The old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had been preparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests. "What, Joe Mixet; is that thou? Thou'rt welcome. Come in, man. Well, John, how is it wi' you? Ruby's a stewing o' something for us to eat a bit. Don't 'e smell it?"--John Crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffed and grinned.

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


"John didn't like going home in the dark like," said the baker, with his little joke. "So I just come along to drive away the bogies."


"The more the merrier;--the more the merrier. Ruby 'll have enough for the two o' you, I'll go bail. So John Crumb's afraid of bogies;--is he? The more need he to have some 'un in his house to scart 'em away."


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

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


"You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try it ever so. My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What do you say, John?"

"You couldn't look nicer, miss. My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What do you say, John?"


"I loiks to see her loik o' that," said John rubbing his hands down the back of his trowsers, and stooping till he had brought his eyes down to a level with those of his sweetheart.

"I loiks to see her loik o' that," said John rubbing his hands down the back of his trousers.


[Illlustration: "I loiks to see her loik o' that."]


"It looks homely; don't it, John?" said Mixet.


"Bother!" said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other kitchen. John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend, and then grinned at the old man.

"Bother!" said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other kitchen. John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend and the old man.


"You've got it all afore you," said the farmer,--leaving the lover to draw what lesson he might from this oracular proposition.

"You've got it all afore you," said the farmer.


"And I don't care how soon I ha'e it in hond;--that I don't," said John.


"That's the chat," said Joe Mixet. "There ain't nothing wanting in his house;--is there, John? It's all there,--cradle, caudle-cup, and the rest of it. A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed." This he declared in a loud voice for the benefit of Ruby in the back kitchen.

"There ain't nothing wanting in John's house," said Joe Mixet. "A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed." This he declared in a loud voice for Ruby's benefit.


"That she do," said John, grinning again. "There's a hun'erd and fifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her."


After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with the boiled fowl, and without her apron. She was followed by the girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. Then the old man got up slowly and opening some private little door of which he kept the key in his breeches pocket, drew a jug of ale and placed it on the table. And from a cupboard of which he also kept the key, he brought out a bottle of gin. Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table, John Crumb looking at his chair again and again before he ventured to occupy it. "If you'll sit yourself down, I'll give you a bit of something to eat," said Ruby at last. Then he sank at once into his chair. Ruby cut up the fowl standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself at the table,--and apparently not expected to do so, for no one invited her. "Is it to be spirits or ale, Mr. Crumb?" she said, when the other two men had helped themselves. He turned round and gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an Amazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and bobbed his head at the beer jug. Then she filled it to the brim, frothing it in the manner in which he loved to have it frothed. He raised it to his mouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though to a vat. Then she filled it again. He had been her lover, and she would be as kind to him as she knew how,--short of love.

After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with the boiled fowl. She was followed by the servant-girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. Then the old man got up slowly and from a little private door drew a jug of ale and a bottle of gin. Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table.
Ruby cut up the fowl standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself at the table - and no one invited her to do so.
"Spirits or ale, Mr. Crumb?" she said. He gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an Amazon; but instead of speaking he bobbed his head at the beer jug. She filled his tumbler to the brim. She would be as kind to him as she knew how - short of love.


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

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


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

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


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

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


It was sad work for the old man. He went down the yard and into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, as he did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but still anxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him. He was not bound to give the girl a home at all. She was not his own child. And he had offered her 500! "Domm her," he said aloud as he made his way back to the house. After much search and considerable loss of time he returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting, leading Ruby in his hand. She was not smart in her apparel, for she had half undressed herself, and been then compelled by her grandfather to make herself fit to appear in public. She had acknowledged to herself that she had better go down and tell John Crumb the truth. For she was still determined that she would never be John Crumb's wife. "You can answer him as well as I, grandfather," she had said. Then the farmer had cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot. "Oh, if it comes to that," said Ruby, "I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor yet of nobody else. Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather." "I'll knock the life out of thee, if thou goest on this gate," he had said. But she had consented to come down, and they entered the room together.

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


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

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


"It ain't that at all, Mr. Mixet. If grandfather chooses to have a few friends, I ain't nothing against it. I wish he'd have a few friends a deal oftener than he do. I likes nothing better than to do for 'em;--only when I've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes and that like, I don't see why I ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves."


"But we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, Miss Ruby."


"I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr. Mixet. If you and Mr. Crumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper--"

If you and Mr. Crumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper-"


"Which we ain't," said John Crumb very loudly;--"nor yet for beer;--not by no means."

"Which we ain't," said John Crumb very loudly; "nor yet for beer."


"We've come for the smiles of beauty," said Joe Mixet.


Ruby chucked up her head. "Mr. Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that! There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you."

Ruby tossed her head. "Mr. Mixet, stow that! There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you."


"Except in the way of friendship," said Mixet.


"I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be," said Mr. Ruggles, who was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head forward. "I won't put up with it no more."

"I'm just sick of all this," said Mr. Ruggles, who was sitting bent in his chair. "I won't put up with it no more."


"Who wants you to put up with it?" said Ruby. "Who wants 'em to come here with their trash? Who brought 'em to-night? I don't know what business Mr. Mixet has interfering along o' me. I never interfere along o' him."

"Who wants you to put up with it?" said Ruby. "Who brought 'em tonight? I don't know what business Mr. Mixet has interfering along o' me."


