“More, I am afraid, and too much—­”

“Too much for me to take out of my pocket for a stranger; but not for my wife’s father—­not if it was ten times that.”

From that hour Meadows had an ally at Grassmere, working heart and soul to hasten the wedding-day.

Meadows longed for this day; for he could not hide from himself that as a lover he made no advances.  Susan’s heart was like a globe of ice; he could get no hold of it anywhere.  He burned with rage when the bitter truth was forced on him, that, with the topic of George Fielding, he had lost those bright, animated looks of affection she used to bestow on him, and now could only command her polite attention, not always that.  Once he ventured on a remonstrance—­only once.

She answered coldly that she could not feign; indifferent she was to everything on earth, indifferent she always should be.  But for that indifference she should never have consented to marry him.  Let him pause then, and think what he was doing, or, better still, give up this folly, and not tie an icicle like her to an honest and warm heart like his.

The deep Meadows never ventured on that ground again.  He feared she wanted to be off the marriage, and he determined to hurry it on.  He pressed her to name the day.  She would not.

“Would she let him name it?”

“No.”

Her father came to Meadows’ assistance.  “I’ll name it,” said he.

“Father! no! no!”

Old Merton then made a pretense of selecting a day.  Rejected one day for one reason, another for another, and pitched on a day only six weeks distant.

The next day Meadows bought the license.  “I thought you would like that better than being cried in church, Susan.”  Susan thanked him and said, “Oh, yes.”

That evening he had a note from her in which “she humbly asked his pardon, but she could not marry him; he must excuse her.  She trusted to his generosity to let the matter drop, and forgive a poor brokenhearted girl who had behaved ill from weakness of judgment, not lightness of heart.”

Two days after this, which remained unanswered, her father came to her in great agitation and said to her:  “Have you a mind to have a man’s death upon your conscience?”

“Father!”

“I have seen John Meadows, and he is going to kill himself.  What sort of a letter was that to write to the poor man?  Says he, ’It has come on me like a thunder-clap.’  I saw a pistol on his table, and he told me he wouldn’t give a button to live.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself trifling with folks’ hearts so.”

“I trifle with folks’ hearts!  Oh! what shall I do!” cried Susan.

“Think of others as well as yourself,” replied the old man in a rage.  “Think of me.”

“Of you, dear father?  Does not your Susan think of you?”

“No! what will become of me if the man kills himself?  He is all I have to look to, to save me from ruin.”