Margaret Capel: A Novel, vol. 1 of 3Wallace, Ellen
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Margaret Capel: A Novel, vol. 1 of 3
Wallace, Ellen
English fiction -- 19th century
Now Mr. Haveloc was at this time enjoying the delightful consciousness
that he had been making a great simpleton of himself; but this is a
state of feeling which indicates some superiority of character; for your
common people when they have been exposing themselves to the derision of
all their acquaintance, generally parade themselves with all the dignity
of a peacock, and feel convinced that they have been behaving with
singular discretion. This state of feeling was agreeably relieved by the
knowledge that people had said a great many things of him which were
untrue, and which were particularly exasperating to a person of his
temperament.
They had filled up the outline of his attentions to Mrs. Maxwell
Dorset--attentions far more marked than was consistent with
propriety--by a variety of incidents, extremely wrong, but, which was
much worse in his eyes, exceedingly ridiculous. They had exaggerated the
regard which the lady had abundantly professed for him into an idolatry
that was painfully absurd; and they invented a narrative of an
unsuccessful attempt on his part to carry her off, which drove him from
Florence, and very nearly frantic into the bargain. As he returned to
his senses, he contemplated Mrs. Maxwell Dorset with unmixed contempt
and disgust. Very exacting and fastidious in his ideas of women, he
could imagine nothing more opposed to all his demands of female
delicacy and dignity, than this woman, who had for a time blinded him by
her flattery, and her foolish and criminal preference. He was angry with
her, and still more angry with himself, and yet more enraged against
society at large for the unceremonious manner in which they had
discoursed of his proceedings; and his feelings of dissatisfaction on
the subject were by no means diminished by the knowledge that he was not
the first person by very many whom her artifices had enslaved. This fact
which of course reached his ears when it was too late--for your friends
never tell you of a thing when you might profit by it--in divesting her
attachment of the complimentary aspect it might otherwise have worn,
opened his eyes more effectually than a score of homilies could have
done.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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