“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Miss Clarendon.
“But even to have such things said must be so distressing to her and to her lover, your friend Mr. Beauclerc—so very distressing!”
“I hope they are not such fools as to be distressed about such stuff. All this insufferable talking man’s invention, I dare say.”
“Why do people tell such things?” said Mrs. Pennant. “But, my dear Esther, even supposing it to be all false, it is shocking to have such things spoken of. I pity the poor young lady and her lover. Do you not think, my dear, we shall be able to inquire into the truth of the matter from your brother this evening? He must know, he ought to know about it: whether the report be true or false, he should hear of it. He can best judge what should be done, if any thing should be done, my dear.”
Miss Clarendon quite agreed with all this; indeed she almost always agreed with this aunt of hers, who, perhaps from the peculiar gentleness of her manner, joined to a simplicity and sincerity of character she could never doubt, had an ascendency over her, which no one, at first view, could have imagined. They had many country commissions to execute this morning, which naturally took up a good deal of aunt Pennant’s attention. But between each return from shop to carriage, in the intervals between one commission off her hands and another on her mind, she returned regularly to “that poor Miss Stanley, and those love-letters!” and she sighed. Dear kind-hearted old lady! she had always a heart, as well as a hand, open as day to melting charity—charity in the most enlarged sense of the word: charity in judging as well as charity in giving. She was all indulgence for human nature, for youth and love especially.
“We must take care, my dear Esther,” said she, “to be at General Clarendon’s early, as you will like to have some little time with him to yourself before any one else arrives—shall you not, my dear?”
“Certainly,” replied Miss Clarendon; “I shall learn the truth from my brother in five minutes, if Lady Cecilia does not come between us.”
“Nay, my dear Esther, I cannot think so ill of Lady Cecilia; I cannot believe—”
“No, my dear aunt, I know you cannot think ill of any body. Stay till you know Lady Cecilia Clarendon as I do. If there is any thing wrong in this business, you will find that some falsehood of hers is at the bottom of it.”
“Oh, my dear, do not say so before you know; perhaps, as you thought at first, we shall find that it is all only a mistake of that giddy dentist’s; for your brother’s sake try to think as well as you can of his wife; she is a charming agreeable creature, I am sure.”