A woman of truer judgment than myself would have said: “Then, if that is so, why not discard from your breast all thought of him? Why dance with him, and talk to him, and let your admiration develop into love?” But I was all romance then, and, angry at a prejudice I could neither understand nor appreciate, I said:
“But that is mere tyranny! Why should he hate the English so? And why, if he does, should you feel yourself obliged to gratify him in a whim so unreasonable?”
“Why? Shall I tell you, auntie?” she said, flushing and looking away.
“Yes,” I returned; “tell me everything.”
“Well, then, if you want to know the worst of me, as you already know the best, I hate to incur my uncle’s displeasure, because—because—I have always been brought up to regard myself as his heiress, and I know that if I were to marry contrary to his wishes, he would instantly change his mind, and leave me penniless.”
“But,” I cried, my romance a little dampened by this admission, “you tell me Mr. Clavering has enough to live upon, so you would not want; and if you love—”
Her violet eyes fairly flashed in her amazement.
“You don’t understand,” she said; “Mr. Clavering is not poor; but uncle is rich. I shall be a queen—” There she paused, trembling, and falling on my breast. “Oh, it sounds mercenary, I know, but it is the fault of my bringing up. I have been taught to worship money. I would be utterly lost without it. And yet”—her whole face softening with the light of another emotion, “I cannot say to Henry Clavering, ‘Go! my prospects are dearer to me than you!’ I cannot, oh, I cannot!”
“You love him, then?” said I, determined to get at the truth of the matter if possible.
She rose restlessly. “Isn’t that a proof of love? If you knew me, you would say it was.” And, turning, she took her stand before a picture that hung on the wall of my sitting-room.