Mary Barton

  XI. MR. CARSON'S INTENTIONS REVEALED.

  "O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only fault is loving thee?" --BURNS.

  "I can like of the wealth, I must confess, Yet more I prize the man though moneyless: I am not of their humour yet that can For title or estate affect a man; Or of myself one body deign to make With him I loathe, for his possessions' sake." --WITHER'S Fidelia.

  Barton returned home after his encounter with Esther, uneasy anddissatisfied. He had said no more than he had been planning to sayfor years, in case she was ever thrown in his way, in the characterin which he felt certain he should meet her. He believed shedeserved it all, and yet he now wished he had not said it. Herlook, as she asked for mercy, haunted him through his broken anddisordered sleep; her form, as he last saw her, lying prostrate inhelplessness, would not be banished from his dreams. He sat up inbed to try and dispel the vision. Now, too late, his consciencesmote him with harshness. It would have been all very well, hethought, to have said what he did, if he had added some kind words,at last. He wondered if his dead wife was conscious of that night'soccurrence; and he hoped not, for with her love for Esther hebelieved it would embitter heaven to have seen her so degradedand repulsed. For he now recalled her humility, her tacitacknowledgment of her lost character; and he began to marvel ifthere was power in the religion he had often heard of, to turn herfrom her ways. He felt that no earthly power that he knew of coulddo it, but there glimmered on his darkness the idea that religionmight save her. Still, where to find her again? In the wildernessof a large town, where to meet with an individual of so little valueor note to any?

  And evening after evening he paced the same streets in which he hadheard those footsteps following him, peering under every fantastic,discreditable bonnet, in the hopes of once more meeting Esther, andaddressing her in a far different manner from what he had donebefore. But he returned, night after night, disappointed in hissearch, and at last gave it up in despair, and tried to recall hisangry feelings towards her, in order to find relief from his presentself-reproach.

  He often looked at Mary, and wished she were not so like her aunt,for the very bodily likeness seemed to suggest the possibility of asimilar likeness in their fate; and then this idea enraged hisirritable mind, and he became suspicious and anxious about Mary'sconduct. Now hitherto she had been so remarkably free from allcontrol, and almost from all inquiry concerning her actions, thatshe did not brook this change in her father's behaviour very well.Just when she was yielding more than ever to Mr. Carson's desire offrequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned concerning herhours of leaving off work, whether she had come straight home, etc.She could not tell lies; though she could conceal much if she werenot questioned. So she took refuge in obstinate silence, allegingas a reason for it her indignation at being so cross-examined. Thisdid not add to the good feeling between father and daughter, and yetthey dearly loved each other; and in the minds of each, oneprincipal reason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased theother, was the believing that this conduct would insure thatperson's happiness.

  Her father now began to wish Mary was married. Then this terriblesuperstitious fear suggested by her likeness to Esther would be doneaway with. He felt that he could not resume the reins he had onceslackened. But with a husband it would be different. If Jem Wilsonwould but marry her! With his character for steadiness and talent!But he was afraid Mary had slighted him, he came so seldom now tothe house. He would ask her.

  "Mary, what's come o'er thee and Jem Wilson? You were great friendsat one time."

  "Oh, folk say he is going to be married to Molly Gibson, and ofcourse courting takes up a deal o' time," answered Mary, asindifferently as she could.

  "Thou'st played thy cards badly, then," replied her father, in asurly tone. "At one time he were desperate fond o' thee, or I'mmuch mistaken. Much fonder of thee than thou deservedst."

  "That's as people think," said Mary pertly, for she remembered thatthe very morning before she had met Mr. Carson, who had sighed, andswore, and protested all manner of tender vows that she was theloveliest, sweetest, best, etc. And when she had seen himafterwards riding with one of his beautiful sisters, had he notevidently pointed her out as in some way or other an object worthyof attention and interest, and then lingered behind his sister'shorse for a moment to kiss his hand repeatedly. So, as for JemWilson, she could whistle him down the wind.

  But her father was not in the mood to put up with pertness, and heupbraided her with the loss of Jem Wilson till she had to bite herlips till the blood came, in order to keep down the angry words thatwould rise in her heart. At last her father left the house, andthen she might give way to her passionate tears.