"John Crumb, have you anything to say?" asked the old man.


Then John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his full height. "I hove," said he, swinging his head to one side.


"I will," said he. He was still standing bolt upright with his hands down by his side. Then he stretched out his left to his glass which was half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that would strengthen him. Having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which he still held in his right hand.

"I will." He stretched out his left hand to his glass, and drained it of beer. Then he slowly put down his pipe.


"Now speak your mind, like a man," said Mixet.


"I intends it," said John. But he still stood dumb, looking down upon old Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him. Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes intent upon the wall over the fire-place.

"I intends it," said John. But he still stood dumb. Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes on the wall over the fire-place.


"You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times;--haven't you, John?" suggested Mixet.

"You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times, haven't you, John?" suggested Mixet.


"And you mean to be as good as your word?"


"More nor once or twice?" To this proposition Crumb found it only necessary to bob his head. "You're ready,--and willing?"


"You're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?"


"There ain't no delay 'bout me;--never was."


"Everything is ready in your own house?"


"And you will expect Miss Ruby to come to the scratch?"


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

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


"Nohow's," said the lover, shaking his head and still standing upright with his hands by his side.

"Nohow's," said the lover, shaking his head.


"Not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of him. John has a heart in his buzsom."

"Not he. John has a heart in his buzsom."


"I has," said John, raising his hand a little above his stomach.


"And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let me make so free. He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has to say."

"And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night. He's a proposed to this young lady, and she's haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has to say."


"That's what I has to say," repeated John Crumb, "and I means it."


"And now, miss," continued Mixet, addressing himself to Ruby, "you've heard what John has to say."


"I've heard you, Mr. Mixet, and I've heard quite enough."


"You can't have anything to say against it, miss; can you? There's your grandfather as is willing, and the money as one may say counted out,--and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there isn't a ha'porth to do. All we want is for you to name the day."

"you can't have anything to say against it, can you? Your grandfather is willing, and John Crumb is willing, and his house is ready. All we want is for you to name the day."


"Say to-morrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agon it," said John Crumb, slapping his thigh.

"Say tomorrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agon it," said John Crumb, slapping his thigh.


"I won't say to-morrow, Mr. Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow, nor yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as much before."

"I won't say tomorrow, Mr. Crumb, nor the day after tomorrow, nor yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as much before."


"Then now I tell you in earnest. There's some folk wants such a deal of telling."


"Didn't you say as you would, Ruby? Didn't you say so as plain as the nose on my face?" John as he asked these questions could hardly refrain from tears.

"Didn't you say as you would, Ruby?" John was almost in tears.


"Young women is allowed to change their minds," said Ruby.


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

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


"She ain't that;--she ain't that," said John. "She ain't that at all. She's no slut. I won't hear her called so;--not by her grandfather. But, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself."

"She ain't that," said John. "She's no slut. I won't hear her called so. But, oh, she has put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself."


"Dash it, Miss Ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that way," said the baker.

"Dash it, Miss Ruby, you can't do that," said the baker.


"If you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged to you, Mr. Mixet," said Ruby. "If you hadn't come here at all things might have been different."

"If you'll keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged, Mr. Mixet," said Ruby.


"Hark at that now," said John, looking at his friend almost with indignation.


Mr. Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the absolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement were to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this. He put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into the yard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by the pig-stye wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay. As soon as Mixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of his eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right hand as a feeler. "He's aff now, Ruby," said John.

Mr. Mixet, not trusting himself to words, put on his hat and walked out into the yard, declaring that his friend would find him there whenever he was ready to return to Bungay.
As soon as Mixet was gone John made a slow motion towards his sweetheart, putting out his right hand as a feeler.


"And you'd better be aff after him," said the cruel girl.

"You'd better be aff after him," she said.


"Never. It ain't no use. What's the good of more words, Mr. Crumb?"


"Domm her; domm her," said old Ruggles. "I'll even it to her. She'll have to be out on the roads this night."

"Domm her; domm her," said old Ruggles. "She'll have to be out on the roads this night."


"She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it," said John, "and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh her till she sends for me."


"I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr. Crumb." Old Ruggles sat grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off and putting it on again, and meditating vengeance. "And now if you please, Mr. Crumb, I'll go up-stairs to my own room."

"I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr. Crumb. And now if you please, I'll go upstairs to my own room."


"You don't go up to any room here, you jade you." The old man as he said this got up from his chair as though to fly at her. And he would have struck her with his stick but that he was stopped by John Crumb.

"You don't go up to any room here, you jade you." The old man as he said this got up from his chair, and would have struck her with his stick had he not been stopped by John Crumb.


"Don't hit the girl, no gate, Mr. Ruggles."


"Domm her, John; she breaks my heart." While her lover held her grandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, again afraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her grandfather. "Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;--ain't it, Mr. Crumb?" said the grandfather appealing to the young man.

"Domm her, John; she breaks my heart." While John held her grandfather, Ruby escaped to her bedroom.
"Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear?" appealed the old man.


"Ways on 'em! A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on her. She's been and seen some young buck."

"She ought to have a whipping at the cart-tail. She's been and seen some young buck."


Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of anger flashed from his eyes. "You ain't a meaning of it, master?"

Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of anger flashed from his eyes. "You ain't a meaning it, master?"


