“I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.”
“I am glad of that, at any rate.”
“And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.”
“I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you should ask of her old uncle, I would give you.”
“I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have never wanted new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother I have not wanted them;—not wanted them faster than they seemed to come without any asking.”
“No, no; you have been a good girl.”
“I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and with what Providence had given me. I had nothing to ask for. But now I am no longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this which I ask of you. I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my need I come to you.”
“And now you want a husband with a fortune!”
“No!” and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice was low and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear and to his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on. “Your scorn, uncle, is unjust—unjust and untrue. I have ever acted maidenly, as has become my mother’s daughter.”
“Yes, yes, yes;—I believe that.”
“And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been the same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when this young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no answer till I had consulted my mother.”
“She should have bade you not to think of him.”
“Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not think of him when he was good and kind, honest and hardworking? And then he had thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did not mamma listen to my father when he came to her?”
“But your father was forty years old, and had a business.”
“You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say so.”
“And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agnes will come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want, with large families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing I cannot do.”
“But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband.”
“Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.”
“I do want—to be married.” And here her courage failed her a little, and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. “It is true, uncle. He has asked me whether I could love him, and I have told him I could. He has asked me whether I would be his wife, and I have given him a promise. After that, must not his happiness be my happiness, and his misery my misery? Am I not his wife already before God?”
“No, no,” said Uncle Hatto, loudly.
“Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those who are themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, and with God’s help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him. Without their approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but not the less is my lot joined to his for this world. Nothing could release me from that but his wish.”
“And he will wish it in a month or two.”
“Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as best I may. He has loved me now for two years—”
“Psha!”
“And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannot now go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. His welfare must be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore I am bound to do for him anything that a girl may do for the man she loves; and, as I knew of no other resource, I come to you to help me.”
“And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.”
“Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen me enter this room.”
“I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should be disappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything for you.”
“And that is your last answer, uncle?”
“Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty years hence, you will know then that I am right, and that your request was unreasonable.”
“It may be so,” she replied, “but I do not think it.”
“It will be so. Such favours as you now ask are not granted in this world for light reasons.”
“Light reasons! Well, uncle, I have had my say, and will not take up your time longer.”
“Goodbye, my dear. I am sorry that I cannot oblige you;—that it is quite out of my power to oblige you.”
Then she went, giving him her hand as she parted from him; and he, as she left the room looked anxiously at her, watching her countenance and her gait, and listening to the very fall of her footstep. “Ah,” he said to himself, when he was alone, “the young people have the best of it. The sun shines for them; but why should they have all? Poor as he is, he is a happy dog—a happy dog. But she is twice
