There was something in the girl’s tone—half fearful, half suspicious—which warned Jervy that he was treading on dangerous ground. He knew perfectly well what he proposed to do, in the case that had been so plainly put him. It was the simplest thing in the world. He had only to make an appointment with Mrs. Farnaby for a meeting on a future day, and to take to flight in the interval; leaving a polite note behind him to say that it was all a mistake, and that he regretted being too poor to return the money. Having thus far acknowledged the design he had in view, could he still venture on answering his companion without reserve? Phoebe was vain, Phoebe was vindictive; and, more promising still, Phoebe was a fool. But she was not yet capable of consenting to an act of the vilest infamy, in cold blood. Jervy looked at her—and saw that the foreseen necessity for lying had come at last.
“That’s just the difficulty,” he said; “that’s just where I don’t see my way plainly yet. Can you advise me?”
Phoebe started, and drew back from him. “I advise you!” she exclaimed. “It frightens me to think of it. If you make her believe she is going to see her daughter, and if she finds out that you have robbed and deceived her, I can tell you this—with her furious temper—you would drive her mad.”
Jervy’s reply was a model of well-acted indignation. “Don’t talk of anything so horrible,” he exclaimed. “If you believe me capable of such cruelty as that, go to Mrs. Farnaby, and warn her at once!”
“It’s too bad to speak to me in that way!” Phoebe rejoined, with the frank impetuosity of an offended woman. “You know I would die, rather than get you into trouble. Beg my pardon directly—or I won’t walk another step with you!”
Jervy made the necessary apologies, with all possible humility. He had gained his end—he could now postpone any further discussion of the subject, without arousing Phoebe’s distrust. “Let us say no more about it, for the present,” he suggested; “we will think it over, and talk of pleasanter things in the mean time. Kiss me, my dear girl; there’s nobody looking.”
So he made peace with his sweetheart, and secured to himself, at the same time, the full liberty of future action of which he stood in need. If Phoebe asked any more questions, the necessary answer was obvious to the meanest capacity. He had merely to say, “The matter is beset with difficulties which I didn’t see at first—I have given it up.”
Their nearest way back to Phoebe’s lodgings took them through the street which led to the Hampden Institution. Passing along the opposite side of the road, they saw the private door opened. Two men stepped out. A third man, inside, called after one of them. “Mr. Goldenheart! you have left the statement of receipts in the waiting-room.” “Never mind,” Amelius answered; “the night’s receipts are so small that I would rather not be reminded of them again.” “In my country,” a third voice remarked, “if he had lectured as he has lectured to-night, I reckon I’d have given him three hundred dollars, gold (sixty pounds, English currency), and have made my own profit by the transaction. The British nation has lost its taste, sir, for intellectual recreation. I wish you good evening.”
Jervy hurried Phoebe out of the way, just as the two gentlemen were crossing the street. He had not forgotten events at Tadmor—and he was by no means eager to renew his former acquaintance with Amelius.