ir Harry came home, and met me more affectionately and kindly than ever. I soon perceived that there was something of more than usual gravity under discussion between him and Mr. Blount. I knew, of course, very well what was the question they were debating. I was very uncomfortable while this matter was being discussed; Mr. Blount seemed nervous and uneasy; and it was plain that the decision was not only suspended but uncertain. I don't suppose there was a more perturbed little family in all England at that moment, over whom, at the same time, there hung apparently no cloud of disaster.
At last I could perceive that something was settled; for the discussions between Mr. Blount and Sir Harry seemed to have lost the character of debate and remonstrance, and to have become more like a gloomy confidence and consultation between them. I can only speak of what I may call the external appearance of these conversations, for I was not permitted to hear one word of their substance.
In a little while Sir Harry went away again. This time his journey, I afterwards learned, was to one of the quietest little towns in North Wales, where his chaise drew up at the Bull Inn. The tall northern baronet got out of the chaise, and strode to the bar of that rural hostelry.
"Is there a gentleman named Marston staying here?" he asked of the plump elderly lady who sat within the bow-window of the bar.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Marston, Number Seven, up one pair of stairs."
"Upstairs now?" asked Sir Harry.
"He'll be gone out to take his walk, sir, by this time," answered the lady.
"Can I talk to you for a few minutes, anywhere, madam, in private?" asked Sir Harry.
The old lady looked at him, a little surprised.
"Yes, sir," she said. "Is it anything very particular, please?"