certain order of mind, plain, ingenuous, neglecting refinement, almost devoid of intellectuality, and quite incapable of appreciating what was intellectual in him, but which, at the same time, never felt disgust at his rudeness, was not easily wounded by his sarcasm, did not closely analyze his sayings, doings, or opinions, with which he was peculiarly at ease, and, consequently, which he peculiarly preferred. He was lord amongst such characters. They, while submitting implicitly to his influence, never acknowledged, because they never reflected on, his superiority; they were quite tractable, therefore, without running the smallest danger of being servile; and their unthinking, easy, artless insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient, to Mr. Yorke as that of the chair he sat on, or of the floor he trod.

Mr. Yorke knew every one for miles round; yet his close friends were very few. He preferred racy, original characters to refined, insipid ones, no matter how exalted they might be. He would spend an hour talking with a shrewd workman, or with some wise old woman amongst his cottagers, yet would not spend a moment on a commonplace fine gentleman or fashionable lady. He forgot that there may be amiable and admirable characters amongst those who cannot be original.


It will have been observed that he was not quite uncordial with Mr. Moore. He had two or three reasons for entertaining a faint partiality to that gentleman. It may sound odd, but the first of these was that Moore spoke English with a foreign, and French with a perfectly pure, accent; and that his dark, thin face, with its fine though rather wasted lines, had a most anti-British and anti-Yorkshire look. These points seem frivolous, unlikely to influence a character like Yorke's; but the fact is they recalled old, perhaps pleasurable, associations--they brought back his travelling, his youthful days. He had seen, amidst Italian cities and scenes, faces like Moore's; he had heard, in Parisian cafs and theatres, voices like his. He was young then, and when he looked at and listened to the alien, he seemed young again.

He was cordial with Mr. Moore for several reasons. Firstly, Moore spoke French with a pure accent; and his un-British looks had pleasant associations for Mr. Yorke - they brought back his youthful travelling days in Italy and Paris.


Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had dealings with him. That was a more substantial, though by no means a more agreeable tie; for as his firm had been connected with Moore's in business, it had also, in some measure, been implicated in its losses.

Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had business dealings with him. That tie was more substantial, though by no means more agreeable; for his firm had also been implicated in Moore's losses.


Thirdly, he had found Robert himself a sharp man of business. He saw reason to anticipate that he would, in the end, by one means or another, make money; and he respected both his resolution and acuteness--perhaps, also, his hardness. A fourth circumstance which drew them together was that of Mr. Yorke being one of the guardians of the minor on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated; consequently Moore, in the course of his alterations and improvements, had frequent occasion to consult him.

Thirdly, he had found Robert himself a sharp man of business. He respected his resolution and acuteness - perhaps also his hardness. A fourth circumstance which drew them together was that Mr. Yorke was one of the guardians of the landowner, not yet twenty-one, on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated; so Moore frequently had to consult him.


As to the other guest now present in Mr. Yorke's parlour, Mr. Helstone, between him and his host there existed a double antipathy--the antipathy of nature and that of circumstances. The free-thinker hated the formalist; the lover of liberty detested the disciplinarian. Besides, it was said that in former years they had been rival suitors of the same lady.

As to Mr. Helstone - between him and Mr. Yorke there was antipathy. Their natures were opposite, and it was said that they had once been rival suitors of the same lady.


Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, noted for his preference of sprightly and dashing women: a showy shape and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly seemed to attract him. He never, however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles whose society he sought; and all at once he seriously fell in love with and eagerly wooed a girl who presented a complete contrast to those he had hitherto noticed--a girl with the face of a Madonna; a girl of living marble--stillness personified. No matter that, when he spoke to her, she only answered him in monosyllables; no matter that his sighs seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned, that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, paid him no respect and no attention; no matter that she seemed the opposite of everything feminine he had ever in his whole life been known to admire. For him Mary Cave was perfect, because somehow, for some reason--no doubt he had a reason--he loved her.

Mr. Yorke, when young, preferred sprightly and dashing women. A showy air, a lively wit, a ready tongue attracted him. He never, however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles; instead he fell seriously in love with a girl who presented a complete contrast to them - a girl with the face of a Madonna; a girl of living marble - stillness personified. No matter that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, and paid him no attention. No matter that she seemed the opposite of every woman he had previously admired. For him Mary Cave was perfect.


Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved Mary too--or, at any rate, he fancied her. Several others admired her, for she was beautiful as a monumental angel; but the clergyman was preferred for his office's sake--that office probably investing him with some of the illusion necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and which Miss Cave did not find in any of the young wool-staplers, her other adorers. Mr. Helstone neither had, nor professed to have, Mr. Yorke's absorbing passion for her. He had none of the humble reverence which seemed to subdue most of her suitors; he saw her more as she really was than the rest did. He was, consequently, more master of her and himself. She accepted him at the first offer, and they were married.

Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved Mary too - or at any rate, he fancied her. He did not pretend to have Mr. Yorke's absorbing passion for her, nor the humble reverence of her other suitors. He saw her as she really was. He was, consequently, more master of her and himself. She accepted him at the first offer, and they were married.


Nature never intended Mr. Helstone to make a very good husband, especially to a quiet wife. He thought so long as a woman was silent nothing ailed her, and she wanted nothing. If she did not complain of solitude, solitude, however continued, could not be irksome to her. If she did not talk and put herself forward, express a partiality for this, an aversion to that, she had no partialities or aversions, and it was useless to consult her tastes. He made no pretence of comprehending women, or comparing them with men. They were a different, probably a very inferior, order of existence. A wife could not be her husband's companion, much less his confidante, much less his stay. _His_ wife, after a year or two, was of no great importance to him in any shape; and when she one day, as he thought, suddenly--for he had scarcely noticed her decline--but, as others thought, gradually, took her leave of him and of life, and there was only a still, beautiful-featured mould of clay left, cold and white, in the conjugal couch, he felt his bereavement--who shall say how little? Yet, perhaps, more than he seemed to feel it; for he was not a man from whom grief easily wrung tears.

Nature never intended Mr. Helstone to make a very good husband, especially to a quiet wife. He thought so long as a woman was silent, nothing could be wrong. If she did not express likes and dislikes, then she had none. He made no pretence of comprehending women. They were a different, probably a very inferior, order of existence to men. A wife could not be her husband's companion, much less his confidante. His wife, after a year or two, was of no great importance to him; and when she one day, as he thought, suddenly - for he had scarcely noticed her decline - took her leave of him and of life, he felt his bereavement - who shall say how little? Yet, perhaps, more than he seemed to feel it; for he was not a man from whom grief easily wrung tears.


His dry-eyed and sober mourning scandalized an old housekeeper, and likewise a female attendant, who had waited upon Mrs. Helstone in her sickness, and who, perhaps, had had opportunities of learning more of the deceased lady's nature, of her capacity for feeling and loving, than her husband knew. They gossiped together over the corpse, related anecdotes, with embellishments of her lingering decline, and its real or supposed cause. In short, they worked each other up to some indignation against the austere little man, who sat examining papers in an adjoining room, unconscious of what opprobrium he was the object.

