“She's willing.”
John's face expressed two contrary emotions at this announcement—one of pleasure, the other a dogged sort of resentment that Annette's willingness should have been considered of consequence.
“It is pleasanter to have everybody pleased,” the lady said soothingly. “Of course, though, it doesn't make one bit of difference with me so far as what I shall do; for you know, John, I'd stand by you through thick and thin. Now I must go to F. Chevreuse.”
“There isn't a more respectable-looking merchant in the city of Crichton,” said Mrs. Ferrier emphatically to herself, as she drove away.
“Beg y'r pardon, mum?” said the slim footman, leaning over.
“I wasn't talking to you!” exclaimed his mistress indignantly.
It was, indeed, observed by everybody that Mrs. Ferrier was very high with this unfortunate man, who was humility personified, and only too assiduous in his obedience. She had assumed a trifle more of state with all her servants; but the footman was scarcely allowed to breathe freely.
“I shouldn't wonder, now, if he might think he could marry Annette,” she muttered to herself, as they drove on.
Poor fellow! his ambition did not soar beyond Betty, and she was treating him with cruelty. However, with a story-teller's prescience, we are fully aware that his trials are only the little waves which are sending him nearer and nearer to his haven, and that before the year is over the day will be named. Already in our mind's eye we see the fair Betty in her bridal robes, with her magnificent and patronizing mistress fastening on the veil, and giving her a kind and resounding kiss at the same time. We even hear the small whisper with which she silences her bridegroom's last jealous misgiving when he comments on the salute given her by the master of the house:
“What! you think that I could ever have had a fancy for him—a man who drops his h's?”