"About Miss Amory's father—about Lady Clavering's first husband, and who he is, and what."
"Hem—a devilish awkward affair!" said the old man, rubbing his nose. "I—I've been aware of that—eh—confounded circumstance, for some time."
"I wish I had known it sooner, or not at all," said Arthur, gloomily.
"He is all safe," thought the senior, greatly relieved. "Gad! I should have liked to keep it from you altogether—and from those two poor women, who are as innocent as unborn babes in the transaction."
"You are right. There is no reason why the two women should hear it; and I shall never tell them—though that villain, Morgan, perhaps may," Arthur said, gloomily. "He seems disposed to trade upon his secret, and has already proposed terms of ransom to me. I wish I had known of the matter earlier, sir. It is not a very pleasant thought to me that I am engaged to a convict's daughter."
"The very reason why I kept it from you—my dear boy. But Miss Amory is not a convict's daughter, don't you see? Miss Amory is the daughter of Lady Clavering, with fifty or sixty thousand pounds for a fortune; and her father-in-law, a baronet and country gentleman, of high reputation, approves of the match, and gives up his seat in Parliament to his son-in-law. What can be more simple?"
"Is it true, sir?"
"Begad, yes, it is true, of course it's true. Amory's dead. I tell you he is dead. The first sign of life he shows, he is dead. He can't appear. We have him at a dead-lock like the fellow in the play—the Critic, hey?—devilish amusing play, that Critic. Monstrous witty man Sheridan; and so was his son. By gad, sir, when I was at the Cape, I remember—" The old gentleman's garrulity, and wish, to conduct Arthur to the Cape, perhaps arose from a desire to avoid the subject which was near est his nephew's heart; but Arthur broke out, interrupting him, "If you had told me this tale sooner, I believe you would have spared me and yourself a great deal of pain and disappointment; and I should not have found myself tied to an engagement from which I can't, in honor, recede."
"No, begad, we've fixed you—and a man who's fixed to a seat in Parliament, and a pretty girl, with a couple of thousand a year, is fixed to no bad thing, let me tell you," said the old man.
"Great Heavens, sir!" said Arthur; "are you blind? Can't you see?"