"You know he loves you. Have you ever doubted a word that he has spoken to you on any subject?"
"I believe he speaks truly."
"You know he speaks truly. He is the very soul of truth."
"But, Mary—"
"Well, Clara! But remember; do not answer me lightly. Do not play with a man's heart because you have it in your power."
"You wrong me. I could never do like that. You tell me that he loves me;—but what if I do not love him? Love will not be constrained. Am I to say that I love him because I believe that he loves me?"
This was the argument, and Clara found herself driven to use it,—not so much from its special applicability to herself, as on account of its general fitness. Whether it did or did not apply to herself she had no time to ask herself at that moment; but she felt that no man could have a right to claim a woman's hand on the strength of his own love,—unless he had been able to win her love. She was arguing on behalf of women in general rather than on her own behalf.
"If you mean to tell me that you cannot love him, of course I must give over," said Mary, not caring at all for men and women in general, but full of anxiety for her brother. "Do you mean to say that,—that you can never love him?" It almost seemed, from her face, that she was determined utterly to quarrel with her new-found cousin,—to quarrel and to go at once away if she got an answer that would not please her.
"Dear Mary, do not press me so hard."
"But I want to press you hard. It is not right that he should lose his life in longing and hoping."