She is too early--half an hour before her time.--My child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted?"

She is half an hour early. -My child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted?"


This question was addressed to an individual who now entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a winter mantle, the folds of which were gathered with some grace round an apparently slender figure.

This question was addressed to a young girl who now entered the room, wrapped in a winter mantle which was gathered gracefully round a slender figure.


"I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and how Robert was too.

"I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and Robert too.


I was sure you would be both grieved by what happened last night.

I was sure you would both be grieved by what happened last night.


"My uncle is very angry--but he was with Robert, I believe, was he not?--Did he not go with you to Stilbro' Moor?"

He is very angry - but he was with Robert, was he not? Did he not go with you to Stilbro' Moor?"


"Yes, we set out in very martial style, Caroline; but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way."

"Yes, we set out in martial style, Caroline; but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way."


"Why, no; only Joe Scott's wrists were a little galled with being pinioned too tightly behind his back."


"You were not with the wagons when they were attacked?"


One seldom has the fortune to be present at occurrences at which one would particularly wish to assist."


"Where are you going this morning?" asked Caroline.


"I saw Murgatroyd saddling your horse in the yard."


"Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes Mr. Yorke--at least, poor people do not dislike him."

Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes Mr. Yorke."


"Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am hated?" suggested Moore.


"Who are _misunderstood_. That, probably, is the word.


Shall you be late?--Will he be late, Cousin Hortense?"


He has often much business to transact at Whinbury.


Have you brought your exercise-book, child?"


"Yes.--What time will you return, Robert?"


It is not absolutely dark at six now, but by seven daylight is quite gone."


"And what danger is to be apprehended, Caroline, when daylight _is_ gone? What peril do you conceive comes as the companion of darkness for me?"

"And what danger do you foresee for me in darkness, Caroline?"


"I am not sure that I can define my fears, but we all have a certain anxiety at present about our friends.

"I am not sure, but we all feel anxious at present.


He says, too, that mill-owners are unpopular."


You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart you think me liable to Pearson's fate, who was shot at--not, indeed, from behind a hedge, but in his own house, through his staircase window, as he was going to bed."

You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but you think I may be attacked, like Pearson - who was shot in his own house, through the window."


"Anne Pearson showed me the bullet in the chamber-door," remarked Caroline gravely, as she folded her mantle and arranged it and her muff on a side-table.

"Anne Pearson showed me the bullet," said Caroline gravely.


"You know," she continued, "there is a hedge all the way along the road from here to Whinbury, and there are the Fieldhead plantations to pass; but you will be back by six--or before?"


"And now, my child, prepare your lessons for repetition, while I put the peas to soak for the pure at dinner."

"And now, my child, prepare your lessons, while I put the peas to soak for dinner."


"You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline," said Mr. Moore, "and doubtless you know me to be destitute of friends?"

"You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline," said Mr. Moore. "Have I no friends?"


There is your sister, your brother Louis, whom I have never seen; there is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle--besides, of course, many more."

"Your sister, and your brother Louis, whom I have never seen; and Mr. Yorke, and my uncle - besides, of course, many more."


"You would be puzzled to name your 'many more,'" said he.


What extreme pains you take with the writing! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care. She wants to form you in all things after the model of a Flemish school-girl.

What careful handwriting! My sister wants to form you like a Flemish school-girl.


What life are you destined for, Caroline?


What will you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments, when they are acquired?"


"You may well say, when they are acquired; for, as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little.

"You may well say, when they are acquired; for till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little.


As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell.


I suppose to keep my uncle's house till----" She hesitated.
"Till what? Till he dies?"
"No. How harsh to say that! I never think of his dying. He is only fifty-five. But till--in short, till events offer other occupations for me."

I suppose to keep my uncle's house till - till events offer other occupations for me."


Children, you know, have little reflection, or rather their reflections run on ideal themes.


There are moments _now_ when I am not quite satisfied."

But there are moments now when I am not quite satisfied.


"I am making no money--earning nothing."


"You come to the point, Lina. You too, then, wish to make money?"


I should like an occupation; and if I were a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one.


I see such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in life."

I can see such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in life."


"I could be apprenticed to your trade--the cloth-trade.

"I could be apprenticed to your trade - the cloth-trade.


I could learn it of you, as we are distant relations.


I would do the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the letters, while you went to market.

I could keep the books and write the letters, while you went to market.


I know you greatly desire to be rich, in order to pay your father's debts; perhaps I could help you to get rich."

I know you want to pay your father's debts; perhaps I could help you."


"I do think of myself; but must one for ever think only of oneself?"

"I do think of myself; but must one think only of oneself?"


The poor ought to have no large sympathies; it is their duty to be narrow."

The poor need to have narrow sympathies.


Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted, grovelling, anxious. Now and then a poor man's heart, when certain beams and dews visit it, may smell like the budding vegetation in yonder garden on this spring day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage, perhaps blossom; but he must not encourage the pleasant impulse; he must invoke Prudence to check it, with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping as any north wind."

Poverty is selfish and anxious, and sympathy must be checked by Prudence, whose frosty breath is as nipping as any north wind.


"When I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean the natural, habitual poverty of the working-man, as the embarrassed penury of the man in debt.

By poverty, I mean the embarrassed penury of the man in debt."


My grub-worm is always a straitened, struggling, care-worn tradesman."


"Cherish hope, not anxiety," urged Caroline.


Certain ideas have become too fixed in your mind.


It may be presumptuous to say it, but I have the impression that there is something wrong in your notions of the best means of attaining happiness, as there is in----" Second hesitation.
"I am all ear, Caroline."
"In (courage! let me speak the truth)--in your manner--mind, I say only _manner_--to these Yorkshire workpeople."

"I feel there is something wrong in your notions of the best way of attaining happiness, as there is in - in your manner to the Yorkshire workpeople."


"You have often wanted to tell me that, have you not?"


"The faults of my manner are, I think, only negative.


What has a man in my position to be proud of?


I am only taciturn, phlegmatic, and joyless."


"As if your living cloth-dressers were all machines like your frames and shears.

"As if your workmen were machines like your frames.


"To those of my own house I am no alien, which I am to these English clowns.


I might act the benevolent with them, but acting is not my _forte_.


And for my part I find them irrational, perverse; they hinder me when I long to hurry forward.


In treating them justly I fulfil my whole duty towards them."


"You don't expect them to love you, of course?"
"Nor wish it."


said the monitress, shaking her head and heaving a deep sigh.

said Caroline, shaking her head and heaving a deep sigh.


With this ejaculation, indicative that she perceived a screw to be loose somewhere, but that it was out of her reach to set it right, she bent over her grammar, and sought the rule and exercise for the day.


"I suppose I am not an affectionate man, Caroline.


The attachment of a very few suffices me."

The attachment of a very few people is enough for me."


"If you please, Robert, will you mend me a pen or two before you go?"

"Please, Robert, will you mend my pen before you go?"


"First let me rule your book, for you always contrive to draw the lines aslant.

"First let me rule your book, for you always manage to draw the lines aslant.


"Such as you generally make for me and Hortense; not your own broad points."


"If I were of Louis's calling I might stay at home and dedicate this morning to you and your studies, whereas I must spend it in Skyes's wool-warehouse."

If I were a tutor like Louis I might stay and dedicate this morning to you and your studies, whereas I must spend it in Skyes's wool-warehouse."


As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled and bridled, was brought up to the garden-gate.
"There, Fred is ready for me; I must go.


I'll take one look to see what the spring has done in the south border, too, first."


He quitted the room, and went out into the garden ground behind the mill.

He went out into the garden behind the mill.


A sweet fringe of young verdure and opening flowers--snowdrop, crocus, even primrose--bloomed in the sunshine under the hot wall of the factory.

A sweet fringe of snowdrop, crocus and primrose bloomed in the sunshine under the hot wall of the factory.


Moore plucked here and there a blossom and leaf, till he had collected a little bouquet. He returned to the parlour, pilfered a thread of silk from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and laid them on Caroline's desk.

Moore plucked a little bouquet of flowers, returned to the parlour, and laid them on Caroline's desk.


It is pretty; it looks, as it lies there, like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky.

It is pretty; it looks like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky.


He went to the door, stopped, opened his lips as if to speak, said nothing, and moved on.

Robert went to the door, stopped as if about to speak; said nothing, and went out.


He passed through the wicket, and mounted his horse.


In a second he had flung himself from his saddle again, transferred the reins to Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.

But in a second he re-entered the cottage.


