Sure now that one day or another she must be his, he waited patiently, enjoyed her society twice a week, got everybody into his power, and bided his time.  And one frightful thing in all this was that his love for Susan was not only a strong but in itself a good love.  I mean it was a love founded on esteem; it was a passionate love, and yet a profound and tender affection.  It was the love which, under different circumstances, has often weaned men, ay, and women, too, from a frivolous, selfish, and sometimes from a vicious life.  This love Meadows thought and hoped would hallow the unlawful means by which he must crown it.  In fact, he was mixing vice and virtue.  The snow was to whiten the pitch, not the pitch blacken the snow.  Thousands had tried this before him and will try it after him.  Oh, that I could persuade them to mix fire and gunpowder instead!  Men would bless me for this when all else I have written has been long, long forgotten.

He felt good all over when he sat with Susan and thought how his means would enable that angel to satisfy her charitable nature, and win the prayers of the poor as well as the admiration of the wealthy.  “If ever a woman was cherished she shall be!  If ever a woman was happy she shall be!” And as for him, if he had done wrong to win her, he would more than compensate it afterward.  In short, he had been for more than twenty years selling, buying, swapping, driving every conceivable earthly bargain—­so now he was proposing one to Heaven.

At last came a letter in which George told Susan of the fatal murrain among his sheep, of his fever that had followed immediately, of the further losses while he lay ill, and concluded by saying that he had no right to tie her to his misfortunes, and that he felt it would be more manly to set her free.

When he read this, Meadows’ exultation broke all bounds.  “Ah ha!” cried he, “is it come to that at last?  Well, he is a fine fellow after all, and looks at it the sensible way, and if I can do him a good turn in business I always will.”

The next day he called at Grassmere.  Susan met him all smiles and was more cheerful than usual.  The watchful man was delighted.  “Come, she does not take it to heart.”  He did not guess that Susan had cried for hours and hours over the letter, and then had sat quietly down and written a letter and begged George to come home and not add separation to their other misfortunes; and that it was this decision, and having acted upon it, that had made her cheerful.  Meadows argued in his own favor, and now made sure to win.  The next week he called three times at Grassmere instead of twice, and asked himself how much longer he must wait before he should speak out.  Prudence said, “A little more patience;” and so he still hid in his bosom the flame that burned him the deeper for this unnatural smothering.  But he drank deep, silent draughts of love, and reveled in the bright future of his passion.  It was no longer hope, it was certainty.  Susan liked him; her eye brightened at his coming; her father was in his power.  There was nothing between them but the distant shadow of a rival; sooner or later she must be his.  So passed three calm, delicious weeks away.