Anxiety made him look daily more wretchedly haggard; the Doctor was at fault, Mrs. Henley looked sagacious, while his manner became so dry and repellent that visitors went away moralizing on the absurdity of "nouveaux riches" taking so much state on them.
He wondered how soon he might venture to write to Amabel, on whom alone he could depend; but he felt it a sort of profanity to disturb her.
He had nearly given up his visits to the post in despair, when one morning he beheld what never failed to bring some soothing influence, namely, the fair pointed characters he had not dared to hope for. He walked quickly into the promenade, sat down, and read:--
'Hollywell, March 22nd.
'MY DEAR PHILIP,--Papa does not answer your letter, because he says speaking is better than writing, and we hope you are well enough to come to us before Sunday week. I hope to take our dear little girl to be christened on that day, and I want you to be so kind as to be her godfather. I ask it of you, not only in my own name, but in her father's, for I am sure it is what he would choose. Her Aunt Laura and Mary Ross are to be her godmothers, I hope you will not think me very foolish and fanciful for naming her Mary Verena, in remembrance of our old readings of Sintram. She is a very healthy, quiet creature, and I am getting on very well. I am writing from the dressing-room, and I expect to be down-stairs in a few days. If you do not dislike it very much, could you be so kind as to call upon Miss Wellwood, and pay little Marianne Dixon's quarter for me? It is £10, and it will save trouble if you would do it; besides that, I should like to hear of her and the little girl. I am sorry to hear you are not better,--perhaps coming here may do you good.--Four o'clock. I have been keeping my letter in hopes of persuading papa to put in a note, but he says he had rather send a message that he is quite ready to forgive and forget, and it will be best to talk it over when you come."
'Your affectionate cousin, 'A. F. MORVILLE.'
It was well he was not under his sister's eye, for he could not read this letter calmly, and he was obliged to take several turns along the walk before he could recover his composure enough to appear in the breakfast-room, where he found his sister alone, dealing her letters into separate packets of important and unimportant.
'Good morning, Philip. Dr. Henley is obliged to go to Bramshaw this morning, and has had an early breakfast. Have you been out?'
'Yes, it is very fine--I mean it will be--the haze is clearing.'
Margaret saw that he was unusually agitated, and not by grief; applied herself to tea-making, and hoped his walk had given him an appetite; but there seemed little chance of this so long were his pauses between each morsel, and so often did he lean back in his chair.
'I am going to leave you on--on Friday,' he said at length, abruptly.
'Oh, are you going to Redclyffe?'
'No; to Hollywell. Lady Morville wishes me to be her little girl's sponsor; I shall go to London on Friday, and on, the next day.'
'I am glad they have asked you. Does she write herself? Is she pretty well?
'Yes; she is to go down-stairs in a day or two.'
'I am rejoiced that she is recovering so well. Do you know whether she is in tolerable spirits?'
'She writes cheerfully.'
'How many years is it since I saw her? She was quite a child, but very sweet-tempered and attentive to poor Charles,' said Mrs. Henley, feeling most amiably disposed towards her future sister-in-law.
'Just so. Her gentleness and sweet temper were always beautiful; and she has shown herself under her trials what it would be presumptuous to praise.'
Margaret had no doubt now, and thought he was ready for more open sympathy.
'You must let me congratulate you now on this unexpected dawn of hope, after your long trial, my dear brother. It is a sort of unconscious encouragement you could hardly hope for.'
'I did not know you knew anything of it,' said Philip.
'Ah! my dear brother, you betrayed yourself. You need not be disconcerted; only a sister could see the real cause of your want of spirits. Your manner at each mention of her, your anxiety, coupled with your resolute avoidance of her--'
'Of whom? Do you know what you are talking of, sister!' said Philip, sternly.
'Of Amabel, of course.'
Philip rose, perfectly awful in his height and indignation.
'Sister!' he said--paused, and began again. 'I have been attached to Laura Edmonstone for years past, and Lady Morville knows it.'
'To Laura!' cried Mrs. Henley, in amaze. 'Are you engaged?' and, as he was hardly prepared to answer, she continued, 'If you have not gone too far to recede, only consider before you take any rash step. You come into this property without ready money, you will find endless claims, and if you marry at once, and without fortune, you will never be clear from difficulties.'
'I have considered,' he replied, with cold loftiness that would have silenced any one, not of the same determined mould.
'You are positively committed, then!' she said, much vexed. 'Oh, Philip! I did not think you would have married for mere beauty.'
'I can hear no more discussion on this point,' answered Philip, in the serious, calm tone that showed so much power over himself and every one else.
It put Margaret to silence, though she was excessively disappointed to find him thus involved just at his outset, when he might have married so much more advantageously. She was sorry, too, that she had shown her opinion so plainly, since it was to be, and hurt his feelings just as he seemed to be thawing. She would fain have learned more; but he was completely shut up within himself, and never opened again to her. She had never before so grated on every delicate feeling in his mind; and he only remained at her house because in his present state of health, he hardly knew where to bestow himself till it was time for him to go to Hollywell.
He went to call on Miss Wellwood, to whom his name was no slight recommendation, and she met him eagerly, asking after Lady Morville, who, she said, had twice written to her most kindly about little Marianne.
It was a very pleasant visit, and a great relief. He looked at the plans, heard the fresh arrangements, admired, was interested, and took pleasure in having something to tell Amabel. He asked for Marianne, and heard that she was one of the best of children--amiable, well- disposed, only almost too sensitive. Miss Wellwood said it was remarkable how deep an impression Sir Guy had made upon her, and how affectionately she remembered his kindness; and her distress at hearing of his death had been far beyond what such a child could have been supposed to feel, both in violence and in duration. Philip asked to see her, knowing it would please Amabel, and in she came--a long, thin, nine-year-old child, just grown into the encumbering shyness, that is by no means one of the graces of "la vieillesse de l'enfance".
He wished to be kind and encouraging; but melancholy, added to his natural stateliness, made him very formidable; and poor Marianne was capable of nothing beyond 'yes' or 'no.'
He told her he was going to see Lady Morville and her little girl, whereat she eagerly raised her eyes, then shrank in affright at anything so tall, and so unlike Sir Guy. He said the baby was to be christened next Sunday, and Miss Wellwood helped him out by asking the name.
'Mary,' he said, for he was by no means inclined to explain the Verena, though he knew not half what it conveyed to Amabel.
Lastly, he asked if Marianne had any message; when she hung down her head, and whispered to Miss Wellwood, what proved to be 'My love to dear little cousin Mary.'