William hastened immediately to London. He was denied admittance at Mr. Germaine’s: the porter, with an air of mystery, said that his master was ill, and did not choose to see any body. William, however, forced his way up stairs.
Charles, at the sight of him, stepped back, exclaiming, “May I believe my eyes? William! Is it you?”
“Yes, it is William; your old friend William,” said Mr. Darford, embracing him affectionately. Pride and shame struggled in the mind of Charles; and, turning aside to repress the tears, which in the first instance of emotion had started into his eyes, he went to the farthest end of the room for an arm-chair for his cousin, placed it with awkward ceremony, and said, “Won’t you be seated, cousin Darford? I am sure Mrs. Germaine and I are much indebted to you and Mrs. Darford, for your goodness to our children. I was just thinking of writing to you about them;—but we are in sad confusion here, just at this moment. I am quite ashamed—I did not expect—Why did you never honour us with a visit before? I am sure you could not possibly have hit upon a more unlucky moment for a visit—for yourself, I mean.” “If it proves lucky to you, my dear Charles,” replied William mildly, “I shall think it the most fortunate moment I could possibly have chosen.”
Vanquished by the tone of this reply, our hero burst into tears: he squeezed his friend’s hand, but could not speak. Recovering himself, after a few minutes, he said, “You are too good, cousin William, and always were! I thought you called in by accident; I had no supposition that you came on purpose to assist me in this moment of distress—embarrassment, I ought to say; for, in fact, it is only a mere temporary embarrassment.”
“I am heartily glad to hear it. But, speak to me freely, Charles: do not conceal the real state of your affairs from your best friend. What tendency could this have but to plunge you into irretrievable ruin?”
Charles paused for a minute. “The truth of the matter is, my dear William,” continued he, “that there are circumstances in this business which I should be sorry reached Mrs. Germaine’s ear, or any of her cursed proud relations; for if once they heard of it, I should have no peace for the rest of my life. Indeed, as to peace, I cannot boast of much as it is: but it might be worse, much worse, if the whole truth came out. To you, however, I can trust it; though in your line of life, it would be counted a shocking thing: but still you are so indulgent——”
William listened without being able to guess where this preamble would end.
“In the first place,” continued Charles, “you know—Mrs. Germaine is almost ten years older than I am.”
“Six years, I thought you formerly told me?”
“I beg your pardon, ten—ten—within a few months. If I said six, it was before our marriage, when I knew no better. She owns to seven: her own relations say eight; her nurse said nine; and I say ten.”