Could I have done this had the injury been deadly? and wouldn’t the injury have been deadly had I adored Conny as I imagined I did?
Well, Mr. John Halifax, perhaps I might have shammed a forgiving spirit; I might have acted in such a way, as to make her fancy I bore no grudge. But I didn’t sham, you dear model of a gentleman. I did forgive her, John. Nay, I even congratulated myself that she had put it out of my power to show that since my visit to Thistlewood my sentiments had undergone a change. Had she not run away, I must have transformed my aunt into an implacable enemy by suggesting that I was no longer her daughter’s humble, obedient slave; I should have lost my uncle’s good opinion by exhibiting a character he would mistakenly regard as unstable and even insincere—for though he objected to my marriage with Conny, depend upon it he would not have relished my defection; and lastly, I should have been placed in the extremely awkward position of having to give Conny to know that my love was not based upon that permanent rock of sentiment which I had more than once sworn, with some degree of violence, that it was.
In short, fortune had dealt me the very cards I should have chosen from the pack, had choice been given me. I preserved my dignity. I could now turn to Theresa without the faintest chance of being called inconstant. My pride could still enjoy, with undiminished gust, the lamentations my aunt would be certain to raise over her abortive hopes; and I could preserve my credit with Theresa, who, on hearing of Conny’s doings, would instantly account for the surprising change that had come over my dream!
My uncle came to the bank at one o’clock, and finding there was little or no business doing, called me into his private office.
“Charlie,” said he, “my wife and I have made up our minds as to the course to be pursued. I shall go to London this afternoon, and bring my daughter and her husband back with me to-morrow.”
“The very thing you should do.”
“I won’t say that we are not both of us showing very great weakness in forgiving Conny so easily; but she is our only child—and the mother’s heart yearns for her.”
“And so does yours.”
“I wish it didn’t, I wish I could be severe and obdurate. But we can’t—we oughtn’t to fight against our instincts. The young people must live with us until I can furnish a home for them; and, as for Curling, there is nothing for it but to let him keep his position here. The eyes of the whole town are upon us, and it won’t do to seem ashamed.”
“Certainly not. I know what my father would suggest: that we all went about, forthwith, boasting of our new connexion, and appearing so proud, as scarcely to be civil to the poorer neighbours. After all, what is there to be ashamed of? Curling is not ungentlemanly; he is rather mercantile, perhaps; but he is certain to borrow some graces from his wife, and to make as good a figure in society as most young men.”