“How could I so wrong them, sir?” broke she out. “Who better than myself can speak of their glorious courage, their patient resignation, their noble self-devotion? Has not the man, sinking under fever, crawled from his bed to lead me to the house of another deeper in misery than himself? Have I not seen the very poorest sharing the little alms bestowed upon their wretchedness? Have I not heard the most touching words of gratitude from lips growing cold in death? You may easily show me lands of greater comfort, where the blessings of wealth and civilization are more widely spread; but I defy you to point to any where the trials of a whole people have been so great and so splendidly sustained.”
“I'll not ask the privilege of reply,” said Repton; “perhaps I 'd rather be convinced by you than attempt to gainsay one word of your argument.”
“At your peril, sir,” said she, menacing him with her finger, while a bright smile lit up her features.
“The chaise is at the door, sir,” said a servant, entering and addressing Repton.
“Already!” exclaimed he. “Why, my dear Miss Mary, it can't surely be eight o'clock. No; but,” added he, looking at his watch, “it only wants a quarter of ten, and I have not said one half of what I had to say, nor heard a fourth of what you had to tell me.”
“Let the postboy put up his horses, William,” said Miss Martin, “and bring tea.”
“A most excellent suggestion,” chimed in Repton. “Do you know, my dear, that we old bachelors never thoroughly appreciate all that we have missed in domesticity till we approach a tea-table. We surround ourselves with fifty mockeries of home-life; we can manage soft carpets, warm curtains, snug dinners, but somehow our cup of tea is a rude imitation that only depicts the inaccuracy of the copy. Without the priestess the tea-urn sings forth no incantation.”
“How came it that Mr. Repton remained a Benedict?” asked she, gayly.
“By the old accident, that he would n't take what he might have, and could n't get what he wished. Add to that,” continued he, after a pause, “when a man comes to a certain time of life without marrying, the world has given to him a certain place, assigned to him, as it were, a certain part which would be utterly marred by a wife. The familiarity of one's female acquaintance—the pleasantest spot in old bachelorhood—could n't stand such an ordeal; and the hundred-and-one eccentricities pardonable and pardoned in the single man would be condemned in the married one. You shake your head. Well, now, I 'll put it to the test. Would you, or could you, make me your confidant so unreservedly if there were such a person as Mrs. Repton in the world? Not a bit of it, my dear child. We old bachelors are the lay priests of society, and many come to us with confessions they 'd scruple about making to the regular authorities.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said she, thoughtfully; “at all events, I should have no objection to you as my confessor.”