what next?"--I remember all, even to my want of breath, suddenly cooled
passion, perplexity and flight. It is a moot point whether that last was
the act of a coward, but I can never allow it to be said that in what
followed I showed a want of courage. I devoted a day and night to
solitary meditation; no knight errant of old, watching his arms under
the moon, prayed more earnestly than I; and when I had fully made up my
mind to embrace what honour demanded of me, I sought out the girl, who
was again in the dairy, and in solemn form, upon my knees, offered her
my hand. Father Danvers, walking the terrace, was an accidental witness
of my declaration, and very properly told my father. Betty Coy,
unfortunate girl, was dismissed that evening; next day my father sent
for me. [Footnote: I need only say further of Betty that she, shortly
afterwards, married James Bunce, our second coachman at Upcote, and bore
him a numerous progeny, of whose progress and settlement in the world I
was able to assure the worthy parents.]

It would be idle to rehearse the interview between an angry father and
an obdurate son. The more I said the angrier he got: the discrepancy
between us made a reasonable conclusion hopeless from the first. When he
cried, Did I mean to disgrace my name? and I replied, No, but on the
contrary I had been wishful to redeem it--"How, you fool," said he, "by
marrying a dairymaid?" "Sir," I answered, "by showing to the world that
when a gentleman salutes a virtuous female it is not his intention to
insult her." I was too old for the rod or I should have had it. As it
was, I received all the disgrace he could put me to--dismissed from his
presence, confined to my room, forbidden any society but that of Father
Danvers and my own thoughts. My infatuation, however, persisted, and
threatened to take the dangerous form of FRAUD. I could not for the life
of me see what else I could do to recover the girl's fair fame,
hopelessly compromised by me, than exhibit to the world at large the