"I'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot,--him as they call the baronite."

"I'm told the squoire's cousin been about - him as they call the baronite."


"Been along wi' Ruby?" The old man nodded at him. "By the mortials I'll baronite him;--I wull," said John seizing his hat and stalking off through the back kitchen after his friend.

"Been along wi' Ruby?" The old man nodded. "I'll baronite him - I wull," said John, seizing his hat and stalking off after his friend.


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


But then over these convictions there came a third,--equally strong,--which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy. As he walked up and down the walk by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, stopping every now and again to sit on the terrace wall,--walking there, mile after mile, with his mind intent on the one idea,--he schooled himself to feel that that, and that only, could be his duty. What did love mean if not that? What could be the devotion which men so often affect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of the beloved one? A man would incur any danger for a woman, would subject himself to any toil,--would even die for her! But if this were done simply with the object of winning her, where was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalf of another is the truest proof? So, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done. The man, though he had been bad to his friend, was not all bad. He was one who might become good in good hands. He, Roger, was too firm of purpose and too honest of heart to buoy himself up into new hopes by assurances of the man's unfitness. What right had he to think that he could judge of that better than the girl herself? And so, when many many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart,--though in conquering it he crushed it,--and in bringing himself to the resolve that the energies of his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. Paul Montague a happy woman. We have seen how he acted up to this resolve when last in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger from Paul Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta.

But then over these convictions there came a third, equally strong, which told him that the girl loved Montague and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy. As he walked up and down by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, mile after mile, he schooled himself to feel that that was his duty. What did love mean if not that? What was devotion if a man would not sacrifice himself on behalf of the beloved one?
So, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done. Montague was not all bad. He might become good in good hands. What right had he, Roger, to think that he could judge the man's fitness better than the girl herself? And so, when many many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart - though in conquering it he crushed it - and brought himself to the resolve that his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. Paul Montague a happy woman.


When he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart and of assuring himself thoroughly that Hetta was to become his rival's wife, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit than he had been during those months in which there had still been doubt. The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself could certainly never be his. That he would never marry he was quite sure. Indeed he was prepared to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boy on condition that such boy should take the old name. He would never have a child whom he could in truth call his own. But if he could induce these people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at least a part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an interest in the property. But as a first step to this he must learn to regard himself as an old man,--as one who had let life pass by too far for the purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devote himself to make happy the homes of others.

When he had accomplished that task, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit. The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself would certainly never be his. He was quite sure that he would never marry, nor have a child of his own. But if he could induce these people to live at Carbury for at least part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he thought that he could awaken himself again, and take an interest in the property. But first he must learn to regard himself as an old man, who had let his life pass by, and must devote himself to making happy the homes of others.


So thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his story to his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of those revelations Mrs. Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace. Roger felt that he had still much to say to his cousin before her marriage which could be said in the country much better than in town, and he wished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county to which she should be attached and in which she was to find her home. The day before she came he was over at the palace with the pretence of asking permission to come and see his cousin soon after her arrival, but in truth with the idea of talking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble. "As to settling your property on her or her children," said the Bishop, "it is quite out of the question. Your lawyer would not allow you to do it. Where would you be if after all you were to marry?"

When he asked the Bishop's wife to invite Hetta to stay, Roger wished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county in which she was to find her home. The day before she came he was over at the Bishop's palace, talking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble.
"As to settling your property on her or her children," said the Bishop, "it is quite out of the question. Your lawyer would not allow it. Where would you be if you were to marry?"


"Very likely not,--but yet you may. How is a man of your age to speak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in that respect? You can make your will, doing as you please with your property;--and the will, when made, can be revoked."

"Very likely not - but yet you may. How is a man of your age to be certain? You can make your will, doing as you please with your property; and the will, when made, can be revoked."


"I think you hardly understand just what I feel," said Roger, "and I know very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had a son, would be my natural heir."

"I think you hardly understand what I feel," said Roger. "I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had one, would be my natural heir."


"But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you might have a son of your own. A man should never put the power, which properly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properly belong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think very highly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise than well of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should have some effect in producing a more complete observance of your wishes."

"But even if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a chance that you might have a son of your own. A man should never put power which properly belongs to him out of his own hands. I think very highly of your cousin. But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should produce a more complete observance of your wishes."


"I do not believe it in the least, my lord," said Roger somewhat angrily.


"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the present moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of the old king. 'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.' The world, I take it, thinks that the fool was right."

"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters; but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of King Lear. 'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.'"


The Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea of settling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was not on that account the less resolute in his determination to make himself and his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours. "I hope all our troubles are over now," he said smiling.

The Bishop succeeded in so far as Roger abandoned the idea of settling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was still resolute in his determination to make his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her, he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours.
"I hope all our troubles are over now," he said smiling.


"You mean about Felix," said Hetta,--"and mamma?"

"You mean about Felix," said Hetta, "and mamma?"


"No, indeed. As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has done the best thing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, and Mr. Broune seems to be a prudent man. And about your mother herself, I hope that she may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to Felix and your mother. I was thinking of you--and of myself."

"No, indeed. As to Felix, I think that Lady Carbury has done the best thing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, who seems to be a prudent man. And I hope your mother may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to them. I was thinking of you - and of myself."


"I hope that you will never have any troubles."


