Kitabı oku: «The Heir of Redclyffe», sayfa 13
The uncle and nephew were not made to understand each other. Sebastian Dixon was a man of little education, and when, in early youth, his talents had placed him high in his own line, he had led a careless, extravagant life. Though an evil friend, and fatal counsellor, he had been truly attached to Guy’s father, and the secret engagement, and runaway marriage with his beautiful sister, had been the romance of his life, promoted by him with no selfish end. He was a proud and passionate man, and resenting Sir Guy’s refusal to receive his sister as a daughter, almost as much as Sir Guy was incensed at the marriage, had led his brother-in-law to act in a manner which cut off the hope of reconciliation, and obliged Archdeacon Morville to give up his cause. He had gloried in supporting his sister and her husband, and enabling them to set the old baronet at defiance. But young Morville’s territorial pride could not brook that he should be maintained, and especially that his child, the heir of Redclyffe, should be born while he was living at the expense of a musician. This feeling, aided by a yearning for home, and a secret love for his father, mastered his resentment; he took his resolution, quarrelled with Dixon, and carried off his wife, bent with desperation on forcing his father into receiving her.
Sebastian had not surmounted his anger at this step when he learnt its fatal consequences. Ever since that time, nothing had prospered with him: he had married and sunk himself lower, and though he had an excellent engagement, the days were past when he was the fashion, and his gains and his triumphs were not what they had been. He had a long list of disappointments and jealousies with which to entertain Guy, who, on his side, though resolved to like him, and dreading to be too refined to be friends with his relations, could not feel as thoroughly pleased as he intended to have been.
Music was, however, a subject on which they could meet with equal enthusiasm, and by means of this, together with the aid of his own imagination, Guy contrived to be very happy. He stayed with his uncle as long as he could, and promised to spend a day with him in London, on his way to Oxford, in October.
The next morning, when Philip knew that Guy would be with his tutor, he walked to Hollywell, came straight up to his aunt’s dressing-room, asked her to send Charlotte down to practise, and, seating himself opposite to her, began—
‘What do you mean to do about this unfortunate rencontre?’
‘Do you mean Guy and his uncle? He is very much pleased, poor boy! I like his entire freedom from false shame.’
‘A little true shame would be hardly misplaced about such a connection.’
‘It is not his fault, and I hope it will not be his misfortune,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘That it will certainly be,’ replied Philip, ‘if we are not on our guard; and, indeed, if we are, there is little to be done with one so wilful. I might as well have interfered with the course of a whirlwind.’
‘No, no, Philip; he is too candid to be wilful.’
‘I cannot be of your opinion, when I have seen him rushing into this acquaintance in spite of the warnings he must have had here—to say nothing of myself.’
‘Nay, there I must defend him, though you will think me very unwise; I could not feel that I ought to withhold him from taking some notice of so near a relation.’
Philip did think her so unwise, that he could only reply, gravely—
‘We must hope it may produce no evil effects.’
‘How?’ she exclaimed, much alarmed. ‘Have you heard anything against him?’
‘You remember, of course, that Guy’s father was regularly the victim of this Dixon.’
‘Yes, yes; but he has had enough to sober him. Do you know nothing more?’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, growing nervously anxious lest she had been doing wrong in her husband’s absence.
‘I have been inquiring about him from old Redford, and I should judge him to be a most dangerous companion; as, indeed, I could have told from his whole air, which is completely that of a roué.’
‘You have seen him, then?’
‘Yes. He paid me the compliment of taking me for Sir Guy, and of course made off in dismay when he discovered on whom he had fallen. I have seldom seen a less creditable-looking individual.’
‘But what did Mr. Redford say? Did he know of the connection?’
‘No; I am happy to say he did not. The fellow has decency enough not to boast of that. Well, Redford did not know much of him personally: he said he had once been much thought of, and had considerable talent and execution, but taste changes, or he has lost something, so that, though he stands tolerably high in his profession, he is not a leader. So much for his musical reputation. As to his character, he is one of those people who are called no one’s enemy but their own, exactly the introduction Guy has hitherto happily wanted to every sort of mischief.’
‘I think,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, trying to console herself, ‘that Guy is too much afraid of small faults to be invited by larger evils. While he punishes himself for an idle word, he is not likely to go wrong in greater matters.’
