DOI issue:
Mackenzie, W. A.: "Here lies Oliver Goldsmith"
DOI article:Leverson, Ada: Suggestion
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21806#0261
By Mrs. Ernest Leverson 257
“ Go on, Cissy.”
“ She is one of those who must be appealed to, at first, by her
imagination. She married our father because she thought he was
lonely and misunderstood.”
“ / am lonely and misunderstood,” said Adrian, his eyes flashing
with delight.
“ Ah, not twice ! She doesn’t like that now.”
I finished my coffee slowly, and then I said,
“ Go to the Clives’ fancy-ball as Tristan.”
Adrian pressed my hand. . . .
At the door of the restaurant we parted, and I drove home
through the cool April night, wondering, wondering. Suddenly I
thought of my mother—my beautiful sainted mother, who would
have loved me, I am convinced, had she lived, with an extraordinary
devotion. What would she have said to all this ? What would
she have thought ? I know not why, but a mad reaction seized
me. I feit recklessly conscientious. My father ! After all, he
was my father. I was possessed by passionate scruples. If I went
back now to Adrian—if I went back and implored him, supplicated
him never to see Laura again !
I feit I could persuade him. I have sufficient personal
magnetism to do that, if I make up my mind. After one glance
in the looking-glass, I put up my stick and stopped the hansom. I
had taken a resolution. I told the man to drive to Adrian’s rooms.
He turned round with a sharp jerk. In another second a
brougham passed us—a swift little brougham that I knew. It
slackened—it stopped—we passed it—-I saw my father. He was
getting out at one of the little houses opposite the Brompton
Oratory.
“Turn round again,” I shouted to the cabman. And he drove
me straight home.
“ Go on, Cissy.”
“ She is one of those who must be appealed to, at first, by her
imagination. She married our father because she thought he was
lonely and misunderstood.”
“ / am lonely and misunderstood,” said Adrian, his eyes flashing
with delight.
“ Ah, not twice ! She doesn’t like that now.”
I finished my coffee slowly, and then I said,
“ Go to the Clives’ fancy-ball as Tristan.”
Adrian pressed my hand. . . .
At the door of the restaurant we parted, and I drove home
through the cool April night, wondering, wondering. Suddenly I
thought of my mother—my beautiful sainted mother, who would
have loved me, I am convinced, had she lived, with an extraordinary
devotion. What would she have said to all this ? What would
she have thought ? I know not why, but a mad reaction seized
me. I feit recklessly conscientious. My father ! After all, he
was my father. I was possessed by passionate scruples. If I went
back now to Adrian—if I went back and implored him, supplicated
him never to see Laura again !
I feit I could persuade him. I have sufficient personal
magnetism to do that, if I make up my mind. After one glance
in the looking-glass, I put up my stick and stopped the hansom. I
had taken a resolution. I told the man to drive to Adrian’s rooms.
He turned round with a sharp jerk. In another second a
brougham passed us—a swift little brougham that I knew. It
slackened—it stopped—we passed it—-I saw my father. He was
getting out at one of the little houses opposite the Brompton
Oratory.
“Turn round again,” I shouted to the cabman. And he drove
me straight home.