“Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so cruel?” cried Frances. “Then, mamma, I shall hate England, where I once thought everything was good.”
“Everything is not good anywhere, my love; and Society, I fear, above all, is far from being perfect,—not that your poor dear aunt Caroline can be said to be in Society,” Lady Markham added, recovering her spirits. “I don’t think they see anybody but a few lawyers like themselves.”
“But, mamma, why do you go to see her? Why do you endure it? You promised for me, or I should never go back, neither on Thursday nor any other time.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Frances, my dear! I hope you have not got those headstrong Waring ways. Because she hates me, that is no reason why she should hate you. Even Con saw as much as that. You are of her own blood, and her near relation: and I never heard that he took very much to any of the young people on his side. And they are very rich. A man like that, at the head of his profession, must be coining money. It would be wicked of me, for any little tempers of mine, to risk what might be a fortune for my children. And you know I have very little more than my jointure, and your father is not rich.”
This exposition of motives was like another language to Frances. She gazed at her mother’s soft face, so full of sweetness and kindness, with a sense that Lady Markham was under the sway of motives and influences which had been left out in her own simple education. Was it supreme and self-denying generosity, or was it—something else? The girl was too inexperienced, too ignorant to tell. But the contrast between Lady Markham’s wonderful temper and forbearance and the harsh and ungenerous tone of her aunt, moved her heart out of the region of reason. “If you put up with all that for us, I cannot see any reason why we should put up with it for you!” she cried indignantly. “She cannot have any right to speak to my mother so—and before me.”
“Ah, my darling, that is just the sweetness of it to her. If we were alone, I should not mind; she might say what she liked. It is because of you that she can make me feel—a little. But you must take no notice; you must leave me to fight my own battles.”
“Why?” Frances flung up her young head, till she looked about a foot taller than her mother. “I will never endure it, mamma; you may say what you like. What is her fortune to me?”
“My love!” she exclaimed; “why, you little savage, her fortune is everything to you! It may make all the difference.” Then she laughed rather tremulously, and leaning over, bestowed a kiss upon her stranger-child’s half-reluctant cheek. “It is very, very sweet of you to make a stand for your mother,” she said, “and when you know so little of me. The horrid people in Society would say that was the reason; but I think you would defend your mother anyhow, my Frances, my child that I have always missed! But look here, dear: you must not do it. I am old enough to take care of myself. And your poor aunt Clarendon is not so bad as you think. She believes she has reason for it. She is very fond of your father, and she has not seen him for a dozen years; and there is no telling whether she may ever see him again; and she thinks it is my fault. So you must not take up arms on my behalf till you know better. And it would be so much to your advantage if she should take a fancy to you, my dear. Do you think I could ever reconcile myself, for any amour-propre of mine, to stand in my child’s way?”
Once more, Frances was unable to make any reply. All the lines of sentiment and sense to which she had been accustomed seemed to be getting blurred out. Where she had come from, a family stood together, shoulder by shoulder. They defended each other, and even revenged each other; and though the law might disapprove, public opinion stood by them. A child who looked on careless while its parents were assailed would have been to Mariuccia an odious monster. Her father’s opinions on such a subject, Frances had never known: but as for fortune, he would have smiled that disdainful smile of his at the suggestion that she should pay court to any one because he was rich. Wealth meant having few wants, she had heard him say a thousand times. It might even have been supposed from his conversation that he scorned rich people for being rich, which of course was an exaggeration. But he could never, never have wished her to endeavour to please an unkind, disagreeable person because of her money. That was impossible. So that she made no reply, and scarcely even, in her confusion, responded to the caress with which her mother thanked her for the partisanship, which it appeared was so out of place.