‘Not at present.’
‘Is the man in debt or difficulties? Guy heard nothing of that, and I thought it a good sign.’
‘I don’t suppose he is. He ought not, for he has a fixed salary, besides what he gets by playing at concerts when it is not the London season. The wasting money on a spendthrift relation would be a far less evil than what I apprehend.’
‘I wish I knew what to do! It is very unlucky that your uncle is from home.’
‘Very.’
Mrs. Edmonstone was frightened by the sense of responsibility, and was only anxious to catch hold of something to direct her.
‘What would you have me do?’ she asked, hopelessly.
‘Speak seriously to Guy. He must attend to you: he cannot fly out with a woman as he does with me. Show him the evils that must result from such an intimacy. If Dixon was in distress, I would not say a word, for he would be bound to assist him but as it is, the acquaintance can serve no purpose but degrading Guy, and showing him the way to evil. Above all, make a point of his giving up visiting him in London. That is the sure road to evil. A youth of his age, under the conduct of a worn-out roué, connected with the theatres! I can hardly imagine anything more mischievous.’
‘Yes, yes; I will speak to him,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, perfectly appalled.
She promised, but she found the fulfilment difficult, in her dislike of vexing Guy, her fear of saying what was wrong, and a doubt whether the appearance of persecuting Mr. Dixon was not the very way to prevent Guy’s own good sense from finding out his true character, so she waited, hoping Mr. Edmonstone might return before Guy went to Oxford, or that he might write decisively.
Mrs. Edmonstone might have known her husband better than to expect him to write decisively when he had neither herself nor Philip at his elbow. The same post had brought him a letter from Guy, mentioning his meeting with his uncle, and frankly explaining his plans for London; another from Philip, calling on him to use all his authority to prevent this intercourse, and a third from his wife. Bewildered between them, he took them to his sister, who, being as puzzle-headed as himself, and only hearing his involved history of the affair, confused him still more; so he wrote to Philip, saying he was sorry the fellow had turned up, but he would guard against him. He told Guy he was sorry to say that his uncle used to be a sad scamp, and he must take care, or it would be his poor father’s story over again; and to Mrs. Edmonstone he wrote that it was very odd that everything always did go wrong when he was away.
He thought these letters a great achievement, but his wife’s perplexity was not materially relieved.
After considering a good while, she at length spoke to Guy; but it was not at a happy time, for Philip, despairing of her, had just taken on himself to remonstrate, and had angered him to the verge of an outbreak.
Mrs. Edmonstone, as mildly as she could, urged on him that such intercourse could bring him little satisfaction, and might be very inconvenient; that his uncle was in no distress, and did not require assistance; and that it was too probable that in seeking him out he might meet with persons who might unsettle his principles,—in short, that he had much better give up the visit to London.
‘This is Philip’s advice,’ said Guy.
‘It is; but—’
Guy looked impatient, and she paused.
‘You must forgive me,’ he said, ‘if I follow my own judgment. If Mr. Edmonstone chose to lay his commands on me, I suppose I must submit; but I cannot see that I am bound to obey Philip.’
‘Not to obey, certainly; but his advice—’
‘He is prejudiced and unjust,’ said Guy.
‘I don’t believe that my uncle would attempt to lead me into bad company; and surely you would not have me neglect or look coldly on one who was so much attached to my parents. If he is not a gentleman, and is looked down on by the world, it is not for his sister’s son to make him conscious of it.’
‘I like your feelings, Guy; I can say nothing against it, but that I am much afraid your uncle is not highly principled.’
‘You have only Philip’s account of him.’
‘You are resolved?’
‘Yes. I do not like not to take your advice, but I do believe this is my duty. I do not think my determination is made in self-will,’ said Guy, thoughtfully; ‘I cannot think that I ought to neglect my uncle, because I happen to have been born in a different station, which is all I have heard proved against him,’ he added, smiling. ‘You will forgive me, will you not, for not following your advice? for really and truly, if you will let me say so, I think you would not have given it if Philip had not been talking to you.’
Mrs. Edmonstone confessed, with a smile, that perhaps it was so; but said she trusted much to Philip’s knowledge of the world. Guy agreed to this; though still declaring Philip had no right to set him against his uncle, and there the discussion ended.
