"On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. THAT'S true."
I didn't mean that, because Mr. Woodcourt had been at our house a good deal altogether and had become quite intimate with my guardian.
I said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever in his profession--we thought--and that his kindness and gentleness to Miss Flite were above all praise.
"You do him justice!" said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my hand.
"You define him exactly.
Allan is a dear fellow, and in his profession faultless.
I say it, though I am his mother.
Still, I must confess he is not without faults, love."
"None of us are," said I.
"Ah!
But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought to correct," returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her head.
"I am so much attached to you that I may confide in you, my dear, as a third party wholly disinterested, that he is fickleness itself."
I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could have been otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in the pursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned.
"You are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted, "but I don't refer to his profession, look you."
"Oh!" said I.
"No," said she.
"I refer, my dear, to his social conduct.
He is always paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always has been, ever since he was eighteen.
Now, my dear, he has never really cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing this to do any harm or to express anything but politeness and good nature.
Still, it's not right, you know; is it?"
"No," said I, as she seemed to wait for me.
"And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear."
I supposed it might.
"Therefore, I have told him many times that he really should be more careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others.
And he has always said,
'Mother, I will be; but you know me better than anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm--in short, mean nothing.'
All of which is very true, my dear, but is no justification.
However, as he is now gone so far away and for an indefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities and introductions, we may consider this past and gone.
And you, my dear," said the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles, "regarding your dear self, my love?"
"Me, Mrs. Woodcourt?"
"Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seek his fortune and to find a wife--when do you mean to seek YOUR fortune and to find a husband, Miss Summerson?
Hey, look you!
Now you blush!"
I don't think I did blush--at all events, it was not important if I did--and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I had no wish to change it.
"Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet to come for you, my love?" said Mrs. Woodcourt.
"If you believe you are a good prophet," said I.
"Why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and very worthy, much older--five and twenty years, perhaps--than yourself.
And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and very happy."
"That is a good fortune," said I.
"But why is it to be mine?"
"My dear," she returned, "there's suitability in it--you are so busy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether that there's suitability in it, and it will come to pass.
And nobody, my love, will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage than I shall."
It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I think it did.
I know it did.
It made me for some part of that night uncomfortable.
I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to confess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still.
I would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright old lady's confidence if I could have possibly declined it.
It gave me the most inconsistent opinions of her.
At one time I thought she was a story-teller, and at another time that she was the pink of truth.
Now I suspected that she was very cunning, next moment I believed her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple.