‘It must be my uncle!—I am sure it must. I’ll ride to Broadstone the first thing to-morrow, and find him out.’
‘Your uncle!’ exclaimed Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘I never thought of that.’
S. B. Dixon,’ said Guy. ‘I know his name is Sebastian. It cannot be any one else. You know he went to America. How curious it is! I suppose there is no fear of his being gone before I can come in to-morrow.’
‘I should think not. Those musical people keep late hours.’
‘I would go before breakfast. Perhaps it would be best to go to old Redford, he will know all about him; or to the music-shop. I am so glad! It is the very thing I always wished.’
‘Did you?’ said Mrs. Edmonstone to herself. ‘I can’t say every one would be of your mind; but I can’t help liking you the better for it. I wish the man had kept further off. I wish Mr. Edmonstone was at home. I hope no harm will come of it. I wonder what I ought to do. Shall I caution him? No; I don’t think I can spoil his happiness—and perhaps the man may be improved. He is his nearest relation, and I have no right to interfere. His own good sense will protect him—but I wish Mr. Edmonstone was at home.’
She therefore did not check his expressions of delight, nor object to his going to Broadstone early the next morning. He had just dismounted before the inn-yard, when a boy put a note into his hand, and he was so absorbed in its contents, that he did not perceive Philip till after two greetings had passed unheard. When at length he was recalled, he started, and exclaimed, rapturously, as he put the note into his cousin’s hand,
‘See here—it is himself!’
‘Who?’
‘My uncle. My poor mother’s own brother.’