“I have no objection to tell you what I mean,” he said, “as I told your mother. The Curtises are my friends. I know them thoroughly, and I know that your marriage will grieve them to the heart. Pardon me if I must speak plainly. It is no offence to you personally, for they don’t know you. Arthur has told them the step he is going to take only at the last moment; only, in fact, after they had been told of it from another source. They are deeply offended, as may be easily supposed. He has not behaved to them as he ought.”
“You will say nothing against Mr. Curtis, please.”
“But I must say something about him—Arthur! Have you any idea, Miss Bates, what Arthur has been to me? My companion since he was that height; my younger brother, my charge; nay, almost my child. And you tell me I am not to speak of him! Is it possible, do you think? My affection for Arthur gives me a right to say anything to him—or of him.”
“There is no one in the world,” she said, with her lips quivering, “who has so much right to him as me.”
Durant threw up his shoulders and his hands in the excitement of the moment. “So it appears,” he said, “so I suppose—though how it should be so, God knows, is the last of mysteries. Well! let us say he belongs to you, and that not his oldest friend, not his nearest relation, has a right to discuss him if you forbid. It is the wildest madness, but I suppose, as you say, it is true. And what then, Miss Bates? he will have you, but he will have nothing besides. Everyone else will be separated from him; his parents not only offended, but wounded to the heart; his friends alienated, his position lost. What will he be then, and what will he do? A man cannot be a lover and nothing else all his life. He would tire of that, and you would tire of it; but he will have nothing to fall back upon; and after all, if a man defies his parents and throws off their influence, why should they exert themselves to secure to him the means of defying them? They will not do it—why should they? and you will find that you have married poverty—helplessness—discontent.”
“And if I do,” she said, “will that show I am marrying for money? You bad man! You cruel friend! You go and tell everybody that it is because he will be rich—because I shall be my lady—that I am going to marry Arthur. How dare you! how dare you! But if this is how it is going to be, you will all find out different; you will find it is not for his money or for his rank. Go away!” she cried, clenching a hand which was small but strong, and full of impassioned energy; “go away! and don’t tell lies of me.”
Durant was impressed in spite of himself; he tried to smile, but could not, and he tried to be angry, but could not refrain from a certain half-respect, half-admiration.
“I tell no lies of you or anyone,” he said; “I warn you—”
“Warn me! of what? that I shall have a way of showing whether I’m true or not,” she said, “whether I’m good or not; and you think that will frighten me! Mr. Durant, if his mother sent you, you may go back and tell her what I say. You’ve dared me to give him up, and I won’t give him up; and if I were to give him up a hundred times it would make no difference, for he would not give up me. You can tell her all that. He can do without her, but he can’t do without me.”
“Do you think that is a kind thing to tell a mother?”