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

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


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

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


"There is no teaching necessary for that," she said.


"As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta. You will soon come to find that I am very old. I grow old quickly, and already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish."

"As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta. You will soon come to find that I am very old. I already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish."


"Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise me this. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence."

"Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise to do all you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence."


"We have no plans as yet at all, Roger."


"Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my plan. Of course you will be married at Carbury?"

"Then it will be so much the easier. Of course you will be married at Carbury?"


"She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. That I regard as settled. Then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you should learn really to care about and to love the place. It will be your home really, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position." With all his love to her and his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should be Squire of Carbury.

"She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. Then, after that, let this be your home - so that you should learn to care about and love the place. It will be your home really, you know, one of these days. You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position." With all his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should be Squire of Carbury.


"Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that."


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

"But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know my wishes, and, if possible, I would learn what yours are. Of course, I do not wish to dictate to you - and I could not dictate to Mr. Montague."


"Pray,--pray do not call him Mr. Montague."


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

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


[Illustration: "There goes the last of my anger."]


His brow became a little black as he answered her. "To a sister," he said very solemnly, "I will not say a word against her brother; but on that subject I claim a right to come to a decision on my own judgment. It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I may say, suffered much. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I need not pause to explain to you now. If we are as much together as I hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them. The disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in accordance with his own caprices,--or even with his own affections. He owes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to his country. And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestly wished that the property should be continued in the hands of their descendants. These things are to me very holy. In what I am doing I am in some respects departing from the theory of my life,--but I do so under a perfect conviction that by the course I am taking I shall best perform the duties to which I have alluded. I do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that." He had spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understand all that he had said, she did not venture to dispute his will any further. He did not endeavour to exact from her any promise, but having explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then left her and rode home without going into the house.

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


Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul was received quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidly kept his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings. As to his love for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had so nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate rival. Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity that any allusion should be made to past misfortunes. Roger indeed made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his fidelity. But he spoke much of the land and of the tenants and the labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the necessity of so living that the income might always be more than sufficient for the wants of the household.

Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul was received quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, Roger rigidly kept his promise, whatever the cost to his own feelings. Indeed he made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his fidelity. But he spoke much of the land and tenants and labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the necessity of a household budget.


When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishop at the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away the bride. All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had not seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who was there with his wife,--himself now one of Roger's tenants, having occupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old Daniel Ruggles,--declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own. "John, what a fool you are!" Ruby said to her spouse, when this opinion was expressed with rather a loud voice. "Yes, I be," said John,--"but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you." "No, John; it was I was the fool then," said Ruby. "We'll see about that when the bairn's born," said John,--equally aloud. Then Ruby held her tongue. Mrs. Broune, and Mr. Broune, were also at Carbury,--thus doing great honour to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Montague, and showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an end. Sir Felix was not there. Happily up to this time Mr. Septimus Blake had continued to keep that gentleman as one of his Protestant population in the German town,--no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.

When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishop at the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away the bride. All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had not seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who was there with his wife, loudly declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own.
"John, what a fool you are!" Ruby said.
"Yes, I be," said John, "but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you."
"No, John; I was the fool then," said Ruby.
"We'll see about that when the bairn's born," said John, equally loudly. Then Ruby held her tongue.
Mr. and Mrs. Broune were also at Carbury, showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an end. Sir Felix was not there. Happily up to this time, Mr. Septimus Blake had continued to keep that gentleman in the German town - no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.


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

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


"Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was true that he had dined."


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


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

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


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

"Then why didn't he behave as such?" Mrs. Hurtle again smiled. "Has he authority over you?"


"Of course he has not. What authority could he have?"

"Of course not. What authority could he have?"


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

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


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

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


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

There are many of my readers who will declare that Paul Montague was a poor creature, in his reluctance to face this woman with the truth. His folly in falling for her charms will be forgiven him; his unwise engagement, and his determination to break it, will be pardoned as natural. But readers will be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice - I think unjustly. Mastery often comes from hardness of heart rather than true courage. The man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, often does so because of an aversion to giving pain.
Paul feared the woman; but he also shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter desertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bring himself to tell her that he wanted her no further. But that was what he had to do.


"Mr. Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing yourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?"

"Mr. Carbury rebuked you for showing yourself on the sands at Lowestoft with me?"


"He knew of the letter which I wrote to you."


"Of course we have. Is that unnatural? Would you have had me be silent about you to the oldest and the best friend I have in the world?"

"Of course we have. Would you have had me be silent about you to the oldest and best friend I have in the world?"


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

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


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

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


"Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitter things to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn that you should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and I have to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say but one word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be soon an end to that bitterness. What shall I care for Mr. Carbury, except to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speak but that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you remember how urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that your happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? Though I loved you, I doubted. There were considerations of money, which have now vanished. But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and because I believed you. Give me that which you swore you had given before I made my gift to you."

"Have I usually said bitter things to you? When I hung round your neck and swore that you should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and I have to fight my own battles. Say but one word to me, Paul, and there will be an end to bitterness. And think what it is I am asking. Do you remember how urgent were once your own prayers to me; how you begged for one word of mine? I spoke it, because I loved you, and because I believed you."


"Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old glove? I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing like that. No man has ever dared to treat me like that. No man shall dare."

