When you have ended your badinage, my dear son, I shall be ready to go on.
Done. Finis! said George Canninge promptly.
I have been noting the change in dear Beatrice for some time past.
I have not, said the young man. She always was very thin and genteel-looking.
Extremely, George; but of late there has been a subdued sadness a pained look in her pensive eyes, that troubles me a good deal, for it is bad.
Perhaps she has some trouble on her mind, dear. You should try and comfort her.
I could not comfort
her, my dear. The comfort must come from other lips than mine. Hers is a mental grief.
Why, you dont mean to say that she is in love? said George Canninge, laughing.
I mean to say that the poor girl is suffering cruelly from a feeling of neglect, and it grieves me very, very much.
Send the swain for whom she sighs to comfort her, my dear mamma.
That is what I am seeking to do, George, said the lady, looking at him meaningly. Dont you think it is time you threw off this indifference, and ceased to trifle? You are giving pain to a true, sweet woman.
I! I giving pain to a true, sweet woman? Absurd! My dearest mother, do you for a moment suppose that I ever thought seriously about Beatrice Lambent?
It has been one of my cherished hopes that you did, George, and I know that she feels your cool indifference most keenly.
Nonsense, dear! he cried, laughing; why, what crotchet is this that you have got into your head?
Crotchet?
Yes, dear crotchet.
I am speaking in all seriousness to you, my son. George, your behaviour to Beatrice Lambent is not correct.
My dear mother, said the young man firmly, do you mean to tell me that you honestly believe Beatrice Lambent cares for me?
Most assuredly, George.
Poor lass, then! Thats all I can say.
Why, George, have you not led her on by your attentions for these many months past?
Certainly not! I have been as civil and attentive to her as I have been to other ladies that is all. What nonsense! Really, mother, it is absurd.
It is not absurd, George, but a very serious matter.
Well, serious enough, of course, for I should be sorry if Miss Lambent suffered under a misunderstanding.
Why let it be a misunderstanding, George? Beatrice is handsome.
Ye-es, said the young man, gazing down at his paper.
Well born.
I suppose so.
Thoroughly intellectual.
Lets see: its Byron, isnt it, who makes hen-pecked-you-all rhyme to intellectual?
George!
My dear mother.
Beatrice is amiable; has a good portion from her late uncle in fact, taken altogether, a most eligible partie , and I like her very much.
But, my dear mother, said the young squire, it is a question of my marriage, is it not?
Of course, my son.
Then it would be necessary for me to like her as well from my commonplace point of view, to love her.
Certainly, my dear; and that I believe at heart you do.
Then, your dear, affectionate, motherly heart is slightly in error, for I may as well frankly tell you that I do not like Beatrice Lambent, and what is far more, I am sure that I should never love her enough to make her my wife.
My dear George, you give me very great pain.
I am very sorry, my dear mother, but you must allow me to think for myself in a matter of this sort. There: suppose we change the subject.
He resumed, or rather seemed to resume, the reading of his paper, while the lady continued her breakfast, rather angry at what she called her sons obstinacy, but too good a diplomatist to push him home, preferring to wait till he had had time to reflect upon her words. She glanced at him now and then, and saw that he seemed intent upon his newspaper, but she did not know that he could not keep his attention to the page, for all the while his thoughts were wandering back to the tent in Mr William Forth Burges grounds, then to the church, and again to the various occasions when he had seen Hazel Thornes quiet, grave face, as she bent over one or other of her scholars.
He thought, too, of her conversation when he chatted with her after he had taken her in to tea, and then of every turn of expression in her countenance, comparing it with that of Beatrice Lambent, but only to cease with an ejaculation full of angry contempt, I shall not marry a woman for her pretty face.
Did you speak, my dear! said Mrs Canninge.
I uttered a thought half aloud, he replied quietly.
Is it a secret, dear? she said playfully.
No, mother; I have no secrets from you.
That is spoken like my own dear son, said Mrs Canninge, rising, and going behind his chair to place her hands upon his shoulders, and then raise them to his face, drawing him back, so that she could kiss his forehead. Why, there are lines in your brow, George lines of care. What are you thinking about!
Beatrice Lambent.
About dear Beatrice, George? Why, that ought to bring smiles, and not such deep thought-marks as these.
Indeed, mother! Well, for my part, I should expect much of Beatrice Lambent would eat lines very deeply into a fellows brow.
For
shame, my dear! But come, cried Mrs Canninge cheerfully, tell me what were your thoughts, or what it was you said that was no secret.