She didn’t add “him,” but she let me see that she meant it. I saw the struggle that had been going on in her mind. She did not like him, to put it mildly. She longed to give him up. Every time she thought of him she felt that she must. Every time she thought of me and my fortune, and the position I would give my son’s wife, she felt that she couldn’t.
“Have you talked with your mother about this?” I knew what a clear-headed, far-sighted woman Matt Bradish’s wife was—she’s married off three children, all splendidly, not to speak of her catching Matt.
“If she doesn’t stop nagging me she’ll drive me to marry—somebody else,” said Natalie, her voice trembling with anger. “I’ll kick the traces, sure as fate.”
“But I’m sure you don’t care for this somebody else,” I said, positively. I knew the chap—a painter. I can’t conceive why people of our sort permit youths of that kind to roam among their marriageable daughters. Even a sensible, well-trained girl, with all youth’s disdain of poverty and adoration of wealth, has her foolish moments like the rest of us. “I’m sure you don’t,” I repeated.
“But at least I don’t—don’t—dislike him.”
I was thoroughly alarmed. I saw that she was actually trying to goad me into anger against her; that she was riding for a fall; wished to force herself into a position where marriage with Walter would be made impossible. The poor child hadn’t the heart to refuse the prize which she lacked the stomach to take; she wished to make me snatch it from her. But the Bradish connection is far too important to my plans. I haven’t had my hand on my temper-rein for forty years without being able to control my feelings—when I wish. Besides, it was Walter that she practically said she disliked; and I can see how she might—I certainly shouldn’t love him if it were not my duty to do so.
“You’ve got your choice, my child,” said I, “of being married for your money or of marrying into as enviable a position as there is in New York. I know you’re too sensible to let trifles obscure your judgment.”
“I simply won’t be driven!” she retorted. “Why should I bother? I’ve got a little something in my own right.”
“Just enough to make you realise the possibilities of wealth,” I replied—“just enough to spur your ambition.” I began to watch her face keenly. “And you sha’n’t have to wait for your triumph,” I said, and I made an impressive pause before I slowly added: “I’m going to settle an annual income of a quarter of a million on you for life.”
I saw her face soften. The colour came and went in her delicate skin.