She lost sight altogether of the contemptible meanness of Percy's
appeal to her--a helpless girl--to rescue him from the consequences
of his own worse than folly, but she was bitterly stung by his
suggestion--nay, almost demand--that she should ask from their kind
and indulgent uncle the means of satisfying the justly outraged
Seabrooke; the uncle who had opened his heart and home to them, whom
she credited with every known virtue, and for whose good opinion and
approbation she looked more eagerly than she did for those of any
other human being, even the beloved brother Russell. No, no; she
would never ask him for such a thing, that honorable, high-minded,
hero-uncle, with his scorn for everything that was contemptible or
mean; "fussy," Percy had called him, about such matters.
Nor did it occur to her that in his selfish desire to secure her aid,
Percy had perhaps exaggerated the risk to himself--the risk of his
arrest and public disgrace, which would reflect upon the family.
Poor little girl! In her inexperience and alarm she did not reflect
that it was not at all probable that Percy would be arrested, even
though he should not be able to comply with Seabrooke's just demands;
and all manner of direful possibilities presented themselves to her
mind. Little wonder was it that she was perfectly overwhelmed, or
that mental excitement had prostrated her again and brought on a
return of her fever.
Nor was Hannah less credulous.
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