Thomas Godolphin’s eyes lighted up with pleasure. “He shall receive my hearty approval,” he said, warmly. “George”—changing his tone to sadness—“in the days gone by I thought there were two young beings superior to the rest of the world: Ethel and Maria.”
“I said so to Mr. Hastings. I conclude he fears that Maria’s want of fortune would render her unpalatable to my family,” remarked George.
“Certainly not to me. Ethel, whom I chose, had even less. If you think well to dispense with fortune in your wife, George, we have no right to object to it. I am glad that you have chosen Maria Hastings.”
But there was Janet yet to come. George went home in a fly, and threw himself on the first sofa he could find. Janet, full of concern, came to him.
“I said you were attempting too much, George!” she cried. “But you never will listen to me.”
“I’m sure, Janet, I listen to you dutifully. I have come home to consult you now,” he added, a little spirit of mischief dancing in his gay blue eyes. “It is not fatigue or illness that has brought me. Janet, I am going to be married.”
Janet Godolphin’s pulses beat more quickly. She sat down and folded her hands with a gesture of pain. “I knew it would be so. You need not have tried to deceive me yesterday, lad.”
“But the young lady’s friends refuse her to me, unless my family openly sanction and approve of the match,” went on George. “You’ll be kindly over it, won’t you, Janet?”
“No, lad. I cannot forbid it; I have no authority over you: but, sanction it, I never will. What has put it into your head to marry in this haste? You, with one foot in the grave, as may be said, and one out of it?”
“Well, you see, Janet, you won’t trust me abroad without some one to look after me,” he slowly answered, as if he were arguing some momentous question. “You say you can’t go, and Bessy can’t go, and Cecil may not, and I say I won’t have Margery. What was I to do, but marry? I cannot take a young lady, you know, without first marrying her.”