Mrs. Dorriman: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3Chetwynd, Henry Wayland, Mrs.
General
Mrs. Dorriman: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3
Chetwynd, Henry Wayland, Mrs.
Fiction
"Mother," he began, in a tone of which she could not comprehend the
bitterness, "will it wound you to know that in this matter I was not so
dutiful a son? Forgive me, but love was stronger than duty. I tried hard
to win Margaret, I pleaded with her, she must have seen that I was in
earnest, she must have known I loved her.... She refused me, mother,
refused me as one beneath her, and she was right, she said I was a boy
and a trifler. I have told you, as you were building false hopes, but I
cannot speak of it again."
He turned away, and his mother sat upright in her great astonishment.
All mortification at his not having after all taken her advice was
forgotten in her supreme surprise at her son's having actually been
refused.
Naturally her motherly view of the question made this strange to her;
she was so astounded that she lost the power of speech for the moment
and gave vent to little helpless exclamations which required no answer.
Then abruptly he left her, feeling too deeply to bear to hear her
discuss it. At this moment Mr. Drayton was returning to Lornbay,
trusting to find Margaret still there, and not anticipating the arrival
of Mr. Sandford, or, in short, any change in their arrangements.
It was natural that Margaret should ask, from day to day, how the poor
wounded man was getting on. In a life in which no great incidents had
occurred, such an adventure, in itself, was full of intense and painful
interest, but she always remembered the wonderful self-command and the
thought of her; at such a moment, the pain must have been frightful, and
yet how he had tried to suppress all outward signs of it. The expression
in his dark eyes haunted her; such a glimpse of the man's real nature
had been given her. Should they ever meet again? She thought not;
already something was said about their going home, and perhaps they
might go before he was well. She was utterly unconscious, upon her side,
of having done anything worthy of thanks, and she was not quite sure
whether, if they met, that short but agonized hour would constitute
acquaintanceship.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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