And I began to walk quicker, as a hint that this very odd conversation had lasted quite long enough.
“I shall not detain you two minutes,” my companion said, hastily. “It is a strange confidence to put in you, and yet I feel I may. Sir William wrote to me privately today. On my answer to his enquiries his consent will mainly depend.”
“What does he want to know? If we are respectable; if we have any money; if we have been decently educated, so that our connection shall not disgrace his family?”
“You are almost justified in being angry; but I said nothing of the kind. His questions only referred to the personal worth of the lady, and her personal attachment to his son.”
“My poor Lisa! That she should have her character asked for like a housemaid! That she should be admitted into a grand family, condescendingly, on sufferance!”
“You quite mistake,” said Doctor Urquhart, earnestly. “You are so angry, that you will not listen to what I say. Sir William is wealthy enough to be indifferent to money. Birth and position he might desire, and his son has already satisfied him upon yours; that your father is a clergyman, and that you come of an old English family.”
“We do not; we come of nothing and nobody. My grandfather was a farmer; he wrote his name Johnson, plain, plebeian Johnson. We are, by right, no Johnstons at all.”
The awful announcement had not the effect I anticipated. True, Doctor Urquhart started a little, and walked on silently for some minutes, but when he turned his face round it was quite beaming.
“If I did tell this to Sir William, he is too honourable a man not to value honour and honesty in any family, whether plebeian, as you call it, or not. Pardon me this long intrusion, with all my other offences. Will you shake hands?”
We did so—quite friendly, and parted.