“He!—who?”
“Don’t look so angry, Philip: you frighten me!”
“And you torture me. Who could malign one brother to the other?”
“Oh! it was all meant very kindly—there’s been such a nice, dear, good gentleman here, and he cried when he saw me, and said he knew dear mamma. Well, and he has promised to take me home with him and give me a pretty pony—as pretty—as pretty—oh, as pretty as it can be got! And he is to call again and tell me more: I think he is a fairy, Philip.”
“Did he say that he was to take me, too, Sidney?” said Morton, seating himself, and looking very pale. At that question Sidney hung his head.
“No, brother—he says you won’t go, and that you are a bad boy—and that you associate with wicked people—and that you want to keep me shut up here and not let any one be good to me. But I told him I did not believe that—yes, indeed, I told him so.”
And Sidney endeavoured caressingly to withdraw the hands that his brother placed before his face.
Morton started up, and walked hastily to and fro the room. “This,” thought he, “is another emissary of the Beauforts’—perhaps the lawyer: they will take him from me—the last thing left to love and hope for. I will foil them.”
“Sidney,” he said aloud, “we must go hence today, this very hour—nay, instantly.”
“What! away from this nice, good gentleman?”