“You are quite capable of reflecting, Gwendolen. You are aware that this is not a trivial occasion, and it concerns your establishment for life under circumstances which may not occur again. You have a duty here both to yourself and your family. I wish to understand whether you have any ground for hesitating as to your acceptance of Mr. Grandcourt.”
“I suppose I hesitate without grounds.” Gwendolen spoke rather poutingly, and her uncle grew suspicious.
“Is he disagreeable to you personally?”
“No.”
“Have you heard anything of him which has affected you disagreeably?” The rector thought it impossible that Gwendolen could have heard the gossip he had heard, but in any case he must endeavor to put all things in the right light for her.
“I have heard nothing about him except that he is a great match,” said Gwendolen, with some sauciness; “and that affects me very agreeably.”
“Then, my dear Gwendolen, I have nothing further to say than this: you hold your fortune in your own hands—a fortune such as rarely happens to a girl in your circumstances—a fortune in fact which almost takes the question out of the range of mere personal feeling, and makes your acceptance of it a duty. If Providence offers you power and position—especially when unclogged by any conditions that are repugnant to you—your course is one of responsibility, into which caprice must not enter. A man does not like to have his attachment trifled with: he may not be at once repelled—these things are matters of individual disposition. But the trifling may be carried too far. And I must point out to you that in case Mr. Grandcourt were repelled without your having refused him—without your having intended ultimately to refuse him, your situation would be a humiliating and painful one. I, for my part, should regard you with severe disapprobation, as the victim of nothing else than your own coquetry and folly.”
Gwendolen became pallid as she listened to this admonitory speech. The ideas it raised had the force of sensations. Her resistant courage would not help her here, because her uncle was not urging her against her own resolve; he was pressing upon her the motives of dread which she already felt; he was making her more conscious of the risks that lay within herself. She was silent, and the rector observed that he had produced some strong effect.
“I mean this in kindness, my dear.” His tone had softened.
“I am aware of that, uncle,” said Gwendolen, rising and shaking her head back, as if to rouse herself out of painful passivity. “I am not foolish. I know that I must be married some time—before it is too late. And I don’t see how I could do better than marry Mr. Grandcourt. I mean to accept him, if possible.” She felt as if she were reinforcing herself by speaking with this decisiveness to her uncle.