“Oh, my son, how can you dream of taking bonny Violet away from her luxurious home at Golden Willows to live in such an old rack-rent castle as this?” demanded Mrs. Grant, in sorrowful dismay.
“We love each other, mother dear, and Violet vows that she will not mind my poverty,” he replied, gently.
“She is a child, and does not know anything about the stern realities of poverty and want. You had much better break off the engagement and leave Violet free for her rich suitor, or you might both repent your marriage when too late. And, to be frank, Cecil—I am not mercenary, but I have always hoped you would marry money, so as to pay off the mortgage and save your ancestral estates.”
“You should have thought of that yourself, mother, when you refused Judge Camden’s hand,” her son replied, demurely.
She flushed with surprise and exclaimed:
“You are guessing wildly, my dear Cecil.”
“No, mother, I am not. Do you think I do not understand that old man’s persecution of me? It is only an ignoble spite against the woman who would not marry him.”
“I believe you are right, dear,” she acknowledged, sadly; “I know that a marriage with him would have given us both many advantages we do not now possess. Are you angry because I rejected him?”
“No, mother, no! How could that hard, pompous old man have taken my noble father’s place in your heart? Not for the world would I have had you sacrifice yourself thus. But do not let your dislike of him prejudice you against my gentle Violet.”
Mrs. Grant gave him a fond, motherly smile, as she answered, kindly: