“Oh! gracious, mamma!” cried Annette, turning pale.
“There are some things that you know best, and some that I know best,” the elder woman went on, with a steady firmness that became her. “I give up to you a good deal, and you must give up to me when the time comes. I shall talk to that young man to-day; and, if you know what is best for you, then say no more about it. You are not fit to take care of yourself where he is concerned, and I’m going to do it for you. No matter what I want to say to him. It is my place to look out for that. All you have to do is to be quiet, and not interfere.”
Annette was silent; and, if you had looked in her face then, you would have seen that it by no means indicated a weak character. She was looking at facts sharply and bravely, considering which of two pains she had better choose, and swiftly coming to a decision. Strong as was her will in that province where she ruled, it was but a reed compared with the determination her mother showed when her mind was made up. The daughter would sometimes yield rather than contend, and she was always ready with reasons and arguments to prove herself right. But the mother had none of that shrinking, on the contrary, took pleasure in having a little skirmish now and then to relieve the tedium of her peaceful existence; and, not being gifted in reasoning, was wont to assert her will in a rather hard and uncompromising manner. Moreover, having once said that she would or would not act in any certain manner, she never allowed herself to be moved from that resolve. This was so well known to her family and intimates that they took care not to provoke her to a premature decision on questions that affected their interests.
“Well, mamma,” Annette said, looking very pale as she yielded, “you must do as you please. But don’t forget that Lawrence has not been used to rough words. And now it is time for you to change your dress.”
At these words, the sceptre changed hands again. Mrs. Ferrier sighed wearily, remembering the happy days when she could put on a gown in the morning, and not take it off till she went to bed at night.
John, the footman, sat in the hall as the two ladies came out of the library, and, instead of going directly up-stairs as her daughter returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Ferrier made a little pretence of looking out through the porch, to learn the cause of some imaginary disturbance. When at length she went toward the stairs, she was fumbling in her pocket, and presently drew out a small parcel, which she tossed down over the balusters to John, standing under. The paper unfolded in falling, and disclosed a gorgeous purple and gold neck-tie, which the footman at once hid in his pocket.
“Do you like the colors, John?” she asked, leaning over the rail, and smiling down benignantly.
He nodded, with a quick, short answering smile, which shot like lightning across his ruddy face, disturbing for only an instant its dignified gravity.
“Ma, are you going up-stairs?” called Annette’s sharp voice from the drawing-room.
“Yes; if you’ll give me time,” answered “ma,” hastening on.