He related how he had courted the young woman, “bashful-like,” and had been so; for she was a splendid young woman; not so handsome now, as she used to be when he had seen her in the winter:  but her illness had pulled her down and made her humble:  they had cut her hair during the fever, which had taken her pride clean out of her; and when he had put the question to her on the evening of last Sunday, she had gone into a sort of faint, and he walked away with her affirmative locked up in his breast-pocket, and was resolved always to treat her well—­which he swore to.

“Married, and got the money, and the lease o’ my farm disposed of, I’m off to Australia and leave old England behind me, and thank ye, mother, thank ye! and we shan’t meet again in a hurry.  And what sort o’ song I’m to sing for ’England is my nation, ain’t come across me yet.  Australia’s such a precious big world; but that’ll come easy in time.  And there’ll I farm, and damn all you gentlemen, if you come anigh me.”

The eyes of the fellow were fierce as he uttered this; they were rendered fierce by a peculiar blackish flush that came on his brows and cheek-bones; otherwise, the yellow about the little brown dot in the centre of the eyeball had not changed; but the look was unmistakably savage, animal, and bad.  He closed the lids on them, and gave a sort of churlish smile immediately afterward.

“Harmony’s the game.  You act fair, I act fair.  I’ve kept to the condition.  She don’t know anything of my whereabouts—­res’dence, I mean; and thinks I met you in her room for the first time.  That’s the truth, Mr. Blancove.  And thinks me a sheepish chap, and I’m that, when I’m along wi’ her.  She can’t make out how I come to call at her house and know her first.  Gives up guessing, I suppose, for she’s quiet about it; and I pitch her tales about Australia, and life out there.  I’ve got her to smile, once or twice.  She’ll turn her hand to making cheeses, never you fear.  Only, this I say.  I must have the money.  It’s a thousand and a bargain.  No thousand, and no wife for me.  Not that I don’t stand by the agreement.  I’m solid.”

Algernon had no power of encountering a human eye steadily, or he would have shown the man with a look how repulsive he was to a gentleman.  His sensations grew remorseful, as if he were guilty of handing a victim to the wretch.

But the woman followed her own inclination, did she not?  There was no compulsion:  she accepted this man.  And if she could do that, pity was wasted on her!

So thought he:  and so the world would think of the poor forlorn soul striving to expiate her fault, that her father and sister might be at peace, without shame.

Algernon signified to Sedgett that the agreement was fixed and irrevocable on his part.

Sedgett gulped some ale.

“Hands on it,” he said, and laid his huge hand open across the table.

This was too much.