“Let us consult George himself,” said the unhappy mother. “On a question which concerns the welfare of his whole life, we at least should know what are the poor child’s feelings.”
“I have no objection,” replied the father, walking to the door; “but you must command yourself, Eliza. This is weak, foolish—not what I expected from you. We must think calmly, and decide firmly, and not give way to emotions which injure ourselves and can do good to none.—George!” he called out, after opening the door, while his wife, after one look of anguish, such as I never can forget, sat quiet and submissive on the sofa, like one whose spirit is broken and crushed.
“Did you call me, father?” said George, as he entered with his light step and cheerful glance.
“Yes; I wish to speak to you, my boy. You remember your visit to Bristol last summer?”
“That I do!” replied the school-boy with a meaning smile; “I know that I was precious glad when it was over!”
“You had nothing to complain of—Mr. Hardcastle was kind?”
“Well, kind after his fashion,” said George, with a little hesitation. “I did not mean to say anything against him. But what with the smoke and the dirt, and the noise of the great manufactory close by, and the ways of the house—not one bit like ours—I know that I felt like a bird in a cage, and was heartily glad when I was set free!”
“I knew it!” murmured the mother; but I believe that no one overheard her but myself.
Mr. Ellerslie knitted his brow. “Hardcastle wishes you to go to him,” he said.
“Not another visit, I hope?” exclaimed George with animation; “you do not know how much I should hate it.”