Amid the general rejoicings Bobby alone stood aloof, critical and disapproving and altogether unimpressed with the splendour of the match.
“You don’t need to marry money,” he wrote. “There’s more than enough of the beastly commodity in the family as it is. And Morgan! ... Of course he’s all right in himself, and a good fellow; but he’s more than double your age. Imagine what you would say if I wanted to marry a woman old enough to be my mother! Break it off, Prue. I’ll be home shortly, and I’ll stand by you.”
Prudence shed a few surreptitious tears over this letter, though it moved her to mirth as well; it was so characteristic of the writer. But, save for glimpses during the holidays, Bobby had no idea of the flatness of life at Court Heatherleigh, its repression, its sneaking pose—there was no other term for it—of pious superiority which crushed the spirit and the natural honesty of those upon whom its influence was exerted. She was not marrying Mr Morgan for his wealth; she was not marrying him for love. Her reasons, when she came to analyse them, occurred to her singularly inadequate. She felt very doubtful as to the wisdom of the step she had taken. The idea of a triangular household, with a mother-in-law in supreme command, seemed to her rather like a repetition of the unsatisfactory home conditions. She felt that Edward Morgan owed it to her to set up a separate establishment, and even ventured to suggest this rearrangement to him. He heard her in pained surprise.
“My mother will not intrude on us,” he said. “Morningside has been her home always. I could not agree to her living elsewhere.”
“Couldn’t we live elsewhere?” Prudence insisted. “I should like a house of my own.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, with his hands on her shoulders, and his grave eyes looking tenderly down upon her. “Home for my mother is where I am.”
He stooped and kissed her as a sort of act of forgiveness for the want of consideration she had shown.