It is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

I know you want to be elder brother. Well, I tell'ee what do; you kill me first, Bill Fielding, and then you will be elder brother, and not afore.”

      Here was a pretty little burst of temper! We have all our sore part.

      “So be it, George!” replied William, “you got us into the mud, elder brother, you get us out of the mire!”

      George subdued his tone directly.

      “Who shall I ask?” said he, as one addressing a bosom counselor.

      “Uncle Merton, or—or—-Mr. Meadows the corn-factor; he lends money at times to friends. It would not be much to either of them.”

      “Show my empty pockets to Susanna's father! Oh, Will! how can you be so cruel?”

      “Meadows, then.”

      “No use for me, I've just offended him a hit; beside he's a man that never knew trouble or ill luck in his life; they are like flints, all that sort.”

      “Well, look here, I'm pretty well with Meadows. I'll ask him if you will try uncle; the first that meets his man to begin.”

      “That sounds fair,” said George, “but I can't—well—yes,” said he, suddenly changing his mind. “I agree,” said he, with simple cunning, and lowered his eyes; but suddenly raising them, he said cheerfully, “Why, you're in luck, Bill; here's your man,” and he shot like an arrow into his own kitchen.

      “Confound it,” said the other, fairly caught.

      Meadows, it is to be observed, was wandering about the premises until such time as Robinson should return; and while the brothers were arguing, he had been in the barn, and finding old Merton there had worked still higher that prudent man's determination to break off matters between his daughter and the farmer of “The Grove.”

      After the usual salutations William Fielding, sore against the grain, began:

      “I did not know you were here, sir! I want to speak to you.”

      “I am at your service, Mr. Willum.”

      “Well, sir. George and I are a little short just at present; it is only for a time, and George says he should take it very kind if you would lend us a hundred pound, just to help us over the stile.”

      “Why, Mr. Willum,” replied Meadows, “I should be delighted, and if you had only asked me yesterday, I could have done it as easy as stand here; but my business drinks a deal of money, Mr. Willum, and I laid out all my loose cash yesterday; but, of course, it is of no consequence—another time—good morning, Mr. Willum.”

      Away sauntered Meadows, leaving William planted there, as the French say.

      George ran out of the kitchen.

      “Well?”

      “He says he has got no money loose.”

      “He is a liar! he paid 1,600 pounds into the bank yesterday, and you knew it; didn't you tell him so?”

      “No; what use? A man that lies to avoid lending won't be driven to lend.”

      “You don't play fair,” retorted George. “You could have got it from Meadows, if you had a mind; but you want to drive your poor brother against his sweetheart's father; you are false, my lad.”

      “You are the only man that ever said so; and you durstn't say it if you weren't my brother.”

      “If it wasn't for that, I'd say a deal more.”

      “Well, show your high stomach to Uncle Merton, for there he is. Hy!—uncle!” cried William to Merton, who turned instantly and came toward them. “George wants to speak to you,” said William, and shot like a cross-bow bolt behind the house.

      “That is lucky,” said Merton, “for I want to speak to you.”

      “Who would have thought of his being about?” muttered George.

      While George was calling up his courage and wits to open his subject, Mr. Merton, who had no such difficulties, was beforehand with him.

      “You are threshing out new wheat?” said Merton, gravely.

      “Yes,” answered George, looking down.

      “That is a bad lookout; a farmer has no business to go to his barn door for his rent.”

      “Where is he to go, then? to the church door, and ask for a miracle?”

      “No; to his ship-fold, to be sure.”

      “Ay! you can; you have got grass and water and everything to hand.”

      “And so must you, young man, or you'll never be a farmer. Now, George, I must speak to you seriously” (George winced).

      “You are a fine lad, and I like you very well, but I love my own daughter better.”

      “So do I!” said George simply.

      “And I must look out for her,” resumed Merton. “I have seen a pretty while how things are going here, and if she marries you she will have to keep you instead of you her.”

      “Heaven forbid! Matters are not so bad as that, uncle.”

      “You are too much of a man, I hope,” continued Merton, “to eat a woman's bread; and if you are not, I am man enough to keep the girl from it.”

      “These are hard words to bear,” gasped George. “So near my own house, old man.”

      “Well, plain speaking is best when the mind is made up,” was the reply.

      “Is this from Susanna, as well as you?” said George, with a trembling lip, and scarce able to utter the words.

      “Susan is an obedient daughter. What I say she'll stand to; and I hope you know better than to tempt her to disobey me; you wouldn't succeed.”

      “Enough said,” answered George very sternly. “Enough said, old man; I've no need to tempt any girl.”

      “Good morning, George!” and away stumped Merton.

      “Good morning, uncle! (ungrateful old thief).”

      “William,” cried he, to his brother, who came the next minute to hear the news, “our mother took him out of the dirt.—I have heard her say as much—or he'd not have a ship-fold to brag of. Oh! my heart—oh! Will!—”

      “Well, will he lend the money?”

      “I never asked him.”

      “You never asked him!” cried William.

      “Bill, he began upon me in a moment,” said George, looking appealingly into his brother's face; “he sees we are going down hill, and he as good as bade me think no more of Susan.”

      “Well,” said the other, harshly, “it was your business to own the truth and ask him help us over the stile—he's our own blood.”

      “You want to let me down lower than I would let that Carlo dog of yours. You're no brother of mine,” retorted George fiercely and bitterly.

      “A bargain is a bargain,” replied the other sullenly: “I asked Meadows, and he said No. You fell talking with uncle about Susan, and never put the question to him at all. Who is the false one, eh?”

      “If you call me false, I'll knock your ugly head off, sulky Bill.”

      “You're false, and a fool into the bargain, bragging George!”

      “What, you will have it, then?”

      “If you can give it me.”

      “Well, if it is to be,” said George, “I'll give you something to put you on your mettle. The best man shall farm 'The Grove,' and the other shall be a servant on it, or go elsewhere, for I am sick of this.”

      “And so am I!” cried William, hastily;