“He was bearable at first,” said Phil, “but since you have been away, and while papa has been away, he has led us such a life, Mr. Earnshaw.”
“He is always in the village—always, always in the village; and Sibby says she hates him!” cried little Molly, who was enthusiastic for her last new friend.
“Hush, children—don’t gossip,” said their mother; but she too had a cloud upon her brow.
Then Edgar had a long conversation with Lady Mary in the conservatory, under the palm-tree, while the children had tea. He told her of all his plans and prospects, and of the Consulship, upon which he reckoned so confidently, and which did not, to Lady Mary’s eyes, look quite so fine an opening as it seemed to her husband.
“Of course, then, we must give you up,” she said, regretfully; “but I think Lord Newmarch might have done something better for an old friend.”
Something better! The words seemed idle words to Edgar, so well pleased was he with his prospective appointment. Then he told her of Mr. Thornleigh’s letter, which was so much more gracious than he could have hoped for; and then the cloud returned to Lady Mary’s brow.
“I am not at all easy about Harry,” she said. “Mr. Earnshaw—no, I will call you Edgar, because I have always heard you called Edgar, and always wanted to call you so; Edgar, then—now don’t thank me, for it is quite natural—tell me one thing. Have you any influence with your cousin?”
“The doctor?”
“No, not the doctor; if I wanted anything of him, I should ask it myself. His sister; she is a very beautiful young woman, and, so far as I can see, very sensible and well-behaved, and discreet—no one can say a word against her; but if you had any influence with her, as being her cousin——”
“Is it about Harry?” asked Edgar, anxiously.