“Wait a moment,” objected his tormentor. “It isn’t true that your name was written up; I prevented that in time. So, you see, you have a good deal to thank me for. But, uncle, that Goose is a writer on the staff of the Drum Independent; he is one of their leading men, and a very great friend of mine. His quills are very real quills. He is anxious to tell—when the by-election comes on next week, which is to render you Right Worshipful—an amusing little story of a highly respectable candidate who, barely a month after his dear wife’s death, danced with a charming Bacchante at a charming masked ball.”
“What do you want of me, Harriet?” shrieked the wretched widower. “Do you want money? I can let you have a little, if you like.”
“Hush. Let’s talk it over quietly in this quiet corner, Uncle Jacob. I am pitiless. Understand that at once. No compounding. You must surrender absolutely. Better do it with a good grace.”
“I know you want to marry me,” answered Mopius, sulkily; “and I don’t mind so very much, though it’s hard to have it forced on one. I’d rather have had a woman with a softer tongue; but I’ve been looking about me, and one has this fault and another has that; I always said you were good-looking, Harriet. I’ll marry you, if you like, though I’d rather have had a lady-born.”
“Marry you!” she blazed out at him. “No, indeed, I’m going to marry a man whose boots you daren’t lick, unless he let you. A good man, beautiful as good, and clever as he is beautiful—a man who will some day be great, and I—love—him. He is poor, and the whole world is before him, and I love him. Marry you!”
“Well, you wanted to a month ago,” muttered Mopius.
“Let me speak. If you want to hush up this disgraceful story you must give my love”—her voice caressed the delicious word—“two thousand florins. He will be satisfied with that; then he can pay off his debts, and we can start our humble house-keeping.”
“Harriet, it’s a mean trick. I should never have thought that you with your pride—”
“Silence, you!” she exclaimed under her breath, crushing down her own misgivings with reckless vehemence. “How dare you question his good pleasure, or I? You obey, so do I. Only two thousand florins. He is very moderate. He might have demanded ten. But I told him I didn’t want your dirty money. Love can be happy in a garret. Come, let’s have done with the whole horrid business. I promised to call him, and then you can go.” The Goose-girl put a whistle to her lips, and immediately her obedient bird came clucking up from among the motley crowd. As he came his weary din gradually assumed the shape of “Ja-cob! Ja-cob! Ja-cob!” with terrible, reiterated distinctness.