‘There is no saying what I may do, if you’ll only be a good girl, and hold your tongue. I don’t want to prevent your telling anything to your mamma, of course, but pray don’t let it go any further. Don’t let Maurice hear it, I have especial reasons for wishing it should not be known. You know it is not even an engagement, and nothing must be done which can make Guy feel in the least bound?’
Eveleen promised, and Mrs. Edmonstone knew that she had sense and proper feeling enough for her promise to deserve trust.
CHAPTER 14
For falsehood now doth flow,
And subject faith doth ebbe,
Which would not be, if reason ruled,
Or wisdom weav’d the webbe.
The daughter of debate,
That eke discord doth sowe,
Shal reape no gaine where former rule
Hath taught stil peace to growe.
—QUEEN ELIZABETH
‘ATHENAEUM TERRACE,
ST MILDRED’S,
August 4th,
‘MY DEAR PHILIP,—Thank you for returning the books, which were brought
safely by Sir Guy. I am sorry you do not agree in my estimate of them. I
should have thought your strong sense would have made you perceive that
reasoning upon fact, and granting nothing without tangible proof, were
the best remedy for a dreamy romantic tendency to the weakness and
credulity which are in the present day termed poetry and faith. It is
curious to observe how these vague theories reduce themselves to the
absurd when brought into practice. There are two Miss Wellwoods here,
daughters of that unfortunate man who fell in a duel with old Sir Guy
Morville, who seem to make it their business to become the general
subject of animadversion, taking pauper children into their house, where
they educate them in a way to unfit them for their station, and teach
them to observe a sort of monastic rule, preaching the poor people in
the hospital to death, visiting the poor at all sorts of strange hours.
Dr Henley actually found one of them, at twelve o’clock at night, in a
miserable lodging-house, filled with the worst description of inmates.
Quite young women, too, and with no mother or elder person to direct
them; but it is the fashion among the attendants at the new chapel to
admire them. This subject has diverted me from what I intended to say
with respect to the young baronet. Your description agrees with all I
have hitherto seen, though I own I expected a Redclyffe Morville to
have more of the “heros de roman”, or rather of the grand tragic cast of
figure, as, if I remember right, was the case with this youth’s
father, a much finer and handsomer young man. Sir Guy is certainly
gentlemanlike, and has that sort of agreeability which depends on high
animal spirits. I should think him clever, but superficial; and with his
mania for music, he can hardly fail to be merely an accomplished man. In
spite of all you said of the Redclyffe temper, I was hardly prepared to
find it so ready to flash forth on the most inexplicable provocations.
It is like walking on a volcano. I have seen him two or three times draw
himself up, bite his lip, and answer with an effort and a sharpness that
shows how thin a crust covers the burning lava; but I acknowledge that
he has been very civil and attentive, and speaks most properly of what
he owes to you. I only hope he will not be hurt by the possession of so
large a property so early in life, and I have an idea that our good aunt
at Hollywell has done a good deal to raise his opinion of himself. We
shall, of course, show him every civility in our power, and give him the
advantage of intellectual society at our house. His letters are directed
to this place, as you know South Moor Farm is out of the cognizance
of the post. They seem to keep up a brisk correspondence with him from
Hollywell. Few guardians’ letters are, I should guess, honoured with
such deepening colour as his while reading one from my uncle. He tells
me he has been calling at Stylehurst; it is a pity, for his sake, that
Colonel Harewood is at home, for the society of those sons is by no
means advisable for him. I can hardly expect to offer him what is likely
to be as agreeable to him as the conversation and amusements of Edward
and Tom Harewood, who are sure to be at home for the St. Mildred’s
races. I hear Tom has been getting into fresh scrapes at Cambridge.
‘Your affectionate sister,
‘MARGARET HENLEY.’
‘ATHENAEUM TERRACE.
ST. MILDRED’S,
Sept. 6th.
‘MY DEAR PHILIP,—No one can have a greater dislike than myself to what
is called mischief-making; therefore I leave it entirely to you to make
what use you please of the following facts, which have fallen under my
notice. Sir Guy Morville has been several times at St. Mildred’s, in
company with Tom Harewood, and more than once alone with some strange
questionable-looking people; and not many days ago, my maid met him
coming out of a house in one of the low streets, which it is hard to
assign a motive for his visiting. This, however, might be accident, and
I should never have thought of mentioning it, but for a circumstance
that occurred this morning. I had occasion to visit Grey’s Bank, and
while waiting in conversation with Mr. Grey, a person came in whom I
knew to be a notorious gambler, and offered a cheque to be changed. As
it lay on the counter, my eye was caught by the signature. It was my
uncle’s. I looked again, and could not be mistaken. It was a draft for
£30 on Drummond, dated the 12th of August, to Sir Guy Morville, signed
C. Edmonstone, and endorsed in Sir Guy’s own writing, with the name of
John White. In order that I might be certain that I was doing the poor
young man no injustice, I outstayed the man, and asked who he was,
when Mr. Grey confirmed me in my belief that it was one Jack White,
a jockeying sort of man who attends all the races in the country, and
makes his livelihood by betting and gambling. And now, my dear brother,
make what use of this fact you think fit, though I fear there is
little hope of rescuing the poor youth from the fatal habits which are
hereditary in his family, and must be strong indeed not to have been
eradicated by such careful training as you say he has received. I leave
it entirely to you, trusting in your excellent judgment, and only hoping
you will not bring my name forward. Grieving much at having to be the
first to communicate such unpleasant tidings, which will occasion so
much vexation at Hollywell.’
‘Your affectionate sister,
‘MARGARET HENLEY.’
Captain Morville was alone when he received the latter of these letters. At first, a look divided between irony and melancholy passed over his face, as he read his sister’s preface and her hearsay evidence, but, as he went farther, his upper lip curled, and a sudden gleam, as of exultation in a verified prophecy, lighted his eye, shading off quickly, however, and giving place to an iron expression of rigidity and sternness, the compressed mouth, coldly-fixed eye, and sedate brow, composed into a grave severity that might have served for an impersonation of stern justice. He looked through the letter a second time, folded it up, put it in his pocket, and went about his usual affairs; but the expression did not leave his face all day; and the next morning he took a day-ticket by the railway to Broadstone, where, as it was the day of the petty sessions, he had little doubt of meeting Mr. Edmonstone. Accordingly, he had not walked far down the High Street, before he saw his uncle standing on the step of the post-office, opening a letter he had just received.
‘Ha! Philip, what brings you here? The very man I wanted. Coming to Hollywell?’
‘No, thank you, I go back this evening,’ said Philip, and, as he spoke, he saw that the letter which Mr. Edmonstone held, and twisted with a hasty, nervous movement, was in Guy’s writing.