“Why should he think so?—­he’d no business to think so,” sobbed Fanny through her tears.

“Who could have a business to think for you, if not your guardian?”

“Why didn’t he think so then, before he encouraged me to receive him?  It was because Frank wouldn’t do just what he was bid; it was because he wouldn’t become stiff, and solemn, and grave like—­like—­” Fanny was going to make a comparison that would not have been flattering either to Lady Selina or to her father, but she did not quite forget herself, and stopped short without expressing the likeness.  “Had he spoken against him at first, I would have obeyed; but I will not destroy myself now for his prejudices.”  And Fanny buried her face among the pillows of the sofa, and sobbed aloud.

Lady Selina walked over to the sofa, and stood at the head of it bending over her cousin.  She wished to say something to soothe and comfort her, but did not know how; there was nothing soothing or comforting in her nature, nothing soft in her voice; her manner was repulsive, and almost unfeeling; and yet she was not unfeeling.  She loved Fanny as warmly as she was capable of loving; she would have made almost any personal sacrifice to save her cousin from grief; she would, were it possible, have borne her sorrows herself; but she could not unbend; she could not sit down by Fanny’s side, and, taking her hand, say soft and soothing things; she could not make her grief easier by expressing hope for the future or consolation for the past.  She would have felt that she was compromising truth by giving hope, and dignity by uttering consolation for the loss of that which she considered better lost than retained.  Lady Selina’s only recipe was endurance and occupation.  And at any rate, she practised what she preached; she was never idle, and she never complained.

As she saw Fanny’s grief, and heard her sobs, she at first thought that in mercy she should now give up the subject of the conversation; but then she reflected that such mercy might be the greatest cruelty, and that the truest kindness would be to prove to Fanny the hopelessness of her passion.

“But, Fanny,” she said, when the other’s tears were a little subsided, “it’s no use either saying or thinking impossibilities.  What are you to do?  You surely will not willingly continue to indulge a hopeless passion?”

“Selina, you’ll drive me mad, if you go on!  Let me have my own way.”

“But, Fanny, if your own way’s a bad way?  Surely you won’t refuse to listen to reason?  You must know that what I say is only from my affection.  I want you to look before you; I want you to summon courage to look forward; and then I’m sure your common sense will tell you that Lord Ballindine can never be anything to you.”

“Look here, Selina,” and Fanny rose, and wiped her eyes, and somewhat composed her ruffled hair, which she shook back from her face and forehead, as she endeavoured to repress the palpitation which had followed her tears; “I have looked forward, and I have determined what I mean to do.  It was your father who brought me to this, by forcing me into a childish quarrel with the man I love.  I have implored him, almost on my knees, to invite Lord Ballindine again to Grey Abbey:  he has refused to do so, at any rate for twelve months—­”