“Therefore, R. W. ” said Mrs. Wilfer, resuming her discourse and turning to her lord again, “let your daughter Bella come when she will, and she will be received. So,” after a short pause, and an air of having taken medicine in it, “so will her husband.”
“And I beg, Pa,” said Lavinia, “that you will not tell Bella what I have undergone. It can do no good, and it might cause her to reproach herself.”
“My dearest girl,” urged Mr. Sampson, “she ought to know it.”
“No, George,” said Lavinia, in a tone of resolute self-denial. “No, dearest George, let it be buried in oblivion.”
Mr. Sampson considered that, “too noble.”
“Nothing is too noble, dearest George,” returned Lavinia. “And Pa, I hope you will be careful not to refer before Bella, if you can help it, to my engagement to George. It might seem like reminding her of her having cast herself away. And I hope, Pa, that you will think it equally right to avoid mentioning George’s rising prospects, when Bella is present. It might seem like taunting her with her own poor fortunes. Let me ever remember that I am her younger sister, and ever spare her painful contrasts, which could not but wound her sharply.”
Mr. Sampson expressed his belief that such was the demeanour of angels. Miss Lavvy replied with solemnity, “No, dearest George, I am but too well aware that I am merely human.”
Mrs. Wilfer, for her part, still further improved the occasion by sitting with her eyes fastened on her husband, like two great black notes of interrogation, severely inquiring, Are you looking into your breast? Do