In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had been up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby,--who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future husband,--had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and almost munificent in liberality to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a former occasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed by Mrs. Pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix was supposed to be still "all one mash of gore," he blandly smiled, remarking that no man could be much the worse for a "few sich taps as them." He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion with thanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continued gin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb was of opinion that the old man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little care the five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby's fortune, might at any rate be secured. He was of opinion that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk,--the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it,--and if not, at his own house. When both the ladies explained to him that this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits of the fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that, under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the world might be suspended. "It ain't jist like other folks, after all as we've been through," said he,--meaning probably to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased. But whether the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by himself,--he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. He invited both Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs. Hurtle to promise that she would bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay, for the occasion.
Then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was of course essential that Ruby should be consulted. During the discussion as to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladies would be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. She was brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retired again among the children, having only expressed one wish of her own,--namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. But the day could not be fixed without her, and she was summoned. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday,--making his proposition on a Friday. They could cook enough meat for all Bungay to eat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay. "That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and as the two elder ladies had supported her Mr. Crumb yielded with a good grace. He did not himself appreciate the reasons given because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at any shop. But Mrs. Pipkin told him with a laugh that he didn't know anything about it, and when the 14th of August was named he only scratched his head and, muttering something about Thetford fair, agreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take precedence of business. If Tuesday would have suited the ladies as well he thought that he might have managed to combine the marriage and the fair, but when Mrs. Pipkin told him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk, revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial triumph which he had at last achieved.
Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to forgive his granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. When John Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all Bungay that he had returned victorious from London, and that after all the ups and downs of his courtship Ruby was to become his wife on a fixed day, all Bungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon Mr. Daniel Ruggles. The cross-grained old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be, and that she had run away with the baronite. But this assertion was met by so strong a torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight since to take away her character. But it had become an acknowledged fact in Bungay that John Crumb was ready at any hour to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had, at any period of her life, done any act or spoken any word unbecoming a young lady; and so strong was the general belief in John Crumb, that Ruby became the subject of general eulogy from all male lips in the town. And though perhaps some slight suspicion of irregular behaviour up in London might be whispered by the Bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular, that the grandfather could not stand against it. "I don't see why I ain't to do as I likes with my own," he said to Joe Mixet, the baker, who went out to Sheep's Acre Farm as one of many deputations sent by the municipality of Bungay.
"She's your own flesh and blood, Mr. Ruggles," said the baker.
"No; she ain't;--no more than she's a Pipkin. She's taken up with Mrs. Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs. Pipkin give 'em a breakfast."
"She is your own flesh and blood,--and your name, too, Mr. Ruggles. And she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, Mr. Ruggles."
"I won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat," said the farmer.
But he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base his opposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no authority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. He was very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was altogether cancelled by Ruby's departure from Sheep's Acre. When he was reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out of her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not contradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to earn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It was not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as much a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But, in return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death,--an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to be almost as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumption of gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover, was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous to the marriage. This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr. Mixet's mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into compliance,--not, however, till she had promised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which were thought to be necessary for Mrs. Pipkin on the evening preceding the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for the special accommodation of Mrs. Hurtle,--who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep's Acre Farm.
On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand,--as far, at least, as silence can give consent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatories as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. "You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb.
"Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be sure. You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John?" John shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. "It was only just something for her to say. What have I done that she should object to me?"
"You didn't ever go for to--kiss her,--did you, Joe?"
"What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice nothing about it. When we're all in the church she won't go back because Joe Mixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone."
"Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I must know the reason why." But John Crumb's heart was too big for jealousy, and he agreed at last that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby, after the ceremony.
He met the ladies at the station and,--for him,--was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in subsidiary wedding garments, with great delight. "Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. Ruby, hearing her praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were within a yard or two could hear her; "He is such a fool!" Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and afterwards himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre; in the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. "Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man.
"I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl.
"So best;--so best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin?"
"Yes, Mr. Ruggles; that's my name."
"I've heard your name. I've heard your name, and I don't know as I ever want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to that girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that."
"Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the bedroom which they were both to occupy. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin, just you say," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?"
"But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man instead when you pleased."
"You mean John Crumb."
"Of course I mean John Crumb, Ruby."
"There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other man says nothing at all."
"Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin, with solemnly persuasive voice, "I hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain."
On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would bring them so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it any disgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. He smiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with his whip to Ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, as though he would have said, "See, I've got her at last in spite of all difficulties." Poor Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But now she was altogether in the man's hands and no escape was within her reach. "What's the odds?" said Mrs. Pipkin as they settled their bonnets in a room at the Inn just before they entered the church. "Drat it,--you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house of his own? Ain't he well to do all round? Manners! What's manners? I don't see nothing amiss in his manners. He means what he says, and I call that the best of good manners."
Ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled by outward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly had no right on this occasion to complain of her husband's silence. Whereas she could hardly bring herself to utter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman to catch the familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building. "I, John,--take thee Ruby,--to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day forrard,--for better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer--;" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. Since the day had been fixed he had employed all his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart, and would now hardly allow the clergyman to say them before him. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible.
And then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way up the broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. He had been told that he ought to take his wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see a good deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being civil to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin would be rare. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet himself. Ruby, I think, had forgotten the order which she had given in reference to the baker. When desiring that she might see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had been in her pride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the outward circumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some one near her who knew how to behave himself. "Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet in a whisper.
"It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Mixet."
"He's a good 'un; is he."
"Oh, I dare say."
"You just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him,--all's one as a babby."
"A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr. Mixet."
"And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will he can hold his own." Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect, and should seem to think so little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance.
After the breakfast, or "bit of dinner," as John Crumb would call it, Mr. Mixet of course made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquainted with Miss Ruby Ruggles,--he begged all their pardons, and should have said Mrs. John Crumb,--ever since she was a child." "That's a downright story," said Ruby in a whisper to Mrs. Hurtle. "And he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appinesses. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. For Miss Ruby,--Mrs. Crumb he should say,--was certainly lovely as ere a Wenus as ever was; and as for John Crumb, he didn't believe that ever a Mars among 'em could stand again him. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up. 'Appy is the man as 'as his quiver full of 'em,--and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say so, Mrs. Crumb." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present,--with the single exception of poor Ruby, who would have run away and locked herself in an inner chamber had she not been certain that she would be brought back again.
[Illustration: The happy bridegroom.]
In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, and thinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife, she did learn to respect him. "Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as though you meant it," he said, when the first fitting occasion presented itself.
"Oh, John,--what nonsense!"
"It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed." Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.

