‘Not destitute, Robert. There is your sister, your brother Louis—whom I have never seen—there is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle; besides, of course, many more.’
Robert smiled.
‘You would be puzzled to name your “many more,” ’ said he. ‘But show me your exercise-book. What extreme pains you take with the writing! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care: she wants to form you in all things after the model of a Flemish schoolgirl. What life are you destined for, Caroline? What will you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments when they are acquired?’
‘You may well say “when they are acquired,” for, as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell: I suppose, to keep my uncle’s house till—’
She hesitated.
‘Till what?—till he dies?’
‘No. How harsh to say that! I never think of his dying—he is only fifty-five. But till— In short, till events offer other occupations for me.’
‘A remarkably vague prospect! Are you content with it?’
‘I used to be, formerly. Children, you know, have little reflection, or, rather, their reflections run on ideal themes. There are moments now when I am not quite satisfied.’
‘Why?’
‘I am making no money—earning nothing.’
‘You come to the point, Lina. You too, then, wish to make money?’
‘I do. I should like an occupation, and, if I were a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one. I see such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in life.’
‘Go on: let us hear what way.’
‘I could be apprenticed to your trade, the cloth trade—I could learn it of you, as we are distant relations. I would do the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the letters, while you went to market. I know you greatly desire to be rich, in order to pay your father’s debts. Perhaps I could help you to get rich.’
‘Help me? You should think of yourself.’
‘I do think of myself; but must one for ever think only of one’s self?’
‘Of whom else do I think? Of whom else dare I think? The poor ought to have no large sympathies; it is their duty to be narrow.’
‘No, Robert—’
‘Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted, grovelling, anxious. Now and then a poor man’s heart, when certain beams and dews visit it, may swell like the budding vegetation in yonder garden on this spring day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage, perhaps blossom; but he must not encourage the pleasant impulse: he must invoke Prudence to check it with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping as any North wind.’