Only—
Only I was not to have mine—except for a small annuity—unless I married according to Uncle David’s wishes.
This, the will said, was not because of lack of affection for me or lack of confidence in me, but only because my early associations were such, and I was of such an impulsive nature, that I was in danger of doing something I would always regret. So she placed me lovingly in her son’s hands, and expected me to defer to his judgment in all things.
Aunt Lorena looked down through all the reading of the will, and when it was all over I tried to take her hand, but she wouldn’t let me, and it was Semmy who took my hand and led me away to my room. I lay down on my lounge and thought and thought. I could hear the winter wind shouting through the pines, and outside the twilight was stormy and bleak. Semmy wanted to build up a fire and to bring me tea there in my room, but I did not want a fire and tea. There was only one thing in the world that I wanted then, and I knew perfectly well what it was.
It was Keefe O’Connor.
And it was on account of him that grandmother had made that will. She had seen that we cared for each other. She had not wanted me to marry him. I knew then as well as when Uncle David had told me, that she particularly objected to him—that is, that she particularly objected to having him marry me. Not that he ever really asked me to, or that we would marry for years and years. Yet—yet I know that is what she meant when she made that will.
So now, Carin, I have learned my second great lesson this week. The first was, that there could not be life without death, and that if life is sweet, why so is death sweet too; and the second is that life cannot be sweet without liberty.
Yes, I know it is an old, old truth, and that I ought to have known it long ago. But to read a thing, or even to say it, is very different from realizing it.
I lay there asking myself if freedom meant more to me than anything else. And I decided that it did. It wasn’t Keefe, merely, that made me ask this question, or decide in this way. It was the whole principle of the thing. Should I sell my right to do as I thought best—to do the thing that would bring me happiness—for the sake of a fortune?
I did not go down to dinner. Semmy carried my excuses for me.