In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. He had been formally reconciled to Ruby - who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that satisfied her future husband. He had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and munificent to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had already given her. He had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation about the baronite.
He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he declined the suggestion with thanks. He thought that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk - the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if old Ruggles could be talked into giving it; if not, at his own house. Either way, he was determined that there should be a banquet, and succeeded in making Mrs. Hurtle promise to bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay for the occasion.
Then it was necessary to fix the day. Ruby only expressed one wish of her own: namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday.
"That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and the other ladies agreed. When the 14th of August was named John Crumb scratched his head and muttered something about Thetford fair; but on Mrs. Pipkin telling him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk.
Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been persuaded to forgive his granddaughter, and agree to the marriage. The old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be; but all the town met this with such a torrent of contradiction that the farmer was driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight earlier to take away her character. But it was known that John Crumb was ready to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had ever done anything unbecoming. And the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general that the grandfather could not stand against it.
Old Mr. Ruggles held out on one detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. But he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death; and moreover was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night before the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for Mrs. Hurtle - who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to stay at Sheep's Acre Farm.
On the day before the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb had agreed. Yet he felt himself unable to answer such questions as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend.
"You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb.
"What have I done that she should object to me?"
"You didn't ever go for to - kiss her, did you, Joe?"
"What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone."
So John Crumb agreed that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby after the ceremony.
He met the ladies at the station and - for him - was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat and outfit with great delight.
"Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him.
Ruby made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered, "He is such a fool!"
Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle up to the Inn, and himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre.
"Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man.
"I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl.
"So best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin? They say as you've been kind to that girl as would 'a been on the town only for that."
"Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby took her aunt up into the bedroom. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?"
"But, Ruby, you might have gone to live with John Crumb instead when you pleased."
"There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other says nothing at all."
"Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin solemnly, "You'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue, specially with vittels certain."
On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, smiling and nodding at every one. Poor Ruby would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But no escape was within her reach.
"Drat it," said Mrs. Pipkin, just before they entered the church, "you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house? Ain't he well to do all round?"
Ruby, when she reached the church, was too completely quelled to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly could not complain of her husband's silence. He made his responses to the clergyman so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building.
"I, John - take thee Ruby - to my wedded wife-" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible.
And then there came the breakfast, to which he led the way with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet. But she was so tamed by circumstances that she was glad to have someone near her who knew how to behave himself.
"Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet. "He's a good 'un."
"Oh, I dare say."
"You just be fond of him and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him. And he don't drink hard, but he works hard."
Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect.
After the breakfast, Mr. Mixet made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb and Miss Ruby Ruggles for a great many years, and he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appiness. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present - with the single exception of poor Ruby.
In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with him, and thinking of all that he had done to win her, she did learn to respect him.
"Now, Ruby, give a fellow a kiss - as though you meant it," he said.
"Oh, John, what nonsense!"
"It ain't nonsense to me. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed."
Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.


