someone else rather
than themselves--for nothing; and he does it for money."

"For money! What money has he got? You don't know. None of us know.
Besides, he's a Protestant, and he's English, and that ends it. There
never has been an Englishman or a Protestant in the Barbille family, and
it shan't begin at the Manor Cartier." Jean Jacques' voice was rising in
proportion as he perceived her quiet determination. Here was something
of the woman who had left him seven years ago--left this comfortable
home of his to go to disgrace and exile, and God only knew what else!
Here in this very room--yes, here where they now were, father and
daughter, stood husband and wife that morning when he had his hand on
the lever prepared to destroy the man who had invaded his home; who had
cast a blight upon it, which remained after all the years; after he had
done all a man could do to keep the home and the woman too. The woman
had gone; the home remained with his daughter in it, and now again there
was a fight for home and the woman. Memory reproduced the picture of the
mother standing just where the daughter now stood, Carmen quiet and well
in hand, and himself all shaken with weakness, and with all power gone
out of him--even the power which rage and a murderous soul give.

But yet this was different. There was no such shame here as had fallen
on him seven years ago. But there was a shame after its kind; and if it
were not averted, there was the end of the home, of the prestige, the
pride and the hope of "M'sieu' Jean Jacques, philosophe."

"What shall not begin here at the Manor Cartier?" she asked with burning
cheek.

"The shame--it shall not begin here."

"What shame, father?"

"Of marriage with a Protestant and an actor."

"You will not let me marry him?" she persisted stubbornly.

Her words seemed to shake him all to pieces. It was as though he was
going through the older tragedy all over again. It had possessed him
ever since the sight of Carmen's guitar had driven him mad three hours
ago. He swayed to and fro, even as he did when his hand left the lever
and he let the master-carpenter go free. It was indeed a philosopher
under torture, a spirit rocking on its anchor. Just now she had put into
words herself what, even in his fear, he had hoped had no place in her
mind--marriage with the man. He did not know this daughter of his very
well. There was that in her which was far beyond his ken. Thousands of
miles away in Spai