Cecilia and her swain were found at the appointed spot. Lord Francis sprang down from the phaeton, and it was he who handed Cecilia up into it, Mr. Fawnhope having become rapt in contemplation of a clump of daffodils, which caused him to throw out a hand, murmuring, “ Daffodils that come before the swallow dares!”
Cecilia’s spirits did not appear to have derived much benefit from her meeting with her lover. His plans for their future maintenance seemed to be a trifle vague, but he had an epic poem in his head, which might win him fame in a night, he thought. While this was in preparation, he would not object, he said, to accepting a post as a librarian. But as Cecilia was unable to imagine that her father or her brother would feel any marked degree of satisfaction in giving her in marriage to a librarian, this very handsome concession on Mr. Fawnhope’s part merely added to her despondency. She had gone so far as to suggest to him that he should embrace the profession of politics, but he had only said, “How sordid!” which did not augur well for this excellent scheme. When he had added that since the death of Mr. Fox, ten years earlier, there was no leader a man of sensibility could attach himself to, this remark had only served to show her how very improbable it was that his politics would find more favor with her family than his poetic aspirations.
Sophy, gathering the gist of all this from Cecilia’s somewhat elliptical remarks, took up a buoyant attitude, saying, “Oh, well! We must find a great man who is willing to become his patron!” which gave Cecilia a poor notion of her understanding.
Sophy was able to restore to Hubert the scrap of paper that had fallen from his pocket before going down to dinner that evening. Until this moment she had not thought much about it, but his manner of receiving it from her was so strange that it set up in her head various speculations which he was far from desiring. He almost snatched it from her hand, exclaiming, “Where did you find this?” and when she explained, in the most temperate manner, that she thought it must have fallen out of the pocket of the coat she had mended for him, he said, “Yes, it is mine, but I did not know I had put it there! I cannot tell you what it signifies, but pray do not mention it to anyone!”
She could only assure him that she had no intention of doing so, but he appeared to be so much discomposed that some inevitable reflections were set up in her brain. These did not come to fruition until she saw him upon his return from his visit to his friend, Mr. Harpenden, when his demeanor was so much that of a man who had received some stunning blow that she seized the earliest opportunity that offered of asking him if anything were amiss. Mr. Rivenhall, who had left London twenty-four hours earlier for Thorpe Grange, the estate in Leicestershire which he had inherited from his great-uncle, had not yet returned to London; but Hubert made it plain to his cousin that even had his elder brother been in London, not the direst necessity would have induced him to apply to him.
“He has not minced matters! He told me in round terms that he would not — Oh well! No matter for that!”
“I daresay,” said Sophy, in her calm way, “that Charles might very likely say more than he meant. I wish you will tell me what has gone awry, Hubert! My conjecture is that you have lost perhaps a large sum at Newmarket?”
“If that were all!” he exclaimed unguardedly.
“Well, if it is not all, I wish you will tell me the full sum of it, Hubert!” she said, with one of her friendly smiled. “I assure you, you are quite safe in my hands, for Sir Horace brought me up to think there was nothing more odious than to be the kind of person who babbled secrets abroad. But I know that you are in trouble of some sort, and I do think I ought, if you will tell me nothing, to drop a hint in your brother’s ear, for ten to one you will make bad much worse if you go on in this way, with no one to advise you!”
He turned pale. “Sophy, you would not — ”