"I have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning," Felix said to his mother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room.
"To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!"
"You could make any excuse you like about that."
"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."
"You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimate friend I have in the world."
"That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for."
"What did I come for?"
"That you might 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.
"Settled!"
"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?"
"I told you that before."
"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."
"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?"
"I don't know that he will."
"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."
"I ain't quite 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."
"I quite understand that."
"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--"
"Run away! What nonsense you talk."
"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."
"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.
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.
"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."
"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.
"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, 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?"
"Hardly, indeed."
"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."
"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."
"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 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."
"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."
"That is very bad," said Lady Carbury.
"We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down the book which he had in vain been trying to read.
"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 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.
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.
"Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile."
"Are not you going to the men?"
"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!
"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."
"He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?"
"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."
"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."
"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."
"And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs."
"His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to me about money."
"I meant about the Melmottes."
"No; not to me. 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."
"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."
"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not in the least 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 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."
"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 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 do understand you; 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."
"Will that be a penance?"
"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?"
"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."
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."
"Always friends!" she said.
"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."
"Oh, no!"
"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."
"Pray,--pray do not say that."
"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."
"What am I to say?"
"We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague has robbed me of my love--?"
"Mr. Montague has never said a word."
"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."
"But he never has."
"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."
"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."
"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."
"Oh, Roger!"
"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.

"I have half a mind to go back tomorrow morning," Felix said to his mother that evening after dinner. Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her room.
"Tomorrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!"
"You could make an excuse."
"It would be most uncourteous. The Longestaffes are the leading people in this part of the country. And remember why you came here - 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.
"Settled!"
"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?"
"I told you that before."
"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 think she means to stick to 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. 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 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 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. 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, 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. 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.
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. 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."
"They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!"
"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. 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 declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors."
"That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury.
"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."
"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 a man never questions, and does not even know what it contains."
"That is very bad," said Lady Carbury.
"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 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 departed to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed; or, at any rate, ploughed some ground.
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."
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 he is always turning against me."
"He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?"
"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 suppose they all do it. It's their business. 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 affairs. I mean about the Melmottes."
"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. But I quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests."
"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.
"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. 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." She leaned upon his arm.
"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; but don't think there is any fault to confess."
"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."
"Will that be a penance?"
"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 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 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."
"Always friends!" she said.
"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."
"Oh, no!"
"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."
"Pray, do not say that."
"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."
"What am I to say?"
"We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague has robbed me of my love-?"
"Mr. Montague has never said a word."
"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? 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. 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."
"Oh, Roger!"
"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.

Chapter 19: Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale


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.
"Did ye find her, squoire?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Crumb, I found her. She's living with her aunt, Mrs. Pipkin, at Islington."
"Eh, now;--look at that."
"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?"
Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet just at present. "I suppose the old man down here 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?"
"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 hope nobody has said so."
"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?"
"About Islington, you mean."
"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?"
"She keeps lodgings;--a very decent sort of a woman I should say."
"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."
"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?"
"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."
"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."
"Don't she have a bellyful o' 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."
"That moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?" 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."
"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."
"But,--the Baro-nite!"
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
[Illustration: The sands at Lowestoft.]
"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."
"Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now," she said, "that a few additional will not make much difference."
"Do you stay long?" asked Roger in the same 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?"
"Thank you, madam;--I have dined."
"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.
"Is this wise?" demanded Roger in a voice that was almost sepulchral, 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."
"Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?"
"No; certainly not."
"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?"
"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.
"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 am not naturally impatient."
"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?"
"Yes;--to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter."
"I did do so. I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it."
"Then you should have left her."
"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."
"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."
"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."
"Never."
"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."
"I may come to the hall as I go back 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!
"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.

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!
"Did ye find her, squoire?"
"Yes, Mr. Crumb. She's living with her aunt, Mrs. Pipkin, at Islington. It was the proper thing for her to do."
"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 at present. "I suppose old Ruggles did ill-use her?"
"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' 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."
"I hope nobody has said so."
"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? What sort of a one is her aunt, squoire?"
"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 being sincere. He knew that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover.
"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."
"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 kind."
"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 enough vittels?" asked John Crumb, with intense anxiety.
"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," said John Crumb, grinning.
"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. Let her think about that, and in a month's time she'll be more willing to settle matters than she is now."
"But - the Baro-nite!"
"Mrs. Pipkin will allow none of that."
"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 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.
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. 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 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.
"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 more will not make much difference."
"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 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?"
"Thank you, madam; I have dined."
"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, as soon as the lady was out of hearing.
"Nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as I do."
"Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?"
"No; certainly not."
"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-" 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 all to you, Carbury, if I could. But you would never have the patience to hear me."
"I am not naturally impatient."
"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; and to repeat what you had said in your letter."
"I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it."
"Then you should have left her."
"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, 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."
"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. What am I to say? I think that the lady will succeed in marrying you."
"Never."
"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 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."
"May I come to the hall on the way home?"
"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.

Chapter 46: Roger Carbury and his Two Friends