“Certainly not. I am a proud man, Sir Geoffrey, and I will not inflict pain upon you and mortification upon myself by asking the obvious question: What have you got against my child? I can answer that question myself. I know where she and I stand in your eyes. I remember your expression when I told you that I didn’t bear arms. I saw that a stupid jest on my part irritated you. We Hamlins are yeomen. My forefathers wore leather jerkins when yours rode in mail-armour. You prize your descent from them; I prize mine. Let that pass. You are you; I am I. Probably, we shall carry our traditions and predilections to the grave with us. It comes to this. If I put it bluntly, as a yeoman, forgive me. Your parson’s daughter is not good enough to marry your son.”
The Squire winced a little, reflecting that a yeoman had indeed spoken bluntly. He was tempted to state his own case, but wisely refrained. The Parson—confound him!—chose to put the thing in a nutshell. Let it remain there. Nevertheless, he said courteously:
“I have a genuine affection and respect for Joyce; but, as you say, I do prize my descent. And I wish to see it continued unblemished.”
“Then why did you ask my daughter to your house? Why, feeling as you do, did you expose her to the dangerous possibility of what has actually taken place? Why didn’t you, a descendant of knights, protect an innocent, artless girl against the attractiveness and intelligence of you own son?”
The Squire had not expected this. He frowned, pulling at his chin, a trick that indicated perplexity. And a better swordsman might have been sore put to it to parry successfully such a thrust.
The Parson pursued his advantage:
“I hope that I have presented this particular case from a new point of view. And I am aware that your sense of what is due to me as well as to yourself may prevent your answering me. You thought, probably, that your only son shared your sense of what is due to your family. Obviously, he didn’t. He is friendly with every pretty girl on your estate. You trusted him, in short.”
The Squire nodded. He was not ungrateful at being spared a reply. Hamlin continued in a deeper tone:
“You are your boy’s father. I, unhappily, have been constrained to act as father and mother to my girl. She loves Lionel with all her heart and mind. I think that I know something of Lionel. Whatever we may do, Sir Geoffrey, this pair will remain faithful to each other. We meet to-night upon this common ground: we are two profoundly disappointed men. You made your plans for your boy’s marriage; I made plans for my girl. Our hopes are ropes of sand. I urge you solemnly to sanction this marriage, not, I beg you to believe, because of the worldly advantage to Joyce, but because Lionel and she, out of all the world, have chosen each other.”
“No,” said the Squire.