"It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The Longestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the country. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be living at Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them."

"It would be most uncourteous. The Longestaffes are the leading people in this part of the country.


"You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimate friend I have in the world."

Chapter 19: Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale


"That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for."


"That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house."

- to see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house."


"That's all settled," said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume.


"As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here."


"Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?"


"My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!" In her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make her son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by all mothers in England! "No, you didn't tell me before. But I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you."

"My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!" In her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms. Here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour that she would be envied by all mothers in England! "I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you."


"I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to it."


"If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it?"

"If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do. Why should he oppose it?


"You are a man of rank, with a title of your own. I suppose what he wants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of the Directors at his Board. Oh Felix;--it is almost too good to be true."

You are a man of rank, with a title. I suppose he wants a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of his Directors. Oh Felix - it is almost too good to be true."


"I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, you know."

"I ain't sure that I care very much about being married, you know."


"Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her! Don't let any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. You will be able to do just what you please when once the question of her money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of London you please. You must understand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without an established income."

"Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl, and we shall be so fond of her! You will be able to do just what you please once the money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of London you please.


"If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of that kind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as you live. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough to you, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understand how well I think you have done it all." Then she caressed him again, and was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If, after all, her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to the world as a baronet with 20,000 a year, how glorious would it be! She must have known,--she did know,--how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But her gratification at the prospect of his splendour obliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his character sometimes oppressed her. Were he to win this girl with all her father's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better for it, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be taken from her shoulders. But his magnificence would be established. He was her son, and the prospect of his fortune and splendour was sufficient to elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. "But, Felix," she continued, "you really must stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow. It will only be one day.--And now were you to run away--"

There would be plenty of money for everything. I don't know how to tell you how dearly I love you, and how well I think you have done it all."
Then she caressed him, almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her trouble, should shine forth to the world as a baronet with 20,000 a year, how glorious would it be! She must have known - she did know - how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But the prospect of his splendour obliterated her sorrow at his character. It raised her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams.
"But, Felix," she continued, "you really must stay, and go to the Longestaffes' tomorrow. It will only be one day.


"If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You should lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should."

If you were to start back to London at once, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You should try to please him; indeed you should."


"Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself to be persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him, and he consented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not so stiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her. Though he might not like Felix,--who, as his mother admitted to herself, had been rude to her cousin,--he would have rejoiced for the sake of the family. But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. He would have received her tidings with silent scorn. And even Henrietta would not be enthusiastic. She felt that though she would have delighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at present. It should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with Mr. Melmotte at the dinner party at Caversham.

"Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix. Nevertheless he was persuaded to remain, and endure the nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House.
Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know who to tell. If her cousin were not so pig-headed, so ignorant of the ways of the world, he would have rejoiced with her for the sake of the family. But she did not dare to tell him. Even Henrietta would not be enthusiastic. She must be silent for now.


During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his cousin Hetta. There was not much conversation between them till quite late, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at Bungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking Carbury on the way. "What did you think of our bishop?" Roger asked him, rather imprudently.

That evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his cousin Hetta till quite late, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at Bungay among his people, and walked back via Carbury.
"What did you think of our bishop?" Roger asked him, rather imprudently.


"Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an average lord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any one sufficient to make him a bishop."

"Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord.


"Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him in any matter of clerical conduct which might come before him."


"Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and would not therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of your bishops that has an opinion,--if there be one left,--and see how far your clergy consent to his teaching!" Roger turned round and took up his book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself always abstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend's religion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not by any means return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that were he to take up the cudgels for an argument he might be worsted in the combat, as in such combats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere,--wondering whether the hours would ever wear themselves away in that castle of dulness, in which no cards were to be seen, and where, except at meal-times, there was nothing to drink. But Lady Carbury was quite willing to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for the dissemination of religion outside his own church must be naught.

He has no strong opinion of his own, so he can hardly be competent to guide his clergy."
Roger turned round and took up his book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself always abstained from insulting his new friend's religion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that he might lose any argument, as in such combats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere. But Lady Carbury was quite willing to allow the priest to put her right.


"I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs," she said with her sweetest smile.


"I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to the two or three whom I have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom I have not seen."


"They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!"


"I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good income. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to select guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinite labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in the House of Commons?"

"Indeed. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled.


"Indeed, no," said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least understand the nature of the question put to her.


"And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?"


"The English people, or some of them,--that some being the richest, and, at present, the most powerful,--like to play at having a Church, though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of a Church."

English people like to play at having a Church, though they have not sufficient faith to submit to a Church's control."


"Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?"


"In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you make that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters."

"In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors."


"That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury. "The clergyman, in the catechism, says, 'My good child.'"


"It is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession of your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty when you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, and intended only for children. As a rule, adults with you want no religion."

"I quite agree that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether. As a rule, adults in your Church want no religion."


"I am afraid that is true of a great many."


"It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,--unless, indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity."

"I marvel that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by fear to a safer faith - unless, indeed, he enjoys the security of absolute infidelity."


"That is worse than anything," said Lady Carbury with a sigh and a shudder.


"I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief," said the priest with energy;--"than a creed which sits so easily on a man that he does not even know what it contains, and never asks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible."

"I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief," said the priest with energy; "than a creed which a man never questions, and does not even know what it contains."


"We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down the book which he had in vain been trying to read.

"We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down his book.


"I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening," said Lady Carbury. The priest drew himself back into his chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand that Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to be aware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond of ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced into conviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to hear arguments.

"I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening," said Lady Carbury. The priest smiled. He knew that Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense. But she might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing.


"I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of," said Roger.


"You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it," said the priest.


"And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham took his departure and walked away to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might be that he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt to plough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten.

"And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham departed to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed; or, at any rate, ploughed some ground.


The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for repeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should be so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he had determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of a certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. All that pride of independence, which had amounted almost to roughness, when she was in London, seemed to have left her. When he greeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. There was not a glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch, and calculate its effect as regarded himself. But because she was tender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her heart was growing into love for him. He thought that he understood the working of her mind. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with him against those who were nearer to herself, and therefore,--in pity,--she was kind to him. It was thus he read it, and he read it almost with exact accuracy.