Guy went to London. Philip thought him very wilful, and his aunt very weak; and Mr. Edmonstone, on coming home, said it could not be helped, and he wished to hear no more about the matter.
CHAPTER 12
Her playful smile, her buoyance wild,
Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child;
But in her forehead’s broad expanse,
Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance,
Is mingled, with the child’s light glee,
The modest maiden’s dignity.
One summer’s day, two years after the ball and review, Mary Ross and her father were finishing their early dinner, when she said,—
‘If you don’t want me this afternoon, papa, I think I shall walk to Hollywell. You know Eveleen de Courcy is there.’
‘No, I did not. What has brought her?’
‘As Charles expresses it, she has over-polked herself in London, and is sent here for quiet and country air. I want to call on her, and to ask Sir Guy to give me some idea as to the singing the children should practise for the school-feast?’
‘Then you think Sir Guy will come to the feast?’
‘I reckon on him to conceal all the deficiencies in the children’s singing.’
‘He won’t desert you, as he did Mrs. Brownlow?’
‘O papa! you surely did not think him to blame in that affair?’
‘Honestly, Mary, if I thought about the matter at all, I thought it a pity he should go so much to the Brownlows.’
‘I believe I could tell you the history, if you thought it worth while; and though it may be gossip, I should like you to do justice to Sir Guy.’
‘Very well; though I don’t think there is much danger of my doing otherwise. I only wondered he should become intimate there at all.’
‘I believe Mrs. Edmonstone thinks it right he should see as much of the world as possible, and not be always at home in their own set.’
‘Fair and proper.’
‘You know she has shown him all the people she could,—had Eveleen staying there, and the Miss Nortons, and hunted him out to parties, when he had rather have been at home.’
‘I thought he was fond of society. I remember your telling me how amused you were with his enjoyment of his first ball.’
‘Ah! he was two years younger then, and all was new. He seems to me too deep and sensitive not to find more pain than pleasure in commonplace society. I have sometimes seen that he cannot speak either lightly or harshly of what he disapproves, and people don’t understand him. I was once sitting next him, when there was some talking going on about an elopement; he did not laugh, looked almost distressed, and at last said in a very low voice, to me, “I wish people would not laugh about such things.”’
‘He is an extraordinary mixture of gaiety of heart, and seriousness.’
‘Well, when Mrs. Brownlow had her nieces with her, and was giving those musical parties, his voice made him valuable; and Mrs. Edmonstone told him he ought to go to them. I believe he liked it at first, but he found there was no end to it; it took up a great deal of time, and was a style of thing altogether that was not desirable. Mrs Edmonstone thought at first his reluctance was only shyness and stay-at-home nonsense, that ought to be overcome; but when she had been there, and saw how Mrs. Brownlow beset him, and the unpleasant fuss they made about his singing, she quite came round to his mind, and was very sorry she had exposed him to so much that was disagreeable.’
‘Well, Mary, I am glad to hear your account. My impression arose from something Philip Morville said.’
‘Captain Morville never can approve of anything Sir Guy does! It is not like Charles.’
‘How improved Charles Edmonstone is. He has lost that spirit of repining and sarcasm, and lives as if he had an object.’
‘Yes; he employs himself now, and teaches Amy to do the same. You know, after the governess went, we were afraid little Amy would never do anything but wait on Charles, and idle in her pretty gentle way; but when he turned to better things so did she, and her mind has been growing all this time. Perhaps you don’t see it, for she has not lost her likeness to a kitten, and looks all demure silence with the elders, but she takes in what the wise say.’
‘She is a very good little thing; and I dare say will not be the worse for growing up slowly.’
‘Those two sisters are specimens of fast and slow growth. Laura has always seemed to be so much more than one year older than Amy, especially of late. She is more like five-and-twenty than twenty. I wonder if she overworks herself. But how we have lingered over our dinner!’
By half-past three, Mary was entering a copse which led into Mr. Edmonstone’s field, when she heard gay tones, and a snatch of one of the sweetest of old songs,—
Weep no more, lady; lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrow is in vain;
For violets pluck’d, the sweetest showers
Will ne’er make grow again.
A merry, clear laugh followed, and a turn in the path showed her Guy, Amy, and Charlotte, busy over a sturdy stock of eglantine. Guy, little changed in these two years,—not much taller, and more agile than robust,—was lopping vigorously with his great pruning-knife, Amabel nursing a bundle of drooping rose branches, Charlotte, her bonnet in a garland of wild sweet-brier, holding the matting and continually getting entangled in the long thorny wreaths.
‘And here comes the “friar of orders gray,” to tell you so,’ exclaimed Guy, as Mary, in her gray dress, came on them.
‘Oh, that is right, dear good friar,’ cried Amy.
‘We are so busy,’ said Charlotte; ‘Guy has made Mr. Markham send all these choice buds from Redclyffe.’
‘Not from the park,’ said Guy, ‘we don’t deal much in gardening; but Markham is a great florist, and these are his bounties.’
‘And are you cutting that beautiful wild rose to pieces?’
‘Is it not a pity?’ said Amy. ‘We have used up all the stocks in the garden, and this is to be transplanted in the autumn.’
‘She has been consoling it all the time by telling it it is for its good,’ said Guy; ‘cutting off wild shoots, and putting in better things.’
‘I never said anything so pretty; and, after all, I don’t know that the grand roses will be equal to these purple shoots and blushing buds with long whiskers.’
‘So Sir Guy was singing about the violets plucked to comfort you. But you must not leave off, I want to see how you do it. I am gardener enough to like to look on.’
‘We have only two more to put in.’
Knife and fingers were busy, and Mary admired the dexterity with which the slit was made in the green bark, well armed with firm red thorns, and the tiny scarlet gem inserted, and bound with cotton and matting. At the least critical parts of the work, she asked after the rest of the party, and was answered that papa had driven Charles out in the pony carriage, and that Laura and Eveleen were sitting on the lawn, reading and working with mamma. Eveleen was better, but not strong, or equal to much exertion in the heat. Mary went on to speak of her school feast and ask her questions.
‘O Guy, you must not go before that!’ cried Charlotte.
‘Are you going away?’
‘He is very naughty, indeed,’ said Charlotte. ‘He is going, I don’t know where all, to be stupid, and read mathematics.’
‘A true bill, I am sorry to say,’ said Guy; ‘I am to join a reading-party for the latter part of the vacation.’
‘I hope not before Thursday week, though we are not asking you to anything worth staying for.’
‘Oh, surely you need not go before that!’ said Amy, ‘need you?’
‘No; I believe I may stay till Friday, and I should delight in the feast, thank you, Miss Ross,—I want to study such things. A bit more matting, Amy, if you please. There, I think that will do.’
‘Excellently. Here is its name. See how neatly Charlie has printed it, Mary. Is it not odd, that he prints so well when he writes so badly?’
‘“The Seven Sisters.” There, fair sisterhood, grow and thrive, till I come to transplant you in the autumn. Are there any more?’
‘No, that is the last. Now, Mary, let us come to mamma.’
Guy waited to clear the path of the numerous trailing briery branches, and the others walked on, Amy telling how sorry they were to lose Guy’s vacation, but that he thought he could not give time enough to his studies here, and had settled, at Oxford, to make one of a reading-party, under the tutorship of his friend, Mr. Wellwood.
‘Where do they go?’
‘It is not settled. Guy wished it to be the sea-side; but Philip has been recommending a farmhouse in Stylehurst parish, rather nearer St. Mildred’s Wells than Stylehurst, but quite out in the moor, and an immense way from both.’
‘Do you think it will be the place?’
‘Yes; Guy thinks it would suit Mr. Wellwood, because he has friends at St. Mildred’s, so he gave his vote for it. He expects to hear how it is settled to-day or to-morrow.’
Coming out on the lawn, they found the three ladies sitting under the acacia, with their books and work. Laura did, indeed, look older than her real age, as much above twenty as Amy looked under nineteen. She was prettier than ever; her complexion exquisite in delicacy, her fine figure and the perfect outline of her features more developed; but the change from girl to woman had passed over her, and set its stamp on the anxious blue eye, and almost oppressed brow. Mary thought it would be hard to define where was that difference. It was not want of bloom, for of that Laura had more than any of the others, fresh, healthy, and bright, while Amy was always rather pale, and Lady Eveleen was positively wan and faded by London and late hours; nor was it loss of animation, for Laura talked and laughed with interest and eagerness; nor was it thought, for little Amy, when at rest, wore a meditative, pensive countenance; but there was something either added or taken away, which made it appear that the serenity and carelessness of early youth had fled from her, and the air of the cares of life had come over her.
