Thus the squire opposed to the indifference
of the time a rigidity of habits, which, to even small events, gave
that exceptional character which rarity once imparted. He felt every
thing deeply, because every thing retained its importance to him. He had
great reverence. He loved, and he hated. All his convictions and
prejudices were for life.
Harry's marriage had been a blow at the roots of all his conscious
existence. The Sandals had always married in their own county,
Cumberland ladies of honorable pedigree, good daughters of the Church of
England, good housewives, gentle and modest women, with more or less
land and gold as their dowry. Emily Beverley would have been precisely
such a wife. And in a moment, even while Harry was speaking, the squire
had contrasted this Beatrice Lanza with her;--a foreigner,--an Italian,
of all foreigners most objectionable; a subject of the Papal States; a
member of the Romish Church; a woman of obscure birth, poor and
portionless, and in ill-health; worse than all, a public woman, who had
sung for money, and yet who had made Harry desert his home and country
and profession for her. And with this train of thought another ran
parallel,--the shame and the wrong of it all. The disgrace to his wife
and daughters, the humiliation to himself. Each bitter thought beat on
his heart like the hammer on the anvil. They fought and blended with
each other.
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