"Sorry! Yes, it was your stupid folly which caused such an unprovoked attack. When Clara marries, I shall visit my dear Julia: her situation, so exalted, and the novelty of a new neighbourhood, will amuse me. You can take care of Sir John while I am absent. Perhaps, Bell, I may see some young man who may do for you some six years hence."
"No, I thank you, mamma."
"Oh, do not be alarmed," exclaimed Lady Wetheral, a little indignantly, "I am not going to trouble myself about your fortunes. You can return to the study: don't tumble over the chairs, Bell. You are at that awkward, ugly age, all legs and wings—there, get you gone."
Christobelle was very well pleased to escape, for she ever dreaded a summons to her mother's apartments. She might be awkward, and her countenance might be displeasing, but her father never alluded to personal appearance. His voice breathed accents of kindness and affection, and he only taught her to be good and dutiful. To his study she retired, as to the home of her happiness, and she was there when Sir Foster Kerrison was announced, according to Sir John's orders. Lucy Kerrison had kept her word—she had indeed reminded her father of his devoir at Wetheral Castle.
Sir Foster stood somewhat bewildered, at his entrance: he had been marshalled to the right instead of the left, upon alighting, and he was now ushered into a large room filled with books, instead of work-baskets and ladies. Altogether, without the trouble of reasoning upon the matter, or exactly perceiving how things were, Sir Foster felt something was different from what it had been: the chain of daily events at Wetheral was broken; he had got into a different line of action, without knowing why, or how it had been effected. Sir Foster's embarrassment, however, was only perceived in the nervous motion of his eye, and the tapping of his boot; for, in despite of the unhappy absence of mind, which indolence had nurtured, and which ever produced ridicule, his manners were those of an eccentric but polite man.
Sir John Wetheral received him with gravity, but with kindness, and, after a few observations had passed upon the state of crops and the weather, he commenced the subject near his heart. Sir Foster sat in silent reverie while Sir John poured forth his regret at an engagement having been entered into with his daughter without his concurrence; he spoke feelingly upon the deception which had surrounded that engagement, and expressed his entire disapproval of the match. Sir Foster smiled and winked, as allusion was made to the known violence of his temper; and he tapped his boot with rapid strokes, when Sir John professed his more powerful objections arose from his constant absence at the house of prayer.—"If," he said, "a man cared not to pray to his Maker, he would never heed the happiness of a creature committed to his care; and he would rather follow his child to the grave, than give her to a man who had no respect to earthly or heavenly things—whose passions were violent, and whose faith was unsettled."
Sir Foster had nothing to say in extenuation, if he really understood the purport of the address; but he looked perfectly innocent of all charges, or of having attached any meaning to the sounds which reached his ear. Sir John remembered Sir Foster's besetting sin, and accosted him again with decision, as Lady Wetheral had done in a similar situation, though upon a different subject.
"Sir Foster, I forbid your visits to my daughter Clara."
Sir Foster raised his eyebrows, but he understood the sentence: it was clear and concise.