Autobiographical fiction; British -- Belgium -- Fiction; Brussels (Belgium) -- Fiction; Love stories; Women teachers -- Fiction
I could not help smiling. I felt sure he now exaggerated the case:
Ginevra, I was certain, was honest enough, with all her giddiness. I
told him so. He shook his head, and said he would not be the man to
trust her with his honour.
“The only thing,” said I, “with which you may safely trust her. She
would unscrupulously damage a husband’s purse and property, recklessly
try his patience and temper: I don’t think she would breathe, or let
another breathe, on his honour.”
“You are becoming her advocate,” said he. “Do you wish me to resume my
old chains?”
“No: I am glad to see you free, and trust that free you will long
remain. Yet be, at the same time, just.”
“I am so: just as Rhadamanthus, Lucy. When once I am thoroughly
estranged, I cannot help being severe. But look! the King and Queen are
rising. I like that Queen: she has a sweet countenance. Mamma, too, is
excessively tired; we shall never get the old lady home if we stay
longer.”
“I tired, John?” cried Mrs. Bretton, looking at least as animated and
as wide-awake as her son. “I would undertake to sit you out yet: leave
us both here till morning, and we should see which would look the most
jaded by sunrise.”
“I should not like to try the experiment; for, in truth, mamma, you are
the most unfading of evergreens and the freshest of matrons. It must
then be on the plea of your son’s delicate nerves and fragile
constitution that I found a petition for our speedy adjournment.”
“Indolent young man! You wish you were in bed, no doubt; and I suppose
you must be humoured. There is Lucy, too, looking quite done up. For
shame, Lucy! At your age, a week of evenings-out would not have made me
a shade paler. Come away, both of you; and you may laugh at the old
lady as much as you please, but, for my part, I shall take charge of
the bandbox and turban.”
Which she did accordingly. I offered to relieve her, but was shaken off
with kindly contempt: my godmother opined that I had enough to do to
take care of myself. Not standing on ceremony now, in the midst of the
gay “confusion worse confounded” succeeding to the King and Queen’s
departure, Mrs. Bretton preceded us, and promptly made us a lane
through the crowd. Graham followed, apostrophizing his mother as the
most flourishing grisette it had ever been his good fortune to see
charged with carriage of a bandbox; he also desired me to mark her
affection for the sky-blue turban, and announced his conviction that
she intended one day to wear it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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