Mother spoke emphatically, as though this were a question that had often arisen between her and father, as indeed I knew that it had, although not on my account. I looked round to see him fire up as I had seen him do before. I waited to hear him say that if the squire thought he was doing us a favor by asking one of us to marry him he was mistaken; but the light had all died out of his eye, and if his lip trembled, it was plain enough that it was not with anger.
"No doubt you're right, Mary," he said, very slowly. "Let class and family and such-like be. There's times when we forget all that. The squire's a good man, a good man."
I was dumb. I had certainly never thought that father would want me to marry the squire. But a retort that had risen to my lips at mother's speech, to the effect that I certainly shouldn't marry the squire, because it would be "a good thing" for me, died away. I was ashamed of it. It was so true that the squire was "a good man," and I was proud of his love.
"I can't marry the squire, mother, because I don't love him," said I, humbly.
Mother rose from her seat in all the height and breadth of her soft gray skirts.
"You and I never were of one mind as to what we meant by love, Margaret," said she. "But you take my advice. You don't say anything about this now, but just go away and think things over in your own mind for a while. Maybe you'll see you're not likely to be loved again as squire loves you. And maybe you'll say to yourself there ain't anything very much better to do than to make yourself worthy of it. Of course I don't know; folk are so different; and there's such a deal talked about love nowadays that most like it's grown to be something better than it was when I was young. But it won't hurt you to consider a while anyway."
"It's no use," said I, doggedly. "I suppose folk are different; but I can never marry a man I don't love as he loves me. I can't help it. That's the truth."
Mother had reached the door; she was going out, but she turned round. She was angry. The squire was rich, a gentleman. She had known him all his life, and knew that he was a good and kind man, and would make a good and true husband. Would not any mother have desired him for a son-in-law? She guessed at no reason why I should not wed him, and I think it was natural that she should be angry at mere obstinacy. I think so now, but I did not think so then.
"You can't marry a man you don't love as he loves you," repeated she, with an accent of something very like scorn. "Well, my girl, let me tell you that the very best sort o' love a woman can have for a man is gratitude, and if she can't live happy with that she's no good woman. There's no happiness comes of it when the woman's the first to love, for it's heartache and no mistake when she must needs pass her life with a man she loves more than he do her. There—I'm prating to the wind, I know. There never was a girl yet thought an old woman had once known what love was. You must go your own way, but you may take my word for it that your opinion about love'll be more worth knowing in twenty years' time than it is now. A chit like you, indeed! At least squire knows what he is about."
And with that she went out of the room and left me standing there, frozen into silence. The torrent of her unwonted speech, poured forth from the furnace of an unwonted fire in her, had fallen upon me like a cold stream of icy water. Had she guessed? Had every one guessed? Was I the sport of the community? Had I worn my heart upon my sleeve indeed?