Meantime， I feel in myself a strong repugnance to fix the hour which will uproot my sole olive branch， and transplant it far from me； and， when I speak to Frances on the subject， I am heard with a kind of patient pain， as though I alluded to some fearful operation， at which her nature shudders， but from which her fortitude will not permit her to recoil.The step must， however， be taken， and it shall be； for， though Frances will not make a milksop of her son， she will accustom him to a style of treatment， a forbearance， a congenial tenderness， he will meet with from none else.She sees， as I also see， a something in Victor’s temper—a kind of electrical ardour and power—which emits， now and then， ominous sparks； Hunsden calls it his spirit， and says it should not be curbed.I call it the leaven of the offending Adam， and consider that it should be， if not whipped out of him， at least soundly disciplined； and that he will be cheap of any amount of either bodily or mental suffering which will ground him radically in the art of self-control.Frances gives this something in her son’s marked character no name； but when it appears in the grinding of his teeth， in the glittering of his eye， in the fierce revolt of feeling against disappointment， mischance， sudden sorrow， or supposed injustice， she folds him to her breast， or takes him to walk with her alone in the wood； then she reasons with him like any philosopher， and to reason Victor is ever accessible； then she looks at him with eyes of love， and by love Victor can be infallibly subjugated； but will reason or love be the weapons with which in future the world will meet his violence？ Oh， no！ for that flash in his black eye—for that cloud on his bony brow—for that compression of his statuesque lips， the lad will some day get blows instead of blandishments—kicks instead of kisses； then for the fit of mutefury which will sicken his body and madden his soul； then for the ordeal of merited and salutary suffering， out of which he will come (I trust) a wiser and a better man.
I see him now； he stands by Hunsden， who is seated on thelawn under the beech； Hunsden’s hand rests on the boy’s collar， and he is instilling God knows what principles into his ear.Victor looks well just now， for he listens with a sort of smiling interest； he never looks so like his mother as when he smiles —pity the sunshine breaks out so rarely！ Victor has a preference for Hunsden， full as strong as I deem desirable， being considerably more potent decided， and indiscriminating， than any I ever entertained for that personage myself.Frances， too， regards it with a sort of unexpressed anxiety； while her son leans on Hunsden’s knee， or rests against his shoulder， she roves with restless movement round， like a dove guarding its young from a hovering hawk； she says she wishes Hunsden had children of his own， for then he would better know the danger of inciting their pride end indulging their foibles.
Frances approaches my library window； puts aside thehoneysuckle which half covers it， and tells me tea is ready； seeing that I continue busy she enters the room， comes near me quietly， and puts her hand on my shoulder.
“Monsieur est trop appliqué.” “I shall soon have done.”
She draws a chair near， and sits down to wait till I havefinished； her presence is as pleasant to my mind as the perfume of the fresh hay and spicy flowers， as the glow of the westering sun， as the repose of the midsummer eve are to my senses.
But Hunsden comes； I hear his step， and there he is， bendingthrough the lattice， from which he has thrust away the woodbine with unsparing hand， disturbing two bees and a butterfly.
“Crimsworth！ I say， Crimsworth！ take that pen out of his hand， mistress， and make him lift up his head.”
“Well， Hunsden ？ I hear you.”
“I was at X— yesterday！ your brother Ned is getting richer than Croesus by railway speculations； they call him in the Piece Hall a stag of ten； and I have heard from Brown.M.and Madame Vandenhuten and Jean Baptiste talk of coming to see you next month.He mentions the Pelets too； he says their domestic harmony is not the finest in the world， but in business they are doing ‘on ne peut mieux，’ which circumstance he concludes will be a sufficient consolation to both for any little crosses in the affections.Why don’t you invite the Pelets to —shire， Crimsworth？ I should so like to see your first flame， Zora？de.Mistress， don’t be jealous， but he loved that lady to distraction； I know it for a fact.Brown says she weighs twelve stones now； you see what you’ve lost， Mr.Professor.Now， Monsieur and Madame， if you don’t come to tea， Victor and I will begin without you.”
“Papa， come！”
The End
