“Yes,” she said, indifferently, “if you have nothing more interesting to talk about.”
“Will you forgive an old friend and servant of your family, Miss Rachel, if I venture on asking whether your heart is set on this marriage?”
“I am marrying in despair, Mr. Bruff—on the chance of dropping into some sort of stagnant happiness which may reconcile me to my life.”
Strong language! and suggestive of something below the surface, in the shape of a romance. But I had my own object in view, and I declined (as we lawyers say) to pursue the question into its side issues.
“Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite can hardly be of your way of thinking,” I said. “His heart must be set on the marriage at any rate?”
“He says so, and I suppose I ought to believe him. He would hardly marry me, after what I have owned to him, unless he was fond of me.”
Poor thing! the bare idea of a man marrying her for his own selfish and mercenary ends had never entered her head. The task I had set myself began to look like a harder task than I had bargained for.
“It sounds strangely,” I went on, “in my old-fashioned ears——”
“What sounds strangely?” she asked.
“To hear you speak of your future husband as if you were not quite sure of the sincerity of his attachment. Are you conscious of any reason in your own mind for doubting him?”