Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey him--accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give his son-in-law a shilling!

Here was a promise by the great man that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey him!


There was very much to be considered in this.

There was much to be considered in this.


She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr. Melmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess.

She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr. Melmotte's city influences.


The wife without the money would be terrible!

But the wife without the money would be terrible!


There was an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed Marie Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them but what she could supply.


And for those young people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse.

The young people would have nothing before them but beggary and the workhouse.


As she thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts.


Her beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world!

Her beautiful boy - so glorious, so fit for all the graces of the grand world!


Though the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble and disinterested.


The future honours of the house of Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head.

The future honours of the house of Melmotte could settle on no other head.


No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference, would of course do as he was now doing.


That he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to be expected.


But would it not be equally a matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once effected?

but would he not make the best of the marriage if it took place?


His daughter would return to him with a title, though with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired.

His daughter would return to him with a title, though a lower one than his ambition desired.


To herself personally, Lady Carbury felt that the great financier had been very rude.


He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten her.


She could pass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over.


She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence.

She looked round the room, longing for a friend whom she might consult.


Her most natural friend was Roger Carbury.


But even had he been there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes.

But even if he had been there she could not have consulted him about the Melmottes.


He would have told her to have nothing at all to do with such adventurers.


But then dear Roger was old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now.

Dear Roger was old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now.


He lived in a world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which, whether bad or good, had now passed away.

He lived in a world which had been good in its way; but which had now passed on.


She had almost begun to think that Mr. Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her.


Mr. Booker was serviceable for an article, but would not be sympathetic as a friend.


Mr. Broune had been very courteous to her lately;--so much so that on one occasion she had almost feared that the "susceptible old goose" was going to be a goose again.

He had been very courteous to her lately - so much so that she had almost feared that he was going to be a goose again.


That would be a bore; but still she might make use of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility would produce.

That would be a bore; but still she might make use of his susceptibility.


When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word aside to him.

When her guests began to leave, she spoke to him


Would he stay for a few minutes after the rest of the company?


He did stay, and when all the others were gone she asked her daughter to leave them.

He did, and she asked her daughter to leave them.


"Hetta," she said, "I have something of business to communicate to Mr. Broune."


"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said smiling.

"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said, smiling.


He had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair which she occupied.

He had seated himself close to her arm-chair.


In reply, he only shook his head and laughed.

In reply, he shook his head and laughed.


"I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man."

"I was sorry for it," said Lady Carbury, "for he certainly is a wonderful man."


"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation.

"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie in conversation.


Though, indeed, there is no reason why he should not say the same of me;--for if he said little, I said less."

Though, indeed, if he said little, I said less."


"It didn't just come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile.

"It didn't come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile.


I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend."


"Certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers.


She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again,--finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord.

She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again.


"He is engaged to marry that man's daughter."


"Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced.


I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale."


She is desperately in love with him,--as is he with her."

"She is desperately in love with Felix, as is he with her.


She tried to tell her story truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;--but lying had become her nature.


"Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord.


He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she should not have a penny."


"Do you mean that he volunteered that,--as a threat?"

"Do you mean that he volunteered that, as a threat?"


"Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so.


It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it."


"He would be sure to make some such threat."


And in these days young people are not often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy.

In these days young people are not often stopped from marrying simply by a father's fantasy.


He told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."

But he also told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."


"That's bosh," said Broune with decision.


"Do you think it must be so;--certainly?"


Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held."


He must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving."


"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American Railway.


It was not just as though the promise were made to a young man who was altogether unconnected with him."


"Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a title, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be likely to interfere with him.

"Sir Felix's name was put there merely because he has a title, and because Melmotte thought Felix would not interfere.


It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business."


"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that."


"You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?"

"You think he should marry the girl then, in spite of the father?"


Mr. Broune hesitated before he replied to this question.


But it was to this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply.


She wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an elopement.

wanted someone to support her in her view of an elopement.


She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time.


"Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared to take her off.

"Felix is all but prepared to take her off.


"That is a question very hard to answer."

"That is very hard to answer," said Mr. Broune.


Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them."


"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right.


It was the gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize.

You know it is said that Lady Julia's mother arranged the elopement herself, as the safest way of securing the young man and his fortune.


The young lord didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion."


"I didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise.

Nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise.


If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards,--I think he would."

If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards - I think he would."


"And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placed on that promise of assistance."

"And I feel certain that you should not depend on that promise of assistance in the City."


I am so much obliged to you," said Lady Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the girl.


Then again she gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell for the night.

She gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell.


"And now," he said, "I also have something to say to you."


Sir Felix Carbury made an appointment for meeting Ruby Ruggles a second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to Sheep's Acre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, made without any intention of keeping it.

Sir Felix Carbury agreed to meet Ruby Ruggles a second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden of Sheep's Acre farm. He made this appointment without any intention of keeping it.


But Ruby was there, and remained hanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from Harlestone market.

But Ruby was there, and hung about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from Harlestone market.


An early hour had been named; but hours may be mistaken, and Ruby had thought that a fine gentleman, such as was her lover, used to live among fine people up in London, might well mistake the afternoon for the morning.

She thought that a fine London gentleman like her lover might well be late.


If he would come at all she could easily forgive such a mistake.


But he did not come, and late in the afternoon she was obliged to obey her grandfather's summons as he called her into the house.

But he did not come, and she was obliged at last to go into the house.


After that for three weeks she heard nothing of her London lover, but she was always thinking of him;--and though she could not altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible.

After that for three weeks she heard nothing of him, but she was always thinking of him; and though she could not altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible.


One afternoon her grandfather returned from Bungay and told her that her country lover was coming to see her.

One afternoon her grandfather told her that her country lover was coming to see her.


"John Crumb be a coming over by-and-by," said the old man.


"See and have a bit o' supper ready for him."


He's welcome to stay away then, for me."


The old man thrust his old hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the kitchen-fire.

The old man thrust his hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair by the kitchen-fire.


Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the custom was well understood by Ruby.

Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, as Ruby knew.


"Why not welcome, and he all one as your husband?


Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an eend o' this.

Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an end o' this.


John Crumb is to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said."


"The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather.


But no parson among 'em all can marry me without I'm willing."

But no parson can marry me without I'm willing."


"And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?"


He turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her head;--nothing to Ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which she was well accustomed.

He turned round sharp, and threw his old hat at her.


She picked it up, and returned it to him with a cool indifference which was intended to exasperate him.

She picked it up, and returned it to him with cool indifference.


"Look ye here, Ruby," he said, "out o' this place you go.


