‘You can give in, my dear, you can give in,’ repeated the lawyer. ‘No use for entering into particulars. So long as you authorise me to say you give in—that is all, I am sure, that is needful. Don’t turn me off, Anne—give me the pleasure of reconciling you, my dear.’
Mr. Loseby had always given himself out as one of Anne’s adorers. His eyes glistened with the moisture in them. He pressed her arm within his. ‘Come, my dear! I never was a father myself, which I have always regretted; but I have known you all your life. Let me do you a good turn—let me put a stop to all this nonsense, and tell him you will make it up.’
Anne’s heart had sunk very low; with one assault of this kind after another she was altogether discouraged. She did not seem to care what she said, or what interpretation was put upon her words. ‘You may say what you please,’ she said. ‘I will make it up, if you please: but what does that mean, Mr. Loseby? I will give up writing, if he wishes it—but how can I give up the—gentleman I am engaged to? Do you think I want to quarrel? Oh, no, no—but what can I do? Give up!—I have no right. He has my promise and I have his. Can I sell that for money?’ cried Anne, indignantly. ‘I will do whatever papa pleases—except that.’
‘You are making him do a dreadful injustice, Anne. Come, what does this young fellow say? Does he not want to release you, to save you from suffering? does he hold you to your promise in the face of such a loss? An honourable young man would tell you: never mind me——’
Anne detached her arm with a little energy from his. ‘Why should you torment me?’ she cried. ‘An honourable man?—is it honour, then, to prefer, as you said yourself, one’s money to one’s life?’
‘My dear child, money is always there, it is always to be relied upon; it is a strong back, whatever happens—whereas this, that you call life——!’ cried Mr. Loseby, spreading out his hands and lifting up his eyebrows; he had chosen the very image she had herself used when writing to her lover. Was this then what they all thought, that wealth was the best thing to fall back upon? She smiled, but it was a smile of pain.
‘If I thought so, I should not care either for the life or the money,’ she said.
Mr. Loseby held up his hands once more. He shook his shining little bald head, and took up his blue bag from the table. ‘You are as obstinate, as pig-headed, the whole family of you—one worse than another,’ he said.
CHAPTER XVIII.
AFTERTHOUGHTS.
There were two witnesses wanted for the will; one of these was Heathcote Mountford, the other the clerk whom Mr. Loseby had brought with him in his phaeton. He stood by himself, looking as like an indignant prophet whose message from heaven has been disregarded, as a fat little shining man of five feet four could look. It had been to make a last attempt upon the mind of Mr. Mountford, and also to try what effect he could produce on the heart of Anne, that he had come himself, facing all the risks of an east wind, with perhaps snow to come. And there had been a long and stormy interview in the library before the clerk had been called in. ‘She will give up the correspondence. She is as sweet as a girl can be,’ said the old lawyer, fibbing manfully; ‘one can see that it goes to her heart that you should think her disobedient. Mountford, you don’t half know what a girl that is. But for the money she would come to you, she would put herself at your feet, she would give up everything. But she says, bless her! “Papa would think it was because of the money. Do you think I would do that for the money which I wouldn’t do to please him?” That’s Anne all over,’ said her mendacious advocate. ‘After you have accomplished this injustice and cut her off, that sweet creature will come to you some fine day and say, “Papa, I give him up. I give everything up that displeases you—I cannot go against my duty.”’