stopped, had run the whole gauntlet of shame, there'd be no greater stain on my name than there is now. I'll say more. If she had gone through years and years of progressive infamy she could not be less my wife than her intention has made her? She had taken the first step—much better have let her take the rest! Miss Katharine meant well—that I'll never gainsay; but tell Miss Katharine, from me, I'd sooner a good deal burn Ashcot with my own hand than see Dora Fane enter it. We Lawrences are peasants, you know, sir, and in spite of my marriage, and my introduction to a world above me, I've kept my peasant feelings still. The floors of Ashcot have never been trodden yet, to my knowledge, by a wanton."
For a full minute the Squire was struck dumb by the shock of that last word—shock such as a man might feel who, in the midst of addressing condescending platitudes to an uneducated audience, should suddenly find the platform give way beneath him, and, looking up from an undignified position, behold his auditors above his head. It was a deplorable thing, of course, that that little fool, Dora, should have meditated an elopement; 'twas natural, manly—at first, at least—that Steven Lawrence should rebel against the thought of taking her back. Such rebellion was, indeed, corroborative of all the opinions that he, Mr. Hilliard, had formed of the man's character. But to use language like this! language which, from a gentleman, an equal, had been barely justifiable! In sore perplexity the Squire turned aside, fidgetted, paced quickly three or four times up and down the parlor; then, still without looking up at Steven's face, came and took his place beside him again before the fire. Quite composed, outwardly, Steven was standing, his eyes fixed upon the wall before him, not in any particular degree, it seemed, remembering Mr. Hilliard's anger, or Mr. Hilliard's existence.
"You have used language, Lawrence, that I hope—I'm sure in your cooler moments you will repent of. Language that not even this unhappy occurrence can justify from your lips."
"I've used the fitting language," said Steven, shortly. "I've used a word more becoming than any other to apply to your niece and my wife. About time for me, sir," he added, with bitter emphasis, "to call things by their right names! During the last few months I've tried vainly to understand a language in which one word may be used indifferently for truth or falsehood, for honesty or shame. I'll go back now to the vulgar English I learned as a boy, and call vice vice, and virtue, if I ever chance to come across it again, virtue."
Having said which, he lapsed once more into silence, and the Squire, not finding anything particular for him to do or say, took up his hat, and, doubtful whether he ought to shake hands with Steven, or whether Steven would shake hands with him, began to make his escape edgeways toward the door.
"I don't see that this story need be made more public than, necessary," he hesitated at last—his hand upon the door.
"That is a matter I have no concern in," said Steven. "I shall neither advertise nor deny it, sir."
"And you refuse, finally, in cool blood, to have any reconciliation with your wife?"
"I do. Whatever sum I can afford to pay for her maintenance I will pay. I will never see her in Ashcot again."
"And," the Squire came back as he spoke, across the room, "this, as the poor girl will find shelter under my roof, I have a right to ask—you will not make matters worse by seeking Clarendon Whyte out, by having any meeting with him that could entail further exposure upon Dora?"