If you go as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay."

if you go from here as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner, and a dance, and all Bungay."


"Who cares for all Bungay,--a set of beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking;--and John Crumb the main of 'em all?

"Who cares for all Bungay - beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking?


There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb."


"Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life."


And the old farmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down upon the table.

And the old farmer rattled his fist upon the table.


"It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills.


You can't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb.


"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word,--and I shan't be the last."

"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word."


"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty sharp,--for you won't have me."

"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, for you won't have me."


"There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather."


He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it along wi' him.

John Crumb's a coming here tonight, and you may settle it along wi' him.


"He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well and good.

"If you can make it up wi' him, well and good.


There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner and the dance and all Bungay.


He ain't a going to be put off no longer;--he ain't."


"Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you?


and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying rent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that,--let alone only a granddarter.


If you don't like to take it,--leave it.

if you don't like to take it - leave it.


It's the stoopidest place in all England."


John Crumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper.


Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home.

Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, you'd best find another home."


You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor Sheep's Acre, afore you've done."


In regard to the hospitality promised to Mr. Crumb, Miss Ruggles went about her work with sufficient alacrity.


She was quite willing that the young man should have a supper, and she did understand that, so far as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service to her grandfather.

prepared supper for John Crumb; she knew that she owed that service to her grandfather.


She therefore went to work herself, and gave directions to the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her grandfather's house.


But as she did this, she determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife.

But she determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife.


As she went about the kitchen, taking down the ham and cutting the slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury.

As she went about the kitchen, cutting slices of ham, and trussing the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury.


She could see, as though present to her at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hair stiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy dark well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was ever longing to twine her fingers among them.

She could see the mealy, floury head of the one, his hair stiff with dust, and the sweet glossy well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was always longing to twine her fingers among them.


And she remembered the heavy, flat, broad honest face of the meal-man, with his mouth slow in motion, and his broad nose looking like a huge white promontory, and his great staring eyes, from the corners of which he was always extracting meal and grit;--and then also she remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover.

And she remembered the heavy, flat, honest face of the meal-man, with his slowly-moving mouth, and his broad white nose, and his great staring eyes; and then she remembered the white teeth, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover.


Surely a lease of Paradise with the one, though but for one short year, would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other!

Surely even one year of Paradise with him would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other!


"It's no good going against love," she said to herself, "and I won't try.

"It's no good going against love," she said to herself.


"He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home.


He cares more for his supper than he do for me."


And then, with this final resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl into the pot.

And with this resolution she popped the fowl into the pot.


Her grandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre.


She had a little money of her own, and would take herself off to London.


She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales.


She would know how to take care of herself, and could always say in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out of Sheep's Acre.


Seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John Crumb knocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house.

At seven o'clock John Crumb knocked at the door of Sheep's Acre farm-house.


He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of Bungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man at his marriage.

He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of Bungay, who was to be his best man at his wedding.


John Crumb's character was not without many fine attributes.


He could earn money,--and having earned it could spend and keep it in fair proportion.


He was afraid of no work, and,--to give him his due,--was afraid of no man.

He was not afraid of work, nor of any man


He was honest, and ashamed of nothing that he did.


And after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women.

After his fashion he had chivalrous ideas


He was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainly be a most dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a woman belonging to him.

: he was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman.


But Ruby had told the truth of him in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to all forms of expression.

But Ruby had told the truth in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to expressing himself.


He knew good meal from bad as well as any man, and the price at which he could buy it so as to leave himself a fair profit at the selling.


He knew the value of a clear conscience, and without much argument had discovered for himself that honesty is in truth the best policy.


Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that any one buying John Crumb for a fool would lose his money.

Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that anyone taking John Crumb for a fool would lose his money.


Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been a want of prudence, a lack of worldly sagacity, in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip to all Bungay.

Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been a lack of worldly wisdom in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip.


His love was now an old affair; and, though he never talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked about that.


He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his own status as her acknowledged lover,--and he did not hide his light under a bushel.

He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of his status as her lover; and he did not hide it.


Perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in prejudicing Ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly once accepted.


Now when he came to settle the day,--having heard more than once or twice that there was a difficulty with Ruby,--he brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph.

Now, when he came to settle the wedding day - having heard that there was a difficulty with Ruby - he brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph.


"If here isn't Joe Mixet," said Ruby to herself.


"Was there ever such a stoopid as John Crumb?


The old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had been preparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests.

The old man roused himself to entertain his guests.


Ruby's a stewing o' something for us to eat a bit.

Ruby's a stewing o' something for us to eat."


--John Crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffed and grinned.


"John didn't like going home in the dark like," said the baker, with his little joke.


"So I just come along to drive away the bogies."


"The more the merrier;--the more the merrier.


Ruby 'll have enough for the two o' you, I'll go bail.


So John Crumb's afraid of bogies;--is he?


The more need he to have some 'un in his house to scart 'em away."


The lover had seated himself without speaking a word; but now he was instigated to ask a question.


They were seated in the outside or front kitchen, in which the old man and his granddaughter always lived; while Ruby was at work in the back kitchen.

asked John Crumb. Ruby was at work in the back kitchen,


As John Crumb asked this question she could be heard distinctly among the pots and the plates.

where she could be heard among the pots and plates.


She now came out, and wiping her hands on her apron, shook hands with the two young men.

She now came out, wiping her hands on her apron.


She had enveloped herself in a big household apron when the cooking was in hand, and had not cared to take it off for the greeting of this lover.


"Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so I've been a seeing to it.


"You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try it ever so.


My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men.


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

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


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


said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other kitchen.


John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend, and then grinned at the old man.

John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend and the old man.


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

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


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


"There ain't nothing wanting in his house;--is there, John?

"There ain't nothing wanting in John's house," said Joe Mixet.


It's all there,--cradle, caudle-cup, and the rest of it.


"A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed."


This he declared in a loud voice for the benefit of Ruby in the back kitchen.

This he declared in a loud voice for Ruby's benefit.


"That she do," said John, grinning again.


"There's a hun'erd and fifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her."


After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with the boiled fowl, and without her apron.

After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with the boiled fowl.


She was followed by the girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage.

She was followed by the servant-girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage.


Then the old man got up slowly and opening some private little door of which he kept the key in his breeches pocket, drew a jug of ale and placed it on the table.

Then the old man got up slowly and from a little private door drew a jug of ale and


And from a cupboard of which he also kept the key, he brought out a bottle of gin.


Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table, John Crumb looking at his chair again and again before he ventured to occupy it.

Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table.


"If you'll sit yourself down, I'll give you a bit of something to eat," said Ruby at last.


