"Why, you will take our kinsman's offer, of course. You will move in a society far above us—go into Parliament—become a great statesman—"
"My dear Hetty, what puts that into your head? I have refused."
"Refused!" She set down the kettle and gazed at him. "Is this
John's doing?" she asked slowly.
"Why should it be John's doing?" He was nettled, and showed it.
"I am old enough to make a choice for myself."
She paid no heed to this disclaimer. "They are perfectly ruthless," she went on.
"Who are ruthless?"
"Father and John. They would compass heaven and earth to make one proselyte; and the strange thing to me is that John at least does it in a cold mechanical way, almost as if his own mind stood outside of the process. Father is set on his inheriting Wroote and Epworth cures, John on saving his own soul; let them come to terms or fight it out between them. But how can it profit Epworth or John's soul that they should condemn you, as they have condemned mother and all of us, to hopeless poverty? What end have they in view? Or have they any? For what service, pray, are you held in reserve?" She paused. "Somehow I think they will not wholly succeed, even though they have done this thing between them. You will fall on your feet; your face is one the world will make friends with. You may serve their purpose, but something of you—your worldly happiness, belike—will slip and escape from the millstones which have ground the rest of us to powder."
She picked up the kettle again and turned her back upon him while she filled the tea-pot at the small table. For the first time in their talks she had spoken bitterly.
"Nevertheless, I assure you, I refused of my own free will."
"Is there such a thing as free will in our family? I never detected it. As babes we were yoked to the chariot to drag Jack's soul up to the doors of salvation. I only rebelled, and—Charles, I am sorry, but not all penitent."