“Weary not with thy vain words her whose faith
Is Fingall’s.
… Why should these eyes behold it?”
As the sisters were descending to breakfast, Frances returned up stairs for some violets which Alice had with great difficulty procured for her, and which she had forgotten on her dressing table, while Julia proceeded towards a room their party had occupied the evening before. But on entering and perceiving Henry seated alone reading a newspaper, and no appearance of even preparation for breakfast, she[227] was about to retire. “You may as well stay where you are, I think,” said Henry. “If it was Edmund that was here you would not be in such a hurry to make off.” Fearful of irritating him after his alarming threats of last night, poor Julia directed her steps to the furthest removed window, and stood looking out. Henry continued reading for some time. Edmund’s voice was heard in the hall calling to a favourite dog. Henry suddenly rose, approached Julia, knelt on one knee before her, and took her hand. She was surprised; for, when alone with her, he was not in the habit of troubling her with any affectation of tenderness; and she was particularly sorry that he had chosen the present moment. Before she could remonstrate, or succeed in disengaging her hand, she heard footsteps; and, looking up, saw Edmund advancing along the[228] gallery towards the door, which she had left open for the purpose of rendering her unwilling interview with Henry as little of a private one as possible. Our hero looked into the room, hesitated for a moment, and retired. Henry, after throwing a glance over his shoulder, rose carelessly, and, without taking the trouble of explaining his late movement, looked out of the window and whistled. Julia, with tears starting to her eyes, at length assuming courage, said: “Henry, I will not endure this persecution! I will complain to grandmamma, and write to my father too; and you shall not be allowed either to trouble me, or to—to—injure any body else.”
“You had better, I think,” he replied, “publish to the world your disgraceful attachment to a beggarly upstart—and who, to do him justice, has not sought it. And, as to[229] either Lord L?, (if he were at home,) or my aunt not allowing me to quarrel with Edmund, (which is, of course, what you mean by—injuring any body else,)” mocking her voice and the hesitation of her manner, “I’d be glad to know how they’d prevent it? I may be called to account afterwards, you think; but I’ve told you before, and I tell you again, that, if I am provoked, no consideration for consequences shall prevent my being revenged at all hazards. As to your ever marrying me or not, you may please yourself; but I shall take devilish good care——”
“You know very well, Henry,” she interrupted, now speaking firmly and scornfully in spite of all her fears, “I never will marry you!”
“I know no such thing!” he rejoined, with a repetition of the laugh and the look which[230] the evening before had made her shudder, and which now again caused her blood to run cold. “But I know this,” he continued, “that you shall never marry Edmund; and further, that I will not be openly insulted with impunity; nor will I suffer such a fellow, forsooth, to triumph over me! So hate me in your heart, if you choose; but, at your peril, (or rather at his peril,) show it before him! Recollect that hanging me, (if you could do it,) won’t restore him to life after I have blown his brains out! Your mother little thought,” he continued, insolently opposing the attempt she was now making to escape his presence by standing between her and the doorway, “your mother little thought, I say, when she brought in the beggar brat, and washed him, that she was preparing a husband for her eldest daughter!—the Lady Julia L?!—heiress to thirty-three[231] thousand per annum! Worth taking better care of than that, faith! A windfall for his betters, I can tell him!” Julia could listen no longer: she passed him with a determined effort, and literally fled from the apartment, with, however, the loss of a scarf which Henry caught at as she was departing. Thus concluded poor Julia’s last struggle for liberty: henceforward she never dared to disobey or disoblige her insolent cousin.