Ruby cut up the fowl standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself at the table,--and apparently not expected to do so, for no one invited her.

Ruby cut up the fowl standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself at the table - and no one invited her to do so.


"Is it to be spirits or ale, Mr. Crumb?"


she said, when the other two men had helped themselves.


He turned round and gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an Amazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and bobbed his head at the beer jug.

He gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an Amazon; but instead of speaking he bobbed his head at the beer jug. She filled his tumbler


Then she filled it to the brim, frothing it in the manner in which he loved to have it frothed.


He raised it to his mouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though to a vat.


He had been her lover, and she would be as kind to him as she knew how,--short of love.

She would be as kind to him as she knew how - short of love.


There was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, and another mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was said.

There was a good deal of eating done; but very little was said.


John Crumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl, sedulously picking the bones, and almost swallowing them; and then finished the second dish of ham, and after that the second instalment of cabbage.

John Crumb finished a second dish of ham, and a second instalment of cabbage, and


He did not ask for more beer, but took it as often as Ruby replenished his glass.


When the eating was done, Ruby retired into the back kitchen, and there regaled herself with some bone or merry-thought of the fowl, which she had with prudence reserved, sharing her spoils however with the other maiden.

When the eating was done, she retired into the back kitchen, and there had a bit of the fowl,


This she did standing, and then went to work, cleaning the dishes.

standing up, and then went to work cleaning the dishes.


The men lit their pipes and smoked in silence, while Ruby went through her domestic duties.

The men lit their pipes and smoked in silence.


So matters went on for half an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went round into the house, got into her own room, and formed the grand resolution of going to bed.

So matters went on for half an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went round into the house, got into her own room, and resolved to go to bed.


She began her operations in fear and trembling, not being sure but that her grandfather would bring the man up-stairs to her.

But she was afraid her grandfather would bring John Crumb upstairs to speak to her; and her


As she thought of this she stayed her hand, and looked to the door.


She knew well that there was no bolt there.


It would be terrible to her to be invaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer.

It would be terrible to be invaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer.


And, she declared to herself, that should he come he would be sure to bring Joe Mixet with him to speak his mind for him.

And he would be sure to bring Joe Mixet with him.


When they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for his granddaughter, but called of course in vain.

When they had smoked for half an hour the old man called for his granddaughter, in vain.


he said, slowly making his way into the back kitchen.

he said, slowly making his way into the empty back kitchen.


The maid as soon as she heard her master moving, escaped into the yard and made no response, while the old man stood bawling at the back door.


"She'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way."


"She's playing off her games somwheres," he said.

"She's playing off her games somewheres," he said.


"Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr. Crumb, and I'll see after her."

"Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr. Crumb, and I'll look for her."


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

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


He went down the yard and into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, as he did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but still anxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him.

He went down into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud; but still anxious, and sore at heart about Ruby's ingratitude.


He was not bound to give the girl a home at all.


"Domm her," he said aloud as he made his way back to the house.


After much search and considerable loss of time he returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting, leading Ruby in his hand.

After much searching he found Ruby, cuffed her and led her to the kitchen.


She was not smart in her apparel, for she had half undressed herself, and been then compelled by her grandfather to make herself fit to appear in public.


She had acknowledged to herself that she had better go down and tell John Crumb the truth.


For she was still determined that she would never be John Crumb's wife.


"You can answer him as well as I, grandfather," she had said.


Then the farmer had cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot.


"Oh, if it comes to that," said Ruby, "I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor yet of nobody else.


Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather."


"I'll knock the life out of thee, if thou goest on this gate," he had said.


But she had consented to come down, and they entered the room together.


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

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


If grandfather chooses to have a few friends, I ain't nothing against it.


I wish he'd have a few friends a deal oftener than he do.


I likes nothing better than to do for 'em;--only when I've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes and that like, I don't see why I ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves."


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


"I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr. Mixet.


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

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


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

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


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


"Mr. Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that!


There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you."


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


"I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be," said Mr. Ruggles, who was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head forward.

"I'm just sick of all this," said Mr. Ruggles, who was sitting bent in his chair.


"Who wants 'em to come here with their trash?


I don't know what business Mr. Mixet has interfering along o' me."


Then John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his full height.


"I hove," said he, swinging his head to one side.


He was still standing bolt upright with his hands down by his side.


Then he stretched out his left to his glass which was half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that would strengthen him.

He stretched out his left hand to his glass, and drained it of beer.


Having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which he still held in his right hand.


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


But he still stood dumb, looking down upon old Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him.


Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes intent upon the wall over the fire-place.

Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes on the wall over the fire-place.


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

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


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


To this proposition Crumb found it only necessary to bob his head.


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


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


"Everything is ready in your own house?"


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


"That's about it, I think," said Joe Mixet, turning to the grandfather.


"I don't think there was ever anything much more straightforward than that.


You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows all about John Crumb.


John Crumb didn't come to Bungay yesterday,--nor yet the day before.


"There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr. Ruggles."


Mr. Ruggles made a slight gesture of assent with his head.


"Five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has will make things that snug that things never was snugger.

"Five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has, will make things snug.


But John Crumb isn't after Miss Ruby along of her fortune."


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

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


"Not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of him.


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


It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let me make so free.

It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night.


He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married.

He's a proposed to this young lady, and she's haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married.


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


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


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


"You can't have anything to say against it, miss; can you?

"you can't have anything to say against it, can you?


There's your grandfather as is willing, and the money as one may say counted out,--and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there isn't a ha'porth to do.

Your grandfather is willing, and John Crumb is willing, and his house is ready.


All we want is for you to name the day."


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

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


"I won't say to-morrow, Mr. Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow, nor yet no day at all.

"I won't say tomorrow, Mr. Crumb, nor the day after tomorrow, nor yet no day at all.


There's some folk wants such a deal of telling."


Didn't you say so as plain as the nose on my face?"


John as he asked these questions could hardly refrain from tears.


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


She'll go out o' this into the streets;--that's what she wull.


I won't keep her here, no longer;--nasty, ungrateful, lying slut."

I won't keep her here no longer - nasty, ungrateful, lying slut."


"She ain't that;--she ain't that," said John.


I won't hear her called so;--not by her grandfather.


But, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself."

But, oh, she has put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself."


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

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


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

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


"If you hadn't come here at all things might have been different."


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


Mr. Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the absolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement were to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this.

Mr. Mixet, not trusting himself to words,


He put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into the yard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by the pig-stye wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay.

put on his hat and walked out into the yard, declaring that his friend would find him there whenever he was ready to return to Bungay.


As soon as Mixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of his eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right hand as a feeler.