"I forgot my gloves," he said, appearing to take something from the side-table; then, as an impromptu thought, he remarked, "You have no binding engagement at home perhaps, Caroline?"

"I forgot my gloves," he said, and then asked, "You have no binding engagement at home perhaps, Caroline?"


Some children's socks, which Mrs. Ramsden has ordered, to knit for the Jew's basket; but they will keep."

Some children's socks to knit for the Jew's basket; but they will keep."


Anything more Jewish than it--its contents and their prices--cannot be conceived.


But I see something, a very tiny curl, at the corners of your lip, which tells me that you know its merits as well as I do.


Forget the Jew's basket, then, and spend the day here as a change.

"Forget the Jew's basket, and spend the day here for a change.


Your uncle won't break his heart at your absence?"


"Then stay and dine with Hortense; she will be glad of your company.


I shall return in good time. We will have a little reading in the evening.

When I return, we will have a little reading in the evening.


The moon rises at half-past eight, and I will walk up to the rectory with you at nine.


She nodded her head, and her eyes lit up.


He bent over Caroline's desk and glanced at her grammar, he fingered her pen, he lifted her bouquet and played with it; his horse stamped impatient; Fred Murgatroyd hemmed and coughed at the gate, as if he wondered what in the world his master was doing.

He bent over Caroline's desk and glanced at her grammar, he lifted her bouquet and played with it; his horse stamped impatiently; his groom coughed at the gate, as if he wondered what in the world his master was doing.


"Good-morning," again said Moore, and finally vanished.


Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced her exercise.

Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her surprise, that Caroline had not yet begun her exercise.


Messrs. Helstone and Sykes began to be extremely jocose and congratulatory with Mr. Moore when he returned to them after dismissing the deputation.

Messrs. Helstone and Sykes congratulated Mr. Moore when he returned to them.


He was so quiet, however, under their compliments upon his firmness, etc., and wore a countenance so like a still, dark day, equally beamless and breezeless, that the rector, after glancing shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his coat, and said to Sykes, whose senses were not acute enough to enable him to discover unassisted where his presence and conversation were a nuisance, "Come, sir; your road and mine lie partly together.

He was so quiet, however, and so still and grim, that the rector, after glancing shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his coat, and said to Sykes:
"Come, sir; your road and mine lie partly together.


Had we not better bear each other company?


We'll bid Moore good-morning, and leave him to the happy fancies he seems disposed to indulge."


"I've not been quite idle while you were busy.


I've been helping you a little; I flatter myself not injudiciously.


I thought it better not to lose time; so, while you were parleying with that down-looking gentleman--Farren I think his name is--I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr. Sykes's gig round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses--wooden leg and all--through the aperture, and saw them mount the gig (always with our good friend Sykes's permission, of course).

While you were busy parleying with that Farren, I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd to bring Mr. Sykes's gig round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses - wooden leg and all - through the opening, and saw them mount the gig.


Sugden took the reins--he drives like Jehu--and in another quarter of an hour Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail."

Sugden took the reins, and in another quarter of an hour Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail."


"Very good; thank you," said Moore; "and good-morning, gentlemen," he added, and so politely conducted them to the door, and saw them clear of his premises.

"Very good; thank you," said Moore; "and good-morning, gentlemen." He politely conducted them to the door.


He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day.

He was taciturn and serious the rest of the day.


He did not even bandy a repartee with Joe Scott, who, for his part, said to his master only just what was absolutely necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequently came to poke the counting-house fire for him, and once, as he was locking up for the day (the mill was then working short time, owing to the slackness of trade), observed that it was a grand evening, and he "could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up th' Hollow.

He did not even bandy repartee with Joe Scott, who looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, and as he was locking up for the day, observed that it was a grand evening, and he "could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up th' Hollow.


At this recommendation Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude meant, and whether he took him for a woman or a child, seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him by the shoulders out of his presence.

At this, Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and after demanding whether Joe took him for a woman or a child, he seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him out by the shoulders.


He called him back, however, ere he had reached the yard-gate.


"They cannot be well off, sir, when they've not had work as a three month.

"No, sir, for they've not had work for three month.


Ye'd see yoursel' 'at William's sorely changed--fair paired.


They've selled most o' t' stuff out o' th' house."


"Ye never had a better, sir, sin' ye began trade."


Th' wife's a raight cant body, and as clean--ye mught eat your porridge off th' house floor.

Th' wife's a raight cant body, and so clean ye mught eat your porridge off th' floor.


I wish William could get a job as gardener or summat i' that way; he understands gardening weel.

I wish William could get a job as gardener or summat; he understands gardening."


He once lived wi' a Scotchman that tached him the mysteries o' that craft, as they say."


You need not stand there staring at me."


"None, but for you to take yourself off."


Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this had been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meridian sunshine, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and ere dusk a hoar frost was insidiously stealing over growing grass and unfolding bud.

Though this had been a fine day, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and by dusk frost was insidiously stealing over the grass.


It whitened the pavement in front of Briarmains (Mr. Yorke's residence), and made silent havoc among the tender plants in his garden, and on the mossy level of his lawn.

It whitened the pavement in front of Briarmains, Mr. Yorke's house, and made silent havoc among the tender plants in his garden.


As to that great tree, strong-trunked and broad-armed, which guarded the gable nearest the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm its still bare boughs; and so did the leafless grove of walnut-trees rising tall behind the house.


In the dusk of the moonless if starry night, lights from windows shone vividly.

In the moonless night, lights from the windows shone vividly.


This was no dark or lonely scene, nor even a silent one. Briarmains stood near the highway.

This was no lonely scene; Briarmains stood near the highway.


It was rather an old place, and had been built ere that highway was cut, and when a lane winding up through fields was the only path conducting to it.

It was an old place, built before the highway was cut.


Briarfield lay scarce a mile off; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen.

Briarfield town lay scarce a mile off; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen.


Briar Chapel, a large, new, raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant; and as there was even now a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, the illumination of its windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn of a most extraordinary description, such as a very Quaker might feel himself moved by the Spirit to dance to, roused cheerily all the echoes of the vicinage.

Briar Chapel, a large, new, raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose a hundred yards distant; and as there was a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, its windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn roused cheery echoes.


The words were distinctly audible by snatches. Here is a quotation or two from different strains; for the singers passed jauntily from hymn to hymn and from tune to tune, with an ease and buoyancy all their own:--

The words were distinctly audible, sung with a jaunty buoyancy:


who can explain
This struggle for life,
This travail and pain,
This trembling and strife?"


Plague, earthquake, and famine, And tumult and war, The wonderful coming Of Jesus declare!


"For every fight Is dreadful and loud: The warrior's delight Is slaughter and blood, His foes overturning, Till all shall expire: And this is with burning, And fuel, and fire!"


Here followed an interval of clamorous prayer, accompanied by fearful groans. A shout of "I've found liberty!" "Doad o' Bill's has fun' liberty!" rang from the chapel, and out all the assembly broke again.

After the hymn followed clamorous prayer, accompanied by fearful groans and frantic shouts, and more noisy singing.


Gathered into the fold, With Thy people enrolled, With Thy people to live and to die!


"Oh, the goodness of God In employing a clod His tribute of glory to raise; His standard to bear, And with triumph declare His unspeakable riches of grace!


"Oh, the fathomless love That has deigned to approve And prosper the work of my hands.


With my pastoral crook I went over the brook, And behold I am spread into bands!


"Who, I ask in amaze, Hath begotten me these?


And inquire from what quarter they came.


My full heart it replies, They are born from the skies, And gives glory to God and the Lamb!"


The stanza which followed this, after another and longer interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic cries, agonized groans, seemed to cap the climax of noise and zeal.


"Sleeping on the brink of sin, Tophet gaped to take us in; Mercy to our rescue flew, Broke the snare, and brought us through.


"Here, as in a lion's den, Undevoured we still remain, Pass secure the watery flood, Hanging on the arm of God.


(Terrible, most distracting to the ear, was the strained shout in which the last stanza was given.)


"Here we raise our voices higher, Shout in the refiner's fire, Clap our hands amidst the flame, Glory give to Jesus' name!"


The roof of the chapel did _not_ fly off, which speaks volumes in praise of its solid slating.


But if Briar Chapel seemed alive, so also did Briarmains, though certainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quieter phase of existence than the temple.


Some of its windows too were aglow; the lower casements opened upon the lawn; curtains concealed the interior, and partly obscured the ray of the candles which lit it, but they did not entirely muffle the sound of voice and laughter.

