‘P.S.—Agneta and Mary desire their fond love to their brother.’
Fordyce was sitting in his room at Fullarton with his correspondence in front of him; he had received two letters and undergone a purgatory of suspense, for, by the time he reached Morphie, his uncle had been kept waiting for him some time. Finding nothing for himself in his private mail-bag, Fullarton had it put under the driving-seat, and the suggestion hazarded by his nephew that it should be brought out only resulted in a curt refusal. The elder man hated to be kept waiting, and the culprit had been forced to get through the homeward drive with what patience he might summon.
Lady Fordyce’s letter lay unopened by that of Sir Thomas, and Crauford, in spite of his satisfaction with the one he had just read, eyed it rather apprehensively. But, after all, the main point was gained, or what he looked upon as the main point, for to the rest of the affair there could be but one issue. He broke the seal of his mother’s envelope, and found a second communication inside it from one of his sisters.
‘MY DEAR CRAUFORD (began Lady Fordyce),
‘As your father is writing to you I will add a few words to convey my good wishes to my son upon the decided step he is about to take. Had I been consulted I should have advised a little more reflection, but as you are bent on pleasing yourself, and your father (whether rightly or wrongly I cannot pretend to say) is upholding you, I have no choice left but to express my cordial good wishes, and to hope that you may never live to regret it. Miss Cecilia Raeburn may be all you say, or she may not, and I should fail in my duty if I did not remind you that a young lady brought up in a provincial neighbourhood is not likely to step into such a position as that of the wife of Sir Thomas Fordyce’s eldest son without the risk of having her head turned, or, worse still, of being incapable of maintaining her dignity. As I have not had the privilege of speaking to your father alone for two days, and as he has found it convenient to sit up till all hours, I do not know whether the consent he has (apparently) given is an unwilling one, but I should be acting against my conscience were I to hide from you that I suspect it most strongly. With heartfelt wishes for your truest welfare,
‘I remain, my dear Crauford,
‘Your affectionate mother,
‘LOUISA CHARLOTTE FORDYCE.’
‘P.S.—Would it not be wise to delay your plans until you have been once more at home, and had every opportunity of thinking it over? You might return here in a few days, and conclude your visit to your uncle later on—say, at the end of September.’
Crauford laid down the sheet of paper; he was not apt to seize on hidden things, but the little touch of nature which cropped up, like a daisy from a rubbish-heap, in the end of his father’s letter gave him sympathy to imagine what the atmosphere of Fordyce Castle must have been when it was written. He respected his mother, not by nature, but from habit, and the experiences he had sometimes undergone had never shaken his feelings, but only produced a sort of distressed bewilderment. He was almost bewildered now. He turned again to Sir Thomas’s letter, and re-read it for comfort.