“Odious!”
“Talk of man!” I cried. “Why, man is the most miserable of all created things. Birds, and fish, and animals, come into the world already clothed; all degrees of temperature are pretty much alike to them; they are prepared for changes. Their breakfasts, dinners, and suppers lie scattered for them upon the face of the world, and all they have to do is to eat and drink. They may pair without anybody’s consent; they’ve got no relations to interfere, and no marriage settlements to make them hate each other. But man is born naked, with a skin so sensitive that heat and cold give him equal tortures. He has got to dig for his food, without being sure of finding any. He is kicked if he hasn’t money, and is plundered if he has. If he falls in love with a woman, it is a hundred to one that he marries somebody else, for thousands of obstacles are piled up in his way. Worse than all, he’s cursed with thought and memory; so that, however happy he tries to be in the present, there’s always misery enough in the past to poison his existing bliss, and uncertainty enough in the future to make him dread to look forward.”
Saying which I ground my teeth.
“It is all too true,” replied my aunt, dolefully; “and there can be no doubt that man is a wretch in more senses than one. But I wouldn’t be cast down if I were you. You have a friend in me.”
“Thanks—thanks; I know I have.”
“And it really needn’t follow that, because you visit your other cousin at Thistlewood, you need marry her.”
“Certainly not. No human power—but I won’t boast. Time shall prove. Your husband’s scheme wouldn’t give me a moment’s uneasiness, if it were not for the decided objection he expressed to my loving Conny. For who could force me to marry Theresa if I declined?” And I folded my arms and fixed a steady gaze on my aunt’s cap.
“Oh, as to my husband, leave him to me,” said my aunt, with a profound nod. “It is true that he can sometimes have his secrets; but,” she added, proudly, “I can always have my way.”
“He objects because I am poor.”
“Yes, he told me his reasons this morning, and I gave him mine for wishing to see you my daughter’s husband. I warned him against Mr. Curling. I said, ‘I have eyes in my head, and can see that Charlie will make her happy. But if you drive your nephew into loving another woman, as sure as you are a man, Conny will grow sentimental again over your cashier. How are you to help it?’ I asked him. ‘You bring no young men to the house: she sees no society; if she isn’t actually in love with Charlie, she told me enough to persuade me that it will not be long before she loves him.’ But he pish’d and pshaw’d, and pooh-pooh’d me down, and told me I was interfering, and that I was foolish to imagine for a moment that there had been anything serious between Conny and Mr. Curling. You’d be surprised to know how very stubborn Thomas can be when he likes.”