to speak of her
birthplace. But, for some reason or other, she did not share her hero's
rather petulant anxiety to keep the curtain nailed down on that part of
her life which preceded her entry into the ranks of the Royal Marines.
Some might have thought that those fair large blue eyes of hers wandered
now and then in pleasant unambitious walks behind the curtain, and toyed
with little flowers of palest memory. Utterly tasteless, totally wanting
in discernment, not to say gratitude, the Major could not presume her to
be; and yet his wits perceived that her answers and the conduct she
shaped in accordance with his repeated protests and long-reaching
apprehensions of what he called danger, betrayed acquiescent obedience
more than the connubial sympathy due to him. Danger on the field the
Major knew not of; he did not scruple to name the word in relation to his
wife. For, as he told her, should he, some day, as in the chapter of
accidents might occur, sally into the street a Knight Companion of the
Bath and become known to men as Sir Maxwell Strike, it would be decidedly
disagreeable for him to be blown upon by a wind from Lymport. Moreover
she was the mother of a son. The Major pointed out to her the duty she
owed her offspring. Certainly the protecting aegis of his rank and title
would be over the lad, but she might depend upon it any indiscretion of
hers would damage him in his future career, the Major assured her. Young
Maxwell must be considered.
For all this, the mother and wife, when the black letter found them in
the morning at breakfast, had burst into a fit of grief, and faltered
that she wept for a father. Mrs. Andrew, to whom the letter was
addressed, had simply held the letter to her in a trembling hand. The
Major compared their behaviour, with marked encomiums of Mrs. Andrew. Now
this lady and her husband were in obverse relative positions. The brewer
had no will but his Harriet's. His esteem for her combined the
constitutional feelings of an insignificantly-built little man for a
majestic woman, and those of a worthy soul for the wife of his bosom.
Possessing, or possessed by her, the good brewer was perfectly happy.
She, it might be thought, under these circumstances, would not have
minded much his hearing what he might hear. It happened, however, that
she was as jealous of the winds of Lymport as the Major himself; as
vigilant in debarring them from access to the brewery as now the Countess
could have bee
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