I said to myself, mother, that I should never marry a woman for the sake of a pretty face.
Mrs Canninges mind was full of Hazel Thorne, and, associating her sons remark with the countenance that had rather troubled her thoughts since the day of the school feast, her heart gave a throb of satisfaction.
I know that, George, she exclaimed, smiling. I know my son to be too full of sound common-sense, and too ready to bear honourably his fathers name, to be led away by any temporary fancy for a pleasant-looking piece of vulgar prettiness.
Mrs Canninge stopped, for she knew at heart without the warning of the colour coming into her sons face, that she had gone too far; and she felt cold and bitter as she listened to her sons next words.
I do not consider Beatrice Lambents features to be vulgarly pretty, he said.
Oh no, of course not, George; she is very refined.
I misunderstood you, then, said George Canninge coldly. But let us understand one another, my dear mother. I find you have been thinking it probable that I should propose to Beatrice Lambent.
Yes, dear; and I am sure that she would accept you.
I daresay she would, he replied coldly; but such an event is not likely to be brought about for Beatrice Lambent is not the style of woman I should choose for my wife.
He rose and quitted the room, leaving Mrs Canninge standing by the window, looking proud and angry, with her eyes fixed upon the door.
I knew it, she cried; I knew it. But you shall not trifle with me, George. I am neither old nor helpless yet.
Chapter Seventeen. Touched
Then he began to think hard, and his thoughts were like one of those glorious pieces of music, in which a great composer takes some lovely, heart-stirring melody as his theme, and then weaves it in and out through the whole composition; the ear is attracted to other beauties, and fresh subjects are constantly being evoked, but the artist never forgets the sweet enthralling air which is ever-recurring, and seems to give character to the whole.
Always the same; think how he would of other matters, there was Hazel Thornes sweet face, and her soft eyes looking up at him at every turn.
Am I in love? he said at last, asking himself the question in a calm, matter-of-fact way. This seems very absurd, and if any one had told me that I should be thinking of nothing but a little schoolmistress day and night, I should have asked him if he took me for a fool.
Fool! Am I a fool? Lets argue it out. Hazel Thorne. Hazel, what a peculiar name! well. Hazel Thorne is a schoolmistress, and if I asked her to be my wife, always supposing that she would accept me, the people would say that I was mad that I threw myself away.
Why?
Because she is a schoolmistress and works for her living, strives hard to keep her mother and sisters, and I dont suppose has money to spare for a fashionable dress.
Bah! What a creature for a man a gentleman of birth and position to love a girl who works hard, is self-denying and patient, and cannot dress well. Im afraid I am very mad indeed. But that is from a society point of view. Lets take another.
Hazel Thorne is refined, sensitive, perfectly ladylike to my mind, very sweet very beautiful with those soft appealing eyes, and that rather care-worn, troubled look; she is evidently a true woman, and one who would devote herself thoroughly to the man who won her heart. If I could win her I believe she would think more of me than of her dresses and jewellery, horses and carriages, and consider that her sole aim in life was to make me happy if I could win her.
He sat with his eyes half-closed for a time.
No, I dont believe that, he said aloud. I dont believe that she would accept me for the sake of my position. I believe from my heart that she would refuse me, and if she does well, I shall try.
There was another long pause, during which the thought-weaving went on, with the face of Hazel Thorne ever in the pattern; and at last as if perfectly satisfied in his own mind, he rose and sighed, saying:
Yes; theres no doubt about it: I am what people call in love.
He went to the window and stood leaning against the side, gazing out at the pleasant park-like expanse, but seeing nothing but the face of Hazel Thorne, as in a quiet, dreamy way he recalled the past.
Suddenly
a pang shot through him, and his brow grew rugged, for he remembered a conversation he had heard between Beatrice Lambent and his mother, wherein the former had said, à propos of the new mistress, that the vicar had been rather displeased with her for receiving the visit of some gentleman friend so soon after she had come down.
I shall hate that woman before I have done, he said angrily, and, crossing the room, he rang the bell sharply and ordered his horse.
George Canninges was no calf-love. He was a sterling, thoughtful man, quietly preparing himself to make his position in his countrys legislature; and yet the coming of Hazel Thorne had changed the whole course of his life. He found himself longing to see her, eager to meet and speak, but bound by his sense of gentle deference towards the woman who occupied so high a position in his esteem to avoid doing anything likely to call forth remark to her disparagement.