“This is nonsense, George!”
“No, sober truth; my uncle—whom heaven preserve, for he is a good man—could aid me nothing in his death. You would inherit, not your son; the ladies of our line are a privileged race.”
“But are you not my only son and heir?”
“True again; and your favorite while I do not offend.”
“That you will never do,” answered the mother, with a glow of feeling in her voice.
“I hope not, mother,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips with an expression of earnest affection. “But do not talk to me of expectations that may be dreams; and rank that may find me, when it comes, a broken-hearted old man!”
“This is strange talk, George, and in this presence. Estelle will learn to look upon your prospects with distrust.”
“She, with all my friends, will do well to think of me only as I am, the dependent of a good uncle, certain of nothing but a firm will, good health, and an honest purpose!” he answered, glancing, not at the haughty patrician, but at me.
“And that is enough for any man,” I exclaimed, filled with enthusiasm by his proud frankness. “What inheritance does he require but that honest, firm will, which cleaves its own way in the world? Oh, how the soul must enjoy the blessings which its own strength has had the power to win. If I were a man, neither gold nor rank should detract from my native strength. I would go into the world and wrestle my way through, not for the wealth or the power that might come of it—but for the strength it would give to my own nature—the development—the refining process of exertion—the sense of personal power. In that must lie all the true relish of greatness!”
The guests had one by one glided from Lady Catherine’s room before her son came in, and no one listened to our conversation but her ladyship and the girl Estelle. When I ceased speaking, Lady Catherine sunk among the cushions of her couch, lifting the dog to her bosom as if she feared my rash words would poison the creature; while her young friend stood close by with both arms folded scornfully over her bosom, gazing at me from her open eyes, as if there had been something wicked in my expression. For myself, the moment my rash enthusiasm gave way, all courage went with it; and before the fire had left my eyes they were full of tears.