Its windows too were aglow; curtains concealed the interior, but did not entirely muffle the sound of voices and laughter.


We are privileged to enter that front door, and to penetrate to the domestic sanctum.
It is not the presence of company which makes Mr. Yorke's habitation lively, for there is none within it save his own family, and they are assembled in that farthest room to the right, the back parlour.

We are privileged to enter that front door, and to join Mr. Yorke's family within.


This is the usual sitting-room of an evening.


Those windows would be seen by daylight to be of brilliantly-stained glass, purple and amber the predominant hues, glittering round a gravely-tinted medallion in the centre of each, representing the suave head of William Shakespeare, and the serene one of John Milton.

Those windows are of brilliantly-stained glass, with purple and amber glittering round a medallion in the centre of each, representing the heads of Shakespeare and Milton.


Some Canadian views hung on the walls--green forest and blue water scenery--and in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption of Vesuvius; very ardently it glows, contrasted with the cool foam and azure of cataracts, and the dusky depths of woods.

Some Canadian views hang on the walls - green forest and blue water - and in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption of Vesuvius.


The fire illuminating this room, reader, is such as, if you be a southern, you do not often see burning on the hearth of a private apartment. It is a clear, hot coal fire, heaped high in the ample chimney.

The fire is heaped high in the ample chimney.


Mr. Yorke _will_ have such fires even in warm summer weather. He sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow supporting a candle; but he is not reading--he is watching his children.

Mr. Yorke sits beside it with a book; but he is not reading - he is watching his children.


Opposite to him sits his lady--a personage whom I might describe minutely, but I feel no vocation to the task. I see her, though, very plainly before me--a large woman of the gravest aspect, care on her front and on her shoulders, but not overwhelming, inevitable care, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden people ever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy.

Opposite him sits his lady: a large woman of grave aspect, wearing an expression of care - the sort of care of a person who deems it her duty to be gloomy.


Mrs. Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she was, morning, noon, and, night; and hard things she thought if any unhappy wight--especially of the female sex--who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay heart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was to be profane, to be cheerful was to be frivolous.

In Mrs. Yorke's opinion, to be cheerful was to be frivolous.


Yet she was a very good wife, a very careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, was sincerely attached to her husband; only the worst of it was, if she could have had her will, she would not have permitted him to have any friend in the world beside herself.

Yet she was a very good wife, a careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, and was sincerely attached to her husband; although if she could, she would not have allowed him any friend in the world besides herself.


All his relations were insupportable to her, and she kept them at arm's length.


Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well, yet he was naturally a social, hospitable man, an advocate for family unity; and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none but lively, cheerful women.

Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well; yet he was a social, hospitable man, and in his youth, as has been said, he liked lively, cheerful women.


Why he chose her, how they contrived to suit each other, is a problem puzzling enough, but which might soon be solved if one had time to go into the analysis of the case.


Suffice it here to say that Yorke had a shadowy side as well as a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy side found sympathy and affinity in the whole of his wife's uniformly overcast nature.

But Yorke had a shadowy side as well as a sunny side to his character, and his shadowy side found sympathy in his wife's overcast nature.


For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weak or a trite thing; took stern, democratic views of society, and rather cynical ones of human nature; considered herself perfect and safe, and the rest of the world all wrong.

For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weak or a trite thing; was rather stern and cynical; considered herself right, and the rest of the world all wrong.


Her main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitigable suspicion of all men, things, creeds, and parties; this suspicion was a mist before her eyes, a false guide in her path, wherever she looked, wherever she turned.

Her main fault was a brooding suspicion of all men, things and beliefs, which hindered her vision.


It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were not likely to turn out quite ordinary, commonplace beings; and they were not.

It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were not likely to turn out commonplace beings; and they were not.


The youngest is a baby on the mother's knee.


It is all her own yet, and that one she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect, condemn; it derives its sustenance from her, it hangs on her, it clings to her, it loves her above everything else in the world. She is sure of that, because, as it lives by her, it cannot be otherwise, therefore she loves it.

It is all her own still, and therefore she loves it.


The two next are girls, Rose and Jessy; they are both now at their father's knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so.

The two next are girls, Rose and Jessy; they are both at their father's knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so.


Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father--the most like him of the whole group--but it is a granite head copied in ivory; all is softened in colour and line. Yorke himself has a harsh face--his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple, childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom: as to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than childlike; a serious soul lights them--a young soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it.

Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father, but softened, with round cheeks and grey eyes lit by a serious soul - a young soul yet, but it will mature; and neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it.


Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either--stronger, much purer, more aspiring.


Rose is a still, sometimes a stubborn, girl now. Her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself--a woman of dark and dreary duties; and Rose has a mind full-set, thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew.

Rose is sometimes a stubborn girl, with a mind thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew.


It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed.


She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all.

She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day.


Rose loves her father: her father does not rule her with a rod of iron; he is good to her.

Rose loves her father, for he is good to her.


He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gleam in her language. This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.

He sometimes fears she will not live long, and this idea makes him sadly tender to her.


He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch, original even now; passionate when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting, yet generous; fearless--of her mother, for instance, whose irrationally hard and strict rule she has often defied--yet reliant on any who will help her.

He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch and original; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting, yet generous; fearless of her mother, yet reliant on anyone who will help her.


Jessy, with her little piquant face, engaging prattle, and winning ways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is.

Jessy, with her engaging prattle and winning ways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is.


It is odd that the doll should resemble her mother feature by feature, as Rose resembles her father, and yet the physiognomy--how different!


Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were now held before you, and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they will be twenty years from this night, what would you think? The magic mirror is here: you shall learn their destinies--and first that of your little life, Jessy.

Let us hold up a magic mirror, and see their destinies.


No, you never saw it; but you recognize the nature of these trees, this foliage--the cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dim garlands of everlasting flowers.

This place is unfamiliar, but the stone crosses are not; we recognize the cypress and the yew.


Here is the place--green sod and a gray marble headstone. Jessy sleeps below.


She lived through an April day; much loved was she, much loving.


She often, in her brief life, shed tears, she had frequent sorrows; she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw her.


Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for Rose had been her stay and defence through many trials.

Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's arms, for Rose had been her stay and defence through many trials.


The dying and the watching English girls were at that hour alone in a foreign country, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a grave.


The crosses and garlands looked strange, but the hills and woods of this landscape look still stranger.


This, indeed, is far from England; remote must be the shores which wear that wild, luxuriant aspect.

This landscape is far from England; remote must be those wild, luxuriant shores.


Unknown birds flutter round the skirts of that forest; no European river this, on whose banks Rose sits thinking.


The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant in some region of the southern hemisphere.

The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant in the southern hemisphere.


The three eldest of the family are all boys--Matthew, Mark, and Martin.

The three eldest of the family are all boys - Matthew, Mark, and Martin.


They are seated together in that corner, engaged in some game. Observe their three heads: much alike at a first glance; at a second, different; at a third, contrasted.

They are seated together in the corner, their three heads much alike at first glance.


Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are the whole trio; small English features they all possess; all own a blended resemblance to sire and mother; and yet a distinctive physiognomy, mark of a separate character, belongs to each.

Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are the whole trio; yet a distinctive character belongs to each.


I shall not say much about Matthew, the first-born of the house, though it is impossible to avoid gazing at him long, and conjecturing what qualities that visage hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking boy: that jet-black hair, white brow, high-coloured cheek, those quick, dark eyes, are good points in their way. How is it that, look as long as you will, there is but one object in the room, and that the most sinister, to which Matthew's face seems to bear an affinity, and of which, ever and anon, it reminds you strangely--the eruption of Vesuvius?

Matthew, the first-born, seems to have an affinity to one picture in the room - the eruption of Vesuvius.


Flame and shadow seem the component parts of that lad's soul--no daylight in it, and no sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shone there. He has an English frame, but, apparently, not an English mind--you would say, an Italian stiletto in a sheath of British workmanship.

Flame and shadow make up that lad's soul, no English sunshine. You would say he is an Italian stiletto in a sheath of British workmanship.


He is crossed in the game--look at his scowl.


Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does he say? In a low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother."

Mr. Yorke sees it, and in a low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother."


And this is ever the tone adopted by both parents.

This is the tone adopted by both parents.


Theoretically, they decry partiality--no rights of primogeniture are to be allowed in that house; but Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be opposed; they avert provocation from him as assiduously as they would avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder.


"Concede, conciliate," is their motto wherever he is concerned.


The republicans are fast making a tyrant of their own flesh and blood.


