Martha became grave, as Betsy Lavender's warning took so suddenly a positive form. However, she had thought of this contingency as a possible thing, and must prepare herself to meet it with firmness.
“What does thee say?” the Doctor asked, after waiting a few minutes for an answer.
“Father, I hope thee's mistaken. Alfred Barton is not overstocked with wit, I know, but he can hardly be that foolish. He is almost as old as thee.”
She spoke quietly, but with that tone of decision which Dr. Deane so well knew. He set his teeth and drew up his under-lip to a grim pout. If there was to be resistance, he thought, she would not find him so yielding as on other points; but he would first try a middle course.
“Understand me, Martha,” he said; “I do not mean to declare what Alfred Barton's sentiments really are, but what, in my judgment, they might be. And thee had better wait and learn, before setting thy mind either for or against him: It's hardly putting much value upon thyself, to call him foolish.”
“It is a humiliation to me, if thee is right, father,” she said.
“I don't see that. Many young women would be proud of it. I'll only say one thing, Martha; if he seeks thee, and does speak his mind, do thee treat him kindly and respectfully.”
“Have I ever treated thy friends otherwise?” she asked.
“My friends! thee's right—he is my friend.”
She made no reply, but her soul was already courageously arming itself for battle. Her father's face was stern and cold, and she saw, at once, that he was on the side of the enemy. This struggle safely over, there would come another and a severer one. It was well that she had given herself time, setting the fulfilment of her love so far in advance.