‘No,’ replied his uncle, with a smile of satisfaction, anticipating from the question something like a disposition to acquiesce in his views. ‘No; I leave that to you—that’s your part. You now know my wishes; and I trust and hope you are sensible that few proposals could be made to you so likely to promote your best interests.’
Walkinshaw saw the difficulties of his situation. He could no longer equivocate with them. It was impossible, he felt, to say that he would speak on the subject to Robina, without being guilty of duplicity towards his uncle. Besides this, he conceived it would sully the honour and purity of his affection for Ellen Frazer to allow himself to seek any declaration of refusal from Robina, however certain of receiving it. His uncle saw his perplexity, and said,—
‘This proposal seems to have very much disconcerted you—but I will be plain; for, in a matter on which my heart is so much set, it is prudent to be candid. I do not merely suspect, but have some reason to believe, that you have formed a schoolboy attachment to Mrs. Eadie’s young friend. Now, without any other remark on the subject, I will only say, that, though Miss Frazer is a very fine girl, and of a most respectable family, there is nothing in the circumstances of her situation compared with those of your cousin, that would make any man of sense hesitate between them.’
So thought Walkinshaw; for, in his opinion, the man of sense would at once prefer Ellen.
‘However,’ continued his uncle,—‘I will not at present press this matter further. I have opened my mind to you, and I make no doubt, that you will soon see the wisdom and propriety of acceding to my wishes.’
Walkinshaw thought he would be acting unworthy of himself if he allowed his uncle to entertain any hope of his compliance; and, accordingly, he said, with some degree of agitation, but not so much as materially to affect the force with which he expressed himself,—
‘I will not deny that your information with respect to Miss Frazer is correct; and the state of our sentiments renders it impossible that I should for a moment suffer you to expect I can ever look on Robina but as my cousin.’
‘Well, well, James,’ interrupted his uncle,—‘I know all that; and I calculated on hearing as much, and even more; but take time to reflect on what I have proposed; and I shall be perfectly content to see the result in your actions. So, let us go to your aunt’s room, and take tea with her and Robina.’
‘Impossible!—never!’ exclaimed Walkinshaw, rising;—‘I cannot allow you for a moment longer to continue in so fallacious an expectation. My mind is made up; my decision was formed before I came here; and no earthly consideration will induce me to forgo an affection that has grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength.’