This the younger scions know and feel, and at heart they all rebel against the injustice.

The younger children feel this, and rebel against the injustice.


They cannot read their parents' motives; they only see the difference of treatment.


The dragon's teeth are already sown amongst Mr. Yorke's young olive-branches; discord will one day be the harvest.

The dragon's teeth are already sown; discord will one day be the harvest.


Mark is a bonny-looking boy, the most regular-featured of the family.


He is exceedingly calm; his smile is shrewd; he can say the driest, most cutting things in the quietest of tones.

He is calm and shrewd; he can say the driest, most cutting things in the quietest of tones.


Despite his tranquillity, a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds you that the smoothest waters are not always the safest.

Despite his tranquillity, a somewhat heavy brow speaks of temper.


Besides, he is too still, unmoved, phlegmatic, to be happy.


Life will never have much joy in it for Mark.


By the time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder why people ever laugh, and think all fools who seem merry.

By the time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder why people ever laugh, and think merry men are all fools.


Poetry will not exist for Mark, either in literature or in life; its best effusions will sound to him mere rant and jargon.


Enthusiasm will be his aversion and contempt.


Mark will have no youth; while he looks juvenile and blooming, he will be already middle-aged in mind.


His body is now fourteen years of age, but his soul is already thirty.

Mark is now fourteen, but his soul is already thirty.


Martin, the youngest of the three, owns another nature.

Martin, the youngest of the three, has another nature.


Life may, or may not, be brief for him, but it will certainly be brilliant.


He will pass through all its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy them, then outlive them.


That boy is not handsome--not so handsome as either of his brothers. He is plain; there is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and he will wear it till he is near twenty, then he will put it off. About that period he will make himself handsome.

The boy is plainer than his brothers; but at near twenty he will become handsome.


He will wear uncouth manners till that age, perhaps homely garments; but the chrysalis will retain the power of transfiguring itself into the butterfly, and such transfiguration will, in due season, take place.


For a space he will be vain, probably a downright puppy, eager for pleasure and desirous of admiration, athirst, too, for knowledge.

For a space he will be a vain puppy, eager for pleasure and admiration, but also thirsty for knowledge.


He will want all that the world can give him, both of enjoyment and lore; he will, perhaps, take deep draughts at each fount.


Whether he will or not, the seer is powerless to predict: on that subject there has been no open vision.


Take Mr. Yorke's family in the aggregate: there is as much mental power in those six young heads, as much originality, as much activity and vigour of brain, as--divided amongst half a dozen commonplace broods--would give to each rather more than an average amount of sense and capacity.

Altogether, there is much mental power in those six young Yorke heads, much originality and vigour of brain.


Mr. Yorke knows this, and is proud of his race.

Mr. Yorke knows this, and is proud of them.


Yorkshire has such families here and there amongst her hills and wolds--peculiar, racy, vigorous; of good blood and strong brain; turbulent somewhat in the pride of their strength, and intractable in the force of their native powers; wanting polish, wanting consideration, wanting docility, but sound, spirited, and true-bred as the eagle on the cliff or the steed in the steppe.

Yorkshire has such families here and there - peculiar, racy, strong and clever; somewhat turbulent and proud, wanting polish, but sound and spirited.


A low tap is heard at the parlour door; the boys have been making such a noise over their game, and little Jessy, besides, has been singing so sweet a Scotch song to her father--who delights in Scotch and Italian songs, and has taught his musical little daughter some of the best--that the ring at the outer door was not observed.


"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously constrained and solemnized voice of hers, which ever modulates itself to a funereal dreariness of tone, though the subject it is exercised upon be but to give orders for the making of a pudding in the kitchen, to bid the boys hang up their caps in the hall, or to call the girls to their sewing--"come in!"

"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in her funereal tone.


Moore's habitual gravity, as well as his abstemiousness (for the case of spirit decanters is never ordered up when he pays an evening visit), has so far recommended him to Mrs. Yorke that she has not yet made him the subject of private animadversions with her husband; she has not yet found out that he is hampered by a secret intrigue which prevents him from marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing--discoveries which she made at an early date after marriage concerning most of her husband's bachelor friends, and excluded them from her board accordingly; which part of her conduct, indeed, might be said to have its just and sensible as well as its harsh side.

Moore's habitual gravity has recommended him to Mrs. Yorke. She has not yet tried to stop her husband from seeing him; she has not yet found out that Moore is a wolf in sheep's clothing - a discovery which she made soon after marriage about most of her husband's bachelor friends, excluding them from her house accordingly.


she says to Mr. Moore, as he comes up to her and gives his hand.


"What are you roving about at this time of night for?


"Can a single man be said to have a home, madam?"


says Mrs. Yorke, who despises conventional smoothness quite as much as her husband does, and practises it as little, and whose plain speaking on all occasions is carried to a point calculated, sometimes, to awaken admiration, but oftener alarm--"pooh!


you need not talk nonsense to me; a single man can have a home if he likes.

"You need not talk nonsense to me; a single man can have a home if he likes.


Pray, does not your sister make a home for you?"


But when I was Robert's age I had five or six sisters, all as decent and proper as she is; but you see, Hesther, for all that it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife."

"When I was Robert's age I had five or six sisters," said Mr. Yorke, "but it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife."


"And sorely he has repented marrying me," added Mrs. Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense.

"And sorely he has repented marrying me," added Mrs. Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even at her own expense.


"He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see his punishment" (here she pointed to her children).


"Who would burden themselves with such a set of great, rough lads as those, if they could help it?

"Who would burden themselves with such great, rough lads as those, if they could help it?


It is not only bringing them into the world, though that is bad enough, but they are all to feed, to clothe, to rear, to settle in life.


Young sir, when you feel tempted to marry, think of our four sons and two daughters, and look twice before you leap."

Young sir, when you feel tempted to marry, look twice before you leap."


I think these are not times for marrying or giving in marriage."

I think these are not times for marrying."


A lugubrious sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain Mrs. Yorke's approbation. She nodded and groaned acquiescence; but in a minute she said, "I make little account of the wisdom of a Solomon of your age; it will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you.

Mrs. Yorke nodded in approval; but she said, "That wisdom will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you.


You can talk, I suppose, as well sitting as standing?"


This was her way of inviting her guest to take a chair.


He had no sooner obeyed her than little Jessy jumped from her father's knee and ran into Mr. Moore's arms, which were very promptly held out to receive her.

He had no sooner obeyed than little Jessy jumped from her father's knee and ran into Mr. Moore's arms, which were promptly held out to receive her.


"You talk of marrying him," said she to her mother, quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, "and he is married now, or as good. He promised that I should be his wife last summer, the first time he saw me in my new white frock and blue sash.

"He is married now, or as good," said she to her mother, quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, "for he promised that I should be his wife last summer, the first time he saw me in my new frock.


(These children were not accustomed to say papa and mamma; their mother would allow no such "namby-pamby.")


"Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I'll bear witness.


But make him say it over again now, Jessy.


He is too bonny to be false," said Jessy, looking up to her tall sweetheart with the fullest confidence in his faith.

He is too bonny to be false," said Jessy, looking up confidently at her tall sweetheart.


"That's the reason that he should be, and proof that he is, a scoundrel."

"That's the proof that he's a scoundrel."


"But he looks too sorrowful to be false," here interposed a quiet voice from behind the father's chair.

"But he looks too sorrowful to be false," interposed Rose quietly.


"If he was always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs."


"Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all, Rose," remarked Mr. Yorke.


Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling at the same time.

Mr. Moore turned to her, surprised and smiling.


"How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose?"


"Because I heard a lady say you were not."


exclaimed Mr. Yorke, hitching his chair nearer the fire. "A lady!


We must guess who it is.--Rosy, whisper the name low to your father.

We must guess who it is. Rosy, whisper the name to your father."


"Rose, don't be too forward to talk," here interrupted Mrs. Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion, "nor Jessy either.

"Rose, don't be forward," interrupted Mrs. Yorke, "nor Jessy either.


It becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the presence of their elders."

All children, especially girls, should be silent in the presence of their elders."


asked Jessy pertly; while Rose only looked at her mother with an expression that seemed to say she should take that maxim in and think it over at her leisure. After two minutes' grave deliberation, she asked, "And why especially girls, mother?"

asked Jessy pertly; while Rose only looked at her mother with grave deliberation, before asking, "And why especially girls, mother?"


"Firstly, because I say so; and secondly, because discretion and reserve are a girl's best wisdom."

"Firstly, because I say so; and secondly, because reserve is a girl's best wisdom."