  It so happened that Jem, after much anxious thought, had determinedthat day to "put his fortune to the touch, to win or lose all." Hewas in a condition to maintain a wife in comfort. It was true hismother and aunt must form part of the household: but such is notan uncommon case among the poor, and if there were the advantages ofprevious friendship between the parties, it was not, he thought, anobstacle to matrimony. Both mother and aunt, he believed, wouldwelcome Mary. And, oh! what a certainty of happiness the idea ofthat welcome implied.

  He had been absent and abstracted all day long with the thought ofthe coming event of the evening. He almost smiled at himself forhis care in washing and dressing in preparation for his visit toMary; as if one waistcoat or another could decide his fate in sopassionately a momentous thing. He believed he only delayed beforehis little looking-glass for cowardice, for absolute fear of a girl.He would try not to think so much about the affair, and he thoughtthe more.

  Poor Jem! it is not an auspicious moment for thee!

  "Come in," said Mary, as some one knocked at the door, while she satsadly at her sewing, trying to earn a few pence by working overhours at some mourning.

  Jem entered, looking more awkward and abashed than he had ever donebefore. Yet here was Mary all alone, just as he had hoped to findher. She did not ask him to take a chair, but after standing aminute or two he sat down near her.

  "Is your father at home, Mary?" said he, by way of making anopening, for she seemed determined to keep silence, and went onstitching away.

  "No, he's gone to his Union, I suppose." Another silence. It wasno use waiting, thought Jem. The subject would never be led to byany talk he could think of in his anxious, fluttered state. He hadbetter begin at once.

  "Mary!" said he, and the unusual tone of his voice made her look upfor an instant, but in that time she understood from his countenancewhat was coming, and her heart beat so suddenly and violently shecould hardly sit still. Yet one thing she was sure of; nothing hecould say should make her have him. She would show them all WHOwould be glad to have her. She was not yet calm after her father'sirritating speeches. Yet her eyes fell veiled before thatpassionate look fixed upon her.

  "Dear Mary! (for how dear you are, I cannot rightly tell you inwords.) It's no new story I'm going to speak about. You must ha'seen and known it long; for since we were boy and girl I ha' lovedyou above father and mother and all; and all I've thought on by dayand dreamt on by night has been something in which you've had ashare. I'd no way of keeping you for long, and I scorned to try andtie you down; and I lived in terror lest some one else should takeyou to himself. But now, Mary, I'm foreman in th' works, and, dearMary! listen," as she, in her unbearable agitation, stood up andturned away from him. He rose too, and came nearer, trying to takehold of her hand; but this she would not allow. She was bracingherself up to refuse him, for once and for all.

  "And now, Mary, I've a home to offer you, and a heart as true asever man had to love you and cherish you; we shall never be richfolk, I dare say; but if a loving heart and a strong right arm canshield you from sorrow, or from want, mine shall do it. I ca
nnotspeak as I would like; my love won't let itself be put in words.But, oh! darling, say you'll believe me, and that you'll be mine."

  She could not speak at once; her words would not come.

  "Mary, they say silence gives consent; is it so?" he whispered.

  Now or never the effort must be made.

  "No! it does not with me." Her voice was calm, although shetrembled from head to foot. "I will always be your friend, Jem, butI can never be your wife."

  "Not my wife?" said he mournfully. "O Mary, think awhile! youcannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. At least, I cannever be content to be only your friend. Do think awhile! If yousay No, you will make me hopeless, desperate. It's no love ofyesterday. It has made the very groundwork of all that people callgood in me. I don't know what I shall be if you won't have me.And, Mary, think how glad your father would be! It may sound vain,but he's told me more than once how much he should like to see ustwo married."

  Jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in Mary's presentmood it told against him more than anything; for it suggested thefalse and foolish idea that her father, in his evident anxiety topromote her marriage with Jem, had been speaking to him on thesubject with some degree of solicitation.

  "I tell you, Jem, it cannot be. Once for all, I will never marryyou."

  "And is this the end of all my hopes and fears? the end of my life,I may say, for it is the end of all worth living for!" Hisagitation rose and carried him into passion. "Mary, you'll hear,maybe, of me as a drunkard, and maybe as a thief, and maybe as amurderer. Remember! when all are speaking ill of me, you will haveno right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made mewhat I feel I shall become. You won't even say you'll try and likeme; will you, Mary?" said he, suddenly changing his tone fromthreatening despair to fond, passionate entreaty, as he took herhand and held it forcibly between both of his, while he tried tocatch a glimpse of her averted face. She was silent, but it wasfrom deep and violent emotion. He could not bear to wait; he wouldnot hope, to be dashed away again; he rather in his bitterness ofheart chose the certainty of despair, and before she could resolvewhat to answer, he flung away her hand and rushed out of the house.