Mary told her plans,—Church service at four, followed by a tea-drinking in the fields; tea in the garden for the company, and play for the school children and all who liked to join them. Every one likes such festivals, which have the recommendation of permitting all to do as they please, bringing friends together in perfect ease and freedom, with an object that raises them above the rank of mere gatherings for the pleasure of rich neighbours.
Mrs. Edmonstone gladly made the engagement and Lady Eveleen promised to be quite well, and to teach the children all manner of new games, though she greatly despised the dullness of English children, and had many droll stories of the stupidity of Laura’s pupils, communicated to her, with perhaps a little exaggeration, by Charles, and still further embellished by herself, for the purpose of exciting Charlotte’s indignation.
Mary proceeded to her consultation about the singing, and was conducted by Guy and Amy to the piano, and when her ears could not be indoctrinated by their best efforts, they more than half engaged to walk to East-hill, and have a conversation with the new school-master, whom Mary pitied for having fallen on people so unable to appreciate his musical training as herself and her father. The whole party walked back with her as far as the shade lasted; and at the end of the next field she turned, saw them standing round the stile, thought what happy people they were, and then resumed her wonder whither Laura’s youthfulness had flown.
The situation of Philip and Laura had not changed. His regiment had never been at any great distance from Hollywell, and he often came, venturing more as Laura learnt to see him with less trepidation. He seldom or never was alone with her; but his influence was as strong as ever, and look, word, and gesture, which she alone could understand, told her what she was to him, and revealed his thoughts. To him she was devoted, all her doings were with a view to please him, and deserve his affection; he was her world, and sole object. Indeed, she was sometimes startled by perceiving that tenderly as she loved her own family, all were subordinate to him. She had long since known the true name of her feelings for him; she could not tell when or how the certainty had come, but she was conscious that it was love that they had acknowledged for one another and that she only lived in the light of his love. Still she did not realize the evil of concealment; it was so deep a sensation of her innermost heart, that she never could imagine revealing it to any living creature, and she had besides so surrendered her judgment to her idol, that no thought could ever cross her that he had enjoined what was wrong. Her heart and soul were his alone, and she left the future to him without an independent desire or reflection. All the embarrassments and discomforts which her secret occasioned her were met willingly for his sake, and these were not a few, though time had given her more self-command, or, perhaps, more properly speaking, had hardened her.
She always had a dread of tete-a-tetes and conversations over novels, and these were apt to be unavoidable when Eveleen was at Hollywell. The twilight wanderings on the terrace were a daily habit, and Eveleen almost always paired with her. On this evening in particular, Laura was made very uncomfortable by Eveleen’s declaring that it was positively impossible and unnatural that the good heroine of some novel should have concealed her engagement from her parents. Laura could not help saying that there might be many excuses; then afraid that she was exciting suspicion, changed the subject in great haste, and tried to make Eveleen come indoors, telling her she would tire herself to death, and vexed by her cousin’s protestations that the fresh cool air did her good. Besides, Eveleen was looking with attentive eyes at another pair who were slowly walking up and down the shady walk that bordered the grass-plot, and now and then standing still to enjoy the subdued silence of the summer evening, and the few distant sounds that marked the perfect lull.
‘How calm—how beautiful!’ murmured Amabel.
‘It only wants the low solemn surge and ripple of the tide, and its dash on the rocks,’ said Guy. ‘If ever there was music, it is there; but it makes one think what the ear must be that can take in the whole of those harmonics.’
‘How I should like to hear it!’
‘And see it. O Amy! to show you the sunny sea,—the sense of breadth and vastness in that pale clear horizon line, and the infinite number of fields of light between you and it,—and the free feelings as you stand on some high crag, the wind blowing in your face across half the globe, and the waves dashing far below! I am growing quite thirsty for the sea.’
‘You know, papa said something about your taking your reading-party to Redclyffe.’
‘True, but I don’t think Markham would like it, and it would put old Mrs. Drew into no end of a fuss.’
‘Not like to have you?’
