“He cannot marry you,” said Sarah, resolved, with a sort of rude nobleness, to persevere in what she felt to be a duty; “I don’t say anything about money, because that does not always signify. But he cannot marry you, because—because people who are hedicated one way never marry those who are hedicated and brought up in another. A gentleman of that kind requires a wife to know—oh—to know ever so much; and you—”
“Sarah,” interrupted Fanny, rising again, but this time with a smile on her face, “don’t say anything more about it; I forgive you, if you promise never to speak unkindly of him again—never—never—never, Sarah!”
“But may I just tell him that—that—”
“That what?”
“That you are so young and innocent, and has no pertector like; and that if you were to love him it would be a shame in him—that it would!”
And then (oh, no, Fanny, there was nothing clouded now in your reason!)—and then the woman’s alarm, the modesty, the instinct, the terror came upon her:—
“Never! never! I will not love him, I do not love him, indeed, Sarah. If you speak to him, I will never look you in the face again. It is all past—all, dear Sarah!”
She kissed the old woman; and Sarah, fancying that her sagacity and counsel had prevailed, promised all she was asked; so they went up-stairs together—friends.