His dry-eyed mourning scandalized the old housekeeper and Mrs. Helstone's nurse, who, perhaps, knew more of the deceased lady's capacity for feeling and loving than her husband did. They gossiped together over the corpse, and worked each other up to some indignation against the austere little man who sat in the next room going through papers.


Mrs. Helstone was hardly under the sod when rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood that she had died of a broken heart. These magnified quickly into reports of hard usage, and, finally, details of harsh treatment on the part of her husband--reports grossly untrue, but not the less eagerly received on that account. Mr. Yorke heard them, partly believed them. Already, of course, he had no friendly feeling to his successful rival. Though himself a married man now, and united to a woman who seemed a complete contrast to Mary Cave in all respects, he could not forget the great disappointment of his life; and when he heard that what would have been so precious to him had been neglected, perhaps abused, by another, he conceived for that other a rooted and bitter animosity.

Mrs. Helstone was hardly buried when rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood that she had died of a broken heart. These magnified quickly into reports of harsh treatment by her husband - reports grossly untrue, but eagerly heard despite that. Mr. Yorke heard them, and partly believed them. Though himself a married man now, united to a woman who seemed a complete contrast to Mary Cave, still he could not forget his great disappointment; and when he heard that Mary had been neglected, perhaps abused, he felt a bitter hatred for Mr. Helstone.


Of the nature and strength of this animosity Mr. Helstone was but half aware. He neither knew how much Yorke had loved Mary Cave, what he had felt on losing her, nor was he conscious of the calumnies concerning his treatment of her, familiar to every ear in the neighbourhood but his own. He believed political and religious differences alone separated him and Mr. Yorke. Had he known how the case really stood, he would hardly have been induced by any persuasion to cross his former rival's threshold.

Mr. Helstone was only half aware of this. He neither knew how much Yorke had loved Mary Cave, nor what was rumoured about his own treatment of her. He believed political and religious differences alone separated him and Mr. Yorke. Had he known how the case really stood, he would not have crossed his former rival's threshold.


Mr. Yorke did not resume his lecture of Robert Moore. The conversation ere long recommenced in a more general form, though still in a somewhat disputative tone. The unquiet state of the country, the various depredations lately committed on mill-property in the district, supplied abundant matter for disagreement, especially as each of the three gentlemen present differed more or less in his views on these subjects. Mr. Helstone thought the masters aggrieved, the workpeople unreasonable; he condemned sweepingly the widespread spirit of disaffection against constituted authorities, the growing indisposition to bear with patience evils he regarded as inevitable. The cures he prescribed were vigorous government interference, strict magisterial vigilance; when necessary, prompt military coercion.

Mr. Yorke did not resume his lecture of Robert Moore. Instead they began to talk about the unquiet state of the country, and the recent attacks on mills, although each of the three gentlemen had different views on these subjects. Mr. Helstone thought the workpeople were unreasonable and impatient; he thought the government should interfere, and even use military force.


Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this interference, vigilance, and coercion would feed those who were hungry, give work to those who wanted work, and whom no man would hire. He scouted the idea of inevitable evils. He said public patience was a camel, on whose back the last atom that could be borne had already been laid, and that resistance was now a duty; the widespread spirit of disaffection against constituted authorities he regarded as the most promising sign of the times; the masters, he allowed, were truly aggrieved, but their main grievances had been heaped on them by a "corrupt, base, and bloody" government (these were Mr. Yorke's epithets). Madmen like Pitt, demons like Castlereagh, mischievous idiots like Perceval, were the tyrants, the curses of the country, the destroyers of her trade. It was their infatuated perseverance in an unjustifiable, a hopeless, a ruinous war, which had brought the nation to its present pass. It was their monstrously oppressive taxation, it was the infamous "Orders in Council"--the originators of which deserved impeachment and the scaffold, if ever public men did--that hung a millstone about England's neck.

Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this interference would feed the hungry, and give work to those who needed work. He said the public had borne enough, and resistance was now a duty. The mill masters, he believed, had been let down by a "corrupt, base, and bloody" government (these were his words). It was their perseverance in a hopeless, ruinous war which had brought the nation to its knees. It was their monstrously oppressive taxation and the infamous "Orders in Council" that hung a millstone about England's neck.


"But where was the use of talking?" he demanded. "What chance was there of reason being heard in a land that was king-ridden, priest-ridden, peer-ridden; where a lunatic was the nominal monarch, an unprincipled debauchee the real ruler; where such an insult to common sense as hereditary legislators was tolerated; where such a humbug as a bench of bishops, such an arrogant abuse as a pampered, persecuting established church was endured and venerated; where a standing army was maintained, and a host of lazy parsons and their pauper families were kept on the fat of the land?"

"But where was the use of talking?" he demanded. "What chance was there of reason being heard in a land whose king was a lunatic, and whose regent was a debauchee? Where such humbugs as the peerage and a bench of bishops were venerated; and a host of lazy parsons and their families were kept on the fat of the land?"


Mr. Helstone, rising up and putting on his shovel-hat, observed in reply, "that in the course of his life he had met with two or three instances where sentiments of this sort had been very bravely maintained so long as health, strength, and worldly prosperity had been the allies of him who professed them; but there came a time," he said, "to all men, 'when the keepers of the house should tremble; when they should be afraid of that which is high, and fear should be in the way;' and that time was the test of the advocate of anarchy and rebellion, the enemy of religion and order. Ere now," he affirmed, "he had been called upon to read those prayers our church has provided for the sick by the miserable dying-bed of one of her most rancorous foes; he had seen such a one stricken with remorse, solicitous to discover a place for repentance, and unable to find any, though he sought it carefully with tears. He must forewarn Mr. Yorke that blasphemy against God and the king was a deadly sin, and that there was such a thing as 'judgment to come.'"

Mr. Helstone, rising up and putting on his shovel-hat, replied "that he had met with two or three men who held these opinions so long as they were healthy and wealthy; but there came a time," he said, "to all men when they should tremble, and their views be tested. He had been called to the miserable death-bed of one of the church's most rancorous foes; he had seen him stricken with remorse, and desperate to repent. He must warn Mr. Yorke that blasphemy against God and the king was a deadly sin, and that there was such a thing as 'judgment to come.'"


Mr. Yorke "believed fully that there was such a thing as judgment to come. If it were otherwise, it would be difficult to imagine how all the scoundrels who seemed triumphant in this world, who broke innocent hearts with impunity, abused unmerited privileges, were a scandal to honourable callings, took the bread out of the mouths of the poor, browbeat the humble, and truckled meanly to the rich and proud, were to be properly paid off in such coin as they had earned. But," he added, "whenever he got low-spirited about such-like goings-on, and their seeming success in this mucky lump of a planet, he just reached down t' owd book" (pointing to a great Bible in the bookcase), "opened it like at a chance, and he was sure to light of a verse blazing wi' a blue brimstone low that set all straight. He knew," he said, "where some folk war bound for, just as weel as if an angel wi' great white wings had come in ower t' door-stone and told him."