"My dear madam," observed Moore, "what you say is excellent--it reminds me, indeed, of my dear sister's observations; but really it is not applicable to these little ones.

"My dear madam," observed Moore, "what you say is excellent; but really it does not apply to these little ones.


Let Rose and Jessy talk to me freely, or my chief pleasure in coming here is gone.


"More good than if the rough lads came round you.--You call them rough, mother, yourself."


"Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more good.


I have rough lads enough about me all day long, poulet."


"There are plenty of people," continued she, "who take notice of the boys.

There are plenty of people who take notice of the boys.


All my uncles and aunts seem to think their nephews better than their nieces, and when gentlemen come here to dine, it is always Matthew, and Mark, and Martin that are talked to, and never Rose and me.

When gentlemen come here to dine, it is always the boys that are talked to, and never Rose and me.


Mr. Moore is _our_ friend, and we'll keep him.--But mind, Rose, he's not so much your friend as he is mine.

Mr. Moore is our friend. But mind, Rose, he's not so much your friend as he is mine.


He is my _particular acquaintance_; remember that!"


And she held up her small hand with an admonitory gesture.

And she held up her small hand with a warning gesture.


Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished by that small hand.


Her will daily bent itself to that of the impetuous little Jessy.


She was guided, overruled by Jessy in a thousand things.


On all occasions of show and pleasure Jessy took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background; whereas, when the disagreeables of life--its work and privations--were in question, Rose instinctively took upon her, in addition to her own share, what she could of her sister's.

On pleasant occasions Jessy took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background; whereas in the difficulties of life, Rose took her sister's share upon her, as well as her own.


Jessy had already settled it in her mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married; Rose, she decided, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after her children, keep her house.

Jessy had already decided that when she married, Rose, an old maid, would live with her, look after her children and keep her house.


This state of things is not uncommon between two sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this case, if there _was_ a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage: her face was more regular-featured than that of the piquant little Jessy.


Jessy, however, was destined to possess, along with sprightly intelligence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, the power to charm when, where, and whom she would. Rose was to have a fine, generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract was not to be hers.

Jessy possessed charm; while Rose had a fine, generous, true soul, but charm she had not.


"Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I was sentimental," urged Mr. Moore.


Rose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have held him a while in doubt.


"When Jessy and I went to spend the day at Whinbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home from school, there was a party at Mrs. Pearson's, and some grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of the drawing-room talking about you."
"Did you know none of them?"
"Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and Mary Sykes."

"When Jessy and I went to spend the day with Kate and Susan Pearson, the Misses Sykes were sitting in Mrs. Pearson's drawing-room talking about you."


"Some of them were. They called you a misanthrope.


I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home.


"Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy."

And Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy."


Hannah! that's the one with the red hair--a fine girl, but half-witted."
"She has wit enough for me, it appears," said Moore. "A solemn puppy, indeed!

Hannah's a fine girl, but half-witted."
"A solemn puppy, indeed!" said Moore.


"Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle."

"Miss Pearson said you were affected, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked like a sentimental noodle."


"You see in what esteem you are held behind your back," said she; "yet I believe _that_ Miss Pearson would like to catch you.

"You see in what esteem you are held," said she; "yet I believe Miss Pearson would like to catch you."


She set her cap at you when you first came into the country, old as she is."


"A lady whom I don't know, because she never visits here, though I see her every Sunday at church. She sits in the pew near the pulpit.

"A lady whom I don't know, though every Sunday at church she sits in the pew near the pulpit.


I generally look at her, instead of looking at my prayer-book, for she is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand--at least she has eyes like it, and a nose too, a straight nose, that makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear."

She is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand - at least she has eyes like it, and a straight nose, that makes her face look, somehow, clear."


exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of exceeding surprise.


Mr. Moore, I often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives.

"Mr. Moore, I often wonder what world my sister lives in.


I am sure she does not live all her time in this.


One is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter which everybody else knows.


To think of her going solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particular person, and never so much as asking that person's name.

To think of her going to church every Sunday, and never asking that person's name.


She means Caroline Helstone, the rector's niece.


Miss Helstone was quite angry with Anne Pearson.


She said, 'Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly, or rather not one of you here knows anything about it.'

She said, 'Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly.'


I can tell what people are like, and how they are dressed, better than Rose can."


"She is nice; she is fair; she has a pretty white slender throat; she has long curls, not stiff ones--they hang loose and soft, their colour is brown but not dark; she speaks quietly, with a clear tone; she never makes a bustle in moving; she often wears a gray silk dress; she is neat all over--her gowns, and her shoes, and her gloves always fit her.

Miss Helstone is nice; she has a pretty white slender throat; she has long soft curls; she speaks quietly, and she never makes a bustle in moving; she often wears a grey silk dress; she is neat all over.


She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean to be like her.


Moore stroked Jessy's hair. For a minute he seemed as if he would draw her nearer to him, but instead he put her a little farther off.

Moore stroked Jessy's hair, but then put her a little farther off.


You never come to see me now at the Hollow."


Hereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitation to pay him a visit next day, promising that, as he was going to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a present, of what nature he would not then declare, but they must come and see.

Hereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitation to visit next day, promising that, as he was going to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a present.


Jessy was about to reply, when one of the boys unexpectedly broke in,--

Jessy was about to reply, when one of the boys broke in:


"I know that Miss Helstone you have all been palavering about.

"I know that Miss Helstone you have been palavering about.


The lad only answered by turning his cynical young face, half-arch, half-truculent, towards the paternal chair.


"Martin, my lad, thou'rt a swaggering whelp now; thou wilt some day be an outrageous puppy.


See, I'll write down the words now i' my pocket-book."


(The senior took out a morocco-covered book, and deliberately wrote therein.)


"Ten years hence, Martin, if thou and I be both alive at that day, I'll remind thee of that speech."

Ten years hence, Martin, I'll remind thee of that speech."


They're such dolls; they do nothing but dress themselves finely, and go swimming about to be admired.


stick to it!--Hesther" (addressing his wife), "I was like him when I was his age--a regular misogamist; and, behold!

- Hesther" (addressing his wife), "I was like him when I was his age; and, behold!


by the time I was three-and-twenty--being then a tourist in France and Italy, and the Lord knows where--I curled my hair every night before I went to bed, and wore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my nose if it had been the fashion, and all that I might make myself pleasing and charming to the ladies.

by the time I was three-and-twenty I curled my hair every night, and wore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my nose if it might charm the ladies.


As to dressing, I make this vow: I'll never dress more finely than as you see me at present.--Mr.


Moore, I'm clad in blue cloth from top to toe, and they laugh at me, and call me sailor at the grammar-school.


I laugh louder at them, and say they are all magpies and parrots, with their coats one colour, and their waistcoats another, and their trousers a third.


I'll always wear blue cloth, and nothing but blue cloth.


It is beneath a human being's dignity to dress himself in parti-coloured garments."


"Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor's shop will have choice of colours varied enough for thy exacting taste; no perfumer's stores essences exquisite enough for thy fastidious senses."


Martin looked disdain, but vouchsafed no further reply.

Martin looked disdainful, but made no reply.


Meantime Mark, who for some minutes had been rummaging amongst a pile of books on a side-table, took the word. He spoke in a peculiarly slow, quiet voice, and with an expression of still irony in his face not easy to describe.

Meantime Mark, who had been rummaging amongst some books on a side-table, spoke in a slow, quiet voice, and with an ironic expression.


"Mr. Moore," said he, "you think perhaps it was a compliment on Miss Caroline Helstone's part to say you were not sentimental.


I thought you appeared confused when my sisters told you the words, as if you felt flattered. You turned red, just like a certain vain little lad at our school, who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a rise in the class.

You turned red, as if you felt flattered.


For your benefit, Mr. Moore, I've been looking up the word 'sentimental' in the dictionary, and I find it to mean 'tinctured with sentiment.'

I've been looking up 'sentimental' in the dictionary, and I find it to mean 'tinctured with sentiment.'


On examining further, 'sentiment' is explained to be thought, idea, notion.

And 'sentiment' means thought, idea, notion.


A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts, ideas, notions; an unsentimental man is one destitute of thought, idea, or notion."

A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts and ideas; an unsentimental man is one without thoughts or ideas."


He did not smile, he did not look round for admiration.


mon ami," observed Mr. Moore to Yorke, "ce sont vraiment des enfants terribles, que les vtres!"


Rose, who had been listening attentively to Mark's speech, replied to him, "There are different kinds of thoughts, ideas, and notions," said she, "good and bad.

