'Then he was a brute,' you say,
my pretty reader. I have never said that he was not a brute. But this I
remark, that many such brutes are to be met with in the beaten paths of
the world's high highway. When Patience Woolsworthy had answered him
coldly, bidding him go back to London and think over his love; while it
seemed from her manner that at any rate as yet she did not care for him;
while he was absent from her, and, therefore, longing for her, the
possession of her charms, her talent, and bright honesty of purpose had
seemed to him a thing most desirable. Now they were his own. They had,
in fact, been his own from the first. The heart of this country-bred
girl had fallen at the first word from his mouth. Had she not so
confessed to him? She was very nice,--very nice indeed. He loved her
dearly. But had he not sold himself too cheaply?
I by no means say that he was not a brute. But whether brute or no he
was an honest man, and had no remotest dream, either then, on that
morning, or during the following days on which such thoughts pressed
more thickly on his mind--of breaking away from his pledged word.
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