“You read French. Your mind is poisoned with French novels. You have imbibed French principles.”
“The ground you are treading now returns a mighty hollow sound under your feet. Beware!”
“It will end in infamy, sooner or later. I have foreseen it all along.”
“Do you assert, sir, that something in which I am concerned will end in infamy?”
“That it will—that it will. You said just now you would act as you please. You acknowledge no rules—no limitations.”
“Silly stuff, and vulgar as silly!”
“Regardless of decorum, you are prepared to fly in the face of propriety.”
“You tire me, uncle.”
“What, madam—what could be your reasons for refusing Sir Philip?”
“At last there is another sensible question; I shall be glad to reply to it. Sir Philip is too young for me. I regard him as a boy. All his relations—his mother especially—would be annoyed if he married me. Such a step would embroil him with them. I am not his equal in the world’s estimation.”
“Is that all?”
“Our dispositions are not compatible.”
“Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed.”
“He is very amiable—very excellent—truly estimable; but not my master—not in one point. I could not trust myself with his happiness. I would not undertake the keeping of it for thousands. I will accept no hand which cannot hold me in check.”
“I thought you liked to do as you please. You are vastly inconsistent.”
“When I promise to obey, it shall be under the conviction that I can keep that promise. I could not obey a youth like Sir Philip. Besides, he would never command me. He would expect me always to rule—to guide—and I have no taste whatever for the office.”
“You no taste for swaggering, and subduing, and ordering, and ruling?”
“Not my husband; only my uncle.”
“Where is the difference?”
“There is a slight difference—that is certain. And I know full well any man who wishes to live in decent comfort with me as a husband must be able to control me.”
“I wish you had a real tyrant.”
“A tyrant would not hold me for a day, not for an hour. I would rebel—break from him—defy him.”
“Are you not enough to bewilder one’s brain with your self-contradiction?”
“It is evident I bewilder your brain.”
“You talk of Sir Philip being young. He is two-and-twenty.”
“My husband must be thirty, with the sense of forty.”
“You had better pick out some old man—some white-headed or bald-headed swain.”
“No, thank you.”
“You could lead some doting fool; you might pin him to your apron.”
“I might do that with a boy; but it is not my vocation. Did I not say I prefer a master—one in whose presence I shall feel obliged and disposed to be good; one whose control my impatient temper must acknowledge; a man whose approbation can reward, whose displeasure punish me; a man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very possible to fear?”
“What is there to hinder you from doing all this with Sir Philip? He is a baronet—a man of rank, property, connections far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is a poet—he writes verses; which you, I take it, cannot do, with all your cleverness.”
“Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry avail to invest him with the power I describe. These are featherweights; they want ballast. A measure of sound, solid, practical sense would have stood him in better stead with me.”
“You and Henry rave about poetry! You used to catch fire like tinder on the subject when you were a girl.”
“O uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world, there is nothing glorious in the world to come that is not poetry!”
“Marry a poet, then, in God’s name!”
“Show him me, and I will.”
“Sir Philip.”
“Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he.”
“Madam, you are wandering from the point.”
“Indeed, uncle, I wanted to do so, and I shall be glad to lead you away with me. Do not let us get out of temper with each other; it is not worth while.”
“Out of temper, Miss Keeldar! I should be glad to know who is out of temper.”
“I am not, yet.”
“If you mean to insinuate that I am, I consider that you are guilty of impertinence.”
“You will be soon, if you go on at that rate.”
“There it is! With your pert tongue you would try the patience of a Job.”
“I know I should.”
“No levity, miss! This is not a laughing matter. It is an affair I am resolved to probe thoroughly, convinced that there is mischief at the bottom. You described just now, with far too much freedom for your years and sex, the sort of individual you would prefer as a husband. Pray, did you paint from the life?”
Shirley opened her lips, but instead of speaking she only glowed rose-red.
“I shall have an answer to that question,” affirmed Mr. Sympson, assuming vast courage and consequence on the strength of this symptom of confusion.
“It was an historical picture, uncle, from several originals.”
“Several originals! Bless my heart!”
“I have been in love several times.”
“This is cynical.”
“With heroes of many nations.”
“What next—”
“And philosophers.”
“She is mad—”
“Don’t ring the bell, uncle; you will alarm my aunt.”
“Your poor dear aunt, what a niece has she!”
“Once I loved Socrates.”
“Pooh! no trifling, ma’am.”
“I admired Themistocles, Leonidas, Epaminondas.”
“Miss Keeldar—”
“To pass over a few centuries, Washington was a plain man, but I liked him; but to speak of the actual present—”
“Ah! the actual present.”
“To quit crude schoolgirl fancies, and come to realities.”
“Realities! That is the test to which you shall be brought, ma’am.”
“To avow before what altar I now kneel—to reveal the present idol of my soul—”
“You will make haste about it, if you please. It is near luncheon time, and confess you shall.”
“Confess I must. My heart is full of the secret. It must be spoken. I only wish you were Mr. Helstone instead of Mr. Sympson; you would sympathize with me better.”
“Madam, it is a question of common sense and common prudence, not of sympathy and sentiment, and so on. Did you say it was Mr. Helstone?”
“Not precisely, but as near as may be; they are