Rose replied. "There are different kinds of thoughts and ideas, good and bad.


Sentimental must refer to the bad, or Miss Helstone must have taken it in that sense, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore; she was defending him."
"That's my kind little advocate!" said Moore, taking Rose's hand.
"She was defending him," repeated Rose, "as I should have done had I been in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully."

Miss Helstone must have taken sentimental to mean having bad thoughts, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore; she was defending him, just as I should have done in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully."


"Ladies always do speak spitefully," observed Martin.

"Ladies always speak spitefully," observed Martin.


"It is the nature of womenites to be spiteful."


Matthew now, for the first time, opened his lips.


"What a fool Martin is, to be always gabbling about what he does not understand!"

"What a fool Martin is, always gabbling about what he does not understand!"


"It is my privilege, as a freeman, to gabble on whatever subject I like," responded Martin.


"You use it, or rather abuse it, to such an extent," rejoined the elder brother, "that you prove you ought to have been a slave."

"You ought to have been a slave," rejoined the elder brother.


This fellow," he added, standing up at the table, and pointing across it to Matthew--"this fellow forgets, what every cottier in Briarfield knows, that all born of our house have that arched instep under which water can flow--proof that there has not been a slave of the blood for three hundred years."


exclaimed Mr. Yorke.--"Martin, you are a mischief-maker.

exclaimed Mr. Yorke. "Martin, you are a mischief-maker."


There would have been no disturbance but for you."


Had I spoken to him when he accused me of gabbling like a fool?"


Here Mrs. Yorke commenced rocking herself--rather a portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally followed, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict, by a fit of hysterics.

Here Mrs. Yorke began rocking herself - rather a portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally followed by a fit of hysterics, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict.


"I don't see why I should bear insolence from Matthew Yorke, or what right he has to use bad language to me," observed Martin.

"I don't see what right Matthew has to use bad language to me," said Martin.


"He has no right, my lad; but forgive your brother until seventy-and-seven times," said Mr. Yorke soothingly.


"Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse!"


murmured Martin as he turned to leave the room.


"Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult, if in this house I can find any such place."
Matthew laughed very insolently. Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled through all his slight lad's frame; but he restrained himself.
"I suppose there is no objection to my withdrawing?"

"Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult. I suppose I may go?"
Matthew laughed insolently. Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled; but he restrained himself.


Go, my lad; but remember not to bear malice."

"Go, my lad," said Mr. Yorke; "but remember not to bear malice."


Martin went, and Matthew sent another insolent laugh after him.


Rose, lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder, against which, for a moment, it had been resting, said, as she directed a steady gaze to Matthew, "Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would rather be Martin than you.

Rose, lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder, said to Matthew, "Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would rather be Martin than you.


Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting, or at least escaping, a scene--which a sob from Mrs. Yorke warned him was likely to come on--rose, and putting Jessy off his knee, he kissed her and Rose, reminding them, at the same time, to be sure and come to the Hollow in good time to-morrow afternoon; then, having taken leave of his hostess, he said to Mr. Yorke, "May I speak a word with you?"

Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting a scene, stood up and kissed Jessy and Rose, reminding them to come to the Hollow tomorrow afternoon. He said to Mr. Yorke:
"May I speak a word with you?"


Their brief conference took place in the hall.


"Have you employment for a good workman?"


"A nonsense question in these times, when you know that every master has many good workmen to whom he cannot give full employment."

"A nonsense question in these times, when you know that every master has many good workmen to whom he cannot give work."


"You must oblige me by taking on this man, if possible."

"Oblige me by taking on this man, if possible.


"My lad, I can take on no more hands to oblige all England."


"It does not signify; I must find him a place somewhere."


We are sure they cannot live without wages.


He was one of the deputation of cloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain and threaten.

He was one of the cloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain and threaten.


He only asked me to give them rather more time--to make my changes more slowly. You know I cannot do that: straitened on all sides as I am, I have nothing for it but to push on.

He only asked me to give them more time, but you know I cannot do that.


I thought it would be idle to palaver long with them.


I sent them away, after arresting a rascal amongst them, whom I hope to transport--a fellow who preaches at the chapel yonder sometimes."

I sent them away, after arresting a rascal amongst them - a fellow who preaches at the chapel yonder."


Then out of a scoundrel you're going to make a martyr.


Well, the short and the long of it is, I'm determined to get Farren a place, and I reckon on you to give him one."

But I'm determined to get Farren a place, and I rely on you to give him one."


"What right have you to reckon on me to provide for your dismissed workmen?

"What right have you to rely on me to provide for your dismissed workmen?


What do I know about your Farrens and your Williams?


I've heard he's an honest man, but am I to support all the honest men in Yorkshire?


You may say that would be no great charge to undertake; but great or little, I'll none of it."


"Come, Mr. Yorke, what can you find for him to do?"


You'll make me use language I'm not accustomed to use.


Moore sat down on one of the hall chairs.


"You can't give him work in your mill--good; but you have land.


Find him some occupation on your land, Mr. Yorke."

Find him some work on your land, Mr. Yorke."


"Bob, I thought you cared nothing about our _lourdauds de paysans_.

"Bob, I thought you cared nothing about the workmen.


The fellow spoke to me nothing but truth and sense. I answered him just as roughly as I did the rest, who jabbered mere gibberish.

"The fellow spoke truth and sense, while the others merely jabbered.


I couldn't make distinctions there and then.


His appearance told what he had gone through lately clearer than his words; but where is the use of explaining?


"Let him have it yourself. If you are so very much in earnest, strain a point."

"Let him have it yourself, if you are so very much in earnest."


"If there was a point left in my affairs to strain, I would strain it till it cracked again; but I received letters this morning which showed me pretty clearly where I stand, and it is not far off the end of the plank.

"I received letters this morning which showed me pretty clearly where I stand," said Moore, "and it is not far off the end of the plank.


My foreign market, at any rate, is gorged.


If there is no change--if there dawns no prospect of peace--if the Orders in Council are not, at least, suspended, so as to open our way in the West--I do not know where I am to turn.

If there is no change - if the Orders in Council are not suspended - I do not know where I am to turn.


I see no more light than if I were sealed in a rock, so that for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood would be to do a dishonest thing."

I see no light, and for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood would be dishonest."


It is a starlight night," said Mr. Yorke.


They passed out, closing the front door after them, and side by side paced the frost-white pavement to and fro.

They went out, and paced the frost-white pavement.


"Settle about Farren at once," urged Mr. Moore. "You have large fruit-gardens at Yorke Mills.

"You have large fruit-gardens at Yorke Mills," urged Mr. Moore.


I'll send for him to-morrow, and we'll see.

"Well, I'll send for him tomorrow, and we'll see.


And now, my lad, you're concerned about the condition of your affairs?"

And now, my lad, you're concerned about your affairs?"


"Yes, a second failure--which I may delay, but which, at this moment, I see no way finally to avert--would blight the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had fine intentions of paying off every debt and re-establishing the old firm on its former basis."

"Yes. A second failure would blight the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had fine intentions of paying off every debt and re-establishing the old firm."


"You want capital--that's all you want."


"Yes; but you might as well say that breath is all a dead man wants to live."

"Yes; but you might as well say that breath is all a dead man needs to live."


"I know--I know capital is not to be had for the asking; and if you were a married man, and had a family, like me, I should think your case pretty nigh desperate; but the young and unencumbered have chances peculiar to themselves.

"If you were married with a family, I should think your case pretty desperate; but you're young and unencumbered.


I hear gossip now and then about your being on the eve of marriage with this miss and that; but I suppose it is none of it true?"

I hear gossip now and then about your being on the eve of marriage with this miss and that; but I suppose none of it is true?"


I think I am not in a position to be dreaming of marriage.

"I am not in a position to be dreaming of marriage.


I cannot bear the word; it sounds so silly and utopian.


I have settled it decidedly that marriage and love are superfluities, intended only for the rich, who live at ease, and have no need to take thought for the morrow; or desperations--the last and reckless joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of the slough of their utter poverty."

I have decided that marriage and love are only for the rich; or the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of the slough of utter poverty."


"I should not think so if I were circumstanced as you are. I should think I could very likely get a wife with a few thousands, who would suit both me and my affairs."

"If I were you, I should think I could very likely get a wife with a few thousands, who would suit both me and my affairs.


It depends on--in short, it depends on many things."


My eyes and heart, Yorke, take pleasure in a sweet, young, fair face, as they are repelled by a grim, rugged, meagre one.


