"That maybe it. Poor Joseph! To be saved from the sea only to fall into the hands of a designing fortune-hunter! But I hope you are mistaken. It would be too sad; it would be dreadful! And you and Lucy, my poor children, what a difference it will make in your prospects! You will have to stand on your merits now, if this should chance to be true. No longer the heiresses of wealthy Joseph Naylor!"
"That is no reason why Uncle Joseph should not marry. We have lived very comfortably on what papa left us."
"You do not understand yet. Wait till you go to Ottawa or Toronto. You will recognise the difference then."
"I do not want to stand on anybody's merits but my own. I think I shall be fond of Rose, after the first queerness of her being Uncle Joseph's wife wears off."
"You think so because you do not know the world. I know it, and I can tell you you are wrong.... If once that woman is married to your uncle, there will be no standing her.... And I won't!" And Mrs Naylor, flushing an angry red, turned and left the room. The impending danger to her own consequence had driven every other idea from her mind, and she went without one word upon the subject she had come to discuss--to wit, Peter Wilkie's attentions to her daughter, and how they had been received.
On the stair she met Joseph coming up as she went down. It required an effort to pull herself together and meet him as usual, but she succeeded; or perhaps he was too preoccupied to observe the constraint of her manner as she wished him good-morning and proceeded on her way. He turned in his course, and followed her into a parlour, empty like the other rooms at that hour, owing to the absence of every one at church.
She sat down in a large chair before the open window, with the shady gallery outside, and the fanning breeze blowing in from off the sea. He drew up the nearest seat and placed himself beside her, looking at his nails the while, but saying nothing.
She watched him from under her eyelids. It was true, then, she feared, what Margaret had been telling her, and it made her feel so angry and vindictive that she would not even help him out of the difficulty of breaking his news, by beginning the conversation. He sat, and she sat, but they did not speak. Those nails of his must have had uncommon attractions, or his thoughts had wandered away into pleasant fields, and he had forgotten that speech was expected of him.
She shuffled her feet beneath her gown and waited, growing more and more impatient. The front of her dress was agitated by the drumming of her slipper-toes, which would not keep still, yet proved an inadequate vent for the impatience which devoured her. It grew intolerable, at last, to have him beaming there upon his own finger-tips, and saying never a word. A red spot came in either cheek; and steadying her voice with a little cough into an uncertain tone, ready alike to grow plaintive or indignant as occasion should arise, she spoke at last--
"How did you contrive to be left behind yesterday?"