  "Jem! Jem!" cried she, with faint and choking voice. It was toolate; he left street after street behind him with his almost wingedspeed, as he sought the fields, where he might give way unobservedto all the deep despair he felt.

  It was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the house, andfound Mary at comparative peace, and now she lay half across thedresser, her head hidden in her hands, and every part of her bodyshaking with the violence of her sobs. She could not have told atfirst (if you had asked her, and she could have commanded voiceenough to answer) why she was in such agonized grief. It was toosudden for her to analyse, or think upon it. She only felt that byher own doing her life would be hereafter blank and dreary. By-and-bye her sorrow exhausted her body by its power, and she seemedto have no strength left for crying. She sat down; and now thoughtscrowded on her mind. One little hour ago, and all was still unsaid,and she had her fate in her own power. And yet, how long ago hadshe determined to say pretty much what she did, if the occasion everoffered.

  It was as if two people were arguing the matter; that mournfuldesponding communion between her former self, and her present self.Herself, a day, an hour ago; and herself now. For we have every oneof us felt how a very few minutes of the months and years calledlife, will sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in anentirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the criminalityof the bygone, and so change the aspect of the coming time that welook with loathing on the very thing we have most desired. A fewmoments may change our character for life, by giving a totallydifferent direction to our aims and energies.

  To return to Mary. Her plan had been, as we well know, to marry Mr.Carson, and the occurrence an hour ago was only a preliminary step.True; but it had unveiled her heart to her; it had convinced herthat she loved Jem above all persons or things. But Jem was a poormechanic, with a mother and aunt to keep; a mother, too, who hadshown her pretty clearly that she did not desire her for adaughter-in-law: while Mr. Carson was rich, and prosperous, andgay, and (she believed) would place her in all circumstances of easeand luxury, where want could never come. What were these hollowvanities to her, now she had discovered the passionate secret of hersoul? She felt as if she almost hated Mr. Carson, who had decoyedher with his baubles. She now saw how vain, how nothing to her,would be all gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless shemight share them with Jem; yes, with him she had harshly rejected soshort a time ago. If he were poor, she loved him all the better.If his mother did think her unworthy of him, what was it but thetruth? as she now owned with bitter penitence. She had hithertobeen walking in grope-light towards a precipice; but in the clearrevelation of that past hour she saw her danger, and turned awayresolutely and for ever.

  That was some comfort: I mean her clear perception of what sheought not to do; of what no luring temptation should ever againinduce her to hearken to. How she could best undo the wrong she haddone to Jem and herself by refusing his love was another anxiousquestion. She wearied herself by proposing plans, and rejectingthem.

  She was roused to a consciousness of time by hearing theneighbouring church clock strike twelve. Her father she knew mightbe expected home any minute, and she was in no mood for a meetingwith him. So she hastily gathered up her work, and went to her ownlittle bedroom, leaving him to let himself in.

  She put out her candle, that her father might not see its lightunder the door; and sat down on her bed to think. But again,turning things over in her mind again and again, she could onlydetermine at once to put an end to all further communication withMr. Carson, in the most decided way she could. Maidenly modesty(and true love is ever modest) seemed to oppose every plan she couldthink of, for showing Jem how much she repented her decision againsthim, and how dearly she had now discovered that she loved him. Shecame to the unusual wisdom of resolving to do nothing, but strive tobe patient, and improve circumstances as they might turn up.Surely, if Jem knew of her remaining unmarried, he would try hisfortune again. He would never be content with one rejection shebelieved she could not in his place. She had been very wrong, butnow she would endeavour to do right, and have womanly patience,until he saw her changed and repentant mind in her natural actions.Even if she had to wait for years, it was no more than now it waseasy to look forward to, as a penance for her giddy flirting on theone hand, and her cruel mistake concerning her feelings on theother. So anticipating a happy ending in the course of her love,however distant it might be, she fell asleep just as the earliestfactory bells were ringing. She had sunk down in her clothes, andher sleep was unrefreshing. She wakened up shivery and chill inbody, and sorrow-stricken in mind, though she could not at firstrightly tell the cause of her depression.

  She recalled the events of the night before, and still resolved toadhere to the determinations she had then formed. But patienceseemed a far more difficult virtue this morning.

  She hastened downstairs, and in her earnest, sad desire to do right,now took much pains to secure a comfortable though scanty breakfastfor her father; and when he dawdled into the room, in an evidentlyirritable temper, she bore all with the gentleness of penitence,till at last her mild answers turned away wrath.

  She loathed the idea of meeting Sally Leadbitter at her daily work;yet it must be done, and she tried to nerve herself for theencounter, and to make it at once understood, that having determinedto give up having anything further to do with Mr. Carson, sheconsidered the bond of intimacy broken between them.

  But Sally was not the person to let these resolutions be carriedinto effect too easily. She soon became aware of the present stateof Mary's feelings, but she thought they merely arose from thechangeableness of girlhood, and that the time would come when Marywould thank her for almost forcing her to keep up her meetings andcommunications with her rich lover.

>   So, when two days had passed over in rather too marked avoidance ofSally on Mary's part, and when the former was made aware by Mr.Carson's complaints that Mary was not keeping her appointments withhim, and that unless he detained her by force, he had no chance ofobtaining a word as she passed him in the street on her rapid walkhome, she resolved to compel Mary to what she called her own good.

  She took no notice during the third day of Mary's avoidance as theysat at work; she rather seemed to acquiesce in the coolness of theirintercourse. She put away her sewing early, and went home to hermother, who, she said, was more ailing than usual. The other girlssoon followed her example, and Mary, casting a rapid glance up anddown the street, as she stood last on Miss Simmonds' doorstep,darted homewards, in hopes of avoiding the person whom she was fastlearning to dread. That night she was safe from any encounter onher road, and she arrived at home, which she found, as she expected,empty; for she knew it was a club night, which her father would notmiss. She sat down to recover breath, and to still her heart, whichpanted more from nervousness than from over-exertion, although shehad walked so quickly. Then she arose, and taking off her bonnet,her eye caught the form of Sally Leadbitter passing the window witha lingering step, and looking into the darkness with all her might,as if to ascertain if Mary were returned. In an instant sherepassed and knocked at the house-door; but without awaiting ananswer, she entered.

  "Well, Mary, dear" (knowing well how little "dear" Mary consideredher just then); "it's so difficult to get any comfortable talk atMiss Simmonds', I thought I'd just step up and see you at home."

  "I understood, from what you said, your mother was ailing, and thatyou wanted to be with her," replied Mary, in no welcoming tone.

  "Ay, but mother's better now," said the unabashed Sally. "Yourfather's out, I suppose?" looking round as well as she could; forMary made no haste to perform the hospitable offices of striking amatch, and lighting a candle.

  "Yes, he's out," said Mary shortly, and busying herself at lastabout the candle, without ever asking her visitor to sit down.

  "So much the better," answered Sally; "for to tell you the truth,Mary, I've a friend at th' end of the road, as is anxious to comeand see you at home, since you're grown so particular as not to liketo speak to him in the street. He'll be here directly."

  "O Sally, don't let him," said Mary, speaking at last heartily; andrunning to the door, she would have fastened it, but Sally held herhands, laughing meanwhile at her distress.

  "Oh, please, Sally," struggling, "dear Sally! don't let him comehere, the neighbours will so talk, and father'll go mad if he hears;he'll kill me, Sally, he will. Besides, I don't love him--I neverdid. Oh, let me go," as footsteps approached; and then, as theypassed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she continued,"Do, Sally, dear Sally, go and tell him I don't love him, and that Idon't want to have anything more to do with him. It was very wrong,I dare say, keeping company with him at all, but I'm very sorry, ifI've led him to think too much of me; and I don't want him to thinkany more. Will you tell him this, Sally? and I'll do anything foryou, if you will."

  "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sally, in a more relenting mood;"I'll go back with you to where he's waiting for us; or rather, Ishould say, where I told him to wait for a quarter of an hour, tillI seed if your father was at home; and if I didn't come back in thattime, he said he'd come here, and break the door open but he'd seeyou."

  "Oh, let us go, let us go," said Mary, feeling that the interviewmust be, and had better be anywhere than at home, where her fathermight return at any minute. She snatched up her bonnet, and was atthe end of the court in an instant; but then, not knowing whether toturn to the right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for Sally,who came leisurely up, and put her arm through Mary's with a kind ofdecided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changingher mind and turning back. But this, under the circumstances, wasquite different to Mary's plan. She had wondered more than once ifshe must not have another interview with Mr. Carson and had thendetermined, while she expressed her resolution that it should be thefinal one, to tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlesslygiven him false hopes. For, be it remembered, she had theinnocence, or the ignorance, to believe his intentions honourable;and he, feeling that at any price he must have her, only that hewould obtain her as cheaply as he could, had never undeceived her;while Sally Leadbitter laughed in her sleeve at them both, andwondered how it would all end--whether Mary would gain her point ofmarriage, with her sly affectation of believing such to be Mr.Carson's intention in courting her.

  Not very far from the end of the street, into which the court whereMary lived opened, they met Mr. Carson, his hat a good deal slouchedover his face, as if afraid of being recognised. He turned when hesaw them coming, and led the way without uttering a word (althoughthey were close behind) to a street of half-finished houses.

  The length of the walk gave Mary time to recoil from the interviewwhich was to follow; but even if her own resolve to go through withit had failed, there was the steady grasp of Sally Leadbitter, whichshe could not evade without an absolute struggle.

  At last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of a wooden fence,put up to keep the building rubbish from intruding on the foot-pavement. Inside this fence, a minute afterwards, the girls werestanding by him; Mary now returning Sally's detaining grasp withinterest, for she had determined on the way to make her a witness,willing or unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. But Sally'scuriosity led her to be a very passive prisoner in Mary's hold.

  With more freedom than he had ever used before, Mr. Carson put hisarm firmly round Mary's waist, in spite of her indignant resistance.

  "Nay, nay! you little witch! Now I have caught you, I shall keepyou prisoner. Tell me now what has made you run away from me sofast these few days--tell me, you sweet little coquette!"

  Mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost opposite tohim, while she spoke out calmly and boldly--

  "Mr. Carson! I want to speak to you for once and for all. Since Imet you last Monday evening, I have made up my mind to have nothingmore to do with you. I know I've been wrong in leading you to thinkI liked you; but I believe I didn't rightly know my own mind; and Ihumbly beg your pardon, sir, if I've led you to think too much ofme."

  For an instant he was surprised; the next, vanity came to his aid,and convinced him that she could only be joking. He, young,agreeable, rich, handsome! No! she was only showing a littlewomanly fondness for coquetting.

  "You're a darling little rascal to go on in this way! 'Humblybegging my pardon if you've made me think too much of you.' As ifyou didn't know I think of you from morning till night. But youwant to be told it again and again, do you?"

  "No, indeed, sir, I don't. I would far liefer* that you should sayyou would never think of me again, than that you should speak of mein this way. For, indeed, sir, I never was more in earnest than Iam, when I say to-night is the last night I will ever speak to you."

  *Liefer; rather. "Yet had I LEVRE unwist for sorrow die." --CHAUCER, Troilus and Creseide.

  "Last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last day. Ha,Mary, I've caught you, have I?" as she, puzzled by his perseverancein thinking her joking, hesitated in what form she could now put hermeaning.

  "I mean, sir," she said sharply, "that I will never speak to youagain, at any time, after to-night."

  "And what's made this change, Mary?" said he, seriously enough now."Have I done anything to offend you?" added he earnestly.

  "No, sir," she answered gently, but yet firmly. "I cannot tell youexactly why I've changed my mind; but I shall not alter it again;and, as I said before, I beg your pardon if I've done wrong by you.And now sir, if you please, good-night."

  "But I do not please. You shall not go. What have I done, Mary?Tell me. You must not go without telling me how I have vexed you.What would you have me do?"

  "Nothing, sir, but" (in an agitated to
ne), "oh! let me go! Youcannot change my mind; it's quite made up. Oh, sir! why do you holdme so tight? If you WILL know why I won't have anything more to dowith you, it is that I cannot love you. I have tried, and I reallycannot."

  This naive and candid avowal served her but little. He could notunderstand how it could be true. Some reason lurked behind. He waspassionately in love. What should he do to tempt her? A thoughtstruck him.