As soon as Mixet was gone John made a slow motion towards his sweetheart, putting out his right hand as a feeler.


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

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


What's the good of more words, Mr. Crumb?"


"She'll have to be out on the roads this night."


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


"I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr. Crumb."


Old Ruggles sat grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off and putting it on again, and meditating vengeance.


"And now if you please, Mr. Crumb, I'll go up-stairs to my own room."

And now if you please, I'll go upstairs to my own room."


"You don't go up to any room here, you jade you."


The old man as he said this got up from his chair as though to fly at her.


And he would have struck her with his stick but that he was stopped by John Crumb.

, and would have struck her with his stick had he not been stopped by John Crumb.


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


While her lover held her grandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, again afraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her grandfather.

While John held her grandfather, Ruby escaped to her bedroom.


"Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;--ain't it, Mr. Crumb?"

"Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear?"


said the grandfather appealing to the young man.


A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on her.

"She ought to have a whipping at the cart-tail.


Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of anger flashed from his eyes.


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

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


"By the mortials I'll baronite him;--I wull," said John seizing his hat and stalking off through the back kitchen after his friend.

"I'll baronite him - I wull," said John, seizing his hat and stalking off after his friend.


It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in adjusting his affairs with Hetta after the visit which he received from Roger Carbury.

It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in visiting Hetta after seeing Roger Carbury.


Early on the following morning he was once more in Welbeck Street, taking the brooch with him; and though at first Lady Carbury kept up her opposition, she did it after so weak a fashion as to throw in fact very little difficulty in his way.

Early on the following morning he was once more in Welbeck Street; and though at first Lady Carbury kept up her opposition, she did it so weakly as to throw very little difficulty in his way.


Hetta understood perfectly that she was in this matter stronger than her mother and that she need fear nothing, now that Roger Carbury was on her side.

Hetta understood that she need fear nothing, now that Roger was on her side.


"I don't know what you mean to live on," Lady Carbury said, threatening future evils in a plaintive tone.

"I don't know what you mean to live on," Lady Carbury said plaintively.


Hetta repeated, though in other language, the assurance which the young lady made who declared that if her future husband would consent to live on potatoes, she would be quite satisfied with the potato-peelings; while Paul made some vague allusion to the satisfactory nature of his final arrangements with the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.

Paul made some vague allusion to his final arrangements with the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.


"I don't see anything like an income," said Lady Carbury; "but I suppose Roger will make it right.


He takes everything upon himself now it seems."

He takes everything upon himself now, it seems."


But this was before the halcyon day of Mr. Broune's second offer.


It was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the time fixed for the marriage was to be the following spring.

It was decided that the marriage was to be the following spring.


When this was finally arranged Roger Carbury, who had returned to his own home, conceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta should pass the autumn and if possible the winter also down in Suffolk, so that she might get used to him in the capacity which he now aspired to fill; and with that object he induced Mrs. Yeld, the Bishop's wife, to invite her down to the palace.

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


Hetta accepted the invitation and left London before she could hear the tidings of her mother's engagement with Mr. Broune.


Roger Carbury had not yielded in this matter,--had not brought himself to determine that he would recognise Paul and Hetta as acknowledged lovers,--without a fierce inward contest.

Roger Carbury had undergone a fierce inward contest before he yielded to a recognition of the lovers.


Two convictions had been strong in his mind, both of which were opposed to this recognition,--the first telling him that he would be a fitter husband for the girl than Paul Montague, and the second assuring him that Paul had ill-treated him in such a fashion that forgiveness would be both foolish and unmanly.

Two convictions had been strong in his mind: firstly, that he would be a fitter husband for the girl than Paul Montague, and secondly, that Paul had so ill-treated him that forgiveness would be unmanly.


For Roger, though he was a religious man, and one anxious to conform to the spirit of Christianity, would not allow himself to think that an injury should be forgiven unless the man who did the injury repented of his own injustice.

For Roger did not think that an injury should be forgiven unless the man who did the injury repented of it.


As to giving his coat to the thief who had taken his cloak,--he told himself that were he and others to be guided by that precept honest industry would go naked in order that vice and idleness might be comfortably clothed.


If any one stole his cloak he would certainly put that man in prison as soon as possible and not commence his lenience till the thief should at any rate affect to be sorry for his fault.


Now, to his thinking, Paul Montague had stolen his cloak, and were he, Roger, to give way in this matter of his love, he would be giving Paul his coat also.


He was bound after some fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him before a jury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence of punishment might be at least pronounced.

He felt bound after some fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him before a jury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence of punishment might be at least pronounced.


And Paul Montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard to women.


It might be,--no doubt it was true,--that Mrs. Hurtle's appearance in England had been distressing to him.

No doubt it was true that Mrs. Hurtle's appearance in England had been distressing to him.


But still he had gone down with her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to Roger's thinking, a man who could do that was quite unfit to be the husband of Hetta Carbury.


He would himself tell no tales against Montague on that head.


Even when pressed to do so he had told no tale.


But not the less was his conviction strong that Hetta ought to know the truth, and to be induced by that knowledge to reject her younger lover.

, he still felt that Hetta ought to know the truth, and to be induced by that knowledge to reject Paul Montague.


But then over these convictions there came a third,--equally strong,--which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy.

But then over these convictions there came a third, equally strong, which told him that the girl loved Montague and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy.


As he walked up and down the walk by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, stopping every now and again to sit on the terrace wall,--walking there, mile after mile, with his mind intent on the one idea,--he schooled himself to feel that that, and that only, could be his duty.

As he walked up and down by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, mile after mile, he schooled himself to feel that that was his duty.


What could be the devotion which men so often affect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of the beloved one?

What was devotion if a man would not sacrifice himself on behalf of the beloved one?


A man would incur any danger for a woman, would subject himself to any toil,--would even die for her!


But if this were done simply with the object of winning her, where was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalf of another is the truest proof?


So, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done.


The man, though he had been bad to his friend, was not all bad.


He was one who might become good in good hands.


He, Roger, was too firm of purpose and too honest of heart to buoy himself up into new hopes by assurances of the man's unfitness.


What right had he to think that he could judge of that better than the girl herself?

What right had he, Roger, to think that he could judge the man's fitness better than the girl herself?


And so, when many many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart,--though in conquering it he crushed it,--and in bringing himself to the resolve that the energies of his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. Paul Montague a happy woman.

And so, when many many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart - though in conquering it he crushed it - and brought himself to the resolve that his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. Paul Montague a happy woman.


We have seen how he acted up to this resolve when last in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger from Paul Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta.


When he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart and of assuring himself thoroughly that Hetta was to become his rival's wife, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit than he had been during those months in which there had still been doubt.

