Yes; to spend it in unworthy purposes would be dishonest. But I again recur to your duties. However, since you are so tenacious on the subject, I will become a usurer to pacify your feelings, and you shall pay for risk. Fifty pounds, unless you meet with more Peggies, I dare say will bear you free. [It is twenty pounds more, thou knowest, than I asked of my father.] You shall give me eighty whenever you have a thousand pounds of your own.
Madam!—
Well, well! You shall give me a hundred—[Very seriously] It almost vexes me, Frank, to be refused so very slight a favour; for I can read refusal and opposition in your eye. But, if you persist, you will give me great pain; for you will convince me that, where your own passions are concerned, you are not superior to the paltry prejudices by which the rest of the world are governed.
I own, madam, my mind has had many struggles on the subject; and I am afraid, as you say, it has been too willing to indulge its prejudices, and its pride. But if you seriously think, from your heart, it is my duty to act in this case as you direct—
I do, seriously, solemnly, and from my heart, think it is your duty.
Then, madam, I submit.
Why that's my kind Frank! As noble in this instance as in every other—I could love you for it if you would let me—[In a moment my heart was alarmed! I could feel myself change colour! I am certain she saw my agitation; her manner told me so, for she instantly added, with a kind of affectionate significance which I know not how to interpret—] I would say as much to the whole world, but that it is a foolish world, and wants the wit to conceive things truly as they are meant.
She was gone in an instant, smiling, sailing, and her countenance brightening with heavenly radiance, as she departed.
What can this be? Her words are continually resounding in my ears!—She could love me, if I would let her!—Heavens!—Love me?—Let her?—Let her!—Oh!—It is a foolish world—She fears its censures—Love me!—Is it possible?—Tell me, Oliver, is it possible?—It wants the wit to conceive things truly as they are meant—Was this forbidding me to hope; or was it blaming the world's prejudices?—I now not—Ah! To what purpose warn the moth, unless she could put out the light?—Oh, blasphemy!—Love me if I would let her?—I cannot forget it, Oliver!—I cannot!—Oh! I could weep like a child, at my own conscious debility.
Why should I despair?—With a modern miss, a fine lady, I might; but not with her. She has a mind superior to the world, and its mistakes. And am I not convinced there ought to be no impediment to our union? Why should I doubt of convincing her? She dare do all that truth and justice can demand—And she could love me if I would let her—Is not my despondency absurd?—Even did I know her present thoughts, and know them to be inimical to my passion, what ought I to do? Not to desert my own cause, if it be a just one: and, if it be the contrary, there is no question: I will make none. Let me but be convinced of my error, and it shall be renounced. Yes, Oliver, I dare boldly aver—it shall! But shall I forego a right so precious, if it be mine?—No! Kingdoms shall not tempt me!—Why is this timidity? Why does my heart palpitate? Why with inward whispers do I murmur thoughts which I dare not speak aloud? Why do they rise quivering to my lips, and there panting expire, painfully struggling for birth, but in vain? Oh! How poorly do I paint what so oppressively I feel!