“Independently of great woes, great calamities, which we may not control, which are sent to us for wise ends from above—surely, I say, surely we can.”
“And can you, Durzil?”
“Theresa, this is to me a great wo—yea, a great calamity; and yet I reply, ay! after a time, after the bitterness shall be overpast, I can, and more, I will. Much more, then, can you, who have never felt, who I trust and believe will never meet any such wo or grief—much more can you be happy. Wherefore should you not, foolish child—have you not been happy hitherto? What have you, that you should not be happy now?”
“Nothing,” she replied, faintly. “I have nothing why I should be unhappy, unless it be, if I have made you so.”
“Theresa, you have not—you shall see that you have not—made me unhappy.”
“And yet, Durzil, yet I feel a foreboding that I shall be, that I must be unhappy. A want—I feel a want of something here.”
“You are excited, agitated now; all this has been too much for your spirits, for your nerves; and I think, Theresa, I am sure that you are too much alone—you think, or rather you muse and dream, which are not healthy modes of thinking—too much in solitude. I will speak to my uncle about that before I go—”
“Before you go!” she interrupted him, quickly. “Go, whither?”
“To sea. To my ship, Theresa.”
“Then you are hurt, then you are angry with me. Then I have no influence over you.”