“Will she marry me?” asked Morris. “Isn’t she too sensible?”
His father’s eye twinkled, but he restrained himself. This, he felt, was not an occasion upon which to indulge his powers of sarcasm.
“Upon my word, if you want my opinion, I believe she will; but you have to ask her first. Look here, my boy, be advised by me, and do it as soon as possible. The notion is rather new to me, I admit; but, taking her all round, where would you find a better woman? You and I don’t always agree about things; we are of a different generation, and look at the world from different standpoints. But I think that at the bottom we respect each other, and I am sure,” he added with a touch of restrained dignity, “that we are naturally and properly attached to each other. Under these circumstances, and taking everything else into consideration, I am convinced also that you will give weight to my advice. I assure you that I do not offer it lightly. It is that you should marry your cousin Mary.”
“There is her side of the case to be considered,” suggested Morris.
“Doubtless, and she is a very shrewd and sensible young woman under all her ‘dolce far niente’ air, who is quite capable of consideration.”
“I am not worthy of her,” his son broke in passionately.
“That is for her to decide. I ask you to give her an opportunity of expressing an opinion.”
Morris looked at the sea and sky, then he looked at his father standing before him in an attitude that was almost suppliant, with head bowed, hands clasped, and on his clear-cut face an air of real sincerity. What right had he to resist this appeal? He was heart-whole, without any kind of complication, and for his cousin Mary he had true affection and respect. Moreover, they had been brought up together. She understood him, and in the midst of so much that was uncertain and bewildering she seemed something genuine and solid, something to which a man could cling. It may not have been a right spirit in which to approach this question of marriage, but in the case of a young man like Morris, who was driven forward by no passion, by no scheme even of personal advancement, this substitution of reason for impulse and instinct was perhaps natural.
“Very well, I will,” he answered; “but if she is wise, she won’t.”
His father turned his head away and sighed softly, and that sigh seemed to lift a ton’s weight off his heart.