‘He was only afraid that something might have occurred to vex you, which you might not like to mention to him,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, hesitating a little.
‘Me! What could I have done to make him think so? I am angry with no one but myself. The fact is only this, the hunting is too pleasant; it fills up my head all day and all night; and I don’t attend rightly to anything else. If I am out in the morning and try to pay for it at night, it will not do; I can but just keep awake and that’s all; the Greek letters all seem to be hunting each other, the simplest things grow difficult, and at last all I can think of, is how near the minute hand of my watch is near to the hour I have set myself. So, for the last fortnight, every construing with Mr. Lascelles has been worse than the last; and as to my Latin verses, they were beyond everything shocking, so you see there is no making the two things agree, and the hunting must wait till I grow steadier, if I ever do. Heigho! It is a great bore to be so stupid, for I thought—But it is of no use to talk of it!’
‘Mr. Edmonstone would be a very unreasonable guardian, indeed, to be displeased,’ said his friend, smiling. You say you stopped the purchase of the horse. Why so? Could you not keep him till you are more sure of yourself?’
‘Do you think I might?’ joyously exclaimed Guy. ‘I’ll write to Philip this minute by the post. Such a splendid creature: it would do you good to see it—such action—such a neck—such spirit. It would be a shame not to secure it. But no—no—’ and he checked himself sorrowfully. ‘I have made my mind before that I don’t deserve it. If it was here, it would always have to be tried: if I heard the hounds I don’t know I should keep from riding after them; whereas, now I can’t, for William won’t let me take Deloraine. No, I can’t trust myself to keep such a horse, and not hunt. It will serve me right to see Mr. Brownlow on it, and he will never miss such a chance!’ and the depth of his sigh bore witness to the struggle it cost him.
‘I should not like to use anyone as you use yourself,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking at him with affectionate anxiety, which seemed suddenly to change the current of his thought, for he exclaimed abruptly—‘Mrs. Edmonstone, can you tell me anything about my mother?’
‘I am afraid not,’ said she, kindly; ‘you know we had so little intercourse with your family, that I heard little but the bare facts.’
‘I don’t think,’ said Guy, leaning on the chimneypiece, ‘that I ever thought much about her till I knew you, but lately I have fancied a great deal about what might have been if she had but lived.’
It was not Mrs. Edmonstone’s way to say half what she felt, and she went on—‘Poor thing! I believe she was quite a child.’
‘Only seventeen when she died,’ said Guy.
Mrs. Edmonstone went to a drawer, took out two or three bundles of old letters, and after searching in them by the fire-light, said—‘Ah! here’s a little about her; it is in a letter from my sister-in-law, Philip’s mother, when they were staying at Stylehurst.’