Soft delicate lines and hues please, harsh ones prejudice me.


I could not love--I could not fancy--I could not endure her.

I could not love her - I could not endure her.


My taste must have satisfaction, or disgust would break out in despotism, or worse--freeze to utter iciness."

My disgust would break out in despotism, or worse - freeze to utter iciness."


Bob, if you married an honest, good-natured, and wealthy lass, though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you put up with the high cheek-bones, the rather wide mouth, and reddish hair?"

Bob, if you married an honest, good-natured, wealthy lass, though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you put up with the plain features?"


Grace at least I _will_ have, and youth and symmetry--yes, and what I call beauty."


"And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother; and then bankruptcy, discredit--a life-long struggle."

"And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother; and then bankruptcy and a life-long struggle."


"If you are romantic, Robert, and especially if you are already in love, it is of no use talking."


I am stripped of romance as bare as the white tenters in that field are of cloth."


"Always use such figures of speech, lad; I can understand them.


"And there is no love affair to disturb your judgment?"


"I thought I had said enough on that subject before.


"Well, then, if you are sound both in heart and head, there is no reason why you should not profit by a good chance if it offers; therefore, wait and see."

"Well, then, there is no reason why you should not profit by a good chance if it offers; therefore, wait and see.


I promise ye naught and I advise ye naught; but I bid ye keep your heart up, and be guided by circumstances."

I promise ye naught and I advise ye naught; but keep your heart up.


"My namesake the physician's almanac could not speak more guardedly."


"In the meantime, I care naught about ye, Robert Moore: ye are nothing akin to me or mine, and whether ye lose or find a fortune it maks no difference to me.


Miss Hortense will be wondering where ye are."


Roger Carbury said well that it was very improbable that he and his cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to the expedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. It was impossible that they should ever understand each other.

On the subject of fortune-hunting by marriage, it was impossible that Roger and Lady Carbury should ever understand each other.


To Lady Carbury the prospect of a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of unmixed joy and triumph.

To Lady Carbury the prospect of a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of joy and triumph.


Could it have been possible that Marie Melmotte should be rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in a penal settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it.


The wealth even in that case would certainly carry the day against the disgrace, and Lady Carbury would find reasons why "poor Marie" should not be punished for her father's sins, even while enjoying the money which those sins had produced.

Even if her father were disgraced, the wealth would certainly carry the day.


But how different were the existing facts?


Mr. Melmotte was not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchesses in Grosvenor Square.

But in fact Mr. Melmotte was not in jail, but was entertaining duchesses in Grosvenor Square.


People said that Mr. Melmotte had a reputation throughout Europe as a gigantic swindler,--as one who in the dishonest and successful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing. People said of him that he had framed and carried out long premeditated and deeply laid schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, that he had swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him, that he was fed with the blood of widows and children;--but what was all this to Lady Carbury?

People said that he had a reputation throughout Europe as a gigantic swindler, who had carried out schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, and had swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him. They said that he was fed with the blood of widows and children; - but what was all this to Lady Carbury?


If the duchesses condoned it all, did it become her to be prudish?

If the duchesses condoned it, why should she be prudish?


People also said that Melmotte would yet get a fall,--that a man who had risen after such a fashion never could long keep his head up.

People also said that Melmotte would fall; he couldn't keep his head up for long.


But he might keep his head up long enough to give Marie her fortune.


And then Felix wanted a fortune so badly;--was so exactly the young man who ought to marry a fortune!

And then Felix was so exactly the young man who should marry a fortune!


To Lady Carbury there was no second way of looking at the matter.

To Lady Carbury there was no other way of looking at the matter.


And to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at it.


That condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the world, is often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which induces people to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outside the general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoever the world shakes hands with, had never reached him.


The old-fashioned idea that the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him.

He had the old-fashioned idea that the touching of pitch will defile one.


He was a gentleman;--and would have felt himself disgraced to enter the house of such a one as Augustus Melmotte.

He was a gentleman; and would have felt himself disgraced to enter Melmotte's house.


Not all the duchesses in the peerage, or all the money in the city, could alter his notions or induce him to modify his conduct.

Not all the duchesses or money in the city could alter his notions.


But he knew that it would be useless for him to explain this to Lady Carbury.

But he knew that it would be useless to explain this to Lady Carbury.


He trusted, however, that one of the family might be taught to appreciate the difference between honour and dishonour.

He trusted, however, that Henrietta Carbury might be taught to appreciate the difference between honour and dishonour.


Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a higher turn of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free from soil.

Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a higher turn of mind than her mother.


As for Felix,--he had so grovelled in the gutters as to be dirt all over.


Nothing short of the prolonged sufferings of half a life could cleanse him.


He found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room.


she said, as soon as they had greeted each other.


"I think, you know, that your mother indulges him foolishly."


She worships the very ground he treads on."


"Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that.


The fact is that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on."

Your brother will ruin you both if this goes on."


"Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf."

"Leave London, and refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf."


"If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does in town?


You would not like him to become a professional gambler."


"Oh, Mr. Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!"


"It seems cruel to say such things to you,--but in a matter of such importance one is bound to speak the truth.

"It seems cruel to say it, but I have to speak the truth.


I have no influence over your mother; but you may have some.


She asks my advice, but has not the slightest idea of listening to it.

She asks my advice without having the slightest idea of listening to it.


I don't blame her for that; but I am anxious for the sake of--, for the sake of the family."
"I am sure you are."
"Especially for your sake.

I don't blame her for that; but I am anxious for the sake of the family - and especially for you.


"You would not ask me to throw him over."


For his sake you have already been taken into the house of that man Melmotte."

For his sake you have already been to the house of that man Melmotte."


"I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind," said Henrietta, drawing herself up.


"Pardon me if I seem to interfere."
"Oh, no;--it is no interference from you."
"Pardon me then if I am rough.

"Pardon me if I seem to interfere, or if I am rough.


To me it seems that an injury is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man.

I feel an injury is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a man.


Not because she likes him; not because she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simply because there is a rich daughter."

Not because she likes him; but simply because there is a rich daughter."


"Yes,--that is the excuse which everybody makes.

"Yes, that is the excuse which everybody makes.


Is that sufficient reason for you to go to a man's house?


Is there not another place to which we are told that a great many are going, simply because the road has become thronged and fashionable?


Have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own?

Have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for your own reasons?


They have a great deal of money, and it is thought possible that he may get some of it by falsely swearing to a girl that he loves her.


After what you have heard, are the Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?"

Are the Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?"


A social connection with the first crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable."

A social connection with a crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable."


He spoke with a degree of energy of which he was himself altogether unaware.

He spoke with a degree of energy of which he was himself unaware.


He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed, and his nostrils were extended.

He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed.


Of course she thought of his own offer to herself.

Of course she thought of his offer to herself.


Of course her mind at once conceived,--not that the Melmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt sure that she would never accept his offer,--but that he might think that he would be so affected.

Not that the Melmotte connection could ever really affect him, because she would not marry him - but he might think that he would be so affected.


Of course she resented the feeling which she thus attributed to him.


But, in truth, he was much too simple-minded for any such complex idea.

In truth, he was too simple-minded for any such complex idea.


"Felix," he continued, "has already descended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious as to what houses he may frequent.

"Felix," he continued, "has already descended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious about him.


But I should be sorry to think that you should often be seen at Mr. Melmotte's."


"I think, Mr. Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not taken where I ought not to be taken."

"I think, Mr. Carbury, that mamma will not take me where I ought not to be taken."


"I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper for you."


I am sorry you should think that I have not."


"And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. I dare say it is so.

"And I daresay we belong to a newer and worse sort of world.


You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether you can change us now.

You have always been very kind, but I doubt whether you can change us now.


I have sometimes thought that you and mamma were hardly fit for each other."


"I have thought that you and I were,--or possibly might be fit for each other."


"Oh,--as for me, I shall always take mamma's side.


If mamma chooses to go to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with her.

If mamma chooses to go to the Melmottes I shall go with her.


If that is contamination, I suppose I must be contaminated.


I don't see why I'm to consider myself better than any one else."

I don't see why I'm to consider myself better than anyone else."


"I have always thought that you were better than any one else."

"I have always thought that you were better than anyone else," said Roger.


"That was before I went to the Melmottes.


I am sure you have altered your opinion now.


I am afraid, Mr. Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours."


He looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceive the working of her mind.


He was so true himself that he did not understand that there should be with her even that violet-coloured tinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm.


