to barter his future prospects.  He did not doubt but that what he contemplated would be for the benefit of this young girl; he must seem like an angel to her (for love does not always touch us with the sense of unworthiness); as, indeed, by comparison with this man Coe, he was.  His mother would be a good deal “put out,” it was true, but then she was too fond of him to be angry with him for long, far less to break with him.  He was his own master, for some time to come, at all events, for he had two hundred pounds in his pocket.

What nonsense do the greatest philosophers sometimes discourse, when their topic is Self-interest!  It is likely enough that self-interest actuates them, and in a supreme degree.  When folks are by nature wise and prudent—­or if their tastes are studious, and their vices few—­or when, above all, the brain is seasoned, and the blood moves sluggishly in the veins, then men do act for their own advantage, and keep their eyes fixed on the main chance.  But with most of us, especially when young, self-interest, properly so called, is often but a feather’s weight in the balance of Motive.  Revenge makes it kick the beam; and Passion; and even momentary Whim.  It was one of the arguments advanced by Christian men in favor of slavery, that no man would ill-use his slave, because it was his own property; as though the lust of cruelty in a brutal nature were, while it lasted, not ten times as strong as the lust of gain.  There are moments when a man is ready to part with not only his earthly prospects, but his hopes of heaven, rather than be balked of an immediate satisfaction:  that of striking his brother to the heart, or growing rich by one stroke of fraud, or ruining forever the woman that loves him best; and there are many men, in no such desperate case, whose only guide is Impulse, and whose care for the morrow is dwarfed to nothing matched with the gratification of to-day.  These are said to have no enemies but themselves, but they have victims; and, though not apt for plots, are often more dangerous than the most designing knaves.

Pipe after pipe smoked Richard Yorke as he sat over the fire in the deepening twilight, so deep in thought that it quite startled him, when, suddenly looking up, he found that all was dark.  Then he rang the bell, and Hannah entered with the wished-for candles.

“Is your master in?”

“I’ll see, Sir.  Do you wish to see him?”

“Yes.  First bring me a bottle of sherry and two glasses, then ask him to step in.”

The serving-maid obeyed; and presently there was a heavy step in the passage, and in strode John Trevethick, a man of sixty years or so, but straight as a pine, and strong as an oak.

“Your servant, Sir,” said he, in a gruff voice, and with no such inclination of the head as landlords use.

“Good-evening, Mr. Trevethick.  I am afraid I’m putting you to some inconvenience by coming to Gethin so many weeks before the usual time.”