“By all means. The more the tenants know him the better it will be. I can go to Hereford at any time.”
“Why should you run away from me?”
“Not from you, Uncle Indefer, but from him.”
“And why from him?”
“Because I don’t love him.”
“Must you always run away from the people you do not love?”
“Yes, when the people, or person, is a man, and when the man has been told that he ought specially to love me.”
When she said this she looked into her uncle’s face, smiling indeed, but still asking a serious question. He dared to make no answer, but by his face he told the truth. He had declared his wishes to his nephew.
“Not that I mean to be in the least afraid of him,” she continued. “Perhaps it will be better that I should see him, and if he speaks to me have it out with him. How long would he stay?”
“A month, I suppose. He can come for a month.”
“Then I’ll stay for the first week. I must go to Hereford before the summer is over. Shall I write to him?” Then it was settled as she had proposed. She wrote all her uncle’s letters, even to her cousin Henry, unless there was, by chance, something very special to be communicated. On the present occasion she sent the invitation as follows:—
Llanfeare, 17th June, 187‒, Monday.
My dear Henry—Your uncle wants you to come here on the 1st July and stay for a month. The 1st of July will be Monday. Do not travel on a Sunday as you did last time, because he does not like it. I shall be here the first part of the time, and then I shall go to Hereford. It is in the middle of the summer only that I can leave him. Your affectionate cousin,
She had often felt herself compelled to sign herself to him in that way, and it had gone much against the grain with her; but to a cousin it was the ordinary thing, as it is to call any different man “My dear sir,” though he be not in the least dear. And so she had reconciled herself to the falsehood.
Another incident in Isabel’s life must be told to the reader. It was her custom to go to Hereford at least once a year, and there to remain at her father’s house for a month. These visits had been made annually since she had lived at Llanfeare, and in this way she had become known to many of the Hereford people. Among others who had thus become her friends there was a young clergyman, William Owen, a minor canon attached to the cathedral, who during her last visit had asked her to be his wife. At that time she had supposed herself to be her uncle’s heiress, and looking at herself as the future owner of Llanfeare had considered herself bound to regard such an offer in reference to her future duties and to the obedience which she owed to her uncle. She never told her lover, not did she ever quite tell herself, that she would certainly accept him if bound by no such considerations; but we may tell the reader that it was so. Had she felt herself to be altogether free, she would have given herself to the man who had offered her his love. As it was she answered him anything but hopefully, saying nothing of any passion of her own, speaking of herself as though she were altogether at the disposal of her uncle. “He has decided now,” she said, “that when he is gone the property is to be mine.” The minor canon, who had heard nothing of this, drew himself up as though about to declare in his pride that he had not intended to ask for the hand of the lady of Llanfeare. “That would make no difference in me,” she continued, reading plainly the expression in the young man’s face. “My regard would be swayed neither one way nor the other by any feeling of that kind. But as he has chosen to make me his daughter, I must obey him as his daughter. It is not probable that he will consent to such a marriage.”
Then there had been nothing further between them till Isabel, on her return to Llanfeare, had written to him to say that her uncle had decided against the marriage, and that his decision was final.
Now in all this Isabel had certainly been hardly used, though her ill-usage had in part been due to her own reticence as to her own feelings. When she told the Squire that the offer had been made to her, she did so as if she herself had been almost indifferent.
“William Owen!” the Squire had said, repeating the name; “his grandfather kept the inn at Pembroke!”
“I believe he did,” said Isabel calmly.
“And you would wish to make him owner of Llanfeare?”
“I did not say so,” rejoined Isabel. “I have told you what occurred, and have asked you what you thought.”
Then the Squire shook his head, and there was an end of it. The letter was written to the minor canon telling him that the Squire’s decision was final.
In all this there had been no allusion to love on the part of Isabel. Had there been, her uncle could hardly have pressed upon her the claims of his nephew. But her manner in regard to the young clergyman had been so cold as to leave upon her uncle an impression that the matter was one of but little moment. To Isabel it was matter of infinite moment. And yet when she was asked again and again to arrange all the difficulties of the family by marrying her cousin, she was forced to carry on the conversation as though no such person existed as her lover at Hereford.
And yet the Squire remembered it all—remembered that when