"So after all, I am to be thrown off like an old glove? I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing like that. No man has ever dared to treat me like that."


"Wrote to me;--yes! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. I think but little of my life and have but little for which to live. But while I do live I will travel over the world's surface to face injustice and to expose it, before I will put up with it. You wrote to me! Heaven and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence!" She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at a further distance. "Wrote to me! Could any mere letter of your writing break the bond by which we were bound together? Had not the distance between us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared to write that letter? The letter must be unwritten. It has already been contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in this country."

"Wrote to me! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. While I live I will face injustice and expose it. You wrote to me! Heaven and earth - I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence!" She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table, and then dropped it again. "Could any mere letter break the bond by which we were bound together? The letter must be unwritten. It has already been contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in this country."


"I hope not. When I first saw you I told you everything. If I have been wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it."


"This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the beach. You are acting now under his orders. No doubt he came with the purpose. Had you told him you were to be here?"


"It was very opportune at any rate. Well;--what have you to say to me? Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all that is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the matter out with your--friend, Mr. Carbury."

"It was very opportune. Well; what have you to say to me? Or perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the matter out with your - friend, Mr. Carbury."


"What has to be said, I believe I can say myself."

"What has to be said, I can say myself."


"Say it then. Or are you so ashamed of it, that the words stick in your throat?"


"There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say that which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had I been fairly careful."

"I am ashamed of it. I must say that which will be painful, and which would not have needed to be said, if I had been careful."


Then he paused. "Don't spare me," she said. "I know what it all is as well as though it were already told. I know the lies with which they have crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in Oregon--I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead at my feet." Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at him. "Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate to tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that dying wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap just below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus alone that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must afterwards have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not try me for his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of such necessity. A woman here is protected,--unless it be from lies."

"Don't spare me," she said. "I already know it all. I know the lies with which they crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in Oregon I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead at my feet." Then she rose from her chair, and looked at him. "Do you suppose that the sight of that dying wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken screech, and see him fall? But did they tell you also that it was only thus that I could save myself? Otherwise, why did they not try me for his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of such necessity. A woman here is protected - except from lies."


"No; they told you other things," she continued, still standing over him. "They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies, and who made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character of my former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a scoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you can hardly know what my life has been."

"No; they told you other things," she continued, still standing over him. "They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies, and who made them, and why. Did I conceal my husband's character from you? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a scoundrel?"


"Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for fighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a duel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should only enter it over my body. He went away to the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That was the duel. And they have told you that he is not dead."

"Fought him! Yes; I was always fighting him. What are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and treachery? You have not been foolish enough to believe that fable about a duel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should only enter it over my body. He went away to the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That was the duel. And they have told you that he is not dead."


"Who has seen him alive? I never said to you that I had seen him dead. How should I?"


"Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles from Galveston! And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from him according to the law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law make a woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us? I sued for a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness. He made no appearance, and the Court granted it me. Am I disgraced by that?"

And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from him according to the law of the State of Kansas, on the grounds of his cruelty and drunkenness. He made no appearance, and the Court granted it me. Am I disgraced by that?"


"I do not remember. When we were talking of these old days before, you did not care how short I was in telling my story. You wanted to hear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have become more particular. I told you that he was dead,--as I believed myself, and do believe. Whether the other story was told or not I do not know."

"When we were talking in the old days you wanted to hear nothing of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you are more particular. I told you that he was dead, as I believed myself, and do believe.


"Then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen. And they have made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back my property?"

And I suppose they have told you that I failed in getting back my property?"


"I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have said unasked. I have asked no question about your property."

"I have asked no question about your property."


"You are welcome. At last I have made it again my own. And now, sir, what else is there? I think I have been open with you. Is it because I protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? Am I to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a reprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or because by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am not to be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."

"You are welcome to know. At last I have it again. And now, sir, what else is there? Is it because I protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? Am I to be cast aside because I saved my life from a reprobate husband, and escaped from him by lawful means; or because I have secured my own property? If I am not condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."


She had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, but in doing so had left him without a word to say. She had owned to shooting the man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoot a man--especially in Oregon. As to the duel with her husband,--she had half denied and half confessed it. He presumed that she had been armed with a pistol when she refused Mr. Hurtle admittance into the nuptial chamber. As to the question of Hurtle's death,--she had confessed that perhaps he was not dead. But then,--as she had asked,--why should not a divorce for the purpose in hand be considered as good as a death? He could not say that she had not washed herself clean;--and yet, from the story as told by herself, what man would wish to marry her? She had seen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he assumed to be her master. "I do not condemn you," he replied.

She had left him without a word to say. She had owned to shooting the man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoot a man in Oregon. As to the duel with her husband, she had half confessed it. She had confessed that perhaps Hurtle was not dead. But then, as she had asked, why was not a divorce as good as a death?
And yet, from this story, what man would wish to marry her? She had seen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he assumed to be her master.
"I do not condemn you," he replied.


"At any rate, Paul, do not lie," she answered. "If you tell me that you will not be my husband, you do condemn me. Is it not so?"

"Paul, do not lie. If you tell me that you will not be my husband, you condemn me."


"I will not lie if I can help it. I did ask you to be my wife--"

"I will not lie if I can help it. I did ask you to be my wife-"


"Well;--rather. How often before I consented?"

