Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“I am insinuating nothing,” I said, “but do you want to see your only daughter married for her money by some penniless soldier—?”
“If she’s in love with him, I don’t care who she marries,” said Brackenbury with a quite extraordinary callousness. “He must be a decent fellow, of course, who’ll make her happy. I don’t attach the importance to Debrett that you do, Ann, especially since the war.”
As he had said it! I was mute. . . Every one is aware that poor Ruth was nobody—the rich daughter of a Hull shipping-magnate. I made him marry her because he had to marry some one with a little money—and much good it has been to anybody!,—but I hardly expected to hear him boasting or encouraging his children to pretend that there are no distinctions. . .
“Well, it’s not my business, dear Brackenbury,” I said. I was feeling too ill to wrangle. . . “When I asked you to come here, it was because—accidents do happen—I wanted to see you again, perhaps for the last time—”
“But aren’t you frightening yourself unduly?,” interrupted Brackenbury. “Arthur told me it was only—”
“Arthur knows nothing about it,” I said. It is always so pleasant, when you are facing the possibility of death, to be told that it is all
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