Seeing how utterly engrossed she was by her daughter’s fate, I squeezed Theresa’s hand by way of apologising to her for dropping the subject of our engagement, and began a long and vigorous appeal for Curling. I think I must have grown warm; for I have a recollection of reproaching her for her behaviour, which, I pointed out, was not only calculated to make her daughter miserable, but to excite her contempt for her husband, and so create feelings which would result in rendering the elopement calamitous in a very different and sterner sense than it now was. “I daresay I am wrong. I daresay I am to blame,” she kept on saying. Theresa at last silenced me by whispering: “All the talk in the world will not make her see the matter in its true light, yet; it will probably dawn upon her in a few weeks; but arguments now will do nothing but harden her.” CHAPTER VIII. _Puff._ “Now gentlemen, this scene goes entirely for what we call situation and stage effect, by which the greatest applause may be obtained without the assistance of ... sentiment or character. Pray mark.” _The Critic._ I returned to the Bank after seeing the ladies to Grove End, and going straight into my uncle’s private room, told him that Theresa and I were engaged. “Engaged!” he cried, staring at me. “Are you in earnest?” “Certainly I am.” I never saw any man look so pleased. “It is almost time,” he said, “that I had something to give my spirits a turn. _This_ delights me. But, good gracious! how sudden! how unexpected! I had no idea you were in love with her.” “I came home from Thistlewood in love; but I never meant to ask her to be my wife yet awhile. My feelings overpowered me this morning and out came everything.” “And does she love you, Charlie?” “I don’t suppose she would accept me if she didn’t.” “To be sure she wouldn’t. Of course she loves you. Well, well, this _is_ cheering news after our late troubles. That old scheme of mine was quite pushed out of my mind by this elopement. I have been able to think of nothing else. Now at all events there will be _one_ marriage after my heart. Has she written to Dick yet about it?” “Why, you see, I only proposed to her this morning.” “True, I forgot. You had better go to her. We can very well do without you just now--far better than she can. Upon my word,” he cried, grasping my hand, “your news is as good as a cordial. It throws quite a bright light on the future, and I can see my way now as I never saw it before. But I’ll not keep you. Get away to Grove End. We’ll talk the thing over this evening.” I left him, but stopped a moment to ask Curling, who was at his desk, how he and Conny felt after the wedding. “Very well thank you, Mr. Hargrave,” he replied: “but as I told your uncle, I shall go to my grave protesting that it was entirely superfluous.”