“Papa,” she said to her father when they were again together alone that same evening, “you must tell all this to Mr. Owen. You must tell him everything, just as you have told me.”
“Certainly, my dear, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it.”
“Why should you not have the pleasure of telling him yourself?”
“It would not be a pleasure, and therefore I will get you to do it. My pleasure, if there be any pleasure in it, must come afterwards. I want him to know it before I see him myself.”
“He will be sure to have some stupid notion,” said her father, smiling.
“I want him to have his notion, whether it be stupid or otherwise, before I see him. If you do not mind, papa, going to him as soon as possible, I shall be obliged to you.”
Isabel, when she found herself alone, had her triumph also. She was far from being dead to the delights of her inheritance. There had been a period in her life in which she had regarded it as her certain destiny to be the possessor of Llanfeare, and she had been proud of the promised position. The tenants had known her as the future owner of the acres which they cultivated, and had entertained for her and shown to her much genuine love. She had made herself acquainted with every homestead, landmark, and field about the place. She had learnt the wants of the poor, and the requirements of the little school. Everything at Llanfeare had had an interest for her. Then had come that sudden change in her uncle’s feelings—that new idea of duty—and she had borne it like a heroine. Not only had she never said a word of reproach to him, but she had sworn to herself that even in her own heart she would throw no blame upon him. A great blow had come upon her, but she had taken it as though it had come from the hand of the Almighty—as it might have been had she lost her eyesight, or been struck with palsy. She promised herself that it should be so, and she had had strength to be as good as her word. She had roused herself instantly from the effect of the blow, and, after a day of consideration, had been as capable as ever to do the work of her life. Then had come her uncle’s last sickness, those spoken but doubtful words, her uncle’s death, and that conviction that her cousin was a felon. Then she had been unhappy, and had found it difficult to stand up bravely against misfortune. Added to this had been her stepmother’s taunts and her father’s distress at the resolution she had taken. The home to which she had returned had been thoroughly unhappy to her. And there had been her stern purpose not to give her hand to the man who loved her and whom she so dearly loved! She was sure of her purpose, and yet she was altogether discontented with herself. She was sure that she would hold by her purpose, and yet she feared that her purpose was wrong. She had refused the man when she was rich, and her pride would not let her go to him now that she was poor. She was sure of her purpose—but yet she almost knew that her pride was wrong.
But now there would be a triumph. Her eyes gleamed brightly as she thought of the way in which she would achieve her triumph. Her eyes gleamed very brightly as she felt sure within her own bosom that she would succeed. Yes: he would, no doubt, have some stupid notion, as her father said. But she would overcome his stupidity. She, as a woman, could be stronger than he as a man. He had almost ridiculed her obstinacy, swearing that he would certainly overcome it. There should be no ridicule on her part, but she would certainly overcome his obstinacy.
For a day or two Mr. Owen was not seen. She heard from her father that the tidings had been told to her lover, but she heard no more. Mr. Owen did not show himself at the house; and she, indeed, hardly expected that he should do so. Her stepmother suddenly became gracious—having no difficulty in explaining that she did so because of the altered position of things.
“My dearest Isabel, it does make such a difference!” she said; “you will be a rich lady, and will never have to think about the price of shoes.” The sisters were equally plainspoken, and were almost awestruck in their admiration.
Three or four days after the return of Mr. Brodrick, Isabel took her bonnet and shawl, and walked away all alone to Mr. Owen’s lodgings. She knew his habits, and was aware that he was generally to be found at home for an hour before his dinner. It was no time, she said to herself, to stand upon little punctilios. There had been too much between them to let there be any question of a girl going after her lover. She was going after her lover, and she didn’t care who knew it. Nevertheless, there was a blush beneath her veil as she asked at the door whether Mr. Owen was at home. Mr. Owen was at home, and she was shown at once into his parlour.
“William,” she said;—throughout their intimacy she had never called him William before;—“you have heard my news?”
“Yes,” he said, “I have heard it;”—very seriously, with none of that provoking smile with which he had hitherto responded to all her assertions.
“And you have not come to congratulate me?”
“I should have done so. I do own that I have been wrong.”
“Wrong;—very wrong! How was I to have any of the enjoyment of my restored rights unless you came to enjoy them with me?”
“They can be nothing to me, Isabel.”
“They shall be everything to you, sir.”
“No, my dear.”
“They are to be everything to me, and they can be nothing