"How often did you ask before I consented?"


"It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent. I have since satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of us."

"I now believe such a marriage would be miserable for both of us.


"I have. Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of me as you please. I can hardly defend myself."


"But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for the best in declaring that I will not become--your husband."

"But I know that I shall now be acting for the best in declaring that I will not become your husband."


"You will not?" She was still standing, and stretched out her right hand as though again to grasp something.

"You will not?" She was still standing, and stretched out her right hand as though to grasp something.


He also now rose from his chair. "If I speak with abruptness it is only to avoid a show of indecision. I will not."


"Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man after man false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bear it! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money?--or rank? Or is it that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak for herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary? Perhaps you think that I am--old." He was looking at her intently as she spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to her face. It was full of lines round the mouth, and the light play of drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed,--and her eyes seemed to be deep in her head. "Speak, man,--is it that you want a younger wife?"

"Oh, God! Why is it my lot to meet man after man as false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bear it! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money? or rank? Or are you afraid to marry a woman who can speak for herself, and act for herself? Perhaps you think that I am - old." He was looking at her intently as she spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to her face. It was full of lines round the mouth, and her eyes seemed to be deep in her head. "Speak, man. Is it that you want a younger wife?"


"Know! How should any one know anything from a liar? From what you tell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from your character. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came to you, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between me and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowing what you would be at, from anything that you would say,--that is impossible. Once again I have come across a mean wretch. Oh, fool!--that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world! My last word to you is, that you are--a liar. Now for the present you can go. Ten minutes since, had I had a weapon in my hand I should have shot another man."

"Know! How should one know anything from a liar? You are a coward. It is that man who has forced you to this. Between me and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied - another mean wretch. That men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world! You are a liar. Now go. Had I had a weapon in my hand I should have used it."


Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not but think that perhaps Mrs. Hurtle might have had some excuse. It seemed at any rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her,--though luckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on the present occasion. "I will say good-bye to you," he said, when he had found his hat.

Paul Montague felt that perhaps Mrs. Hurtle might have had some excuse. "I will say good-bye to you," he said.


"Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of me. Pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy. Tell me that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman. You would,--were you not afraid to indulge yourself." He was now standing in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an imperative command. "I shall not stay here now," she said--"I shall return on Monday. I must think of what you have said, and must resolve what I myself will do. I shall not bear this without seeking a means of punishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you to come to me on Monday."

"Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of me. Show me your joy. Tell me that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman." He was now standing in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him a command. "I shall not stay here now," she said. "I shall return on Monday. I must resolve what I will do. I shall seek a means of punishing you for your treachery. I expect you to come to me on Monday."


He closed the door as he answered her. "I do not see that it will serve any purpose."


"It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much a coward that you are afraid to come to me. If so, I shall come to you; and you may be assured that I shall not be too timid to show myself and to tell my story." He ended by saying that if she desired it he would wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. On his return to town he would write to her.

"It is for me, sir, to judge of that. If you are too much of a coward to come to me, I shall come to you. I shall not be too timid to show myself and tell my story." He said he would visit her, but would not fix a day. On his return to town he would write to her.


When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile. Then she closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door and with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, and falling on her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table. Then she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor.

When he was gone she went to the door and listened. Then she locked it, and stood with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, and falling on her knees, buried her face in her hands. She gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor.


Was this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest;--never have one draught of cool water between her lips? Was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In almost all that she had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the truth,--as which among us would in giving the story of his life? She had endured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemed against, and had schemed. She had fitted herself to the life which had befallen her. But in regard to money, she had been honest and she had been loving of heart. With her heart of hearts she had loved this young Englishman;--and now, after all her scheming, all her daring, with all her charms, this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journey would this be which she must now make back to her own country, all alone!

Should she never know rest? Was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils of her life? In almost all that she had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the truth. She had endured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemed against, and had schemed. But she had been honest about money, and she had been loving of heart. She had loved this young Englishman - and now this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journey she would now have to make back to her own country, all alone!


But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of disappointed love. Full as had been the vials of wrath which she had poured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm of abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after all something counterfeited in her indignation. But her love was no counterfeit. At any moment if he would have returned to her and taken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessed him also for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart of violence and rough living and unfeminine words. When driven by wrongs the old habit came back upon her. But if she could only escape the wrongs, if she could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour forth all the genuine kindness of her woman's nature,--then, she thought she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl. When she first met this Englishman and found that he took delight in being near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her. But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol shot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as she had often told herself before, that it would have been better for her to have turned the muzzle against her own bosom.

But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of disappointed love. Violently as she had abused him, if he had taken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessed him for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart of rough living. If she could only escape, if she could find some safe niche in the world, then she thought she could put away violence and be as gentle as a girl. When she first met this admiring Englishman, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her. But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol shot still clung to her, and she told herself - not for the first time - that it would have been better for her to have shot herself.


After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told herself was a vain chance. Though angry enough when that letter first reached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her, declared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural. In marrying her he must give up all his old allies, all his old haunts. The whole world must be changed to him. She knew enough of herself, and enough of Englishwomen, to be sure that when her past life should be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in England. With all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in speaking of the old country there was ever mixed, as is so often the case in the minds of American men and women, an almost envious admiration of English excellence. To have been allowed to forget the past and to live the life of an English lady would have been heaven to her. But she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in the eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become almost a proverb for violence out in the far West,--how could she dare to hope that her lot should be so changed for her?