Could she really have thought that he was attending to his own possible future interests when he warned her as to the making of new acquaintances?

Could she really have thought that he was concerned with his own possible future interests when he warned her about her new acquaintances?


"For myself," he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vain effort to get hold of hers, "I have only one wish in the world; and that is, to travel the same road with you.

"For myself," he said, making a vain effort to take her hand, "I have only one wish in the world; and that is to travel the same road with you.


I do not say that you ought to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere.


When I spoke of the Melmottes, did you believe that I was thinking of myself?"


"I was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as an elder brother.


No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you other to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled.

No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you other than the woman on whom my heart has settled.


Even were you in truth disgraced,--could disgrace touch one so pure as you,--it would be the same.


I love you so well that I have already taken you for better or for worse.


My nature is too stubborn for such changes.


She turned away her head, but did not answer him at once.

She turned away her head, but did not answer.


"Do you understand how much I am in need of comfort?"


"You can do very well without comfort from me."


I shall live, no doubt; but I shall not do very well. As it is, I am not doing at all well.

"I shall live, no doubt; but I am not doing very well.


I am becoming sour and moody, and ill at ease with my friends.


I would have you believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you."

Please believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you."


You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstatic joy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other.


I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married to some one else."

I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married to someone else."


I don't know how one person is to try to love another in that way.


I like you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing."


"Yes;--when you found that I was too young for your tastes."

"Yes; when you found that I was too young for your tastes."


Will you assure me of this,--that if you promise your hand to another man, you will let me know at once?"

If you promise your hand to another man, will you let me know at once?"


"I suppose I may promise that," she said, after pausing for a moment.


But, Mr. Carbury, you have no right to question me.


I allow you to say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you so much.

I allow you to say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you.


No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for any one."

But no one except mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for anyone."


"If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly."


"I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman."


I am not to tell everybody all that happens."


"Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it you will forgive me.


She put out her hand to him and allowed it to remain in his for a moment.


"When I walk about the old shrubberies at Carbury where we used to be together, I am always asking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the mistress."

"When I walk about the old shrubberies at Carbury, I am always asking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the mistress."


"I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so.


All the outside belongings of love which are so pleasant to many men and which to many women afford the one sweetness in life which they really relish, were nothing to him.

All the embellishments of love were nothing to him.


There are both men and women to whom even the delays and disappointments of love are charming, even when they exist to the detriment of hope.

There are men and women to whom even the delays and disappointments of love are charming.


It is sweet to such persons to be melancholy, sweet to pine, sweet to feel that they are now wretched after a romantic fashion as have been those heroes and heroines of whose sufferings they have read in poetry.

It is sweet to such persons to be melancholy, sweet to pine in a romantic fashion.


But there was nothing of this with Roger Carbury.


He had, as he believed, found the woman that he really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now, having fixed his heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazing longing.

Having fixed his heart upon Henrietta, he longed for her with an amazing longing.


He had spoken the simple truth when he declared that life had become indifferent to him without her.

He had spoken the simple truth when he declared that life was indifferent to him without her.


No man in England could be less likely to throw himself off the Monument or to blow out his brains.

No man in England was less likely to blow out his brains.


But he felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by this sorrow.


He could not make one thing bear upon another, so as to console himself after any fashion.


There was but one thing for him;--to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally lost her.

There was only one thing for him: to persevere till he got her, or till he finally lost her.


And should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear that it would be, then, he would live, but live only, like a crippled man.

And should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear it would be, then he would live like a crippled man.


He felt almost sure in his heart of hearts that the girl loved that other, younger man.

He felt almost sure that the girl loved Paul.


That she had never owned to such love he was quite sure.

That she had never confessed such love he was quite sure.


The man himself and Henrietta also had both assured him on this point, and he was a man easily satisfied by words and prone to believe.

Paul and Henrietta had both assured him on this point, and he believed them.


But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her, and that it was Paul's intention to cling to his love.

But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her.


Sorrowfully looking forward through the vista of future years, he thought he saw that Henrietta would become Paul's wife.

Sorrowfully looking forward through future years, he thought that Henrietta would become Paul's wife.


Annihilate himself as far as all personal happiness in the world was concerned, and look solely to their happiness, their prosperity, and their joys?

Forget all personal happiness, and look solely to their prosperity, and their joys?


Be as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, though the agony of his own disappointment should never depart from him?

Be a beneficent fairy godfather to them, in the agony of his own disappointment?


Should he do this, and be blessed by them,--or should he let Paul Montague know what deep resentment such ingratitude could produce?

Or should he let Paul Montague know of his deep resentment of Paul's ingratitude?


When had a father been kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother, than he had been to Paul?

What father had been kinder to a son, or brother to a brother, than he had been to Paul?


His home had been the young man's home, and his purse the young man's purse.


What right could the young man have to come upon him just as he was perfecting his bliss and rob him of all that he had in the world?

What right did Paul have to rob him of all that he had in the world?


He was conscious all the while that there was a something wrong in his argument,--that Paul when he commenced to love the girl knew nothing of his friend's love,--that the girl, though Paul had never come in the way, might probably have been as obdurate as she was now to his entreaties.

He was conscious that there was something wrong in his argument; that Paul when he began to love the girl knew nothing of Roger's love - that the girl would probably have refused him even without Paul.


He knew all this because his mind was clear.


But yet the injustice,--at any rate, the misery was so great, that to forgive it and to reward it would be weak, womanly, and foolish.

But still the injustice was so great, that to forgive it would be weak, womanly, and foolish.


Roger Carbury did not quite believe in the forgiveness of injuries.

Roger Carbury did not quite believe in forgiving injuries.


If you pardon all the evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil!

If you pardon all the evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil.


If you give your cloak to him who steals your coat, how long will it be before your shirt and trousers will go also?


Roger Carbury returned that afternoon to Suffolk, and as he thought of it all throughout the journey, he resolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if Paul Montague should become his cousin's husband.

He returned that afternoon to Suffolk, and as he thought about it during the journey, he resolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if Paul became his cousin's husband.


During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity.

Meanwhile Miss Melmotte was not contented with her lover's prowess, though she did not doubt his sincerity.


She had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover.

She had not only assured him of her undying affection, and had offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written telling him she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and was willing to give herself and her fortune to her lover.


She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him.

She felt that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him.


But, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true to her.

But, nevertheless, she believed that he was true to her.


Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each.

Through Didon, Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply.


But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching the end of June.

But now, in June, she was told that a day was fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, in the middle of August.


"You may buy what you like, mamma," she said; "and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do. But they'll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn't have him."

"You may buy what wedding clothes you like, mamma," she said; "but if you were to sew me up in the things by force, I wouldn't have Lord Nidderdale."


Madame Melmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog.

Madame Melmotte groaned and scolded, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, an ass, a toad, and a dog.


And ended, as she always did end, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself.

She ended, as always, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself.


"Nobody shall manage this matter for me," said Marie.


"I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa."

"I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just to suit papa."


"Que nous tions encore Francfort, ou New York," said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life.


Marie did not care for Francfort or New York; for Paris or for London;--but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.


While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the city,--though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name was mentioned,--Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also close along side of her.

On Sunday morning, while her father was doing business with Paul Montague in Grosvenor Square, Marie was walking in the square's gardens. Didon was there, at some distance; and Sir Felix Carbury was alongside her.


Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday morning.

Marie had learned that her neighbours did not frequent the square during church time on Sunday morning.


Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately.

Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she taxed him with it immediately.


Sir Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment,--having been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had come in,--was of course ready with a lie.


"It was the only thing to do, Marie;--it was indeed."

"It was the only thing to do, Marie; it was indeed.


"But you said you had accepted some offer."


He'd have sent you clean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it."

He'd have sent you away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it."


I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him yet."


Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for 200.


"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter.


But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel."


"I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so."


Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield.


"I wonder whether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is settled."

"I wonder whether you're sure about that money which you say is settled," said Felix.


[Illustration: "It's no good scolding."]


Mamma told me in Paris,--just when we were coming away,--that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong.

Mamma told me in Paris that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong.


And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would.

And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and I said I would.


But of course I won't,--if I should have a husband of my own."

But of course I won't if I have a husband of my own."


Felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his trowsers pockets.


He entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale.


There would be no "cropper" which a man could "come" so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not to have a shilling!


And, were he now to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him.

If he were to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him.


This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful!

This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful.


The game to be played was too full of danger!

The game to be played was too full of danger.


And in that case he would certainly get neither his 800, nor the shares.


And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money.


But then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement.