"The day is so beautiful, Lady Wetheral, and the air so reviving!" he observed. "I am sure this fresh breeze will exhilarate her, and bring the roses into her cheeks."
Her ladyship raised her glass to her eye, and slightly examined her daughter's countenance.
"Bell, my love, your bloom is less vivid, but I think I prefer the delicacy of its present tone. I have very essential reasons for wishing you to remain with me this morning. I feel languid and unwell—very languid after the fatigues of yesterday." Lady Wetheral's voice grew fainter as she uttered the last sentence: and she sank back in her chair, in an attitude of languor. "My love, pray wind those skeins for me. I am a poor creature, you see."
It was useless to contend: Christobelle's destined walk must give way to her mother's quiet determination that she should not become conspicuous with Sir John Spottiswoode, and it was her duty to yield to her wishes. Christobelle relinquished, therefore, all hopes of a tête-à-tête with her lover, and prepared to obey silks. She had not courage to meet the disappointed eye of her companion, nor indeed did she wish him to discover, by the expression of her own orbs, how severely she suffered by her obedience.
Sir John Spottiswoode was silent under the existing order of things, and forbore to offer an opinion upon its unfitness; but he quietly assisted Christobelle's operations, and held the skeins for her better convenience in winding them. The whole affair arranged itself in such perfect pantomime, that she could not resist a smile and glance at her assistant, which amply repaid her self-control. An expression of gratified happiness played upon his manly countenance, and lighted up his eyes, which communicated itself to Christobelle's heart, and caused intense gratitude for the blessing conferred upon her in the gift of his affections. She felt that she could meet her mother's opposition, her irony, her bitterness, with patience, since she had won all that seemed valuable upon earth—all that was excellent, and affectionate, and kind—the heart of Sir John Spottiswoode. She had received the blessing too, at the very moment when her fears believed him indifferent to her elicited by Fanny Ponsonby, and continued by the surmise of Captain Ponsonby; yet it was a change so suddenly effected, that she could scarcely believe in its reality. Her lover knelt before her, holding the extended skein, yet she could not place faith in the certainty that all was not a dream: she heard her mother speak, and yet it appeared a vision, from which, she trusted, she might never wake.
"My dear Spottiswoode, you are Hercules with the distaff."
"I have made my choice too, like Hercules, Lady Wetheral. I have selected virtue, and I find I have also gained pleasure, for they are seldom separate, after all. Pleasure does not include virtue always: but virtue rarely moves without pleasure; I find it so now. I am virtuously employed, and it is my greatest pleasure. I have great pleasure in assisting your labours, Lady Wetheral."
"You appear to great advantage, Spottiswoode; but I hope you are not making a pain of pleasure. Bell has already broken her thread twice."
"Miss Wetheral is all kindness; she bears I am very trying to her patience. Another thread broken! My dear Miss Wetheral, be calm."
"I believe I must relinquish it, for a few moments," Christobelle observed; "my hands are so tremulous."