Part 19 (1/2)

”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 son's 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 Burge's grounds, then to the church, and again to the various occasions when he had seen Hazel Thorne's 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n 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 fellow's 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.”

”I said to myself, mother, that I should never marry a woman for the sake of a pretty face.”

Mrs Canninge's mind was full of Hazel Thorne, and, a.s.sociating her son's 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 father's 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 son's face, that she had gone too far; and she felt cold and bitter as she listened to her son's next words.

”I do not consider Beatrice Lambent's 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.”