“Oh, my lord! my lord!”
“Hear me out. That you love Fanny Trevanion I know; that she may have innocently, timidly, half-unconsciously, returned that affection, I think probable. But—”
“I know what you would say; spare me,—I know it all.”
“No! it is a thing impossible; and if Lady Ellinor could consent, there would be such a life-long regret on her part, such a weight of obligation on yours, that—No, I repeat, it is impossible! But let us both think of this poor girl. I know her better than you can,—have known her from a child; know all her virtues,—they are charming; all her faults,—they expose her to danger. These parents of hers, with their genius and ambition, may do very well to rule England and influence the world; but to guide the fate of that child—no!” Lord Castleton stopped, for he was affected. I felt my old jealousy return, but it was no longer bitter.
“I say nothing,” continued the marquis, “of this position, in which, without fault of hers, Miss Trevanion is placed: Lady Ellinor’s knowledge of the world, and woman’s wit, will see how all that can be best put right. Still, it is awkward, and demands much consideration. But putting this aside altogether, if you do firmly believe that Miss Trevanion is lost to you, can you bear to think that she is to be flung as a mere cipher into the account of the worldly greatness of an aspiring politician,—married to some minister too busy to watch over her, or some duke who looks to pay off his mortgages with her fortune; minister or duke only regarded as a prop to Trevanion’s power against a counter-cabal, or as giving his section a preponderance in the cabinet? Be assured such is her most likely destiny, or rather the beginning of a destiny yet more mournful. Now, I tell you this, that he who marries Fanny Trevanion should have little other object, for the first few years of marriage, than to correct her failings and develop her virtues. Believe one who, alas! has too dearly bought his knowledge of woman,—hers is a character to be formed. Well, then, if this prize be lost to you, would it be an irreparable grief to your generous affection to think that it has fallen to the lot of one who at least knows his responsibilities, and—who will redeem his own life, hitherto wasted, by the steadfast endeavor to fulfil them? Can you take this hand still, and press it, even though it be a rival’s?”
“My lord! this from you to me is an honor that—”
“You will not take my hand? Then, believe me, it is not I that will give that grief to your heart.”
Touched, penetrated, melted, by this generosity in a man of such lofty claims, to one of my age and fortunes, I pressed that noble hand, half raising it to my lips,—an action of respect that would have misbecome neither; but he gently withdrew the hand, in the instinct of his natural modesty. I had then no heart to speak further on such a subject, but faltering out that I would go and see my uncle, I took up the light and ascended the stairs. I crept noiselessly into Roland’s room, and shading the light, saw that, though he slept, his face was very troubled. And then I thought, “What are my young griefs to his?” and sitting beside the bed, communed with my own heart and was still.