Mr. Yorke "believed fully in the judgment to come. Otherwise, it would be difficult to imagine how the scoundrels who broke innocent hearts, took the bread out of the mouths of the poor, browbeat the humble, and truckled meanly to the rich, were to be properly paid off. But," he added, "he knew that some folk were bound for Hell, just as well as if an angel had told him."


"Sir," said Mr. Helstone, collecting all his dignity--"sir, the great knowledge of man is to know himself, and the bourne whither his own steps tend."

"Sir," said Mr. Helstone with dignity, "Man must know himself, and the place whither his own steps tend."


"Ay, ay. You'll recollect, Mr. Helstone, that Ignorance was carried away from the very gates of heaven, borne through the air, and thrust in at a door in the side of the hill which led down to hell."


"Nor have I forgotten, Mr. Yorke, that Vain-Confidence, not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit, which was on purpose there made by the prince of the grounds, to catch vainglorious fools withal, and was dashed to pieces with his fall."


"Now," interposed Mr. Moore, who had hitherto sat a silent but amused spectator of this worldly combat, and whose indifference to the party politics of the day, as well as to the gossip of the neighbourhood, made him an impartial, if apathetic, judge of the merits of such an encounter, "you have both sufficiently blackballed each other, and proved how cordially you detest each other, and how wicked you think each other. For my part, my hate is still running in such a strong current against the fellows who have broken my frames that I have none to spare for my private acquaintance, and still less for such a vague thing as a sect or a government. But really, gentlemen, you both seem very bad by your own showing--worse than ever I suspected you to be.--I dare not stay all night with a rebel and blasphemer like you, Yorke; and I hardly dare ride home with a cruel and tyrannical ecclesiastic like Mr. Helstone."

"Now," interposed Mr. Moore, who had sat silent till now, "you have both proved how cordially you detest each other. For my part, I still hate the fellows who have broken my frames, and have no hate to spare for my acquaintances, and still less for such a vague thing as a government. But really, gentlemen, you both seem very bad. I dare not stay with a rebel and blasphemer like you, Yorke; and I hardly dare ride home with a tyrannical churchman like Mr. Helstone."


"I am going, however, Mr. Moore," said the rector sternly. "Come with me or not, as you please."


"Nay, he shall not have the choice; he _shall_ go with you," responded Yorke. "It's midnight, and past; and I'll have nob'dy staying up i' my house any longer. Ye mun all go."

"Nay, he shall go with you," responded Yorke. "It's past midnight, and ye must all go."


"Deb," said he to the servant who answered it, "clear them folk out o' t' kitchen, and lock t' doors, and be off to bed.--Here is your way, gentlemen," he continued to his guests; and, lighting them through the passage, he fairly put them out at his front door.

Leading his guests through the passage, he fairly pushed them out of his front door.


They met their party hurrying out pell-mell by the back way. Their horses stood at the gate; they mounted, and rode off, Moore laughing at their abrupt dismissal, Helstone deeply indignant thereat.

They met their companions hurrying out by the back way. Their horses stood at the gate; they mounted and rode off, Moore laughing, and Helstone deeply indignant.


It was necessary to the arrangement of Martin's plan that he should stay at home that day. Accordingly, he found no appetite for breakfast, and just about school-time took a severe pain about his heart, which rendered it advisable that, instead of setting out to the grammar school with Mark, he should succeed to his father's arm-chair by the fireside, and also to his morning paper. This point being satisfactorily settled, and Mark being gone to Mr. Summer's class, and Matthew and Mr. Yorke withdrawn to the counting-house, three other exploits--nay, four--remained to be achieved.

It was necessary to Martin's plan that he should stay at home that day. Accordingly, he found no appetite for breakfast, and at school-time took a severe pain about his heart, which made it advisable that, instead of setting out to the grammar school with Mark, he should stay in his father's arm-chair by the fireside. With Mark gone to school, and Matthew and Mr. Yorke withdrawn to the counting-house, four other things remained to be done.


The first of these was to realize the breakfast he had not yet tasted, and with which his appetite of fifteen could ill afford to dispense; the second, third, fourth, to get his mother, Miss Moore, and Mrs. Horsfall successfully out of the way before four o'clock that afternoon.

The first of these was to obtain some breakfast, which he could not do without; the second, third and fourth were to get his mother, Miss Hortense, and Mrs. Horsfall successfully out of the way before four o'clock that afternoon.


The first was, for the present, the most pressing, since the work before him demanded an amount of energy which the present empty condition of his youthful stomach did not seem likely to supply.


Martin knew the way to the larder, and knowing this way he took it. The servants were in the kitchen, breakfasting solemnly with closed doors; his mother and Miss Moore were airing themselves on the lawn, and discussing the closed doors aforesaid. Martin, safe in the larder, made fastidious selection from its stores. His breakfast had been delayed; he was determined it should be _recherch_. It appeared to him that a variety on his usual somewhat insipid fare of bread and milk was both desirable and advisable; the savoury and the salutary he thought might be combined. There was store of rosy apples laid in straw upon a shelf; he picked out three. There was pastry upon a dish; he selected an apricot puff and a damson tart. On the plain household bread his eye did not dwell; but he surveyed with favour some currant tea-cakes, and condescended to make choice of one. Thanks to his clasp-knife, he was able to appropriate a wing of fowl and a slice of ham; a cantlet of cold custard-pudding he thought would harmonize with these articles; and having made this final addition to his booty, he at length sallied forth into the hall.

Martin set off to the larder. The servants were in the kitchen, breakfasting behind closed doors; his mother and Miss Moore were airing themselves on the lawn, and discussing the servants. Martin made a fastidious selection of food. There were apples laid upon a shelf; he picked out three. There was pastry on a dish; he selected an apricot puff and a damson tart. On the plain household bread his eye did not dwell; but he surveyed with favour some currant tea-cakes, and chose one. With his clasp-knife, he cut a wing of fowl and a slice of ham; he thought a cold custard-pudding would go with these; and with his booty, he sallied forth into the hall.


He was already half-way across--three steps more would have anchored him in the harbour of the back parlour--when the front door opened, and there stood Matthew. Better far had it been the Old Gentleman, in full equipage of horns, hoofs, and tail.

He was half-way across when the front door opened, and there stood Matthew. Better far had it been the Devil, horns, hoofs, and all.


Matthew, sceptic and scoffer, had already failed to subscribe a prompt belief in that pain about the heart. He had muttered some words, amongst which the phrase "shamming Abraham" had been very distinctly audible, and the succession to the armchair and newspaper had appeared to affect him with mental spasms. The spectacle now before him--the apples, the tarts, the tea-cakes, the fowl, ham, and pudding--offered evidence but too well calculated to inflate his opinion of his own sagacity.

