"You are a noble girl, Lucy," he said, as you would admire anything that was beautiful in a picture or a statue. And yet she seemed to know that he did not feel with her—"could not understand her," as he had said.
"And do you not think I am right?"
"I can't say that I do—that is, exactly. I can't see that you are bound to waste five years, the best years of life, when the family can be otherwise provided for. You say your uncles have offered to do all that is necessary; your mother would always be welcome in my house." And James Allan actually regarded himself, and had done so for some days, a perfect model of virtuous self-denial in making the proposal, and "going on" with a match that more worldly friends now advised him against. There was a difference between the daughter of the prosperous merchant and the ruined bankrupt.
"You never have had brothers and sisters, James."
"And so shall love you all the better, darling. You will have none to be jealous of."
"Ah, now listen to me. Do not place obstacles in the path of my duty. Tell me, am I selfish towards you?"
She did not think he could say "yes," or feel it. She knew that if the probation had been proposed to her for his sake, she would have consented joyfully, happy in the power to show how true her love was, and she would have strengthened and encouraged him in every way.
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, slowly—
"And what do you propose to do? Teach, I suppose." It grated upon his ear to think that any one who would be hereafter connected with him should use time or talent in her own support. He would much rather have given the necessary sum outright; but that Lucy would not listen to.
"No, I shall not teach."