, wretched, foolish girl. I said it in a moment of
passion, and my uncle acted on it at once, without giving me one minute
for reflection--without allowing me one short hour to look into my own
heart, and find how I was deceiving myself in thinking that I ought to
part from him. I told Lord Cashel in the morning that I would give him
up; and before I had time to think of what I had said, he had been
here, and had been turned out of the house. Oh, Selina! it was very,
very cruel in your father to take me at my word so shortly!" And Fanny
hid her face in her handkerchief, and burst into tears.

"That's unfair, Fanny; it couldn't be cruel in him to do for you that
which he would have done for his own daughter. He thought, and thinks,
that Lord Ballindine would not make you happy."

"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.