Matthew, sceptic and scoffer, had already expressed disbelief in Martin's pain about the heart, and had muttered something about "shamming." The sight now before him - the apples, the tarts, the tea-cakes, and the rest - gave him proof of his own sagacity.


Martin paused _interdit_ one minute, one instant; the next he knew his ground, and pronounced all well. With the true perspicacity _des mes lites_, he at once saw how this at first sight untoward event might be turned to excellent account. He saw how it might be so handled as to secure the accomplishment of his second task--namely, the disposal of his mother. He knew that a collision between him and Matthew always suggested to Mrs. Yorke the propriety of a fit of hysterics. He further knew that, on the principle of calm succeeding to storm, after a morning of hysterics his mother was sure to indulge in an afternoon of bed. This would accommodate him perfectly.

Martin paused one instant; then he saw how this untoward event might be turned to excellent account. It might be handled so as to accomplish his second task - the disposal of his mother. He knew that a collision between him and Matthew always gave Mrs. Yorke a fit of hysterics; after which his mother was sure to indulge in an afternoon in bed. This would suit him perfectly.


The collision duly took place in the hall. A dry laugh, an insulting sneer, a contemptuous taunt, met by a nonchalant but most cutting reply, were the signals. They rushed at it. Martin, who usually made little noise on these occasions, made a great deal now. In flew the servants, Mrs. Yorke, Miss Moore. No female hand could separate them. Mr. Yorke was summoned.

The collision duly took place in the hall. A dry laugh, an insulting sneer, met by a cutting reply, were the signals. They rushed at it. Martin made a great deal of noise. In flew the servants, Mrs. Yorke, and Miss Moore; Mr. Yorke was summoned.


"Sons," said he, "one of you must leave my roof if this occurs again. I will have no Cain and Abel strife here."

"Sons," said he, "one of you must leave my roof if this occurs again."


Martin now allowed himself to be taken off. He had been hurt; he was the youngest and slightest. He was quite cool, in no passion; he even smiled, content that the most difficult part of the labour he had set himself was over.

Martin now allowed himself to be taken off. He had been hurt; he was the younger and slighter; but he was quite cool. He even smiled.


Once he seemed to flag in the course of the morning.

Once during that morning, he seemed to flag.


"It is not worth while to bother myself for that Caroline," he remarked. But a quarter of an hour afterwards he was again in the dining-room, looking at the head with dishevelled tresses, and eyes turbid with despair.

"It is not worth while to bother myself for that Caroline," he remarked. But a quarter of an hour afterwards he was again in the dining-room, looking at the portrait of despair.


"Yes," he said, "I made her sob, shudder, almost faint. I'll see her smile before I've done with her; besides, I want to outwit all these womenites."

"Yes," he said, "I made her sob and shudder. I'll see her smile before I've done with her; besides, I want to outwit all these womenites."


Directly after dinner Mrs. Yorke fulfilled her son's calculation by withdrawing to her chamber. Now for Hortense.

After dinner Mrs. Yorke duly withdrew to her chamber. Now for Hortense.


That lady was just comfortably settled to stocking-mending in the back parlour, when Martin--laying down a book which, stretched on the sofa (he was still indisposed, according to his own account), he had been perusing in all the voluptuous ease of a yet callow pacha--lazily introduced some discourse about Sarah, the maid at the Hollow. In the course of much verbal meandering he insinuated information that this damsel was said to have three suitors--Frederic Murgatroyd, Jeremiah Pighills, and John-of-Mally's-of-Hannah's-of-Deb's; and that Miss Mann had affirmed she knew for a fact that, now the girl was left in sole charge of the cottage, she often had her swains to meals, and entertained them with the best the house afforded.

That lady was just comfortably settled to stocking-mending in the back parlour, when Martin, stretched on the sofa, lazily began to chat about Sarah, the maid at the Hollow. In the course of much verbal meandering he hinted that this damsel was said to have three suitors; and that Miss Mann had said she knew for a fact that now the girl was left in sole charge of the cottage, she often had them to meals, and fed them with the best food in the house.


It needed no more. Hortense could not have lived another hour without betaking herself to the scene of these nefarious transactions, and inspecting the state of matters in person. Mrs. Horsfall remained.

It needed no more. Hortense could not have lived another hour without going to the Hollow and inspecting the state of matters in person. Only Mrs. Horsfall remained.


Martin, master of the field now, extracted from his mother's work-basket a bunch of keys; with these he opened the sideboard cupboard, produced thence a black bottle and a small glass, placed them on the table, nimbly mounted the stairs, made for Mr. Moore's door, tapped; the nurse opened.

Martin, master of the field now, extracted from his mother's work-basket a bunch of keys; with these he opened the sideboard cupboard, produced a black bottle and a small glass, placed them on the table, nimbly mounted the stairs and tapped on Mr. Moore's door. The nurse opened it.


"If you please, ma'am, you are invited to step into the back parlour and take some refreshment. You will not be disturbed; the family are out."


He watched her down; he watched her in; himself shut the door. He knew she was safe.

He watched her down; he shut the door. He knew she was safe.


The hard work was done; now for the pleasure. He snatched his cap, and away for the wood.

The hard work was done; now for the pleasure. He snatched his cap, and set off for the wood.


It was yet but half-past three. It had been a fine morning, but the sky looked dark now. It was beginning to snow; the wind blew cold; the wood looked dismal, the old tree grim. Yet Martin approved the shadow on his path. He found a charm in the spectral aspect of the doddered oak.

It was half-past three. It had been a fine morning, but the sky looked dark now. It was beginning to snow; the wind blew cold; the wood looked dismal, the old tree grim. Martin


He had to wait. To and fro he walked, while the flakes fell faster; and the wind, which at first had but moaned, pitifully howled.

had to wait, walking to and fro, while the flakes fell faster, and the wind howled pitifully.


"She is long in coming," he muttered, as he glanced along the narrow track. "I wonder," he subjoined, "what I wish to see her so much for? She is not coming for me. But I have power over her, and I want her to come that I may use that power."

"She is long in coming," he muttered. "I wonder why I wish so much to see her? She is not coming for me. But I have power over her, and I want to use that power."


"Now," he resumed, when a further period had elapsed, "if she fails to come, I shall hate and scorn her."

"Now," he resumed after a while, "if she fails to come, I shall hate and scorn her."


It struck four. He heard the church clock far away. A step so quick, so light, that, but for the rustling of leaves, it would scarcely have sounded on the wood-walk, checked his impatience. The wind blew fiercely now, and the thickening white storm waxed bewildering; but on she came, and not dismayed.

The church clock struck four. He heard a step so quick, so light, that it scarcely sounded on the wood-walk. The wind blew fiercely now, and the snow-storm increased; but on she came.