Roger had fixed on the following morning for repeating his suit to Henrietta. Though the words had been almost on his tongue that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them. He was almost painfully conscious of an increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. When he greeted her, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He saw that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become as punctual as the hand of the clock.
But because she was tender and observant, he did not allow himself to believe that she was growing to love him. He thought that he understood her. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, made her sympathise with him; she was kind to him. Thus he read it, and with exact accuracy.


"Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile."


"Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it." She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soon as she found the white rose in her room, that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury;--and, up to this time, she had hardly made up her mind what answer she would give to it. That she could not take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked her for her love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. But in spite of all this there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wanted it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. And she had gone entirely over to his side in regard to the Melmottes. Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr. Melmotte's money, till her very heart had been sickened. There was nothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, Roger's conduct and bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. Should such a one be doomed to pine for ever because a girl could not love him,--a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!

She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury; and she had hardly decided what answer she would give.
She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked for her love, but she thought that he desired it. In spite of this there had grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards Roger so strong that it almost tempted her to think that he ought to have what he wanted. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed she could not be justified in refusing him. Should such a gentleman be doomed to pine for ever because a girl could not love him - a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!


"Hetta," he said, "put your arm here." She gave him her arm. "I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me."

"Hetta," he said, "put your arm here." She gave him her arm. "I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and he is always turning against me."


"He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere." So, thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church. "He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of believing, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. I didn't quite like your hearing it."

"He does harm if he teaches us to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere." So, thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church. "He ought not to say such things before my guests. I didn't like your hearing it."


"I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given. I suppose they all do it. It's their business."

"I don't think he'll do me any harm. I suppose they all do it. It's their business.


"Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside of a comfortable house."


"I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop."

I liked him; only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop."


"And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs."

"And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his affairs.


"His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to me about money."


"No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything."

"No. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything."


"I wonder whether she has accepted him."


"I think she very nearly did accept him in London."


"I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about this marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she does the necessity of money."

"I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about this marriage.


"Felix is so disposed to be extravagant."


"Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bring myself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests."

But I quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests."


"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not in the least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.

"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.


"I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other child would better repay her devotion,"--this he said, looking up to Hetta and smiling,--"I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel."

"I know; and though I happen to think that her other child would better repay her devotion," - he smiled at Hetta - "I know how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, the other day we almost had a quarrel.


"I felt that there was something unpleasant."


"And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things."

And then Felix arriving late put me out. I am getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things."


"I think you are so good,--and so kind." As she said this she leaned upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved him.

"I think you are so good - and so kind." She leaned upon his arm.


"I have been angry with myself," he said, "and so I am making you my father confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and I think that you would understand me better than your mother."

"I have been angry with myself," he said, "and so I am making you my father confessor. Confession is good for the soul sometimes, and I think you would understand me better than your mother."


"I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess."

"I do; but don't think there is any fault to confess."


"You will not exact any penance?" She only looked at him and smiled. "I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I know nothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him about things in general."

"I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, but I will express some civil wish to him about things in general."


"If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things. Didn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sunday instead of going to church?"

"If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little things.


"But then he was travelling all the Saturday night."


"Whose fault was that? But don't you see it is the triviality of the offence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over the head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have had a right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday;--and therefore I must do penance."

But it is their triviality which makes the penance necessary. Had he burned the house down, I should have had a right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday; and therefore I must do penance."


There was nothing of love in all this. Hetta, however, did not wish him to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as a friend,--as a most intimate friend. If he would only do that without making love to her, how happy could she be! But his determination still held good. "And now," said he, altering his tone altogether, "I must speak about myself." Immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. Thereupon he put his left hand round and pressed her arm to his. "No," he said; "do not make any change towards me while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends."

There was nothing of love in all this. Hetta thought that if he would only continue treating her as a friend, how happy could she be!
But his tone altered. "And now," said he, "I must speak about myself." Immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. He pressed her arm to his. "No," he said; "do not make any change while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends."


"Yes;--always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say. I will not tell you again that I love you. You know it, or else you must think me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only that I love you, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing only, so constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine myself to single interests, that I cannot as it were escape from my love. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it so much. For, after all, let a woman be ever so good,--and you to me are all that is good,--a man should not allow his love to dominate his intellect."

"Yes; always friends. And now listen. I will not tell you again that I love you. You know it. It is not only that I love you, but that I cannot as it were escape from my love. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it so much. For a man should not allow his love to dominate his intellect."


"I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a man might calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me just as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you by a lie if I could. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am sure,--quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this house during my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do, and to care about the things which other men care for, it must be as your husband."

"I do. I calculate my chances almost as a man might calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me just as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you by a lie. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this house while I live here. If I am ever to live as other men do, it must be as your husband."


"Yes; I think that I have a right to say it,--and a right to expect that you should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do not love me. Not that I should fear aught for myself, but that you should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because I am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come to love me,--unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere."

"Yes; I think I have a right to say it. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do not love me. You should not be pressed to sacrifice yourself because I am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come to love me, - unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere."


"We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague has robbed me of my love--?"

"We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague has robbed me of my love-?"


"If he had, I think he would have wronged me. He met you in my house, and I think must have known what my feelings were towards you."


"We have been like brothers together,--one brother being very much older than the other, indeed; or like father and son. I think he should place his hopes elsewhere."

"We have been like brothers together; or indeed like father and son. I think he should place his hopes elsewhere."


"What am I to say? If he have such hope he has not told me. I think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way."

"What am I to say? He has not told me. I think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way."


"Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. Of course I know the way of the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you about Paul Montague,--no right to expect an answer. But it is all the world to me. You can understand that I should think you might learn to love even me, if you loved no one else." The tone of his voice was manly, and at the same time full of entreaty. His eyes as he looked at her were bright with love and anxiety. She not only believed him as to the tale which he now told her; but she believed in him altogether. She knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to it for comfort and protection in life. In that moment she all but yielded to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, I think she would have yielded. She did all but love him. She so regarded him that had it been some other woman that he craved, she would have used every art she knew to have backed his suit, and would have been ready to swear that any woman was a fool who refused him. She almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved kindness. As it was she made him no answer, but continued to walk beside him trembling. "I thought I would tell it you all, because I wish you to know exactly the state of my mind. I would show you if I could all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glass case. Do not coy your love for me if you can feel it. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a woman as mine is set on you, so that it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly Paradise, I think you will be above keeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple."

"Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. I have no right to ask you about Paul Montague - no right to expect an answer. But it is all the world to me. I think you might learn to love even me, if you loved no one else." The tone of his voice was manly, and at the same time full of entreaty. His eyes were bright with love and anxiety. She believed in him altogether. She knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to it for comfort and protection.
In that moment she all but yielded to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, I think she would have yielded. She did all but love him. She would have been ready to swear that any woman who refused him was a fool. She almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved kindness. As it was she made him no answer, but continued to walk beside him trembling.
"I wish you to know exactly the state of my mind, to make all transparent. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is so set upon a woman, it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly Paradise. I do not think you will keep him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple."


"If ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly, remember my truth to you and say it boldly. I at least shall never change. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, it will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all now. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope,--I hope I may be strong enough through it all to think more of your happiness than of my own." Then he parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one of the bridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone.

"If ever there should come a time in which you can say it, then say it boldly. I at least shall never change. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, it will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all now. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope - I may be strong enough to think more of your happiness than of my own."
Then he parted from her abruptly, crossing one of the bridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone.


Roger Carbury having found Ruby Ruggles, and having ascertained that she was at any rate living in a respectable house with her aunt, returned to Carbury. He had given the girl his advice, and had done so in a manner that was not altogether ineffectual. He had frightened her, and had also frightened Mrs. Pipkin. He had taught Mrs. Pipkin to believe that the new dispensation was not yet so completely established as to clear her from all responsibility as to her niece's conduct. Having done so much, and feeling that there was no more to be done, he returned home. It was out of the question that he should take Ruby with him. In the first place she would not have gone. And then,--had she gone,--he would not have known where to bestow her. For it was now understood throughout Bungay,--and the news had spread to Beccles,--that old Farmer Ruggles had sworn that his granddaughter should never again be received at Sheep's Acre Farm. The squire on his return home heard all the news from his own housekeeper. John Crumb had been at the farm and there had been a fierce quarrel between him and the old man. The old man had called Ruby by every name that is most distasteful to a woman, and John had stormed and had sworn that he would have punched the old man's head but for his age. He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby,--or if he did he was ready to forgive that harm. But as for the Baro-nite;--the Baro-nite had better look to himself! Old Ruggles had declared that Ruby should never have a shilling of his money;--whereupon Crumb had anathematised old Ruggles and his money too, telling him that he was an old hunx, and that he had driven the girl away by his cruelty. Roger at once sent over to Bungay for the dealer in meal, who was with him early on the following morning.

Roger Carbury, having found Ruby Ruggles and given the girl his advice, returned to Carbury. He felt that there was no more to be done. It was out of the question that he should bring Ruby with him. She would not have gone; and old Farmer Ruggles had sworn that his granddaughter should never again be received at Sheep's Acre Farm.
The squire on his return home sent for Crumb, and heard all the news. John Crumb had quarrelled with old Ruggles, who had called Ruby by every bad name possible. John had sworn that he would have punched the old man's head but for his age. He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby. But as for the Baro-nite - the Baro-nite had better look to himself!

Chapter 46: Roger Carbury and his Two Friends


"Oh, yes, Mr. Crumb, I found her. She's living with her aunt, Mrs. Pipkin, at Islington."

"Yes, Mr. Crumb. She's living with her aunt, Mrs. Pipkin, at Islington.


"You knew she had an aunt of that name up in London."


"Ye-es; I knew'd it, squoire. I a' heard tell of Mrs. Pipkin, but I never see'd her."


"I wonder it did not occur to you that Ruby would go there." John Crumb scratched his head, as though acknowledging the shortcoming of his own intellect. "Of course if she was to go to London it was the proper thing for her to do."


"I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along. Darned if I didn't. You ask Mixet, squoire,--him as is baker down Bardsey Lane. I allays guv' it her that she'd do the thing as was right. But how about she and the Baro-nite?"

"I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along. But how about she and the Baro-nite?"


Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet just at present. "I suppose the old man down here did ill use her?"

Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet at present. "I suppose old Ruggles did ill-use her?"


"Oh, dreadful;--there ain't no manner of doubt o' that. Dragged her about awful;--as he ought to be took up, only for the rumpus like. D'ye think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on, Muster Carbury?"

"Oh, dreadful. Dragged her about awful. D'ye think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on, Muster Carbury?"


"I think she's a good girl, if you mean that."


"I'm sure she be. I don't want none to tell me that, squoire. Tho', squoire, it's better to me nor a ten pun' note to hear you say so. I allays had a leaning to you, squoire; but I'll more nor lean to you, now. I've said all through she was good, and if e'er a man in Bungay said she warn't--; well, I was there, and ready."

"I'm sure she be. I don't want none to tell me that, squoire, tho' it's good to hear you say so. If e'er a man in Bungay said she warn't good - well, I was there, and ready."


"You can't stop them women, squoire. There ain't no dropping into them. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house to-morrow, and what 'll it matter her then what they say? But, squoire,--did ye hear if the Baro-nite had been a' hanging about that place?"

"You can't stop them women, squoire. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house tomorrow, and what'll it matter then what they say?


"He goes a hanging about; he do. He don't come out straight forrard, and tell a girl as he loves her afore all the parish. There ain't one in Bungay, nor yet in Mettingham, nor yet in all the Ilketsals and all the Elmhams, as don't know as I'm set on Ruby Ruggles. Huggery-Muggery is pi'son to me, squoire."


"We all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made up your mind."


"I hove. It's made up ever so as to Ruby. What sort of a one is her aunt now, squoire?"

What sort of a one is her aunt, squoire?"


"She keeps lodgings;--a very decent sort of a woman I should say."

"She keeps lodgings; a very decent sort of a woman."


