"No; I mean more than money." He, too, braced himself. "I—I withdraw my opposition to your marriage with my son."
The immediate change in my consciousness was in the nature of a dissolving view. The veranda faded away, and the hillside wood. Once more I saw the imaginary dining-room, and myself in a smart little dinner gown seating the guests; once more I saw the white-enameled nursery, and myself in a lace peignoir leaning over the bassinet. As in previous visions of the kind, Hugh was a mere shadow in the background, secondary to the home and the baby.
Secondary to the home and the baby was the fact that my object was accomplished and that my enemy had come to his knees. Indeed, I felt no particular elation from that element in the case; no special sense of victory. Like so many realized ambitions, it seemed a matter of course, now that it had come. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that for my own sake and for the sake of the future I must have a more definite expression of surrender than he had yet given me.
I remembered that Mrs. Brokenshire had said she would help me, and could imagine how. I summoned up everything within me that would rank as force of character, speaking quietly.
"I should be sorry, sir, to have you come to this decision against your better judgment."
"If you'll be kind enough to accept the fact," he said, sharply, "we can leave my manner of reaching it out of the discussion."
In spite of the tone I rallied my resources.
"I don't want to be presumptuous, sir; but if I'm to enter your family I should like to feel sure that you'll receive me whole-heartedly."
"My dear young lady, isn't it assurance enough that I receive you at all? When I bring myself to that—"
"Oh, please don't think I can't appreciate the sacrifice."