"Well, Martin," she said eagerly, "how is he?"


"It is queer how she thinks of _him_," reflected Martin. "The blinding snow and bitter cold are nothing to her, I believe; yet she is but a 'chitty-faced creature,' as my mother would say. I could find in my heart to wish I had a cloak to wrap her in."

"It is queer how much she thinks of him," reflected Martin. "The blinding snow and bitter cold are nothing to her, I believe; I almost wish I had a cloak to wrap her in."


Thus meditating to himself, he neglected to answer Miss Helstone.


"I mean to do better by you than that. Didn't I say _I_ don't care to see him?"


"But now it will be so long before I get to know any thing certain about him, and I am sick of waiting. Martin, _do_ see him, and give him Caroline Helstone's regards, and say she wished to know how he was, and if anything could be done for his comfort."

Now it will be so long before I know anything certain about him, and I am sick of waiting. Martin, do see him, and give him Caroline Helstone's regards, and say she wished to know how he was, and if anything could be done for his comfort."


"You are changed. You were so friendly last night."


"Come, we must not stand in this wood; it is too cold."


"But before I go promise me to come again to-morrow with news."


"No such thing. I am much too delicate to make and keep such appointments in the winter season. If you knew what a pain I had in my chest this morning, and how I went without breakfast, and was knocked down besides, you'd feel the impropriety of bringing me here in the snow. Come, I say."

I am delicate: if you knew what a pain I had in my chest this morning, and how I went without breakfast, you wouldn't bring me here in the snow. Come, I say."


"That's hectic. Will you come--or you won't?"


"With me. I was a fool not to bring a cloak. I would have made you cosy."

"Home with me. I was a fool not to bring a cloak.


"You are going home; my nearest road lies in the opposite direction."


"Put your arm through mine; I'll take care of you."


"But the wall--the hedge--it is such hard work climbing, and you are too slender and young to help me without hurting yourself."


"I think I will. Anything rather than return as anxious as I came."


"I can't answer for that. This, however, I promise you: be ruled by me, and you shall see Moore yourself."

"I can't answer for that. However, I promise you shall see Moore yourself."


"Ah! I'm dear now. No, he doesn't know."


Caroline fell into a long, silent fit of musing, but still she walked on with her guide. They came in sight of Briarmains.

Caroline mused silently, but she walked on with her guide to Briarmains.


"Decide; we are just on the spot. I _won't_ see him--that I tell you--except to announce your arrival."

I won't, except to announce your arrival."


"Martin, you are a strange boy, and this is a strange step; but all I feel _is_ and _has_ been, for a long time, strange. I will see him."

"Martin, you are a strange boy, and this is a strange step; but all is strange now. I will see him."


"Having said that, you will neither hesitate nor retract?"


"Here we are, then. Do not be afraid of passing the parlour window; no one will see you. My father and Matthew are at the mill, Mark is at school, the servants are in the back kitchen, Miss Moore is at the cottage, my mother in her bed, and Mrs. Horsfall in paradise. Observe--I need not ring. I open the door; the hall is empty, the staircase quiet; so is the gallery. The whole house and all its inhabitants are under a spell, which I will not break till you are gone."

"Here we are, then. Don't worry; my father and Matthew are at the mill, Mark is at school, the servants are in the back kitchen, Miss Moore is at the cottage, my mother in her bed, and Mrs. Horsfall in paradise. Observe - the hall is empty, the staircase quiet. The whole house and all its inhabitants are under a spell, which I will not break till you are gone."


"You never said a better word. Let me take your shawl. I will shake off the snow and dry it for you. You are cold and wet. Never mind; there is a fire upstairs. Are you ready?"

"You never said a better word. Let me take your shawl. I will dry it for you. You are cold and wet. Never mind; there is a fire upstairs.


He left his shoes on the mat, mounted the stair unshod. Caroline stole after, with noiseless step. There was a gallery, and there was a passage; at the end of that passage Martin paused before a door and tapped. He had to tap twice--thrice. A voice, known to one listener, at last said, "Come in."

He left his shoes on the mat, and mounted the stair unshod. Caroline stole after, with noiseless step. At the end of a passage Martin paused before a door and tapped twice - thrice. At last a voice said, "Come in."


"Mr. Moore, a lady called to inquire after you. None of the women were about. It is washing-day, and the maids are over the crown of the head in soap-suds in the back kitchen, so I asked her to step up."

"Mr. Moore, a lady called to inquire after you. None of the women were about. It is washing-day, and the maids are up to their ears in soap-suds, so I brought her up here."


"Up here, sir; but if you object, she shall go down again."


"Is this a place or am I a person to bring a lady to, you absurd lad?"

"Is this a place to bring a lady to, you absurd lad?"


"Martin, you will stay here. Who is she?"


"Your grandmother from that chteau on the Scheldt Miss Moore talks about."


"Martin," said the softest whisper at the door, "don't be foolish."


"Is she there?" inquired Moore hastily. He had caught an imperfect sound.


"She is there, fit to faint. She is standing on the mat, shocked at your want of filial affection."

"She is there, fit to faint. She is standing on the mat."


"Martin, you are an evil cross between an imp and a page. What is she like?"


"More like me than you; for she is young and beautiful."


"You are to show her forward. Do you hear?"


And when Miss Caroline entered she was encountered in the middle of the chamber by a tall, thin, wasted figure, who took both her hands.

And when Miss Caroline entered she was met by a standing, thin, wasted figure, who took both her hands.


"I give you a quarter of an hour," said Martin, as he withdrew, "no more. Say what you have to say in that time. Till it is past I will wait in the gallery; nothing shall approach; I'll see you safe away. Should you persist in staying longer, I leave you to your fate."

"I give you a quarter of an hour," said Martin, as he withdrew. "I will wait in the gallery; nothing shall approach. But if you stay longer, I leave you to your fate."


He shut the door. In the gallery he was as elate as a king. He had never been engaged in an adventure he liked so well, for no adventure had ever invested him with so much importance or inspired him with so much interest.

He shut the door. In the gallery he was as elated as a king. No adventure had ever made him feel so important or so interested.


"You are come at last," said the meagre man, gazing on his visitress with hollow eyes.

"You are come at last," said Moore, gazing on his visitress with hollow eyes.


"For a month, near two months, we have been very near; and I have been in sad pain, and danger, and misery, Cary."

"For a month, near two months, I have been in sad pain, and danger, and misery, Cary."


"Couldn't you? But the rectory and Briarmains are very near--not two miles apart."

"Couldn't you? But the rectory and Briarmains are not two miles apart."


There was pain and there was pleasure in the girl's face as she listened to these implied reproaches. It was sweet, it was bitter to defend herself.

There was pain and there was pleasure in the girl's face as she defended herself.


"When I say I could not come, I mean I could not see you; for I came with mamma the very day we heard what had happened. Mr. MacTurk then told us it was impossible to admit any stranger."