When he had accomplished that task, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit.


The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself could certainly never be his.

The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself would certainly never be his.


That he would never marry he was quite sure.

He was quite sure that he would never marry


Indeed he was prepared to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boy on condition that such boy should take the old name.


He would never have a child whom he could in truth call his own.


But if he could induce these people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at least a part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an interest in the property.

But if he could induce these people to live at Carbury for at least part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he thought that he could awaken himself again, and take an interest in the property.


But as a first step to this he must learn to regard himself as an old man,--as one who had let life pass by too far for the purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devote himself to make happy the homes of others.

But first he must learn to regard himself as an old man, who had let his life pass by, and must devote himself to making happy the homes of others.


So thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his story to his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of those revelations Mrs. Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace.

When he asked the Bishop's wife to invite Hetta to stay,


Roger felt that he had still much to say to his cousin before her marriage which could be said in the country much better than in town, and he wished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county to which she should be attached and in which she was to find her home.

Roger wished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county in which she was to find her home.


The day before she came he was over at the palace with the pretence of asking permission to come and see his cousin soon after her arrival, but in truth with the idea of talking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble.

The day before she came he was over at the Bishop's palace, talking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble.


"As to settling your property on her or her children," said the Bishop, "it is quite out of the question.


Your lawyer would not allow you to do it.


Where would you be if after all you were to marry?"

Where would you be if you were to marry?"


How is a man of your age to speak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in that respect?


You can make your will, doing as you please with your property;--and the will, when made, can be revoked."

You can make your will, doing as you please with your property; and the will, when made, can be revoked."


"I think you hardly understand just what I feel," said Roger, "and I know very well that I am unable to explain it.

"I think you hardly understand what I feel," said Roger.


But I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had a son, would be my natural heir."

"I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had one, would be my natural heir."


"But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you might have a son of your own.

"But even if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a chance that you might have a son of your own.


A man should never put the power, which properly belongs to him, out of his own hands.

A man should never put power which properly belongs to him out of his own hands.


If it does properly belong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere.


I think very highly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise than well of the gentleman whom she intends to marry.


But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should have some effect in producing a more complete observance of your wishes."

But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should produce a more complete observance of your wishes."


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


"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the present moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life.

"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm as to ignore the ordinary rules of life.


There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of the old king.

There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters; but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of King Lear.


'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.'"


The world, I take it, thinks that the fool was right."


The Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea of settling his property on Paul Montague's children.

The Bishop succeeded in so far as Roger abandoned the idea of settling his property on Paul Montague's children.


But he was not on that account the less resolute in his determination to make himself and his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin.

But he was still resolute in his determination to make his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin.


When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours.

When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her, he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours.


"I hope all our troubles are over now," he said smiling.


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

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


As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has done the best thing in her power.

As to Felix, I think that Lady Carbury has done the best thing in her power.


No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, and Mr. Broune seems to be a prudent man.

No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, who seems to be a prudent man.


And about your mother herself, I hope that she may now be comfortable.

And I hope your mother may now be comfortable.


But I was not alluding to Felix and your mother.


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


I mean to speak very freely to you now, dear.


I was nearly upset,--what I suppose people call broken-hearted,--when I was assured that you certainly would never become my wife.

I was nearly upset - what I suppose people call broken-hearted - when I was assured that you would never become my wife.


I ought not to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind.


I should have known that I was too old to have a chance."


I should have known it sooner, and have got over my misery quicker.

I should have got over my misery quicker.


I should have been more manly and stronger.


After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man's life, it is not that only that he is here for.


I have duties plainly marked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawn from them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow.


I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that I look forward to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as the source of all my future happiness.

But I have conquered my regrets, and I can safely say that I look forward to your presence at Carbury as the source of all my future happiness.


I will make him welcome as though he were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter.

I will make Mr. Montague welcome as though he were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter.


All I ask of you is that you will not be chary of your presence there."


She only answered him by a close pressure on his arm.


You will teach yourself to regard me as your best and closest friend,--as he on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all,--except your husband."

Please regard me as your best and closest friend, on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all - except your husband."


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


"As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta.


You will soon come to find that I am very old.


I grow old quickly, and already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish."

I already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish."


You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence."

to do all you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence."


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


"Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my plan.


Of course you will be married at Carbury?"


"She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it.


Then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you should learn really to care about and to love the place.

Then, after that, let this be your home - so that you should learn to care about and love the place.


It will be your home really, you know, some of these days.

It will be your home really, you know, one of these days.


You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position."


With all his love to her and his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should be Squire of Carbury.

With all his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should be Squire of Carbury.


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


I want you to know what my wishes are, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are yours.

I want you to know my wishes, and, if possible, I would learn what yours are.


My mind is quite made up as to my future life.


Of course, I do not wish to dictate to you,--and if I did, I could not dictate to Mr. Montague."

Of course, I do not wish to dictate to you - and I could not dictate to Mr. Montague."


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


He threw his hands up as though he were scattering his indignation to the air.


"I would not dictate either to you or to him, but it is right that you should know that I hold my property as steward for those who are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my stewardship will be infinitely increased if I find that those for whom I act share the interest which I shall take in the matter.

"I would not dictate to either of you, but it is right that you should know that I hold my property as steward for you, and that I fervently hope that you both will share the interest which I take in the matter.


It is the only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble."


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


His brow became a little black as he answered her.


"To a sister," he said very solemnly, "I will not say a word against her brother; but on that subject I claim a right to come to a decision on my own judgment.

"To a sister," he said very solemnly, "I will not say a word against her brother; but on that subject I must make my own judgment.


It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I may say, suffered much.


I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I need not pause to explain to you now.


If we are as much together as I hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them.


The disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in accordance with his own caprices,--or even with his own affections.

In handing on a family property - even one so small as mine - a man


He owes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to his country.


And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestly wished that the property should be continued in the hands of their descendants.

And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to his ancestors.


In what I am doing I am in some respects departing from the theory of my life,--but I do so under a perfect conviction that by the course I am taking I shall best perform the duties to which I have alluded.

I am convinced that by the course I am taking I shall best perform these duties.


I do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that."


He had spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understand all that he had said, she did not venture to dispute his will any further.


He did not endeavour to exact from her any promise, but having explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then left her and rode home without going into the house.

He then kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, left her and rode home.


Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner.


Having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidly kept his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings.

Having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, Roger rigidly kept his promise, whatever the cost to his own feelings.


As to his love for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had so nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate rival.


Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity that any allusion should be made to past misfortunes.


Roger indeed made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his fidelity.

Indeed he made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his fidelity.


But he spoke much of the land and of the tenants and the labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the necessity of so living that the income might always be more than sufficient for the wants of the household.

But he spoke much of the land and tenants and labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the necessity of a household budget.


When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishop at the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away the bride.


All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had not seemed to be so happy for many a long year.


John Crumb, who was there with his wife,--himself now one of Roger's tenants, having occupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old Daniel Ruggles,--declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own.

John Crumb, who was there with his wife, loudly declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own.


Ruby said to her spouse, when this opinion was expressed with rather a loud voice.


"Yes, I be," said John,--"but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you."

"Yes, I be," said John, "but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you."


"No, John; it was I was the fool then," said Ruby.

"No, John; I was the fool then," said Ruby.


"We'll see about that when the bairn's born," said John,--equally aloud.

"We'll see about that when the bairn's born," said John, equally loudly.


Mrs. Broune, and Mr. Broune, were also at Carbury,--thus doing great honour to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Montague, and showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an end.

Mr. and Mrs. Broune were also at Carbury, showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an end.


Happily up to this time Mr. Septimus Blake had continued to keep that gentleman as one of his Protestant population in the German town,--no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.

Happily up to this time, Mr. Septimus Blake had continued to keep that gentleman in the German town - no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.


When Paul got down into the dining-room Mrs. Hurtle was already there, and the waiter was standing by the side of the table ready to take the cover off the soup.

When Paul went into the dining-room Mrs. Hurtle was already there, radiant with smiles.


She was radiant with smiles and made herself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that everything was not well with her.

She made herself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that everything was not well with her.


Though she smiled, and talked and laughed, there was something forced in her manner.

Though she talked and laughed, there was something forced in her manner.


He almost knew that she was only waiting till the man should have left the room to speak in a different strain.

He knew that she was only waiting till the serving-man should have left the room to speak in a different strain.


As soon as the last lingering dish had been removed, and when the door was finally shut behind the retreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubt had been on her mind since she had walked across the strand to the hotel.

And when the door was finally shut behind the retreating waiter, she asked,


"Your friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?"

"Your friend was hardly civil, was he, Paul?


"Do you mean that he should have come in?


I have no doubt it was true that he had dined."


"I am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways of declining as there are of accepting.


I suppose he is on very intimate terms with you?"


"Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me.

"Then his want of courtesy was intended for me.


To this question Montague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediate answer.


"I can well understand that it should be so.


An intimate friend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence.


But unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his friend's friend, when accident brings them together.

But he should have been civil to his friend's friend.


You have told me that Mr. Carbury was your beau ideal of an English gentleman."

You have told me that Mr. Carbury was your ideal of an English gentleman."


"Did not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here with me, when he expressed surprise at your journey?


In this safe-going country young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are past thirty.


I should have said that he was your guardian, and that he intended to rebuke you for being in bad company.


This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it.


Nor was he sure that it would be well that he should deny it.


The time must come, and why not now as well as at any future moment?

Why not say it now as well as at any future moment?


He had to make her understand that he could not join his lot with her,--chiefly indeed because his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he could hardly insist because she could allege that she had a prior right to his heart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as to cause all his friends to warn him against such a marriage.

He had to make her understand that he could not marry her - chiefly indeed because his heart was elsewhere - but also because her history caused all his friends to warn him against such a marriage.


So he plucked up courage for the battle.


There are many,--and probably the greater portion of my readers will be among the number,--who will declare to themselves that Paul Montague was a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance to face this woman with the truth.

There are many of my readers who will declare that Paul Montague was a poor creature, in his reluctance to face this woman with the truth.


His folly in falling at first under the battery of her charms will be forgiven him.

His folly in falling for her charms will be forgiven him


His engagement, unwise as it was, and his subsequent determination to break his engagement, will be pardoned.

; his unwise engagement, and his determination to break it, will be pardoned as


Women, and perhaps some men also, will feel that it was natural that he should have been charmed, natural that he should have expressed his admiration in the form which unmarried ladies expect from unmarried men when any such expression is to be made at all;--natural also that he should endeavour to escape from the dilemma when he found the manifold dangers of the step which he had proposed to take.


No woman, I think, will be hard upon him because of his breach of faith to Mrs. Hurtle.


But they will be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice,--as, I think, unjustly.

But readers will be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice - I think unjustly.


In social life we hardly stop to consider how much of that daring spirit which gives mastery comes from hardness of heart rather than from high purpose, or true courage.

Mastery often comes from hardness of heart rather than true courage.


The man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, the master who succumbs to his servant, is as often brought to servility by a continual aversion to the giving of pain, by a softness which causes the fretfulness of others to be an agony to himself,--as by any actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one may have produced.

The man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, often does so because of an aversion to giving pain.


There is an inner softness, a thinness of the mind's skin, an incapability of seeing or even thinking of the troubles of others with equanimity, which produces a feeling akin to fear; but which is compatible not only with courage, but with absolute firmness of purpose, when the demand for firmness arises so strongly as to assert itself.


He feared the woman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to be silent; but he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter desertion.

Paul feared the woman; but he also shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter desertion.


After what had passed between them he could hardly bring himself to tell her that he wanted her no further and to bid her go.

After what had passed between them he could hardly bring himself to tell her that he wanted her no further.


And for that his answer to her last question prepared the way.


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

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


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


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

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


"No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and best friend.


I presume you would declare your purpose.


But I should not have supposed you would have asked his leave.


When I was travelling with you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your own actions.


I had heard that in your country girls sometimes hold themselves at the disposal of their friends,--but I did not dream that such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world to make his fortune."

I had heard that in your country, girls sometimes hold themselves at the disposal of their friends, but I did not dream that such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world."


Paul Montague's punishment was begun, and he did not like it.


The punishment to be endured was being commenced.


"Of course you can say bitter things," he replied.


"Have I usually said bitter things to you?


When I have hung round your neck and have sworn that you should be my God upon earth, was that bitter?

When I hung round your neck and swore that you should be my God upon earth, was that bitter?


I am alone and I have to fight my own battles.


Say but one word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be soon an end to that bitterness.

Say but one word to me, Paul, and there will be an end to bitterness.


What shall I care for Mr. Carbury, except to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speak but that one word?


Do you remember how urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that your happiness could only be secured by one word of mine?

Do you remember how urgent were once your own prayers to me; how you begged for one word of mine?


There were considerations of money, which have now vanished.


But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and because I believed you.

I spoke it, because I loved you, and because I believed you."


Give me that which you swore you had given before I made my gift to you."


"Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old glove?

