an, without any further previous word between them, it would
appear that he had resolved to quarrel with her for ever. But now, at
this very moment of time, as he lay in his bed, as he dressed himself
in the morning, as he sauntered about among the new hay-stacks with
his pipe in his mouth after breakfast, he came to some conclusion in
his mind very much averse to such quarrelling.

He had loved her with all his heart. It had not been a mere
drawing-room love begotten between a couple of waltzes, and fostered
by five minutes in a crush. He knew himself to be a man of the world,
and he did not wish to be other than he was. He could talk among men
as men talked, and act as men acted;--and he could do the same with
women. But there was one person who had been to him above all, and
round everything, and under everything. There had been a private nook
within him into which there had been no entrance but for the one
image. There had been a holy of holies, which he had guarded within
himself, keeping it free from all outer contamination for his own
use. He had cherished the idea of a clear fountain of ever-running
water which would at last be his, always ready for the comfort of his
own lips. Now all his hope was shattered, his trust was gone, and his
longing disappointed. But the person was the same person, though she
could not be his. The nook was there, though she would not fill it.
The holy of holies was not less holy, though he himself might not
dare to lift the curtain. The fountain would still run,--still the
clearest fountain of all,--though he might not put his lips to it. He
would never allow himself to think of it with lessened reverence, or
with changed ideas as to her nature.

And then, as he stood leaning against a ladder which still kept
its place against one of the hay-ricks, and filled his second pipe
unconsciously, he had to realise to himself the probable condition of
his future life. Of course she would marry this man with very little
further delay. Her father had already declared himself to be too
weak to interfere much longer with her wishes. Of course Mr. Wharton
would give way. He had himself declared that he would give way. And
then,--what sort of life would be her life? No one knew anything
about the man. There was an idea that he was rich,--but wealth such
as his, wealth that is subject to speculation, will fly away at a
moment's notice. He might be cruel, a mere adventurer, or a thorough
ruffian f