  "Listen! Mary. Nay, I cannot let you go till you have heard me. Ido love you dearly; and I won't believe but what you love me a verylittle, just a very little. Well, if you don't like to own it,never mind! I only want now to tell you how much I love you, bywhat I am ready to give up for you. You know (or perhaps you arenot fully aware) how little my father and mother would like me tomarry you. So angry would they be, and so much ridicule should Ihave to brave, that of course I have never thought of it till now.I thought we could be happy enough without marriage." (Deep sankthose words into Mary's heart.) "But now, if you like, I'll get alicence to-morrow morning--nay, to-night, and I'll marry you indefiance of all the world, rather than give you up. In a year ortwo my father will forgive me, and meanwhile you shall have everyluxury money can purchase, and every charm that love can devise tomake your life happy. After all, my mother was but a factory girl."(This was said to himself, as if to reconcile himself to this boldstep.) "Now, Mary, you see how willing I am to--to sacrifice a gooddeal for you; I even offer you marriage, to satisfy your littleambitious heart; so now, won't you say, you can love me a little,little bit?"

  He pulled her towards him. To his surprise, she still resisted.Yes! though all she had pictured to herself for so many months inbeing the wife of Mr. Carson was now within her grasp, she resisted.His speech had given her but one feeling, that of exceeding greatrelief. For she had dreaded, now she knew what true love was, tothink of the attachment she might have created; the deep feeling herflirting conduct might have called out. She had loaded herself withreproaches for the misery she might have caused. It was a relief togather that the attachment was of that low despicable kind which canplan to seduce the object of its affection that the feeling she hadcaused was shallow enough, for it only pretended to embrace self, atthe expense of the misery, the ruin, of one falsely termed beloved.She need not be penitent to such a plotter! that was the relief.

  "I am obliged to you, sir, for telling me what you have. You maythink I am a fool; but I did think you meant to marry me all along;and yet, thinking so, I felt I could not love you. Still I feltsorry I had gone so far in keeping company with you. Now, sir, Itell you, if I had loved you before, I don't think I should haveloved you now you have told me you meant to ruin me; for that's theplain English of not meaning to marry me till just this minute. Isaid I was sorry, and humbly begged your pardon that was before Iknew what you were. Now I scorn you, sir, for plotting to ruin apoor girl. Goodnight."

  And with a wrench, for which she had reserved all her strength, sheflew off like a bolt. They heard her flying footsteps echo down thequiet street. The next sound was Sally's laugh, which grated on Mr.Carson's ears, and keenly irritated him.

  "And what do you find so amusing, Sally?" asked he.

  "Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I humbly beg your pardon, as Marysays, but I can't help laughing to think how she's outwitted us."(She was going to have said, "outwitted you," but changed thepronoun.)

  "Why, Sally, had you any idea she was going to fly out in thisstyle?"

  "No, I hadn't, to be sure. But if you did think of marrying her,why (if I may be so bold as to ask) did you go and tell her you hadno thought of doing otherwise by her? That was what put her up atlast!"

  "Why, I had repeatedly before led her to infer that marriage was notmy object. I never dreamed she could have been so foolish as tohave mistaken me, little provoking romancer though she be! So Inaturally wished her to know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of--ofmyself, in short, I was willing to make for her sake; yet I don'tthink she was aware of it after all. I believe I might have anylady in Manchester if I liked, and yet I was willing and ready tomarry a poor dressmaker. Don't you understand me now? and don't yousee what a sacrifice I was making to humour her? and all to noavail."

  Sally was silent, so he went on--

  "My father would have forgiven any temporary connection, far soonerthan my marrying one so far beneath me in rank."

  "I thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory girl," remarkedSally rather maliciously.

  "Yes, yes!--but then my father was in much such a station at anyrate, there was not the disparity there is between Mary and me."

  Another pause.

  "Then you mean to give her up, sir? She made no bones of saying shegave you up."

  "No; I do not mean to give her up, whatever you and she may pleaseto think. I am more in love with her than ever; even for thischarming capricious ebullition of hers. She'll come round, you maydepend upon it. Women always do. They always have second thoughts,and find out that they are best in casting off a lover. Mind, Idon't say I shall offer her the same terms again."

  With a few more words of no importance, the allies parted.