"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."

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.

George Canninge went straight into his study and threw himself into a chair, to lie back, his brows knit, and his eyes fixed upon one particular spot in the pattern of the paper of the room.

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 Thorne's 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? Let's 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 don't 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. I'm afraid I am very mad indeed. But that is from a society point of view. Let's 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 don't believe that," he said aloud. "I don't 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; there's 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, _a 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 Canninge's was no calf-love. He was a sterling, thoughtful man, quietly preparing himself to make his position in his country's 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.

George Canninge mounted and rode off, leaving the care of his body to his horse, and for the next three hours he was in a kind of dream. He rode right away out into the country, and then returned, to come back to himself suddenly, for there, the living embodiment of his thoughts, was Hazel Thorne coming towards him, and in an instant all the determinations that he had made vanished into s.p.a.ce.

His horse seemed to realise his wishes, for it stopped, and the rider dismounted, threw the rein over his arm, and advanced to meet the object of his thoughts, whose colour was very slightly augmented as he raised his hat and then extended his hand.

"I have not had the pleasure since the day of the school feast. Miss Thorne," he said; and then, as if it were quite natural, they stood talking of indifferent matters for a few minutes, and Hazel let fall that she was going up to Miss Burge.