"I came with mamma the very day we heard what had happened. Mr. MacTurk then told us it was impossible to admit any stranger."


"But afterwards--every fine afternoon these many weeks past I have waited and listened. Something here, Cary"--laying his hand on his breast--"told me it was impossible but that you should think of me. Not that I merit thought; but we are old acquaintance--we are cousins."

"But afterwards - for many weeks past I have waited and listened. My heart told me you must think of me, Cary. Not that I deserve thought; but we are old friends - we are cousins."


"I came again, Robert; mamma and I came again."


"Did you? Come, that is worth hearing. Since you came again, we will sit down and talk about it."


They sat down. Caroline drew her chair up to his. The air was now dark with snow; an Iceland blast was driving it wildly. This pair neither heard the long "wuthering" rush, nor saw the white burden it drifted. Each seemed conscious but of one thing--the presence of the other.


"And Mrs. Yorke did treat us strangely. We asked to see you. 'No,' said she, 'not in my house. I am at present responsible for his life; it shall not be forfeited for half an hour's idle gossip.' But I must not tell you all she said; it was very disagreeable. However, we came yet again--mamma, Miss Keeldar, and I. This time we thought we should conquer, as we were three against one, and Shirley was on our side. But Mrs. Yorke opened such a battery."

And Mrs. Yorke turned us away, saying, 'I am responsible for his life; it shall not be forfeited for half an hour's idle gossip.' But I must not tell you all she said; it was very disagreeable. However, we came yet again - mamma, Miss Keeldar, and I. This time we thought we should conquer, as we were three against one. But Mrs. Yorke opened such a battery."


"Things that astonished us. Shirley laughed at last; I cried; mamma was seriously annoyed. We were all three driven from the field. Since that time I have only walked once a day past the house, just for the satisfaction of looking up at your window, which I could distinguish by the drawn curtains. I really dared not come in."

"Things that astonished us. Shirley laughed; I cried; mamma was seriously annoyed. We were all three driven away. Since then I have walked past the house every day, just for the satisfaction of looking up at your window."


"I did not know that; I never dreamt one instant that you thought of me. If I had but most distantly imagined such a possibility----"

"I did not know that; I never dreamt one instant that you thought of me. If I had imagined-"


"Mrs. Yorke would still have beaten you."


"She would not. Stratagem should have been tried, if persuasion failed. I would have come to the kitchen door; the servants should have let me in, and I would have walked straight upstairs. In fact, it was far more the fear of intrusion--the fear of yourself--that baffled me than the fear of Mrs. Yorke."

"She would not. I would have come to the kitchen door; the servants should have let me in, and I would have walked straight upstairs. In fact, it was far more the fear of intruding on you that baffled me than the fear of Mrs. Yorke."


"Only last night I despaired of ever seeing you again. Weakness has wrought terrible depression in me--terrible depression."

"Only last night I despaired of ever seeing you again. Weakness has wrought terrible depression in me."


"But you must be getting better, since you can leave your bed?"


"I doubt whether I shall live. I see nothing for it, after such exhaustion, but decline."

"I doubt whether I shall live, after such exhaustion."


"Dreariness would accompany, nothing cheerful come near me."


"I _will_ alter this. This _shall_ be altered, were there ten Mrs. Yorkes to do battle with."

I will alter this. This shall be altered, were there ten Mrs. Yorkes to do battle with."


"Do smile; smile again. Shall I tell you what I should like?"


"Tell me anything--only keep talking. I am Saul; but for music I should perish."


"I should like you to be brought to the rectory, and given to me and mamma."


"A precious gift! I have not laughed since they shot me till now."


"Not so much pain now; but I am hopelessly weak, and the state of my mind is inexpressible--dark, barren, impotent. Do you not read it all in my face? I look a mere ghost."

"Not so much now; but I am hopelessly weak, and my mind is inexpressibly dark."


"Altered; yet I should have known you anywhere. But I understand your feelings; I experienced something like it. Since we met, I too have been very ill."

"I understand your feelings," she said; "I experienced something like it. Since we met, I too have been very ill."


"I thought I should die. The tale of my life seemed told. Every night, just at midnight, I used to wake from awful dreams; and the book lay open before me at the last page, where was written 'Finis.' I had strange feelings."

"I thought I should die. The tale of my life seemed told. Every night, just at midnight, I used to wake from awful dreams; and I felt I was close to the end."


"I believed I should never see you again; and I grew so thin--as thin as you are now. I could do nothing for myself--neither rise nor lie down; and I could not eat. Yet you see I am better."

"I believed I should never see you again; and I grew so thin. I could do nothing, and I could not eat. Yet you see I am better."


"Comforter--sad as sweet. I am too feeble to say what I feel; but while you speak I _do_ feel."

"I am too feeble to say what I feel; but while you speak I do feel."


"Here I am at your side, where I thought never more to be. Here I speak to you. I see you listen to me willingly--look at me kindly. Did I count on that? I despaired."

"Here I am at your side, where I thought never more to be. You look at me kindly. I despaired of that."


Moore sighed--a sigh so deep it was nearly a groan. He covered his eyes with his hand.

Moore sighed - a sigh so deep it was nearly a groan.


"May I be spared to make some atonement."


"We will not touch on it now, Cary; unmanned as I am, I have not the power to cope with such a topic. Was Mrs. Pryor with you during your illness?"

"We will not touch on it now, Cary. Was Mrs. Pryor with you during your illness?"


"Yes"--Caroline smiled brightly--"you know she is mamma?"

"Yes." Caroline smiled brightly. "You know she is my mamma?"


"I have heard--Hortense told me; but that tale too I will receive from yourself. Does she add to your happiness?"

"I have heard - Hortense told me. Does she make you happy?"


"What! mamma? She is _dear_ to me; _how_ dear I cannot say. I was altogether weary, and she held me up."

"What! mamma? She is dear to me; how dear I cannot say. I was altogether weary, and she held me up."


"I deserve to hear that in a moment when I can scarce lift my hand to my head. I deserve it."


"It is a coal of fire heaped on my head; and so is every word you address to me, and every look that lights your sweet face. Come still nearer, Lina; and give me your hand--if my thin fingers do not scare you."

"That is a coal of fire heaped on my head; and so is every word you address to me. Come nearer, Lina; give me your hand - if my thin fingers do not scare you."


She took those thin fingers between her two little hands; she bent her head _et les effleura de ses lvres_. (I put that in French because the word _effleurer_ is an exquisite word.) Moore was much moved. A large tear or two coursed down his hollow cheek.

She took those thin fingers; she bent her head and touched them to her lips. Moore was much moved. A tear coursed down his hollow cheek.


"I'll keep these things in my heart, Cary; that kiss I will put by, and you shall hear of it again one day."


"Come out!" cried Martin, opening the door--"come away; you have had twenty minutes instead of a quarter of an hour."

