“Society may suppose what it pleases of me”—said Irene, “I was never its favourite, and never shall be, nor do I court its good opinion. Yes, I am a free-thinker, and freely think without narrow law or boundary, of the majesty, beauty and surpassing goodness of God. As for intellectual egoism,—I hope I am not in any respect guilty of it. To be proud of what one does, or what one knows, has always seemed to me the poorest sort of vanity,—and it is the stumbling block over which a great many workers in the literary profession fall, never to rise again. But you are quite right in saying I am not a ‘religious’ woman; I never go to church and I never patronise bazaars.”
The sparkle of mirth in her eyes was infectious, and he laughed. But suddenly she stopped, and laid her hand on his arm.
“Listen,” she said, with a slight tremor in her voice—“You love me, you say ... and I—I am not altogether indifferent to you—I confess that much. Wait!” for in an excess of delight he had caught both her hands in his own, and she loosened them gently—“Wait—you do not know me, my dear friend. You do not understand my nature at all,—I sometimes think myself it is not what is understood as ‘feminine.’ I am an abnormal creature—and perhaps if you knew me better you would not like me ...”
“I adore you!” said Strathlea impetuously, “and I shall always adore you!”
She smiled rather sadly.
“You think so now,”—she said—“but you cannot be sure,—no man can always be sure of himself. You spoke of society and its opinion of me;—now, as a rule, average people do not like me,—they are vaguely afraid of me,—and they think it is strange and almost dangerous for a ‘writing woman’ to be still young, and not entirely hideous. Literary women generally are so safely and harmlessly repellent in look and bearing. Then again, as you said, I am not a religious woman,—no, not at all so in the accepted sense of the term. But with all my heart and soul I believe in God, and the ultimate good of everything. I abhor those who would narrow our vision of heavenly things by dogma or rule—I resent all ideas of the Creator that seem to lessen His glory by one iota. I may truly say I live in an ecstasy of faith, accepting life as a wondrous miracle, and death as a crowning joy. I pray but seldom, as I have nothing to ask for, being given far more than I deserve,—and I complain of nothing save the blind, cruel injustice and misjudgment shown by one human unit to another. This is not God’s doing, but Man’s—and it will, it must, bring down full punishment in due season.”
She paused a moment,—Strathlea was looking at her admiringly, and she coloured suddenly at his gaze.
“Besides”—she added with an abrupt change of tone, from enthusiasm to coldness, “you must not, my dear Duke, think that I feel myself in any way distinguished or honoured by your proposal to make me your wife. I do not. This sounds very brusque, I know, but I think as a general rule in marriage, a woman gives a great deal more than she ever receives. I am aware how very much your position and fortune might appeal to many of my sex,—but I need scarcely tell you they have no influence upon me. For, notwithstanding an entire lack of log-rollers and press ‘booms’”—and she smiled—“my books bring me in large sums, sufficient and more than sufficient for all my worldly needs. And I am not ambitious to be a duchess.”
“You are cruel, Irene”—said Strathlea—“Should I ever attaint you with worldly motives? I never wanted to be a duke—I was born so,—and a horrid bore it is! If I were a poor man, could you fancy me?”
He looked at her,—and her eyes fell under his ardent gaze. He saw his advantage, and profited by it.