‘Not to have put you out, Augusta, but I am delighted.’
‘Well, at what?’
‘We are asked to stay at Moorcroft, that’s one thing.’
‘Stupid place. No wines, no dinners,’ said Augusta; ‘and so ridiculous as you are! If the son is at home you’ll do nothing but talk to Sir John. And if ever a girl ought to get married off I am sure it is you.’
‘How do you know what good use I may make of my opportunities?’
Phœbe positively danced up-stairs, and indulged in a private
polka round her bedroom. She had been told not only of the Forest plan, but that Sir John was going to ‘run down’ to his brother’s at Sutton the next day, and that he had asked Mervyn to come with him.
Mervyn had not this time promised to send her a blank cover. He thought he had very little present hope, for the talk had been of a year’s probation—of his showing himself a changed character, etc. And not only was this only half that space, but less than a month had been spent in England. This time he was not setting off as one about to confer a favour.
Phœbe heard no more for two days. At last, as she was finishing her toilette to go out with Augusta, a hasty knock came to her door, and Mervyn entreated to be let in. His face told more than his tongue could utter. He had little guessed the intensity of the happiness of which he had so long deprived himself, and Cecily’s acceptance had filled him with a flood of bliss, tinctured, however, by the sense of his own unworthiness of her constant affection, and increasing compunction for what he had made her endure.
‘I don’t know how she could do it, or why she cared for such a miserable scamp, breaking her heart all this time!’ he exclaimed.