On receiving his letter, though she had been angry, she declared to herself that his resolution was natural. In marrying her he must give up his old friends and haunts. She was aware that when her past life became known, she would be avoided in English society. To have been allowed to forget the past and to live the life of an English lady would have been heaven to her. But she, whose name had become almost a proverb for violence out in the far West - how could she dare to hope that her lot should be so changed?


She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often before she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that that hesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness. But it had been so. Circumstances had made her what she was. Circumstances had been cruel to her. But she could not now alter them. Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lost herself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed. She had, however, almost known that it could not be so. But this man had relatives, had business, had property in her own country. Though she could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous life be opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of that journey to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinary kind might detain him there for years. With what joy would she have accompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have been fit.

She had reminded Paul that he had asked her often before she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that her hesitation had arisen from her sense of her own unfitness. Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lost herself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed. She had, however, known that it could not be so.
But this man had relatives and property in the United States. Might not a prosperous life be opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of that journey to Mexico. With what joy would she have accompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have been fit.


She was conscious,--perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty. That at any rate, she felt, had not deserted her. She was hardly aware that time was touching it. And she knew herself to be clever, capable of causing happiness, and mirth and comfort. She had the qualities of a good comrade--which are so much in a woman. She knew all this of herself. If he and she could be together in some country in which those stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, could she not make him happy? But what was she that a man should give up everything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarous country for her alone? She knew it all and was hardly angry with him in that he had decided against her. But treated as she had been she must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. It was consonant with her old character, it was consonant with her present plans that she should at any rate seem to be angry.

She was conscious - perhaps too conscious - of her own beauty. And she knew herself to be clever, and a good comrade. If they could be together in some other country, could she not make him happy? Yet what was she that a man should give up everything and go away to some half-barbarous country for her alone? She knew it all and was hardly angry with him. But treated as she had been, she must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. She should at least seem to be angry.


Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but the plan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was the writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondest love, and telling him that he was right. She did write the letter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not have the strength to send it to him. The reader may judge with what feeling she wrote the following words:--

Sitting alone late into the night she made many plans, but the plan that seemed best to suit her frame of mind was the writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondest love, and telling him that he was right. She did write this letter, believing that she would not have the strength to send it.


You are right and I am wrong. Our marriage would not have been fitting. I do not blame you. I attracted you when we were together; but you have learned and have learned truly that you should not give up your life for such attractions. If I have been violent with you, forgive me. You will acknowledge that I have suffered.

You are right and I am wrong. Our marriage would not have been fitting. I do not blame you. I attracted you; but you have learned truly that you should not give up your life for such attractions. If I have been violent with you, forgive me. You will acknowledge that I have suffered.


Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than any one else. I think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side. God bless you, and make you happy. Write me the shortest, shortest word of adieu. Not to do so would make you think yourself heartless. But do not come to me.

Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than anyone else. I think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side. God bless you, and make you happy. Write me the shortest word of adieu. Not to do so would make you think yourself heartless. But do not come to me.


This she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read it twice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that she ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not bring herself to do so. It was early in the morning before she went to bed but she had admitted no one into the room after Montague had left her.

Having read this note twice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that she ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not bring herself to do so.


Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the sea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyance to take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning. At breakfast he presented himself to the squire. "I have come earlier than you expected," he said.

Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the sea-shore, and then went to bed, having ordered a carriage to take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning.
At breakfast he presented himself to the squire


"Yes, indeed;--much earlier. Are you going back to Lowestoft?"


Then he told the whole story. Roger expressed his satisfaction, recalling however the pledge which he had given as to his return. "Let her follow you, and bear it," he said. "Of course you must suffer the effects of your own imprudence." On that evening Paul Montague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he would thus avoid a meeting with Mrs. Hurtle in the railway-carriage.

and told the whole story. Roger expressed his satisfaction. That evening Paul Montague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he would thus avoid a meeting with Mrs. Hurtle in the railway-carriage.


Mr. Longestaffe had brought his daughter down to Caversham on a Wednesday. During the Thursday and Friday she had passed a very sad time, not knowing whether she was or was not engaged to marry Mr. Brehgert. Her father had declared to her that he would break off the match, and she believed that he had seen Mr. Brehgert with that purpose. She had certainly given no consent, and had never hinted to any one of the family an idea that she was disposed to yield. But she felt that, at any rate with her father, she had not adhered to her purpose with tenacity, and that she had allowed him to return to London with a feeling that she might still be controlled. She was beginning to be angry with Mr. Brehgert, thinking that he had taken his dismissal from her father without consulting her. It was necessary that something should be settled, something known. Life such as that she was leading now would drive her mad. She had all the disadvantages of the Brehgert connection and none of the advantages. She could not comfort herself with thinking of the Brehgert wealth and the Brehgert houses, and yet she was living under the general ban of Caversham on account of her Brehgert associations. She was beginning to think that she herself must write to Mr. Brehgert,--only she did not know what to say to him.

Georgiana felt that she had allowed her father to return to London thinking that she might still be controlled. She was beginning to be angry with Mr. Brehgert, assuming he had taken his dismissal from her father without consulting her. It was necessary that something should be settled, something known. She had all the disadvantages of the Brehgert connection and none of the advantages. She was beginning to think that she herself must write to Mr. Brehgert - only she did not know what to say to him.


