I struggled very hard to show her how worldly she was. Who wanted money? Who wanted position? Who wanted brains? Nothing in fact was wanted, except my will!
I was much surprised, a few days later, to hear from G., whom I met riding in the Row, that he had called every day of the week but been told by the footman that I was out. The under-butler, who was devoted to me, said sadly, when I complained:
"I am afraid, miss, your young gentleman has been forbidden the house."
Forbidden the house! I rushed to my sister Charty and found her even more upset than my mother. She pointed out with some truth that Lucy's marriage and the obstinacy with which she had pursued it had gone far towards spoiling her early life; but "the squire," as Graham Smith was called, although a character-part, was a man of perfect education and charming manners. He had beaten all the boys at Harrow, won a hundred steeplechases and loved books; whereas my young man knew little about anything but horses and, she added, would be no companion to me when I was ill or old.
I flounced about the room and said that forbidding him the house was grotesque and made me ridiculous in the eyes of the servants. I ended a passionate protest by telling her gravely that if I changed my mind he would undoubtedly commit suicide. This awful news was received with an hilarity which nettled me.
CHARTY: "I should have thought you had too much sense of humour and Mr. G. too much common sense for either of you to believe this. He must think you very vain. …"
I did not know at all what she meant and said with the utmost gravity:
"The terrible thing is I believe that I have given him a false impression of my feelings for him; for, though I love him very much, I would never have promised to marry him if he had not said he was going to kill himself." Clasping my two hands together and greatly moved, I concluded, "If I break it off now and ANYTHING SHOULD happen, my life is over and I shall feel as if I had murdered him."
CHARTY (looking at me with a tender smile): "I should risk it, darling."
A propos of vanity, in the interests of my publisher I must here digress and relate the two greatest compliments that I ever had paid to me. Although I cannot listen to reading out loud, I have always been fond of sermons and constantly went to hear Canon Eyton, a great preacher, who collected large and attentive congregations in his church in Sloane Street. I nearly always went alone, as my family preferred listening to Stopford Brooke or going to our pew in St. George's, Hanover Square.