“It is very pleasant,” said young Powys; “but there are more things in Canada than Niagara.”
“I suppose so,” said Sara, who was rather of opinion that he ought to have been much flattered by her allusion to Canada; “and there are prettier places in England than Dewsbury--but still people who belong to it are fond of it all the same. Mr. Hardcastle, this is the dish you are so fond of--are you ill, like papa, that you don’t eat to-day?”
“Not ill, my dear,” said the Rector, with meaning--“only like your papa, a little out of sorts.”
“I don’t know why people should be out of sorts who have every thing they can possibly want,” said Sara. “I think it is wicked both of papa and you. If you were poor men in the village, with not enough for your children to eat, you would know better than to be out of sorts. I am sure it would do us all a great deal of good if we were suddenly ruined,” the young woman continued, looking her father, as it happened, full in the face. Of course she did not mean any thing. It came into her head all at once to say this, and she said it; but equally of course it fell with a very different significance on her father’s ears. He changed color in spite of himself--he dropped on his plate a morsel he was carrying to his mouth. A sick sensation came over him. Sara did not know very much about the foundation of his fortune, but still she knew something; and she was just as likely as not to let fall some word which would throw final illumination upon the mind of the young stranger. Mr. Brownlow smiled a sickly sort of smile at her from the other end of the table.
“Don’t use such strong language,” he said. “Being ruined means with Sara going to live in a cottage covered with roses, and taking care of one’s aged father; but, my darling, your father is not yet old enough to give in to being ruined, even should such a chance happen to us. So you must make up your mind to do without the cottage. The roses you can have, as many as you like.”
“Sara means by ruin, that is to say,” said the Rector, “something rather better than the best that I have been able to struggle into, and nothing to do for it. I should accept her ruin with all my heart.”
“You are laughing at me,” said Sara, “both of you. Fanny would know if she were here. You understand, don’t you, Mr. Powys? What do I care for cottages or roses? but if one were suddenly brought face to face with the realities of life--”