But on the Saturday morning she got a letter from Mr. Brehgert. It was handed to her as she was sitting at breakfast with her sister,--who at that moment was triumphant with a present of gooseberries which had been sent over from Toodlam. The Toodlam gooseberries were noted throughout Suffolk, and when the letters were being brought in Sophia was taking her lover's offering from the basket with her own fair hands. "Well!" Georgey had exclaimed, "to send a pottle of gooseberries to his lady love across the country! Who but George Whitstable would do that?"

But on the Saturday morning she got a letter from Mr. Brehgert. It was handed to her as she was sitting at breakfast with her sister - who at that moment was triumphant with a present of gooseberries which had been sent over from Toodlam.
"Well!" Georgey had exclaimed, "to send gooseberries to his lady love across the country! Who but George Whitstable would do that?"


"I dare say you get nothing but gems and gold," Sophy retorted. "I don't suppose that Mr. Brehgert knows what a gooseberry is." At that moment the letter was brought in, and Georgiana knew the writing. "I suppose that's from Mr. Brehgert," said Sophy.

"I dare say you get nothing but gems and gold," Sophy retorted. "I don't suppose that Mr. Brehgert knows what a gooseberry is." At that moment the letter was brought in. "I suppose that's from Mr. Brehgert."


"I don't think it matters much to you who it's from." She tried to be composed and stately, but the letter was too important to allow of composure, and she retired to read it in privacy.

"I don't think it matters to you who it's from." Georgiana tried to be composed and stately, but the letter was too important to allow of composure, and she retired to read it in privacy.


Your father came to me the day after I was to have met you at Lady Monogram's party. I told him then that I would not write to you till I had taken a day or two to consider what he said to me;--and also that I thought it better that you should have a day or two to consider what he might say to you. He has now repeated what he said at our first interview, almost with more violence; for I must say that I think he has allowed himself to be violent when it was surely unnecessary.

Your father came to me the day after I was to have met you at Lady Monogram's party. I told him that I would not write to you till I had taken a day or two to consider what he said to me; and also that I thought that you should have a day or two to consider what he might say to you. He has now repeated what he said at our first interview, almost with more violence; for I must say that I think he has allowed himself to be violent when it was surely unnecessary.


The long and short of it is this. He altogether disapproves of your promise to marry me. He has given three reasons;--first that I am in trade; secondly that I am much older than you, and have a family; and thirdly that I am a Jew. In regard to the first I can hardly think that he is earnest. I have explained to him that my business is that of a banker; and I can hardly conceive it to be possible that any gentleman in England should object to his daughter marrying a banker, simply because the man is a banker. There would be a blindness of arrogance in such a proposition of which I think your father to be incapable. This has merely been added in to strengthen his other objections.

The long and short of it is this. He altogether disapproves of your promise to marry me. He has given three reasons; first that I am in trade; secondly that I am much older than you, and have a family; and thirdly that I am a Jew.
In regard to the first I can hardly think that he is earnest. I am a banker; and I can hardly conceive it to be possible that any gentleman in England should object to his daughter marrying a banker.


As to my age, it is just fifty-one. I do not at all think myself too old to be married again. Whether I am too old for you is for you to judge,--as is also that question of my children who, of course, should you become my wife will be to some extent a care upon your shoulders. As this is all very serious you will not, I hope, think me wanting in gallantry if I say that I should hardly have ventured to address you if you had been quite a young girl. No doubt there are many years between us;--and so I think there should be. A man of my age hardly looks to marry a woman of the same standing as himself. But the question is one for the lady to decide,--and you must decide it now.

As to my age, it is fifty-one. I do not think myself too old to be married again. Whether I am too old for you is for you to judge - as is also that question of my children who, of course, should you become my wife will be to some extent a care upon your shoulders. As this is all very serious you will not, I hope, think me wanting in gallantry if I say that I should hardly have ventured to address you if you had been quite a young girl. No doubt there are many years between us. But the question is one for the lady to decide, and you must decide it now.


As to my religion, I acknowledge the force of what your father says,--though I think that a gentleman brought up with fewer prejudices would have expressed himself in language less likely to give offence. However I am a man not easily offended; and on this occasion I am ready to take what he has said in good part. I can easily conceive that there should be those who think that the husband and wife should agree in religion. I am indifferent to it myself. I shall not interfere with you if you make me happy by becoming my wife, nor, I suppose, will you with me. Should you have a daughter or daughters I am quite willing that they should be brought up subject to your influence.

As to my religion, I acknowledge the force of what your father says, though I think that a gentleman brought up with fewer prejudices would have expressed himself in language less likely to give offence. However I am a man not easily offended; and I am ready to take what he has said in good part. I can easily conceive that there should be those who think that the husband and wife should agree in religion. I am indifferent to it myself. I shall not interfere with you if you make me happy by becoming my wife, nor, I suppose, will you with me. Should you have a daughter or daughters I am quite willing that they should be brought up subject to your influence.


There was a plain-speaking in this which made Georgiana look round the room as though to see whether any one was watching her as she read it.

(There was a plain-speaking in this which made Georgiana look round the room as though to see whether anyone was watching her as she read it.)