There had been another surprise for her, too, and this had lain in his attitude towards her position and her family. She discovered that his deference for her was entirely for her as a woman, and he had no particular respect for her as an Alard. His courtship would have been as diffident if she had been the daughter of the farmer of Glasseye or the farmer of Ellenwhorne. He was grateful to her for loving him, and infinitely careful of her love, as a privilege which might be withdrawn, but he saw no condescension in her loving him, no recklessness in her seeking him. Indeed, the only time she found a stiffness in him was when she told him that their love would have to be secret as far as her family was concerned. He had come to see her openly and innocently at Conster, and though luckily her people had been out, and she had been able to convey to the servants that he had only called on business, she had had to warn him that he must not come again.
“But why not?—I’m not ashamed of loving you.”
“It isn’t that, Ben.”
“Nor ashamed of myself, neither.”
“Oh, darling, can’t you understand that it’s because of my parents—what they’ll think and say—and do, if they get the chance?”
“You mean they won’t hold with us marrying?”
“No—they won’t hold with it at all.”
“I expect they’d like you to marry a lord.”
“It isn’t so much a lord that they want as someone with money.”
“Well, I’ve got plenty of that, my lovely.”