“I was not speaking of money. I was alluding to the necessity of deciding as to my own fate in life. I told you that by my father's will I am bound to declare that I accept or reject Charles Heathcote within six months after my coming of age.”
“I do not, I confess, see anything very trying in that, May. I conclude that you know enough of your own mind to say whether you like him or not. You are not strangers to each other. You have been domesticated together—”
“That 's the very difficulty,” broke in May. “There has been intimacy between us, but nothing like affection,—familiarity enough, but no fondness.”
“Perhaps that's not so bad a feature as you deem it,” said the other, dryly. “Such a tame, table-land prospect before marriage may all the better prepare you for the dull uniformity of wedded life.”
May gave a slight sigh, and was silent, while the other continued,—
“Being very rich, dearest, is, of course, a great resource, for you can, by the mere indulgence of your daily caprices, give yourself a sort of occupation, and a kind of interest in life.”
May sighed again, and more heavily.
“I know this is not what one dreams of, my dear May,” resumed she, “and I can well imagine how reluctant you are to seek happiness in toy terriers or diamond earrings; but remember what I told you once before was the great lesson the world taught us, that every joy we compass in this life is paid for dearly, in some shape or other, and that the system is one great scheme of compensations, the only wisdom being, to be sure you have got at last what you have paid for.”
“I remember your having said that,” said May, thoughtfully.
“Yes; it was in correction of a great mistake you had made, May, when you were deploring the fate of some one who had contracted an unequal marriage. It was then that I ventured to tell you that what the world calls a misalliance is the one sure throw for a happy union.”