Lady Anna. Anthony Trollope

daughter. She had no faintest idea that the girl's heart had been touched by the young tailor. She had so lived that she knew but little of lovers and their love, and in her fear regarding Daniel Thwaite she had not conceived danger such as that. It had to her simply been unfitting that there should be close familiarity between the two. She expected that her daughter would be ambitious, as she was ambitious, and would rejoice greatly at such perfect success. She herself had been preaching ambition and practising ambition all her life. It had been the necessity of her career that she should think more of her right to a noble name than of any other good thing under the sun. It was only natural that she should believe that her daughter shared the feeling.

      And then Lady Anna came in. "They wanted me to stay and dine, mamma, but I did not like to think that you should be left alone."

      "I must get used to that, my dear."

      "Why, mamma? Wherever we have been, we have always been together. Mrs. Bluestone was quite unhappy because you would not come. They are so good-natured! I wish you would go there."

      "I am better here, my dear." Then there was a pause for a few moments. "But I am glad that you have come home this evening."

      "Of course, I should come home."

      "I have something special to say to you."

      "To me, mamma! What is it, mamma?"

      "I think we will wait till after dinner. The things are here now. Go up-stairs and take off your hat, and I will tell you after dinner."

      "Mamma," Lady Anna said, as soon as the maid had left the room, "has old Mr. Thwaite been here?"

      "Yes, my dear, he was here."

      "I thought so, because you have something to tell me. It is something from him?"

      "Not from himself, Anna;—though he was the messenger. Come and sit here, my dear—close to me. Have you ever thought, Anna, that it would be good for you to be married?"

      "No, mamma; why should I?" But that surely was a lie! How often had she thought that it would be good to be married to Daniel Thwaite and to have done with this weary searching after rank! And now what could her mother mean? Thomas Thwaite had been there, but it was impossible that her mother should think that Daniel Thwaite would be a fit husband for her daughter. "No, mamma;—why should I?"

      "It must be thought of, my dearest."

      "Why now?" She could understand perfectly that there was some special cause for her mother's manner of speech.

      "After all that we have gone through, we are about to succeed at last. They are willing to own everything, to give us all our rights—on one condition."

      "What condition, mamma?"

      "Come nearer to me, dearest. It would not make you unhappy to think that you were going to be the wife of a man you could love?"

      "No;—not if I really loved him."

      "You have heard of your cousin—the young Earl?"

      "Yes, mamma;—I have heard of him."

      "They say that he is everything that is good. What should you think of having him for your husband?"

      "That would be impossible, mamma."

      "Impossible!—why impossible? What could be more fitting? Your rank is equal to his;—higher even in this, that your father was himself the Earl. In fortune you will be much more than his equal. In age you are exactly suited. Why should it be impossible?"

      "Oh, mamma, it is impossible!"

      "What makes you say so, Anna?"

      "We have never seen each other."

      "Tush! my child. Why should you not see each other?"

      "And then we are his enemies."

      "We are no longer enemies, dearest. They have sent to say that if we—you and I—will consent to this marriage, then will they consent to it also. It is their wish, and it comes from them. There can be no more proper ending to all this weary lawsuit. It is quite right that the title and the name should be supported. It is quite right that the fortune which your father left should, in this way, go to support your father's family. You will be the Countess Lovel; and all will have been conceded to us. There cannot possibly be any fitter way out of our difficulties." Lady Anna sat looking at her mother in dismay, but could say nothing. "You need have no fear about the young man. Every one tells me that he is just the man that a mother would welcome as a husband for her daughter. Will you not be glad to see him?" But the Lady Anna would only say that it was impossible. "Why impossible, my dear;—what do you mean by impossible?"

      "Oh, mamma, it is impossible!"

      The Countess found that she was obliged to give the subject up for that night, and could only comfort herself by endeavouring to believe that the suddenness of the tidings had confused her child.

CHAPTER IX.

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      IT ISN'T LAW.

      On the next morning Lady Anna was ill, and would not leave her bed. When her mother spoke to her, she declared that her head ached wretchedly, and she could not be persuaded to dress herself.

      "Is it what I said to you last night?" asked the Countess.

      "Oh, mamma, that is impossible," she said.

      It seemed to the mother that the mention of the young lord's name had produced a horror in the daughter's mind which nothing could for the present subdue. Before the day was over, however, the girl had acknowledged that she was bound in duty, at any rate, to meet her cousin; and the Countess, forced to satisfy herself with so much of concession, and acting upon that, fixed herself in her purpose to go on with the project. The lawyers on both sides would assist her. It was for the advantage of them all that there should be such a marriage. She determined, therefore, that she would at once see Mr. Goffe, her own attorney, and give him to understand in general terms that the case might be proceeded with on this new matrimonial basis.

      But there was a grievous doubt on her mind—a fear, a spark of suspicion, of which she had unintentionally given notice to Thomas Thwaite when she asked him whether he had as yet spoken of the proposed marriage to his son. He had understood what was passing in her mind when she exacted from him a promise that nothing should as yet be said to Daniel Thwaite upon the matter. And yet she assured herself over and over again that her girl could not be so weak, so vain, so foolish, so wicked as that! It could not be that, after all the struggles of her life—when at last success, perfect success, was within their grasp, when all had been done and all well done, when the great reward was then coming up to their very lips with a full tide—it could not be that in the very moment of victory all should be lost through the base weakness of a young girl! Was it possible that her daughter—the daughter of one who had spent the very marrow of her life in fighting for the position that was due to her—should spoil all by preferring a journeyman tailor to a young nobleman of high rank, of ancient lineage, and one, too, who by his marriage with herself would endow her with wealth sufficient to make that rank splendid as well as illustrious? But if it were not so, what had the girl meant by saying that it was impossible? That the word should have been used once or twice in maidenly scruple, the Countess could understand; but it had been repeated with a vehemence beyond that which such natural timidity might have produced. And now the girl professed herself to be ill in bed, and when the subject was broached would only weep, and repeat the one word with which she had expressed her repugnance to the match.

      Hitherto she had not been like this. She had, in her own quiet way, shared her mother's aspirations, and had always sympathised with her mother's sufferings; and she had been dutiful through it all, carrying herself as one who was bound to special obedience by the peculiarity