That brave "I will"—it seemed to carry its own fulfilment. Its indomitable resolution struck my father with wonder—nay, with a sort of awe.
"Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee," he said, kindly. "Mayst thee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, lad—I will keep thy counsel."
"I knew you would."
The subject ceased: my father's manner indicated that he wished it to cease. He re-lit his pipe, and puffed away, silently and sadly.
Years afterwards, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher was a green mound beside that other mound, in the Friends' burying-ground in St. Mary's Lane, I learnt—what all Norton Bury, except myself, had long known—that my poor mother, the young, thoughtless creature, whose married life had been so unhappy and so brief, was by birth a "gentlewoman."
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Jessop's drawing-room, ruddy with fire-light, glittering with delicate wax candle-light; a few women in pale-coloured gauzy dresses, a few men, sublime in blue coats, gold buttons, yellow waistcoats, and smiles—this was all I noticed of the scene, which was quite a novel scene to me.
The doctor's wife had introduced us formally to all her guests, as the custom then was, especially in these small cosy supper-parties. How they greeted us I do not now remember; no doubt, with a kind of well-bred formal surprise; but society was generally formal then. My chief recollection is of Mrs. Jessop's saying pointedly and aloud, though with a smile playing under the corners of her good little mouth:
"Mr. Halifax, it is kind of you to come; Lady Caroline Brithwood will be delighted. She longs to make your acquaintance."