And I believe you did, for you have never been the same since.

That was fourteen years ago, Isabella--my first year at Cambridge.

You were eighteen then." "Yes," answered Isabella, in a chilly voice.

"You have all your dates very correct, and a simple addition sum will tell you that I am thirty-two now--a middle-aged woman, whose hair is turning grey! Thirty-two!" And I was too stupid, or too wise, to tell her that she did not look it.
"I do not know," I said instead, "why you should have turned against me then, and remembered so long a mere boyish jest; for I thought we were to be good friends always--as we had been--and never dreamt that a few hairpins could make us different." Isabella sat with her still, white hands clasped in her lap, and looked towards the gate that had caused this childish breach; but I could not see the expression on her face.
"My father," I went on, determined to speak out that which was in my mind, "had no business to make such a will, which could only lead to trouble.

And I should have been a scoundrel had I sacrificed your happiness to my own cupidity--or, rather, had I attempted to do so.
You might have thought it your duty to take me, Isabella, had I asked you to, for the sake of the money--though you have always spared me any doubts as to your opinion of me.