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A Bachelor's Dream: A Fiction and Literature, Romance Classic By Margaret Wolfe Hungerford AAA+++
A Bachelor's Dream: A Fiction and Literature, Romance Classic By Margaret Wolfe Hungerford AAA+++
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He was not unhappy. A studious man, cold, taciturn, and self-contained as a rule, caring little for general society and devoted to his profession, the want in his life, the blank in his wifeless and childless home, was not to him what it would have been to a more impulsive, less self-reliant nature. If sometimes he instituted an involuntary comparison between his contracted hoped and interests as contrasted with those of other men, books, his work, his studies, soon consoled him. He hardly knew there was a yearning in his breast--a vague, intangible felling, waiting for a mistress-hand to stir it into activity--the hand of a woman whom he had never seen.
"And what brings you here a second time, Doctor?" asked Mrs. Leslie, brightly, as she poured out a cup of tea and handed it to him. "Are you going to give us some advice gratis?"
"Hardly, Mrs. Leslie; in fact, I want yours."
"Mine?" exclaimed the lady, vivaciously. "It is yours, of course--but upon what subject?"
"This. You recollect that I told you my sister was coming home from India with her children?"
"To be sure--I remember. Well?"
"Well, I have a letter from her announcing that, as she has been out of health for the last month or two, her husband does not wish her to travel yet. But her children are coming to England--they are on their way, in fact, and coming to me."
Doctor Brudenell, in making this statement, did not feel comical, but he looked so, in spite of his grave, refined, scholarly face, and Mrs. Leslie greeted his words with a burst of hearty laughter.
He was not unhappy. A studious man, cold, taciturn, and self-contained as a rule, caring little for general society and devoted to his profession, the want in his life, the blank in his wifeless and childless home, was not to him what it would have been to a more impulsive, less self-reliant nature. If sometimes he instituted an involuntary comparison between his contracted hoped and interests as contrasted with those of other men, books, his work, his studies, soon consoled him. He hardly knew there was a yearning in his breast--a vague, intangible felling, waiting for a mistress-hand to stir it into activity--the hand of a woman whom he had never seen.
"And what brings you here a second time, Doctor?" asked Mrs. Leslie, brightly, as she poured out a cup of tea and handed it to him. "Are you going to give us some advice gratis?"
"Hardly, Mrs. Leslie; in fact, I want yours."
"Mine?" exclaimed the lady, vivaciously. "It is yours, of course--but upon what subject?"
"This. You recollect that I told you my sister was coming home from India with her children?"
"To be sure--I remember. Well?"
"Well, I have a letter from her announcing that, as she has been out of health for the last month or two, her husband does not wish her to travel yet. But her children are coming to England--they are on their way, in fact, and coming to me."
Doctor Brudenell, in making this statement, did not feel comical, but he looked so, in spite of his grave, refined, scholarly face, and Mrs. Leslie greeted his words with a burst of hearty laughter.
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