"Come out!" cried Martin, opening the door - "come away; you have had twenty minutes."


"No, she can't," responded Martin. "The thing mustn't become customary. I can't be troubled. It's very well for once; I'll not have it repeated."

"No, she can't," responded Martin. "The thing mustn't become customary; I'll not have it repeated."


"Hush! don't vex him; we could not have met to-day but for him. But I will come again, if it is your wish that I should come."

"Hush! don't vex him," urged Caroline; "we could not have met today but for him. But I will come again, if you wish."


"It _is_ my wish--my _one_ wish--almost the only wish I can feel."


"Come this minute. My mother has coughed, got up, set her feet on the floor. Let her only catch you on the stairs, Miss Caroline. You're not to bid him good-bye"--stepping between her and Moore--"you are to march."

"Come away this minute. My mother has coughed, and got up. Let her only catch you on the stairs, Miss Caroline! You're not to bid him good-bye, you are to march."


"I have it. I'll put it on for you when you are in the hall."


He made them part. He would suffer no farewell but what could be expressed in looks. He half carried Caroline down the stairs. In the hall he wrapped her shawl round her, and, but that his mother's tread then creaked in the gallery, and but that a sentiment of diffidence--the proper, natural, therefore the noble impulse of his boy's heart--held him back, he would have claimed his reward; he would have said, "Now, Miss Caroline, for all this give me one kiss." But ere the words had passed his lips she was across the snowy road, rather skimming than wading the drifts.

Martin made them part. He half carried Caroline down the stairs, and wrapped her shawl round her, and if his mother's tread had not then creaked in the gallery, and diffidence held him back, he would have claimed his reward. He would have said, "Now, Miss Caroline, for all this give me one kiss." But she was already across the snowy road.


"She is my debtor, and I _will_ be paid."


He flattered himself that it was opportunity, not audacity, which had failed him. He misjudged the quality of his own nature, and held it for something lower than it was.

He flattered himself that it was opportunity, not boldness, which had failed him. He misjudged the quality of his own nature, and held it for something lower than it was.


So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soire of learned people, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother's absence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect,--no reason why Paul should not have been there,--but from the promise which had been given. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's presence in Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be left to decide.

Lady Carbury had returned from the soire with Roger. They came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. Roger had supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool, and could hardly avoid feeling that a meeting between the two had been planned in the mother's absence. Roger was not a man liable to suspicion, but the circumstances were suspicious.


Lady Carbury was the first to speak. "This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague." Whether Roger suspected anything or not, she did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the meeting between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.

Lady Carbury was the first to speak. "This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague." The moment she saw Paul she thought that the meeting between Hetta and him had been pre-arranged.


"Yes," he said,--making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have been made,--"I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I would come up and see you." Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether, but Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's absence had been an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough.

"Yes," he said lamely, "I had nothing to do, and thought I would come and see you." Lady Carbury disbelieved him, but Roger felt assured that his coming truly had been an accident.


"I thought you were at Liverpool," said Roger.


"I came back to-day,--to be present at that Board in the city. I have had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What has brought you to London?"

"I came back today, for that Board in the city. I will tell you all about it later. What has brought you to London?"


Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly knew whether she ought or ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it was very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well her mother's mind, and the way in which her mother's thoughts would run. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to speak. "Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?"

There was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and Henrietta, knowing the way in which her mother's thoughts would run, forced herself to speak.
"Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?"


"Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?" said Lady Carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.


"Indeed, no," said Hetta, attempting to laugh, "I have been trying to work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to work. I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did you think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?"

"Indeed, no," said Hetta, attempting to laugh, "I have been trying to work at Dante, but I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did you think of the soire, Roger?"


"I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked it."

"I was out of my element; but I think your mother liked it."


"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger?"

"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can feed the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger?"


"A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to."


"Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to labour."


"But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden."

"I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden."


"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite made up my mind to this;--if ever I can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world."

"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite decided that if I am ever able, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world."


This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. "What brought him here?"

This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter.
"What brought him here?"


"Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent."


"Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord."


"Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up."


"Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us."


"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did? I knew nothing of his coming."

"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you? I knew nothing of his coming."


"Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?"


Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this question. "I do not think he ever has."

Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered. "I do not think he ever has."


"I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife."


Again she paused. But again she answered with straightforward simplicity. "Just before you came in, he said--; I don't know what he said; but it meant that."

Again Hetta paused. But again she answered with straightforward simplicity. "Just before you came in, he said - I don't know what he said; but it meant that."


"You told me he had been here but a minute."


"It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no time, and yet he said it."

"It was very little more. It was almost no time, and yet he said it."


"Psha! He expected nothing of the kind."


"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an accident."

"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was also - an accident."


"It was not intended,--not then, mamma. I have known it ever so long;--and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alone together."

"It was not intended, mamma, though I have known it ever so long; and so have you."


"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?" Hetta was again silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so little sympathy from her mother. "How do you intend to answer him?" demanded Lady Carbury.

"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?"
Hetta was again silent, and now for longer. She put her hand up and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no word spoken. But she was not sure that her mother, being so unsympathetic, had a right to know her thoughts.
"How do you intend to answer him?" demanded Lady Carbury.


"No, mamma;--I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else."

"No, mamma; I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that. I do love him. There. You should know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you. I do love him, and I shall never love anyone else."


"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces."

"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces."


Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not doubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she did doubt that her mother had believed the story. "If so," said she, "Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmotte."

Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. "If so," said she, "Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmotte."


"It makes me ill to hear you talk,--as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!" Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to recommend to the other child.

"It makes me ill to hear you talk - as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!" Lady Carbury spoke with extreme scorn.


"I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them."


"Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me." Lady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the room.

"Very well; but that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray, do believe me."
Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed, and her daughter left the room.


[Illustration: Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed.]


There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental,--and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London. "I do not wish it to be talked of," said Roger after a pause,--"and of course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?"

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague; but not a word about Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul asked about the cause of Carbury's journey to London.
"I could not speak of it before Hetta," said Roger. "You remember


"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John Crumb."

Ruby Ruggles? She was to have married John Crumb


"Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her."

, but she has gone off, leaving him most unhappy. John Crumb is almost too good for her."


"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?"

"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with anyone?"


"No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."

"No; she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think that Felix has - well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."


"He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he'll be perfect."

"He certainly knew her. Though he lied when I first spoke to him, I got him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. And we know what that means. But I do not think that she came to London at his request."


"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"


"He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her."

"No. I found him the day after she left, and I think that he knew nothing about it then. Since that he has avoided me.


"No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money."

To make matters worse, old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter."


After that Paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in regard to Melmotte and to Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in the thing, you know."

After that Paul told all his own story - the double story, about both Melmotte and Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in it, you know.


"I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognises. You have to bind your character to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what he tells you."

From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is good; do exactly what he tells you."


