“I do not love the world so well, dear Katharine, as to care for either its frowns or its favours; and I looked not for an advocate of its cold maxims and its deceitful forms in you—let it see me as I am.”
“There is your error, Jane: it cannot, it will not, it cares not to take the trouble to see you as you are; it looks only at your seeming; and though to be is better than to seem, and many seem fine gold that are but base metal, yet no one can despise the judgment of the world without rashness and without danger. They who place themselves above the opinion of the world, and the best rules of society, cast off a useful and an appointed restraint in the discipline of life.”
“Sweet coz, I love to hear you lecture, but you will never make me wise: I was born under a common star, and reared with foresters:—look as I like, and speak as I think.”
“Ah, dear Jane, you will some day learn to govern your bright looks, and to keep your sweetest thoughts locked closely in your heart. Wisdom herself, and, perhaps, though God forbid, sorrow will be your teacher.”
The serene eyes of the majestic Katharine were clouded, for a passing moment, with such a sadness as a compassionate angel might have worn; and she pressed Jane tenderly to her breast.
“Promise me,” she said, “dearest cousin, promise me faithfully that you never again hint even to any human being, the idle fancy that hung this morning on your lips, or the name you would have connected with it.”
“The promise has been already made in my own mind: your look was enough to make me wish the light word unspoken, and the tongue that uttered it blistered for a month to come. You are the only one at table who could have understood my allusion. I am certain that the most distant thought of my meaning could not enter the mind of your father or your aunt.”
“This, I believe, and it is well it should not: the bare suspicion, harboured in his mind, would make him miserable for life, and embitter his last moments with unworthy fears. I know his nature well: much as he loves me, and confides in me, to pacify his anger, and quiet his jealous apprehensions, would be, even for me, an impossible achievement; and yet he knows, or should know, that I am an English daughter.”
“How is it, Katharine, that you command all hearts? that not a man approaches you but he is at once, as by some sweet force, compelled to love you? and yet it is no wonder: there cannot be on earth another Katharine.”
“Cousin, this is idle and wicked talk; you must not use such vain and sinful words: would you could see me as I see myself, when, prostrate in weakness, I implore and find strength where alone it is to be obtained; but you cannot understand me yet.”