‘I scarce see why an old quarrel between our parents should come between us,’ said Phil.
‘My dear Phil,’ said the candid father, ‘I will be frank with you—’tis an old story, and I, for my part, would willingly bury it; but I know Shepley for a man of vindictive passions, and I tell you this, that no power on earth would persuade him to give you his daughter’s hand in marriage. ’Twill spare you perhaps much pain and unpleasantness with him if you but take my advice and see no more of the girl.’
Phil shook his head. But light had meantime come to Meadowes. He would make peace with Phil yet—all would be well.
‘Well, Phil,’ he said, ‘I have told you the truth of how the matter stands, and how prudence should guide you; but moreover I have considered what I said to you in haste, and even should you persist in this folly I will not turn you from your home.’
Then with a sudden genuine impulse of feeling he laid his hand on Phil’s arm.
‘Phil, Phil, you are all that I have—you must stay with me were a hundred Carrie Shepleys in the case.’ Phil did not speak, but he took his father’s hand, bowing over it with the elaborate courtesy of the age.
‘I can only ask you, give this matter your very careful consideration,’ said his father, and with that he turned the conversation into another channel.
But a few hours later—when the dusk had fallen, a man on horseback left Fairmeadowes bearing a special and important missive to Dr. Sebastian Shepley of London. The horseman had orders to spend as little time on the road as might be, and the letter ran thus:—
‘Sebastian Shepley,—Richard Meadowes must acquaint you with the fact that, unless you take prompt measures for the removal of your daughter from the house of her aunt Lady Mallow, she will undoubtedly contract a marriage with the son of that man who has the honour to sign himself
‘Your Enemy.’