m. Oh, how she had looked when that part of Bertram's
letter had been read, in which he professed that he would not be
bored by any love-duties for his lady! And then, this man had been
kind to her; he had shown that such service would be no bore to him.
He had been gentle-mannered to her; and she also, she had been gentle
to him:

"The woman cannot be of nature's making
Whom, being kind, her misery makes not kinder."

And Caroline was kind; at least so he thought, and heaven knows she
was miserable also. And thus hopes rose which should never have
risen, and schemes were made which, if not absolutely black, were as
near it as any shade of brown may be.

And then there was the fact that Caroline was the granddaughter, and
might probably be the heiress, of one of the wealthiest men in the
city of London. The consideration of this fact had doubtless its
weight also. The lady would at least have six thousand pounds, might
have sixty, might have three times sixty. Harcourt would probably
have found it inexpedient to give way to any love had there been no
money to gild the passion. He was notoriously a man of the world; he
pretended to be nothing else; he would have thought that he had made
himself ludicrous if he had married for love only. With him it was a
source of comfort that the lady's pecuniary advantages allowed him
the hope that he might indulge his love. So he did indulge it.

He had trusted for awhile that circumstances would break off this
ill-assorted match, and that then he could step in himself without
any previous interference in the matter. But the time was running
too close: unless something was done, these two poor young creatures
would marry, and make themselves wretched for life. Benevolence
itself required that he should take the matter in hand. So he did
take it in hand, and commenced his operations--not unskilfully, as we
have seen.

Such is our apology for Mr. Harcourt. A very poor one, the reader
will say, turning from that gentleman with disgust. It is a poor one.
Were we all turned inside out, as is done with ladies and gentlemen
in novels, some of us might find some little difficulty in giving
good apologies for ourselves. Our shade of brown would often be very
dark.

Bertram sat for awhile silent and motionless at the table, and
Harcourt seeing his look of grief, almost repented what he had done.
But, after all, he had only told the truth. The letter had been shown
to him.