"So after all, I am to be thrown off like an old glove?


I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish.


No man has ever dared to treat me like that."


I think but little of my life and have but little for which to live.


But while I do live I will travel over the world's surface to face injustice and to expose it, before I will put up with it.

While I live I will face injustice and expose it.


Heaven and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence!"

Heaven and earth - I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence!"


She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at a further distance.

She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table, and then dropped it again.


Could any mere letter of your writing break the bond by which we were bound together?

"Could any mere letter break the bond by which we were bound together?


Had not the distance between us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared to write that letter?


It has already been contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in this country."


When I first saw you I told you everything.


If I have been wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it."


"This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the beach.


Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all that is required of you?


Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the matter out with your--friend, Mr. Carbury."

Or perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the matter out with your - friend, Mr. Carbury."


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

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


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


I must say that which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had I been fairly careful."

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


"I know what it all is as well as though it were already told.


I know the lies with which they have crammed you at San Francisco.

I know the lies with which they crammed you at San Francisco.


You have heard that up in Oregon--I shot a man.

You have heard that up in Oregon I shot a man.


Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at him.

Then she rose from her chair, and looked at him.


"Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate to tell?


"Do you suppose that the sight of that dying wretch does not haunt me?


that I do not daily hear his drunken screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap just below my hand?

that I do not daily hear his drunken screech, and see him fall?


But did they tell you also that it was thus alone that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must afterwards have destroyed myself?

But did they tell you also that it was only thus that I could save myself?


If I were wrong, why did they not try me for his murder?

Otherwise, why did they not try me for his murder?


Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems of my garments?


In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of such necessity.


A woman here is protected,--unless it be from lies."

A woman here is protected - except from lies."


"No; they told you other things," she continued, still standing over him.


"They told you of quarrels with my husband.


I know the lies, and who made them, and why.


Did I conceal from you the character of my former husband?

Did I conceal my husband's character from you?


Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a scoundrel?"


How should I not quarrel with such a one?


Ah, Paul; you can hardly know what my life has been."


What are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for fighting?

What are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and treachery?


You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a duel?

You have not been foolish enough to believe that fable about a duel?


I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should only enter it over my body.


He went away to the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards.


And they have told you that he is not dead."


I never said to you that I had seen him dead.


"Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles from Galveston!


I was divorced from him according to the law of the State of Kansas.


Does not the law make a woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us?


I sued for a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness.

on the grounds of his cruelty and drunkenness.


He made no appearance, and the Court granted it me.


When we were talking of these old days before, you did not care how short I was in telling my story.


You wanted to hear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle.

you wanted to hear nothing of Caradoc Hurtle.


I told you that he was dead,--as I believed myself, and do believe.

I told you that he was dead, as I believed myself, and do believe.


Whether the other story was told or not I do not know."


"Then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen.


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

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


"I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have said unasked.


"I have asked no question about your property."


Is it because I protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected?


Am I to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a reprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or because by my own energy I have secured my own property?

Am I to be cast aside because I saved my life from a reprobate husband, and escaped from him by lawful means; or because I have secured my own property?


If I am not to be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."

If I am not condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."


She had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, but in doing so had left him without a word to say.


Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoot a man--especially in Oregon.

Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoot a man in Oregon.


As to the duel with her husband,--she had half denied and half confessed it.

As to the duel with her husband, she had half confessed it.


He presumed that she had been armed with a pistol when she refused Mr. Hurtle admittance into the nuptial chamber.


As to the question of Hurtle's death,--she had confessed that perhaps he was not dead.

She had confessed that perhaps Hurtle was not dead.


But then,--as she had asked,--why should not a divorce for the purpose in hand be considered as good as a death?

But then, as she had asked, why was not a divorce as good as a death?


He could not say that she had not washed herself clean;--and yet, from the story as told by herself, what man would wish to marry her?

And yet, from this story, what man would wish to marry her?


She had seen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he assumed to be her master.


"At any rate, Paul, do not lie," she answered.


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

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


"How often did you ask before I consented?"


"It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent.


I have since satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of us."

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


Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of me as you please.


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

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


She was still standing, and stretched out her right hand as though again to grasp something.

She was still standing, and stretched out her right hand as though to grasp something.


"If I speak with abruptness it is only to avoid a show of indecision.


what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man after man false and cruel as this!

Why is it my lot to meet man after man as false and cruel as this!


You tell me to my face that I am to bear it!


Or is it that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak for herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary?

Or are you afraid to marry a woman who can speak for herself, and act for herself?


He was looking at her intently as she spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to her face.


It was full of lines round the mouth, and the light play of drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed,--and her eyes seemed to be deep in her head.

It was full of lines round the mouth, and her eyes seemed to be deep in her head.


"Speak, man,--is it that you want a younger wife?"

"Speak, man. Is it that you want a younger wife?"


How should any one know anything from a liar?

How should one know anything from a liar?


I have to gather what I can from your character.


It is that man that came to you, and who is your master, that has forced you to this.

It is that man who has forced you to this.


Between me and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied.


As for knowing what you would be at, from anything that you would say,--that is impossible.


Once again I have come across a mean wretch.


Oh, fool!--that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world!

That men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world!


My last word to you is, that you are--a liar.


Ten minutes since, had I had a weapon in my hand I should have shot another man."

Had I had a weapon in my hand I should have used it."


Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not but think that perhaps Mrs. Hurtle might have had some excuse.

Paul Montague felt that perhaps Mrs. Hurtle might have had some excuse.


It seemed at any rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her,--though luckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on the present occasion.


"I will say good-bye to you," he said, when he had found his hat.


Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of me.


Pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy.


Tell me that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman."


You would,--were you not afraid to indulge yourself."


He was now standing in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an imperative command.

He was now standing in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him a command.


"I shall not stay here now," she said--"I shall return on Monday.

"I shall not stay here now," she said. "I shall return on Monday.


I must think of what you have said, and must resolve what I myself will do.


I shall not bear this without seeking a means of punishing you for your treachery.

I shall seek a means of punishing you for your treachery.


I shall expect you to come to me on Monday."


"I do not see that it will serve any purpose."


I suppose you are not so much a coward that you are afraid to come to me.

If you are too much of a coward to come to me, I shall come to you.


If so, I shall come to you; and you may be assured that I shall not be too timid to show myself and to tell my story."

I shall not be too timid to show myself and tell my story."


He ended by saying that if she desired it he would wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day.

He said he would visit her, but would not fix a day.


On his return to town he would write to her.


When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile.

When he was gone she went to the door and listened.


Then she closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door and with her hands clasped.

Then she locked it, and stood with her hands clasped.


