Jane had hid her face in her hands, and was sobbing violently, while Charles read the letter.
He was almost choked with emotion.
“My poor Jane,” he exclaimed, as he hung over her, “that this cruel letter should have come just now, of all times. What a heart must that man have who could write to you in such a way. I wish he could see you now, that he might repent it as he ought to do.”
“O Charles!” said Jane, “remember all his kindness to us.”
“Remember it!” cried he, “it will stick in my throat as long as I live. O that I could send him back his bank-notes and his presents, and be free of all obligation!”
“Nay, dear Charles, do not let us be ungrateful because he is hasty. His former kindness is not the less noble because of the present misunderstanding. We must be neither ungrateful nor proud.”
“It is plain enough that he never saw you, Jane, or he would have blushed to insult such a nature as yours. I wish he could hear you speaking of his kindness just when it is most painful to remember it: he would feel how little he understands you.”
“Never mind what he thinks of me,” said Jane, raising her head and attempting to smile. She saw that poor Harriet was in tears, and that Alfred was standing beside her chair with a look of deep concern. They both felt that all seemed to go wrong with them this day, though they knew not the cause of their sister’s unaccustomed tears.
Jane threw her arm round Alfred’s neck and kissed him again and again. “Never mind,” she said again, “what Mr Rathbone thinks of us: we have Alfred safe; we have not sacrificed him; we have done what we think is best for our happiness; and shall we not willingly abide by our choice?”
“Surely we will,” replied her brother, “and willingly pay the price of our independence, though it be a heavy one.”