There was no difficulty in taking a first step in pursuit of this object. The rector was accustomed to dine regularly at the Hall on a Monday night, which he looked upon as his leisure time. George greatly enjoyed these occasions, especially when Sidney and he were alone. They had been brought up by their uncle almost as brothers, and the old boyish love still lived in his heart. He had never seen any reason to dethrone Sidney from the first place he held in his esteem. George was one of the few fortunate mortals who had possessed an ideal all his life, and at fifty could still place faith in it. Sidney and his career had been a ceaseless pleasure and pride to him.
"George," said Sidney one Monday evening, as they lingered alone together in the comfortable dining room, "my boy Philip will be of age now in a few weeks."
"My boy Dick was of age a few weeks ago," replied George, with a smile.
"Ah, yes!" went on Sidney, "and a very fine fellow he is. He will distinguish himself in the world more than Philip will do. Your boys have genius, and will make their mark. It would be hardly fair if Philip had every advantage."
"Philip has riches," rejoined the rector, "but Margaret and I agree that money is not one of God's great gifts."
"But he has other gifts besides money," said Sidney.
"Many, many!" replied George warmly; "he has a noble, unselfish nature like Margaret's, and a steadfast, faithful heart. He is less worldly than my boys. I do not think he could make for himself a brilliant place in this world, any more than I could. But he would stand high in the kingdom of heaven, as his mother's son should do."
Sidney made no immediate answer. George had spoken the truth, but it was an unpalatable truth. Philip was all he could desire in a son, except that he had no ambition, and was absolutely contented with his position and prospects in the world.
"I hope," he said after a pause, "that Philip will make my little Dorothy my real daughter. He is young yet; too young to know his own mind. But under Margaret's training Dorothy is growing all I should wish in Philip's wife. And when I think of how happy my life has been made by Margaret I cannot help coveting the same happiness for my boy. You spoke of God's gifts, George. If God will give Philip a wife like Margaret it would be his best gift."
George leaned back in his chair, staring intently into the fire, with an expression of perplexity and trouble on his usually placid face. How it was he did not know, and now he was trying to find out; but there was a vague impression on his mind that long, long ago it had been an understood thing that Philip was to marry Phyllis. True, he could not recall any conversation on the subject; the children were too young. But it seemed to him that he had always been led to expect it. But who had so led him? Certainly not Sidney, for he clearly knew nothing of it, and had no idea of such a thing. Was it possible he had been mistaken? Could he have been merely dreaming a pleasant dream that his dear child's future welfare was secure? For nothing could have given him greater happiness than intrusting her to the care of a man he knew so well as Philip, who was in fact like one of his own sons. Phyllis had her faults, but they were trifles, said the indulgent father to himself; and she cared more for worldly advantages and worldly show than she ought; but Philip's unworldliness would check all that. He found this hope so firmly rooted in his heart that he could not believe it was only a dream of his own.