“He has been utterly neglected in education.”
“He don't want it.”
“I mean that to suit the station he fills—”
“He has got the station; he's sure of it; he can't be stripped of it. In one word, girl, he has, by right and birth, rank and fortune, such as ten generations of men like myself, laboring hard every hour of their lives, could never win. He 'll be a peer of England, and I know of no title means so much.”
“But of all his failings,” said Lizzy, who seemed to take little heed of her father's interruptions, while steadily following out her own thoughts,—“of all his failings, he has none greater or more pernicious than the belief that it is a mark of intelligence to outwit one's neighbor; that cunning is a high quality, and craft means genius.”
“These might be poor qualities to gain a living with,” said Davis, “but I tell you, once for all, he does n't need to be brilliant, or witty, or any other nonsense of that kind. He 'll have the right to go where all the cleverness of the world couldn't place him, to live in a set where, if he could Write plays like Shakspeare, build bridges like Brunel, or train a horse like John Scott, it would n't avail him a brass farthing; and if you only knew, child, what these people think of each other, and what the world thinks of them, you 'd see it's the best stake ever was run for.”
Lizzy never replied a word; every syllable of her father's speech was, as it were, “filtering down” into her mind, and she brooded long over the thoughts thus suggested. Thus, walking along in silence, side by side, they drew nigh the house. They had now gained the little garden before the door, and were standing in the broad full moonlight, face to face, Davis saw that her eyes were red and her cheeks marked by tears; but an impassive calm, and a demeanor subdued even to coldness, seemed to have succeeded to this emotion. “Oh, my poor girl,” broke he out, in a voice of deepest feeling, “if I did n't know the world so well,—if I did n't know how little one gains by indulging affection,—if I did n't know, besides, how you yourself will think of all this some ten or twelve years hence, I could n't have the heart for it.”
“And—must—it—be?” faltered she out, in a broken accent.
Davis threw his arm around her, and, pressing her to him, sobbed bitterly. “There, there,” cried he, “go in,—go in, child; go to bed, and get some sleep.” And with this he turned quickly away and left her.