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Dare to tell me you love that wretch of a father of yours! I will kill you if you say you love him!" Barbara threw her arms round her mother's neck, and said, "Listen, mammy: I do love him a little bit: but it wasn't for love of him I held my tongue." "Bah! Your bookbinder-fellow! What has be to do with it?" "Nothing at all. It wasn't for him either, it was for God's sake I held my peace, mammy.
As they were walking up and down the field, Arthur Lestrange passed on foot, saw them, and went home indignant. It would have been difficult for Arthur himself to say whether in his heart rage or contempt was the stronger, when he saw the lady he loved walking in a field, turning and returning, in close talk with the bookbinder-fellow. Never had she so walked and talked with him!
Arthur had given up hope of winning Barbara, but the thought that the bookbinder-fellow might now, as he vulgarly phrased it to himself, go in and win, swelled his heart with a yet fiercer jealousy. "I hate him," he said in his heart. Yet Arthur was not a bad fellow as fellows go. He was only a man for himself, believing every man must be for himself, and count the man in his way his enemy.
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