After a few moments she ran forward, and falling on her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table.

After a few moments she ran forward, and falling on her knees, buried her face in her hands.


Then she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor.

She gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor.


Should she never know rest;--never have one draught of cool water between her lips?


Was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils and misery of her life?

Was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils of her life?


In almost all that she had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the truth,--as which among us would in giving the story of his life?

In almost all that she had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the truth.


She had endured violence, and had been violent.


She had been schemed against, and had schemed.


She had fitted herself to the life which had befallen her.


But in regard to money, she had been honest and she had been loving of heart.

But she had been honest about money, and she had been loving of heart.


With her heart of hearts she had loved this young Englishman;--and now, after all her scheming, all her daring, with all her charms, this was to be the end of it!

She had loved this young Englishman - and now this was to be the end of it!


Oh, what a journey would this be which she must now make back to her own country, all alone!

Oh, what a journey she would now have to make back to her own country, all alone!


But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of disappointed love.


Full as had been the vials of wrath which she had poured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm of abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after all something counterfeited in her indignation.


At any moment if he would have returned to her and taken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessed him also for his kindness.

if he had taken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessed him for his kindness.


She was in truth sick at heart of violence and rough living and unfeminine words.

She was in truth sick at heart of rough living.


When driven by wrongs the old habit came back upon her.


But if she could only escape the wrongs, if she could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour forth all the genuine kindness of her woman's nature,--then, she thought she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl.

If she could only escape, if she could find some safe niche in the world, then she thought she could put away violence and be as gentle as a girl.


When she first met this Englishman and found that he took delight in being near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her.

When she first met this admiring Englishman, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her.


But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol shot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as she had often told herself before, that it would have been better for her to have turned the muzzle against her own bosom.

But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol shot still clung to her, and she told herself - not for the first time - that it would have been better for her to have shot herself.


After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told herself was a vain chance.


Though angry enough when that letter first reached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her, declared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural.

, though she had been angry, she declared to herself that his resolution was natural.


In marrying her he must give up all his old allies, all his old haunts.

In marrying her he must give up his old friends and haunts.


She knew enough of herself, and enough of Englishwomen, to be sure that when her past life should be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in England.

She was aware that when her past life became known, she would be avoided in English society.


With all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in speaking of the old country there was ever mixed, as is so often the case in the minds of American men and women, an almost envious admiration of English excellence.


To have been allowed to forget the past and to live the life of an English lady would have been heaven to her.


But she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in the eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become almost a proverb for violence out in the far West,--how could she dare to hope that her lot should be so changed for her?

But she, whose name had become almost a proverb for violence out in the far West - how could she dare to hope that her lot should be so changed?


She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often before she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that that hesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness.

She had reminded Paul that he had asked her often before she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that her hesitation had arisen from her sense of her own unfitness.


Circumstances had made her what she was.


Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lost herself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed.


She had, however, almost known that it could not be so.

She had, however, known that it could not be so.


But this man had relatives, had business, had property in her own country.

But this man had relatives and property in the United States.


Though she could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous life be opened for him in the far West?

Might not a prosperous life be opened for him in the far West?


Then had risen the offer of that journey to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinary kind might detain him there for years.

Then had risen the offer of that journey to Mexico.


With what joy would she have accompanied him as his wife!


For that at any rate she would have been fit.


She was conscious,--perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty.

She was conscious - perhaps too conscious - of her own beauty.


That at any rate, she felt, had not deserted her.


She was hardly aware that time was touching it.


And she knew herself to be clever, capable of causing happiness, and mirth and comfort.


She had the qualities of a good comrade--which are so much in a woman.


If he and she could be together in some country in which those stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, could she not make him happy?

If they could be together in some other country, could she not make him happy?


But what was she that a man should give up everything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarous country for her alone?

Yet what was she that a man should give up everything and go away to some half-barbarous country for her alone?


She knew it all and was hardly angry with him in that he had decided against her.

She knew it all and was hardly angry with him.


But treated as she had been she must play her game with such weapons as she possessed.

But treated as she had been, she must play her game with such weapons as she possessed.


It was consonant with her old character, it was consonant with her present plans that she should at any rate seem to be angry.


Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but the plan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was the writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondest love, and telling him that he was right.

Sitting alone late into the night she made many plans, but the plan that seemed best to suit her frame of mind was the writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondest love, and telling him that he was right.


She did write the letter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not have the strength to send it to him.

She did write this letter, believing that she would not have the strength to send it.


The reader may judge with what feeling she wrote the following words:--


Our marriage would not have been fitting.


I attracted you when we were together; but you have learned and have learned truly that you should not give up your life for such attractions.

I attracted you; but you have learned truly that you should not give up your life for such attractions.


If I have been violent with you, forgive me.


You will acknowledge that I have suffered.


Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than any one else.

Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than anyone else.


I think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side.


Write me the shortest, shortest word of adieu.


Not to do so would make you think yourself heartless.


This she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read it twice, she put it into her pocket-book.

Having read this note twice, she put it into her pocket-book.


She told herself that she ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not bring herself to do so.


It was early in the morning before she went to bed but she had admitted no one into the room after Montague had left her.


Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the sea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyance to take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning.

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


At breakfast he presented himself to the squire.


"I have come earlier than you expected," he said.


Roger expressed his satisfaction, recalling however the pledge which he had given as to his return.


"Let her follow you, and bear it," he said.


"Of course you must suffer the effects of your own imprudence."


On that evening Paul Montague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he would thus avoid a meeting with Mrs. Hurtle in the railway-carriage.

That evening Paul Montague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he would thus avoid a meeting with Mrs. Hurtle in the railway-carriage.


Mr. Longestaffe had brought his daughter down to Caversham on a Wednesday.


During the Thursday and Friday she had passed a very sad time, not knowing whether she was or was not engaged to marry Mr. Brehgert.


Her father had declared to her that he would break off the match, and she believed that he had seen Mr. Brehgert with that purpose.


She had certainly given no consent, and had never hinted to any one of the family an idea that she was disposed to yield.


But she felt that, at any rate with her father, she had not adhered to her purpose with tenacity, and that she had allowed him to return to London with a feeling that she might still be controlled.

Georgiana felt that she had allowed her father to return to London thinking that she might still be controlled.


She was beginning to be angry with Mr. Brehgert, thinking that he had taken his dismissal from her father without consulting her.

She was beginning to be angry with Mr. Brehgert, assuming he had taken his dismissal from her father without consulting her.


It was necessary that something should be settled, something known.


Life such as that she was leading now would drive her mad.


She had all the disadvantages of the Brehgert connection and none of the advantages.