Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, in the absence of their daughter, held a very agreeable conversation on the subject of Mrs. Lindsay's visit. Neither Goodwin nor his wife was in the slightest degree selfish, yet, somehow, there crept into their hearts a certain portion of selfishness, which could be traced only to the affection which they felt for Alice. They calculated that Henry Woodward, having been reared and educated by his uncle, would be amply provided for by that wealthy gentleman—who, besides, was childless. This consideration became a strong element in their deliberations and discussions upon the projected match, and they accordingly resolved to win over Alice's consent to it as soon as possible. From the obedience of her disposition, and the natural pliancy of her character with the opinions of others, they concluded the matter as arranged and certain. They forgot, however, that Alice, though a feeble thinker on matters of superstition and others of a minor importance, could sometimes exercise a will of her own, but very seldom, if ever, when opposed to theirs. They knew her love and affection for them, and that she was capable of making any sacrifice that might contribute to their happiness. They had, however, observed of late—indeed for a considerable time past—that she appeared to be in low spirits, moved about as if there was a pressure of some description in her mind; and when they asked her if she were at ease—which they often did—she only replied by a smile, and asked them in return why she should be otherwise. With this reply they were satisfied, for they knew that upon the general occurrences of life she was almost a mere child, and that, although her health was good, her constitution was naturally delicate, and liable to be affected by many things indifferent in themselves, which girls of a stronger mind and constitution would neither perceive nor feel. The summing up of all was that they apprehended no obstruction to the proposed union from any objection on her part, as soon as she should be made acquainted with their wishes.
In the course of that very evening they introduced the subject to her, with that natural confidence which resulted from their foregone conclusions upon it.
“Alley,” said her mother, “I hope you're in good spirits this evening.”
“Indifferent enough, mamma; my spirits, you know, are not naturally good.”
“And why should they not?” said her mother; “what on earth have you to trouble you?”
“O, mamma,” she exclaimed, “you don't know how often I miss my sister;—at night I think I see her, and she looks pale and melancholy, and full of sorrow—just as she did when she felt that her hope of life was gone forever. O, how willingly—how joyfully—would I return her fortune, and if I had ten times as much of my own, along with it, if it could only bring her back to me again!”
“Well, you know, my darling, that can't be done; but cheer up; I have good news for you—news that I am sure will delight you.”
“But I don't stand in need of any good news, mamma.”
This simple reply proved an unexpected capsize to her mother, who knew not how to proceed; but, in the moment of her embarrassment, looked to her husband for assistance.
“My dear Alice,” said her father, “the fact is this—you have achieved a conquest, and there has been a proposal of marriage made for you.”