The Parson's Daughter of Oxney ColneTrollope, Anthony
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The Parson's Daughter of Oxney Colne
Trollope, Anthony
Children of clergy -- Fiction; Devon (England) -- Fiction; Mate selection -- Fiction; Short stories
Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Combe, made up his mind
that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next
morning. He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if
possible, by himself. He had taken a step in life, the most important
that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or no
he had taken it with wisdom.
“Have you seen her?” said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he came
into the drawing-room.
“Miss Woolsworthy you mean,” said he. “Yes, I’ve seen her. As I found
her out, I took a long walk, and happened to meet her. Do you know,
aunt, I think I’ll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have
been on the move ever since.”
Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, so
she handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room.
But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor when he did
so was he able to sleep at once. Had this step that he had taken been a
wise one? He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowed things
to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men. He had
formed views for himself, and had a theory of life. Money for money’s
sake he had declared to himself to be bad. Money, as a concomitant to
things which were in themselves good, he had declared to himself to be
good also. That concomitant in this affair of his marriage, he had now
missed. Well; he had made up his mind to that, and would put up with the
loss. He had means of living of his own, the means not so extensive as
might have been desirable. That it would be well for him to become a
married man, looking merely to the state of life as opposed to his
present state, he had fully resolved. On that point, therefore, there
was nothing to repent. That Patty Woolsworthy was good, affectionate,
clever, and beautiful, he was sufficiently satisfied. It would be odd
indeed if he were not so satisfied now, seeing that for the last four
months he had so declared to himself daily with many inward
asseverations. And yet though he repeated, now again, that he was
satisfied, I do not think that he was so fully satisfied of it as he had
been throughout the whole of those four months. It is sad to say so, but
I fear—I fear that such was the case. When you have your plaything, how
much of the anticipated pleasure vanishes, especially if it be won
easily.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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