“You are not right, Harold. I had far rather that you rose at six and studied till nine, as formerly, than that you should dream away the morning hours, and come down looking as you do now. Forgive me, but it is not good for you, my son.”
She often called him _my son_ with a beautiful simplicity, that reminded one of the holy Hebrew mothers--of Rebekah or of Hannah.
Harold looked for a moment disconcerted--not angry. “Do not mind me, mother; I shall go back to study in good time. Let me do as I judge best.”
“Certainly,” was all the mother's reply. She reproved--she never “scolded.” Turning the conversation, she directed hers to Captain Rothesay, while Harold ate his breakfast in silence--a habit not unusual with him. Immediately afterwards he rose, and prepared to depart for the day.
“I need not apologise to Captain Rothesay,” he said in his own straightforward manner, which was only saved from the imputation of bluntness by a certain manly dignity--and contrasted strongly with the reserved and courtly grace of his guest. “My pursuits can scarcely interest you, while I know, and _you_ know, what pleasure my mother takes in your society.”
“You will not stay away all this day too, Harold. Surely that is a little too much to be required, even by Miss Derwent,” spoke the quick impulse of the mother's unconscious jealousy. But she repressed it at once--even before the sudden flush of anger awakened by her words had faded from Harold's brow. “Go, my son--your mother never interferes either with your duties or your pleasures.”
Harold took her hand--though with scarce less formality than he did that of Captain Rothesay; and in a few minutes they saw him gallop down the hill and across the open country, with a speed beseeming well the age of five-and-twenty, and the season of a first love.
Mrs. Gwynne looked after him with an intensity of feeling that in any other woman would have found vent in a tear--certainly a sigh.
“You are thinking of your son and his marriage,” said Angus.
“That is not strange. It is a life-crisis with all men--and it has come so suddenly--I scarcely know my Harold of two months since in my Harold now.”
“To work such results, it must be an ardent love.”
“Say, rather, a vehement passion--love does not spring up and flower, like my hyacinths there, in six weeks. But I do not complain. Reason, if not feeling, tells me that a mother cannot be all in all to a young man. Harold needs a wife--let him take one! They will be married soon; and if all Sara's qualities equal her beauty, this wild passion will soon mature into affection. He may be happy--I trust so!”