“You must make allowances,” said Theresa, who seemed greatly amused. “You confessed that Conny wasn’t in love with you, and you have therefore no right to expect any favour from her.”
“But you’ll allow that she might have answered my letter.”
“And you’ll allow that there is nothing more mortifying than to write a letter and receive no answer.”
“It is gross rudeness,” I continued, “even in a stranger whose reply you don’t care twopence about. But in a relation--a cousin--a young lady--a girl who knows that the writer of the letter she receives with silent contempt is--is--is----”
“I don’t care whether she does or not,” I exclaimed. “My love has received a blow--a wound--if it dies the blood is on her head.”
“Nonsense!” cried Theresa. “A lover’s quarrel.”
I felt too indignant to answer. So we jogged on in silence for some minutes, I as insensible to the abounding beauties of the evening, as if I had worn green spectacles.
“I wouldn’t feel so vexed,” said I presently, “by her not answering my letter, if I were sure that I had no rival. But I can’t forget--I never can forget--that there is one Curling, a frizzy-headed youth, cashier in my uncle’s bank, who paid her so much attention before I knew her, that her mamma grew frightened, and forbade him the house.”
“But you knew of this Mr. Curling before you made love to her?”
“Come, come, Theresa, her conduct is inexcusable. Oughtn’t she to have answered my letter? Answer me that.”
“I have answered you that once. In my opinion, Charlie, if Conny is not in love with you, she is to be congratulated.”
“Because I don’t think you are in love with her,” she answered, fixing her bright eyes on me.
“If I am not, whose fault is it?” I said, blushing.
“There is an old French proverb that says we forgive in proportion as we love. I don’t find you making enough excuses for Conny to satisfy me that you love her.”
“Love makes people critical and harsh,” said I, “not lenient. I never believe what a Frenchman says about love. They know nothing about it in that country. When I left Updown I was in Conny’s power. She could have twisted me round her little finger. But she has chosen to ill-use me, and by heavens----who-o-o!”
The movement of my horse spoilt a rabid peroration.