"She won't let the Baro-nite come there?"


"Certainly not," said Roger, who felt that he was hardly dealing sincerely with this most sincere of mealmen. Hitherto he had shuffled off every question that had been asked him about Felix, though he knew that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover. "Mrs. Pipkin won't let him come there."

"Certainly not," said Roger, who felt that he was hardly being sincere. He knew that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover.


"If I was to give her a ge'own now,--or a blue cloak;--them lodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;--or a chest of drawers like, for her best bedroom, wouldn't that make her more o' my side, squoire?"

"If I was to give Mrs. Pipkin a gown now - or a blue cloak - or a chest of drawers like, wouldn't that make her more o' my side, squoire?"


"I think she'll try to do her duty without that."


"They do like things the like o' that; any ways I'll go up, squoire, arter Sax'nam market, and see how things is lying."

"Any ways I'll go up, squoire, and see how things is lying."


"I wouldn't go just yet, Mr. Crumb, if I were you. She hasn't forgotten the scene at the farm yet."


"I said nothing as warn't as kind as kind."


"But her own perversity runs in her own head. If you had been unkind she could have forgiven that; but as you were good-natured and she was cross, she can't forgive that." John Crumb again scratched his head, and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more gauging than he had yet given to it. "And to tell you the truth, my friend, I think that a little hardship up at Mrs. Pipkin's will do her good."

"If you had been unkind she could have forgiven it; but as you were good-natured and she was cross, she can't forgive that."
John Crumb scratched his head, and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more gauging than he had yet managed.
"To tell you the truth, my friend, I think that a little hardship at Mrs. Pipkin's will do her good."


"Don't she have a bellyful o' vittels?" asked John Crumb, with intense anxiety.

"Don't she have enough vittels?" asked John Crumb, with intense anxiety.


"I don't quite mean that. I dare say she has enough to eat. But of course she has to work for it with her aunt. She has three or four children to look after."

"I dare say she has enough to eat. But of course she has to work for her aunt. She has three or four children to look after."


"That moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?" said John Crumb grinning.

"That moight come in handy by-and-by," said John Crumb, grinning.


"As you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to her in another sphere. Of course there is a good deal to do, and I should not be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in Bungay was more comfortable than Mrs. Pipkin's kitchen in London."

"As you say. There is a good deal to do, and I should not be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in Bungay was more comfortable than Mrs. Pipkin's kitchen.


"My little back parlour;--eh, squoire! And I've got a four-poster, most as big as any in Bungay."


"I am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she knows it herself. Let her think about all that,--and do you go and tell her again in a month's time. She'll be more willing to settle matters then than she is now."

Let her think about that, and in a month's time she'll be more willing to settle matters than she is now."


"Mrs. Pipkin will allow nothing of that."


"Girls is so 'cute. Ruby is awful 'cute. It makes me feel as though I had two hun'erd weight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights and thinking as how he is, may be,--pulling of her about! If I thought that she'd let him--; oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury. They'd have to make an eend o' me at Bury, if it was that way. They would then."

"It makes me feel as though I had two hun'erd weight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights and thinking af him! If I thought that she'd let him - oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury."


Roger assured him again and again that he believed Ruby to be a good girl, and promised that further steps should be taken to induce Mrs. Pipkin to keep a close watch upon her niece. John Crumb made no promise that he would abstain from his journey to London after Saxmundham fair; but left the squire with a conviction that his purpose of doing so was shaken. He was still however resolved to send Mrs. Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared his purpose of getting Mixet to write the letter and enclose the money order. John Crumb had no delicacy as to declaring his own deficiency in literary acquirements. He was able to make out a bill for meal or pollards, but did little beyond that in the way of writing letters.

Roger assured him again that he believed Ruby to be a good girl, and that Mrs. Pipkin would keep a close watch upon her niece. John Crumb made no promise not to travel to London; but the squire thought that his purpose of doing so was shaken. He was still resolved to send Mrs. Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared that he would get Mixet to write the letter.


This happened on a Saturday morning, and on that afternoon Roger Carbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting there on church matters at which his friend the bishop presided. After the meeting was over he dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and two or three neighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the long strand which has made Lowestoft what it is. It was now just the end of June, and the weather was delightful;--but people were not as yet flocking to the sea-shore. Every shopkeeper in every little town through the country now follows the fashion set by Parliament and abstains from his annual holiday till August or September. The place therefore was by no means full. Here and there a few of the townspeople, who at a bathing place are generally indifferent to the sea, were strolling about; and another few, indifferent to fashion, had come out from the lodging-houses and from the hotel, which had been described as being small and insignificant,--and making up only a hundred beds. Roger Carbury, whose house was not many miles distant from Lowestoft, was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiter there for a while when any cause brought him into the town. Now he was walking close down upon the marge of the tide,--so that the last little roll of the rising water should touch his feet,--with his hands joined behind his back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when he came upon a couple who were standing with their backs to the land, looking forth together upon the waves. He was close to them before he saw them, and before they had seen him. Then he perceived that the man was his friend Paul Montague. Leaning on Paul's arm a lady stood, dressed very simply in black, with a dark straw hat on her head;--very simple in her attire, but yet a woman whom it would be impossible to pass without notice. The lady of course was Mrs. Hurtle.

That afternoon Roger Carbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting on church matters at which his friend the bishop presided. After the meeting he dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and neighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the long strand.
It was now just the end of June, and the weather was delightful. Here and there a few townspeople were strolling about; and another few had come out from the lodging-houses and the hotel. Roger was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiter there for a while when any cause brought him into the town.
He was walking close to the margin of the tide, with his hands joined behind his back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when he came upon a couple who were standing looking together upon the waves. He was close to them before they saw each other. The man was his friend Paul Montague. Leaning on Paul's arm a lady stood, dressed in black, with a dark straw hat; very simple in her attire, but yet a woman whom it would be impossible to pass without notice. The lady of course was Mrs. Hurtle.


Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly had been natural. It was not the first place he had named; but when fault had been found with others, he had fallen back upon the sea sands which were best known to himself. Lowestoft was just the spot which Mrs. Hurtle required. When she had been shown her room, and taken down out of the hotel on to the strand, she had declared herself to be charmed. She acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had had no right to expect that Mrs. Pipkin should understand what sort of place she needed. But Paul would understand,--and had understood. "I think the hotel charming," she said. "I don't know what you mean by your fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!" Hotel people always are civil before the crowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should return to London by the mail train which started about an hour after his arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning, and have been very uncomfortable. The following day was Sunday, and of course he promised to stay till Monday. Of course he had said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. Of course he was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some probably very trite raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which connected shore with shore. Mrs. Hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. Though at the back of the heart of each of them there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour. We know that the man who is to be hung likes to have his breakfast well cooked. And so did Paul like the companionship of Mrs. Hurtle because her attire, though simple, was becoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because of the brightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her words, and the dangerous smile which played upon her lips. He liked the warmth of her close vicinity, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her hair,--though he would have given all that he possessed that she had been removed from him by some impassable gulf. As he had to be hanged,--and this woman's continued presence would be as bad as death to him,--he liked to have his meal well dressed.

Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly had been natural. Here were the sea sands which he knew best. When Mrs. Hurtle had been taken from the hotel on to the beach, she had declared herself to be charmed; Paul had understood what sort of place she needed.
"I think the hotel is quite gorgeous," she said, "and the people so civil!" Hotel people always are civil before the crowds come.
Of course it was impossible that Paul should return to London by the mail train an hour after his arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning. The following day was Sunday, so of course he promised to stay till Monday. He had said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. He was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense about the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which connected shore with shore. Mrs. Hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. Though in the heart of each there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour.
And Paul liked the companionship of Mrs. Hurtle, because her attire was becoming and her eyes were bright. He liked the warmth of her closeness, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her hair - though he would have given all that he possessed to have her removed from him by some impassable gulf.


He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and the close neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;--and now he felt his folly. As soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and then leaving Mrs. Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his friend. "It is Mrs. Hurtle," he said, "I must introduce you," and the introduction was made. Roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did so with the coldest ceremony. Mrs. Hurtle, who was quick enough at gathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in her acknowledgment of the courtesy. In former days she had heard much of Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. "I did not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft," said Roger in a voice that was needlessly severe. But his mind at the present moment was severe, and he could not hide his mind.

He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and now he felt his folly. As soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed, and then leaving Mrs. Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his friend.
"It is Mrs. Hurtle," he said, "I must introduce you." Roger took off his hat and bowed, but with the coldest ceremony. Mrs. Hurtle was just as cold in her acknowledgment. She had heard much of Roger Carbury, and felt that he was no friend to her.
"I did not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft," said Roger, unable to hide the severity he felt.


"I was not thinking of it. Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her."

"Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her."


"Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now," she said, "that a few additional will not make much difference."

"Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now," she said, "that a few more will not make much difference."


"Do you stay long?" asked Roger in the same voice.

"Do you stay long?" asked Roger in the same severe voice.


"I go back probably on Monday," said Montague.


"As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to any one after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this evening?"

"As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to anyone after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this evening?"


"Then, Mr. Montague, I will leave you with your friend. My toilet, though it will be very slight, will take longer than yours. We dine you know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join us." So saying, Mrs. Hurtle tripped back across the sand towards the hotel.

"Then, Mr. Montague, I will leave you with your friend. We dine you know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join us." So saying, Mrs. Hurtle tripped back towards the hotel.


"Is this wise?" demanded Roger in a voice that was almost sepulchral, as soon as the lady was out of hearing.

"Is this wise?" demanded Roger, as soon as the lady was out of hearing.


"You may well ask that, Carbury. Nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as I do."

"Nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as I do."


"Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?"


"Is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with her in this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?"

"Is it honest then, or gentlemanly, that you should be with her in this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?"


"I have told her that I would not. I have told her--." Then he stopped. He was going on to declare that he had told her that he loved another woman, but he felt that he could hardly touch that matter in speaking to Roger Carbury.

"I have told her that I would not. I have told her-" He stopped, unable to say that he had told her that he loved another woman.


"What does she mean then? Has she no regard for her own character?"


"I would explain it to you all, Carbury, if I could. But you would never have the patience to hear me."

"I would explain it all to you, Carbury, if I could. But you would never have the patience to hear me."


"But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it must be all over. Then she came here and sent for me. Was I not bound to go to her?"

"But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it must be all over. Then she sent for me. Was I not bound to go to her?"


"Yes;--to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter."

"Yes; and to repeat what you had said in your letter."


"I did do so. I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it."

"I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it."


"Ah; but you do not understand. She begged that I would not desert her in her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could not desert her."


"I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons which we will not go into now but which we both thought to be adequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you would be justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in living with the lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose that your old promise holds good."

"I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons which we will not go into now, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you were justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in staying on such terms with the lady that she thinks your old promise holds good."


"She does not think so. She cannot think so."


"Then what must she be, to be here with you? And what must you be, to be here, in public, with such a one as she is? I don't know why I should trouble you or myself about it. People live now in a way that I don't comprehend. If this be your way of living, I have no right to complain."

"Then what are you both doing here? Though I don't know why I should trouble myself about it. People live now in a way that I don't comprehend. If this is your way of living, I have no right to complain."


"For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way. It sounds as though you meant to throw me over."


"I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here to this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are not going to marry;--and I meet you, just by chance. Had I known it, of course I could have turned the other way. But coming on you by accident, as I did, how am I not to speak to you? And if I speak, what am I to say? Of course I think that the lady will succeed in marrying you."

"I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here to this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are not going to marry; and I meet you, just by chance. What am I to say? I think that the lady will succeed in marrying you."


"And that such a marriage will be your destruction. Doubtless she is good-looking."


"Yes, and clever. And you must remember that the manners of her country are not as the manners of this country."


"Then if I marry at all," said Roger, with all his prejudice expressed strongly in his voice, "I trust I may not marry a lady of her country. She does not think that she is to marry you, and yet she comes down here and stays with you. Paul, I don't believe it. I believe you, but I don't believe her. She is here with you in order that she may marry you. She is cunning and strong. You are foolish and weak. Believing as I do that marriage with her would be destruction, I should tell her my mind,--and leave her." Paul at the moment thought of the gentleman in Oregon, and of certain difficulties in leaving. "That's what I should do. You must go in now, I suppose, and eat your dinner."

