“Yes, fortune, not duty—duty he could never have asked her to sacrifice; he could not have esteemed her if she had sacrificed duty. As to the rest,” added he, proudly, “Miss Panton is now to decide between love and fortune.”
“This from the modest Mr. Henry! from whom, till this moment, I never heard a syllable that savoured of presumption!” said Mr. Gresham.
Mr. Henry was silent—and stood with an air of proud determination. Regardless of the surprise and attention with which Mr. Gresham considered him during this silence, he thought for a few moments, and asked, “Sir, when may I see Miss Panton?”
“And would you,” said Mr. Gresham, “if it were in your power, sir, reduce the woman you love from opulence to poverty—to distress?”
“I have four hundred a year, Miss Panton has two—six hundred a year is not poverty, sir. Distress—the woman I marry shall never know whilst I have life and health. No, sir, this is not romance. Of my perseverance in whatever I undertake, even when least congenial to my habits, you have had proofs. Mr. Gresham, if Miss Panton approves of me, and if love can make her happy, I fear not to assert to you, her guardian, that I will make her happy. If she love me not, or,” added he, his whole countenance changing from the expression of ardent love to that of cold disdain, “or, if love be not in her mind superior to fortune, then I have little to regret. Wealth and honours wait her command. But,” resumed he, “the trial I will make—the hazard I will run. If I am mistaken—if I am presumptuous—the humiliation be mine—the agony all my own: my heart will bear it—or—break!”
“Heroics!” said Mr. Gresham. “Now let me ask—”
“Let me ask, sir—pardon me,” interrupted Mr. Henry—“Let me beg to see Miss Panton.”
“Stay, listen to me, young man—”
“Young gentleman, sir, if you please.”
“Young gentleman, sir, if you please,” repeated Mr. Gresham, mildly; “I can make allowance for all this—you were bred a soldier, jealous of honour—but listen to me: there is one thing I must tell you before you see Miss Panton—though I apprehend it may somewhat mortify you, as it will interfere with your boast of disinterestedness and your vow of poverty—Miss Panton I have from her cradle been in the habit of considering partly as my own—my own child—and, as such, I have left her in my will ten thousand pounds. As she will want this money before my death, if she marries you, I must convert my legacy into a marriage-portion, and you shall not, sir, have love without fortune, whatever your heroics may think of it. Now go to your mistress, and keep my secret.”