‘My dear Helena,’ said Mr Abbot, with a shade of contempt in his voice, ‘will you forgive my saying, that in matters of this kind it is best to leave young men alone, and not to see more than can be helped. Leave the boy alone—that is my advice.’
‘You don’t quite understand me,’ replied Mrs Abbot. ‘He wants to marry her.’
‘Wants to do what!’ cried her husband, now fully aware of the gravity of the situation.
‘He told me this morning he had asked her to be his wife. She would, he knew, consent, if we would welcome her as a daughter.’
‘How kind! How considerate!’ said Mr Abbot scornfully. ‘Who may she be, and where did Frank meet her?’
‘He saved her from some incivility at the railway station, and so made her acquaintance. Who she is, he scarcely seems to know, except that her name is Millicent Keene, and that she lives with an aunt somewhere in Clifton. Frank gave me the address, and begged me to call—assuring me that I should take her to my heart the moment I saw her.’
‘He must be mad!’ exclaimed Mr Abbot, rising and pacing the room. ‘Mad, utterly mad! Does he think that we are going to let him—an Abbot—marry the first nameless young woman who strikes his fancy? I will talk to him, and soon bring him to his senses. The estates are unentailed, thank goodness! so I have some hold over him.’
Mrs Abbot’s lip just curled with scorn, as she heard her husband’s direct commonplace plan for restoring her son’s wandering senses. She knew that such parental thunderbolts were apt to do more harm than good.
‘I would not threaten just yet,’ she said. ‘Frank is very self-willed, and may give us trouble. For my part, I intend to drive into Clifton this morning and see the girl.’
‘What folly! To give the affair your apparent sanction?’