But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do about Mrs. Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with her three or four times. There was this difficulty in the matter, too,--that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew of both loves;--had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs. Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury. Paul told it all,--the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.

But the Railway business was not the heaviest of Paul's troubles. He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with her three or four times. It was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurtle without alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury.
Roger knew of both loves; he had urged his friend to abandon the widow, and equally urged him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet he had to discuss Mrs. Hurtle as though there were no such person as Henrietta. Paul told it all - the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.


"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas,--and to Oregon," said Roger.

"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas," said Roger.


"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her," said Paul. Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta Carbury, but he said nothing. "And what would she do, remaining here?" continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. "I am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can."

"But even if the rumours are untrue I will not marry her," said Paul. Roger shrugged, but said nothing. "I know I have been a fool," continued Paul. "I know I have been wrong. But if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it."


"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or--any other way."

"Get out of it honestly if you can; but get out of it.


"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as much as we do now?"


"I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it."

. I believe this woman has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her. I'll go and see her if you like."


But Paul would not submit to this. He felt that he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take his place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied,--that he would never make Mrs. Hurtle his wife. "I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.

But Paul would not allow this. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved that Paul should go next day to Islington, tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories he had heard, and declare his resolution not to marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should get to the end of such a story before the wild cat would show its claws. But Paul declared that, claws or no claws, he would never make Mrs. Hurtle his wife.
"I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.


"So do I," said Paul, as he took his leave.


He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?

He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and when he awoke the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be well to put off his execution till Monday? Were there not still matters to consider? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution today?


At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.

At last he jumped out of bed and into his bath-tub, and dressed quickly. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast, and then, although it was still early, he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.


How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall,--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know the garden;--twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

How quick that cab went! Before Paul had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview, the cab was in Islington and dashed noisily up to the house. Paul paid the cabman, pushed open the iron gate and walked very quickly past the little garden up to the door. He rang rather furiously, and asked for Mrs. Hurtle.


"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night." Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. "Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of course learned from Sir Felix,--for at this time she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till tonight."
Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles.
"Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby recognised Paul as quickly as he did her; and thought at once that he had come in search of her. She knew that Roger Carbury was in town looking for her. She had learned this from Sir Felix - for she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.


"Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home."

"Yes. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home."


"I'm all right, Mr. Montague;--I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me."

"I'm all right, Mr. Montague. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me."


"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"


"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs. Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs. Hurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, so they've gone, and the baby with them. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?"


"Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?"

"Oh, I didn't know. Should I say, sir, as you was here?"


Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. "I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles."

"I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles," said Paul.


"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him, nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it again;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr. Montague;--nor yet won't the Squire."

"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all. Grandfather is that provoking a young woman can't live with him. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him, his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre."


"But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home."

"But I thought there was somebody else to give you a home."


"John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to give me a home, Mr. Montague."


"You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought."

"You were to have married him, I thought."


"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have him,--but I never cared that for him."

"Ladies is to change their minds if they like, Mr. Montague. Grandfather made me say I'd have him, but I never cared that for him."


"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London."


"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch." That told the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on that matter. "But there's Betsy a crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute."

"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch."
That told the whole story. Paul was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded.
"But there's Betsy a crying upstairs," said Ruby.


"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."


"What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the Squire,--except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."

"You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."


Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going. "Mr. Montague," she said in a confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, "I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know."

Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it.
This would give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no postal delivery. He left the note on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going.
"Mr. Montague," she said in a confidential whisper, tripping down the stairs, "I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know."


"Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you."


"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."


"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself about him."

"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. He doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me?"


"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy."


"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague."


"Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town?" Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. "You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?"

"Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town?" Ruby flushed up to her forehead. "You may be sure that he means you no good."


"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."


"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the door.


Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?

Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach. What business had he to advise her in love - he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had declared his love to Hetta Carbury?


In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurtle.

In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, he thought, for two days; but it did not make him comfortable. He thought of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. If he had heard the declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to forget Mrs. Hurtle.


The afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house had been very stormy. Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady Carbury had suffered under his severity,--or had at least so well pretended to suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that he had been cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once to London, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very bad feminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but had done so in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question of meeting the Melmottes had been settled, and there was no need for speaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm, immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the waggonnette when they pleased. "I'm afraid you'll find it tiresome driving about our lanes," he said. Lady Carbury assured him that she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he was starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought to Henrietta. He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went his way. He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suit till Monday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her to remain with him when her mother and brother would be going out to dine at Caversham. She looked up into his face as she took the rose and thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, and honour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so dearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love! She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side against her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest guide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not love?

After that day of storm, the next morning was very calm. Roger went out about the farm immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the waggonnette when they pleased. Lady Carbury assured him that she was never dull when left alone with books.
Before starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought to Henrietta. He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went on his way. He had resolved to say nothing to her of his suit till Monday. If he could prevail with her then, he would ask her to remain with him when her mother and brother went to dine at Caversham.
She looked up into his face as she took the rose and thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, honour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so dearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love! She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side against her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest guide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not love?


"I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here," said Lady Carbury.


"It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world, and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all the gentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is not a comfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!"

"It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world, but in his present mood he is not a comfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!"


"I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmotte can be nice people."


"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes from the superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to be borne, but I beg that you will not copy him."

"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. I beg that you will not copy Roger with his superhuman virtue."


"And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abuse people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word from you might undo all that we are doing."

"And I shall think it very unkind if you abuse people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word from you might undo all that we are doing."


"What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is willing enough. She did refer him to her father."

"Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is willing enough. She did refer him to Mr. Melmotte."


"Then why does he not go to Mr. Melmotte?"


"I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Roger could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place, and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't think there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte."

"I suppose he is delicate about the money side of it. If Roger could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place, and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't think there would be any difficulty with old Melmotte."


"If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Your brother would be his heir."


"You should not think of such a thing, mamma."


"Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to think of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than any one? And what I say, is so. If Roger were to die to-morrow he would be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury."

"Am I not to think of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than anyone? And it is so. If Roger were to die tomorrow he would be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury."


"But, mamma, he will live and have a family. Why should he not?"

"But, mamma, Roger will live and have a family. Why should he not?"


"You say he is so old that you will not look at him."


"I never said so. When we were joking, I said he was old. You know I did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal older get married every day."

"I never said so. I did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal older get married every day."


"If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of that kind,--so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. He will go on boodying over it, till he will become an old misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented. You are my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate I do wish that the Melmottes should be made to understand that the property and title and name of the place will all go together. It will be so, and why should not Felix have the advantage?"

"If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is so stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. If you would take him I would be quite contented. But if you mean to be obstinate I wish that the Melmottes should understand that the property and title will go together. Why should not Felix have that advantage?"


"Ah;--that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally."

"Ah; that's the thing. Roger is so prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally."


"Oh, mamma;--you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is to go to--Felix, when he--is dead!"

"Oh, mamma; you wouldn't suggest it to him!