"Then I trust I may not marry a lady of her country," said Roger. "She is here with you in order to marry you. She is cunning and strong. You are foolish and weak. You should tell her your mind - and leave her."
Paul thought of the gentleman in Oregon, and of certain difficulties in leaving.
"That's what I should do," said Roger. "You must go in now, I suppose, and eat your dinner."


"I may come to the hall as I go back home?"

"May I come to the hall on the way home?"


"Certainly you may come if you please," said Roger. Then he bethought himself that his welcome had not been cordial. "I mean that I shall be delighted to see you," he added, marching away along the strand. Paul did go into the hotel, and did eat his dinner. In the meantime Roger Carbury marched far away along the strand. In all that he had said to Montague he had spoken the truth, or that which appeared to him to be the truth. He had not been influenced for a moment by any reference to his own affairs. And yet he feared, he almost knew, that this man,--who had promised to marry a strange American woman and who was at this very moment living in close intercourse with the woman after he had told her that he would not keep his promise,--was the chief barrier between himself and the girl that he loved. As he had listened to John Crumb while John spoke of Ruby Ruggles, he had told himself that he and John Crumb were alike. With an honest, true, heart-felt desire they both panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature whom each had chosen. And each was to be thwarted by the make-believe regard of unworthy youth and fatuous good looks! Crumb, by dogged perseverance and indifference to many things, would probably be successful at last. But what chance was there of success for him? Ruby, as soon as want or hardship told upon her, would return to the strong arm that could be trusted to provide her with plenty and comparative ease. But Hetta Carbury, if once her heart had passed from her own dominion into the possession of another, would never change her love. It was possible, no doubt,--nay, how probable,--that her heart was still vacillating. Roger thought that he knew that at any rate she had not as yet declared her love. If she were now to know,--if she could now learn,--of what nature was the love of this other man; if she could be instructed that he was living alone with a lady whom not long since he had promised to marry,--if she could be made to understand this whole story of Mrs. Hurtle, would not that open her eyes? Would she not then see where she could trust her happiness, and where, by so trusting it, she would certainly be shipwrecked!

"Certainly, if you please," said Roger. Then he thought that his welcome had not been cordial. "I mean that I shall be delighted to see you," he added, marching away.
Paul went into the hotel, and ate his dinner. In the meantime Roger Carbury walked far away along the strand. In all that he had said to Montague he had not been influenced by any reference to his own affairs. And yet he feared that this man was the chief barrier between himself and the girl that he loved.
As he had listened to John Crumb speaking of Ruby Ruggles, he had told himself that he and John Crumb were alike. Both panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature: and each was to be thwarted by the make-believe regard of unworthy youth and fatuous good looks! Crumb would probably be successful at last. Ruby, as soon as hardship told upon her, would return to the strong arm that could be trusted to provide for her. But what chance was there of success for him? Hetta Carbury, if once she loved, would never change her love.
It was possible, no doubt, that her heart was still vacillating. If she knew about Mrs. Hurtle, would not that open her eyes? Would she not then see where she could trust her happiness, and where she would certainly be shipwrecked?


"Never," said Roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the beach with his stick. "Never." Then he got his horse and rode back to Carbury Manor.


The statement made by Ruby as to her connection with Mrs. Pipkin was quite true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died leaving a widow behind him at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre farm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to his daughter-in-law,--or to his son after the marriage, and had steeled himself against the whole Pipkin race. When he undertook the charge of Ruby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have no intercourse with the Pipkins. This agreement Ruby had broken, corresponding on the sly with her uncle's widow at Islington. When therefore she ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could with herself in going to her aunt's house. Mrs. Pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms. Ruby was to be allowed to stay at any rate for a month, and was to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally. Mrs. Pipkin immediately asked after a lover. "I'm all right," said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, had he not better come and see her? This was Mrs. Pipkin's suggestion. Mrs. Pipkin thought that scandal might in this way be avoided. "That's as it may be, by-and-by," said Ruby. Then she told all the story of John Crumb:--how she hated John Crumb; how resolved she was that nothing should make her marry John Crumb. And she gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and Mr. Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the manner in which her grandfather had treated her because she would not have John Crumb. Mrs. Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, always preferring respectable lodgers if she could get them;--but bound to live. She gave Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was "dead-set" against John Crumb, that was one thing! But then there was nothing a young woman should look to so much as a decent house over her head,--and victuals. "What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?" Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do for her, and could do very well for her. She knew what she was about, and wasn't going to be put off it. Mrs. Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she was not strait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about her lover she must. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days did have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed when she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs. Pipkin knew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre once and again,--by herself as far as Mrs. Pipkin knew, but probably in company with her lover,--and did not get home till past midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novel circumstances to the altered condition of her country. She had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she had been a girl,--but that had been in the earlier days of Queen Victoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had come. Ruby had never yet told the name of her lover to Mrs. Pipkin, having answered all inquiries by saying that she was all right. Sir Felix's name had never even been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague had mentioned it. She had been managing her own affairs after her own fashion,--not altogether with satisfaction, but still without interruption; but now she knew that interference would come. Mr. Montague had found her out, and had told her grandfather's landlord. The Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr. Mixet,--and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to the couch which she shared with two little Pipkins, "the fat would be in the fire."

What Ruby had said about her connection with Mrs. Pipkin was true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died, leaving a widow at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre farm had resented this marriage, and had never spoken to his daughter-in-law.
When Ruby ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could in going to her aunt's house. Mrs. Pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms with her. Ruby was to stay for a month, and to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally.
Mrs. Pipkin immediately asked about a lover. "I'm all right," said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, should he not come and see her? This was Mrs. Pipkin's suggestion, so that scandal might be avoided.
"Maybe, by-and-by," said Ruby. Then she told the story of John Crumb: how she hated John Crumb, and would not marry him. She gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and Mr. Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and how her grandfather had treated her.
Mrs. Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, and she gave Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was "dead-set" against John Crumb, that was one thing! But a young woman should look to a decent house over her head, and food. "What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?"
Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do very well for her. She knew what she was about. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days had more liberty than was allowed when she was young. The world was changing very fast. And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre, probably in company with her lover, and did not get home till past midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little.
Ruby had never told her lover's name to Mrs. Pipkin. She had been managing her own affairs; but now that Mr. Montague had found her, the Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr. Mixet - and after that, as she said to herself, "the fat would be in the fire."


"Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one evening to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall,--half music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements of the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on those of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself called it, "incognito," with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felix entertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in this attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby. He was enjoying life. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed of herself, half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and walk about with their young men,--when they had any. Why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the world? But yet as she sat sipping her lover's brandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which she did not like to see. And she heard things which she did not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful,--oh, so beautiful!--was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make to her. Her mind was set upon--marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist was heaven to her! Could it be possible that he and John Crumb were of the same order of human beings? But how was this to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with Mrs. Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and water and hear music with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad therefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that something was going to happen. "Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?"

"Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one evening to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall. Sir Felix was dressed, as he called it, "incognito," with a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. He had an idea that if his West End friends saw him in this attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, shared by Ruby. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed, half-frightened, and yet felt that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be with her young man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to walk about with their young men. Why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the world?
Yet as she sat sipping brandy and water at the music-hall in the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which she did not like to see, and she heard things which she did not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful - oh, so beautiful! - was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make. Her mind was set upon marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist was heaven to her! But how was this to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with Mrs. Pipkin. She was glad therefore to tell her lover that something was going to happen. "Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?"


Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking that perhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhaps Didon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings of his in London; but the business of his life was about to take him to New York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon had heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte, and had been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though his body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City Road Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. "Who was it, Ruby?"

Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte; perhaps Didon had been there. He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing was lacking for the New York journey but the money. Didon had urged him to recover his funds from Melmotte. Therefore his mind was in Grosvenor Square.
"Who was it, Ruby?"


"A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague. I used to see him about in Bungay and Beccles."

"A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague."


"Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly in the city--and I know him at home."


"Well;--that depends on what you call nice. He's a prig of a fellow."


"The devil he has!" Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger Carbury's suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of Hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference for Paul Montague. "Who is she, Ruby?"

"The devil he has!" Sir Felix of course knew of Roger Carbury's suit to his sister, and her supposed preference for Paul Montague. "Who is she, Ruby?"


"Well;--she's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an American. She's got lots of money."

"She's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an American. She's got lots of money."


"Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular to see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?"

"Oh yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular to see her; not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?"


"Bother John Crumb! That wasn't none of my doings. Oh, he'd been regular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has been and told the Squire as he saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John Crumb. I know that. What am I to tell him, Felix?"

"Bother John Crumb! Oh, he'd been regular as clockwork if I let him - only the slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has told the Squire as he saw me, and the Squire's coming. What am I to tell him, Felix?"


"Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you."


"No;--he can't do nothing. I ain't done nothing wrong, and he can't send for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he can talk,--and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind about their characters,--so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as I'm with you?"

"No; I ain't done nothing wrong. But he can talk, and I ain't one of those as don't mind about their characters. Shall I tell him as I'm with you?"


"Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?"


"But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I know she will. And who am I with? He'll be asking that."

"But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights. He'll be asking who I'm with."


"No;--I've told nobody yet. But it won't do to go on like that, you know,--will it? You don't want it to go on always like that;--do you?"

"No; I've told nobody. But it won't do to go on like that always, will it?"


"It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. That's jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to be doing the bedrooms. And that's not the worst of it."

"It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. But


"I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am." And now Ruby burst out into tears. "Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns again me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said last night that--"

I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am." And now Ruby burst into tears. "Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns again me? Aunt said last night that-"


"Bother what she says!" Felix was not at all anxious to hear what aunt Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion.


"She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't such a fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms with a lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out his mind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man."

"She knows there's somebody. She ain't a fool. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out. And she's right. A girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man."


Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and water. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped for the waiter and called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of making any direct reply to Ruby's importunities. He was going to New York very shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his future beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther distance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be with Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would or would not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was not his fault that she had come up to London. She was an "awfully jolly girl," and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better perhaps than the girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn't going to give himself any "d----d trouble." The idea of John Crumb coming up to London in his wrath had never occurred to him,--or he would probably have hurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he was doing now. "Let's go in and have a dance," he said.

Sir Felix took a long drink of brandy and water. Then he called the waiter for another, intending to avoid making any reply to Ruby. He was going to New York very shortly, and he had not troubled himself to think how it might be with Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would tell her that he was going. It was not his fault that she had come up to London. He liked the intrigue better perhaps than the girl herself. But he told himself that he wasn't going to give himself any trouble; and the idea of John Crumb coming to London in his wrath had never occurred to him.
"Let's go and have a dance," he said.


Ruby was very fond of dancing,--perhaps liked it better than anything in the world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room with her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and her other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved the motion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never lacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better worth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be lost. She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have some answer to her question before she left her lover on that night.

Ruby was very fond of dancing. It was delightful to be spinning round the room with her lover's arm tight round her waist. She loved the music, and the motion. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel that the world could hold nothing better. So she went and danced, resolving to have some answer to her question before she left her lover that night.


"And now I must go," she said at last. "You'll see me as far as the Angel, won't you?" Of course he was ready to see her as far as the Angel. "What am I to say to the Squire?"

"Now I must go," she said at last. "What am I to say to the Squire?"


"Say to her? Just say what you have said all along."

"Just say what you have said all along."


"I've said nothing all along,--just to oblige you, Felix. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?"

"I've said nothing all along. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?"


He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. "If you bother me I shall cut it, you know."

He was silent for about a minute. "If you bother me I shall cut it, you know."


"Yes;--cut it. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?"

"Yes. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?"


"Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to go, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?"


"You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or--"

"You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or-"


"John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife to-morrow, and only be too happy."

"John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife tomorrow, and be only too happy."


"I didn't tell you to come away from him," said Sir Felix.


"Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches;--didn't you? And you told me you loved me;--didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me;--didn't you?"

"Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches; didn't you? And you told me you loved me; didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me; didn't you?"


"So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is."


"No it isn't;--and I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!"

"No it isn't. I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!"


As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, that would have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would be out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought, didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. It was in his estimation "confounded impudence" on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his wife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. "Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. I know a trick worth two of that."

An additional lie would have been nothing to Felix. He was going to New York, out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never mattered. Young women didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. He felt it was "confounded impudence" by Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his wife.
"Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out."


She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a man should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to declare to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a thing that she could not understand. What business had such a man to go after any young woman? "And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?" she said.

She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. What business had such a man to go after any young woman?
"And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?" she said.


"Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother."


"Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry, never at all! Never?"

"Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will. I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry! Never?"


"Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?"


"Of course I does. There's the Squire. But he don't come asking girls to keep him company."

"Of course I does. There's the Squire. If he came asking a girl to keep him company


"If he did he'd marry her out of hand,--because he's a gentleman. That's what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a girl,--not to do her any harm, I'm sure," and Ruby began to cry. "You mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again--never! I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I ever heard tell of. I know there are them as don't keep their words. Things turn up, and they can't. Or they gets to like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on. But for a young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. I never read of such a one in none of the books. No, I won't. You go your way, and I'll go mine." In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. There was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which she did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her behalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise, in order that the present hour might be made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep with a child on each side of her.

, he'd marry her - because he's a gentleman." Ruby began to cry. "You mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again - never! I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, that I ever heard tell of. You go your way, and I'll go mine."
In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. There was in her mind an anger against him, which she did not herself understand, that he would take no risk on her behalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise to make the evening pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep.


On the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs. Pipkin to attend the door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for Ruby Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs. Pipkin had not refused to do so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine the cause which might possibly bring him to the house, and having made up her mind that Ruby's present condition of independence was equally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she determined that the Squire, if he did come, should see the young lady. When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger Carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had been very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply that she never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,--when she could no longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful things that were in store for her, and by flattering herself that though at this moment she was little better than a maid of all work in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would bloom forth as a baronet's bride,--now in her solitude she almost regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be that she would never see him again;--that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? And might it not be possible that she had pressed him too hard? A baronet of course would not like to be brought to book, as she could bring to book such a one as John Crumb. But yet,--that he should have said never;--that he would never marry! Looking at it in any light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of the Squire did not serve to cure her misery.

On the next day Roger called. Ruby had begged Mrs. Pipkin to tell any gentleman callers that she was out; but Mrs. Pipkin, having heard something of Roger Carbury, decided that the Squire should see the young lady.
When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had been very cross all morning. Though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss Felix, now she almost regretted it. Could it be that she would never see him again - that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? Maybe she had pressed him too hard. A baronet would not like to be brought to book. But to have said that he would never marry! She was very unhappy.


Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding her sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was comfortably settled with her aunt. "We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going."

Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and telling her how glad he was to find her comfortably settled with her aunt.
"We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going."


"Grandfather 'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him."

"Grandfather'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him."


"He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours."


"To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word;--was it, Mr. Carbury? That's what he did, then;--and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I've been good to grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn't have treated me like that. No girl 'd like to be pulled about the room by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed."

"To pull me about by my hair wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word; was it, Mr. Carbury? I've been good to grandfather, and he shouldn't have treated me like that."


The Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise him. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard a few words from Mrs. Pipkin as to Ruby's late hours, had heard also that there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was. He also was quite familiar with John Crumb's state of mind. John Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after some slow fashion of his own, and "see the matter out," as he would say himself, if she did not go back. "As you found yourself obliged to run away," said Roger, "I'm glad that you should be here; but you don't mean to stay here always?"

The Squire had no answer to this. That old Ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin did not surprise him. And the girl had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard from Mrs. Pipkin about Ruby's late hours, and a lover, and knew who that lover was. He also knew that John Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might forgive everything if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after his slow fashion, and "see the matter out" if she did not go back.
"I'm glad that you should be here," said Roger; "but you don't mean to stay here always?"


"You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your aunt's maid."


"It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as Mr. Crumb."


"Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like Mr. Crumb, and I never will like him."

"Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like him and I never will like him."


"Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and I expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb, unless you please."

"Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb.


"But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you."


"Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby. "A girl has to look to herself, and I mean to look to myself."

"Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby. "I mean to look to myself."


"I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost."


"I ain't a going to the devil," said Ruby, sobbing and blushing.


"But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man. He's as bad as bad can be. He's my own cousin, and yet I'm obliged to tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but were he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough to be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him without a pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none." Ruby had now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her eyes in one corner of the room. "That's what Sir Felix Carbury is," said the Squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more energy, and talk her down more thoroughly. "And if I understand it rightly," he continued, "it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat."

"But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that bad young man. He has no idea of marrying you, and if he did, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. Though he is my cousin, I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you away without a pang of remorse. He has no heart." Ruby was sobbing with her apron to her eyes. "And it is for that vile man that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat."


"I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't ever a word to say, was it ever so."

"I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't ever a word to say."


[Illustration: "I don't care about any man's coat."]


"Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to make you a bye-word and a disgrace." Ruby struggled hard to make some opposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of speech at the moment. "He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you by the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any disgrace?"

"Words! What do words matter? He loves you. He wants to make you happy and respectable, not to disgrace you. He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would anyone then pull you by the hair? Would there be any disgrace?"


"No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix Carbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon."

"No disgrace in going about at midnight with Felix Carbury? You know that it is disgraceful. If you are fit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon."


"Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind a little."

"Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect him, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind."


Her mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, though the poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon her. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble. But she had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury, and he said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and trouble she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,--and also a dumb nobility.

Her mind was being changed. His words had their effect, though the poor girl struggled against it. She had never expected to hear anyone call John Crumb noble. She respected no one more highly than Squire Carbury. Amidst all her misery she still told herself that it was but a dusty, dumb nobility.


"I'll tell you what will take place," continued Roger. "Mr. Crumb won't put up with this you know."

"Mr. Crumb won't put up with this, you know," continued Roger.