‘O yes, I should be all very well; but if they heard I was bringing three or four men with me, they would think them regular wild beasts. They would be in an awful fright. Besides, it is so long since I have been at home, that I don’t altogether fancy going there till I settle there for good.’
‘Ah! it will be sad going there at first.’
‘And it has not been my duty yet.’
‘But you will be glad when you get there?’
‘Sha’n’t I? I wonder if any one has been to shoot the rabbits on the shag rock. They must have quite overrun it by this time. But I don’t like the notion of the first day. There is not only the great change, but a stranger at the vicarage.’
‘Do you know anything about the new clergyman? I believe Mrs. Ashford is a connection of Lady Thorndale’s?’
‘Yes; Thorndale calls them pattern people, and I have no doubt they will do great good in the parish. I am sure we want some enlightenment, for we are a most primitive race, and something beyond Jenny Robinson’s dame school would do us no harm.’
Here Mr. Edmonstone called from the window that they must come in.
Mrs. Edmonstone thought deeply that night. She had not forgotten her notion that Eveleen was attracted by Guy’s manners, and had been curious to see what would happen when Eveleen was sent to Hollywell for country air.
She had a very good opinion of Lady Eveleen. Since the former visit, she had shown more spirit of improvement, and laid aside many little follies; she had put herself under Laura’s guidance, and tamed down into what gave the promise of a sensible woman, more than anything that had hitherto been observed in her; and little addicted to match-making as Mrs. Edmonstone was, she could not help thinking that Eva was almost worthy of her dear Guy (she never could expect to find anyone she should think quite worthy of him, he was too like one of her own children for that), and on the other hand, how delighted Lord and Lady Kilcoran would be. It was a very pretty castle in the air; but in the midst of it, the notion suddenly darted into Mrs. Edmonstone’s head, that while she was thinking of it, it was Amy, not Eveleen, who was constantly with Guy. Reading and music, roses, botany, and walks on the terrace! She looked back, and it was still the same. Last Easter vacation, how they used to study the stars in the evening, to linger in the greenhouse in the morning nursing the geraniums, and to practise singing over the school-room piano; how, in a long walk, they always paired together; and how they seemed to share every pursuit or pleasure.
Now Mrs. Edmonstone was extremely fond of Guy, and trusted him entirely; but she thought she ought to consider how far this should be allowed. Feeling that he ought to see more of the world, she had sent him as much as she could into society, but it had only made him cling closer to home. Still he was but twenty, it was only a country neighbourhood, and there was much more for him to see before he could fairly be supposed to know his own mind. She knew he would act honourably; but she had a horror of letting him entangle himself with her daughter before he was fairly able to judge of his own feelings. Or, if this was only behaving with a brother’s freedom and confidence, Mrs. Edmonstone felt it was not safe for her poor little Amy, who might learn so to depend on him as to miss him grievously when this intimacy ceased, as it must when he settled at his own home. It would be right, while it was still time, to make her remember that they were not brother and sister, and by checking their present happy, careless, confidential intercourse, to save her from the chill which seemed to have been cast on Laura. Mrs. Edmonstone was the more anxious, because she deeply regretted not having been sufficiently watchful in Laura’s case, and perhaps she felt an unacknowledged conviction that if there was real love on Guy’s part, it would not be hurt by a little reserve on Amy’s. Yet to have to speak to her little innocent daughter on such a matter disturbed her so much, that she could hardly have set about it, if Amy had not, at that very moment, knocked at her door.
‘My dear, what has kept you up so late?’
‘We have been sitting in Eveleen’s room, mamma, hearing about her London life; and then we began to settle our plans for to-morrow, and I came to ask what you think of them. You know Guy has promised to go and hear the East-hill singing, and we were proposing, if you did not mind it, to take the pony-carriage and the donkey, and go in the morning to East-hill, have luncheon, and get Mary to go with us to the top of the great down, where we have never been. Guy has been wanting us, for a long time past, to go and see the view, and saying there is a track quite smooth enough to drive Charlie to the top.’
Amy wondered at her mother’s look of hesitation. In fact, the scheme was so accordant with their usual habits that it was impossible to find any objection; yet it all hinged on Guy, and the appointment at East-hill might lead to a great many more.
‘Do you wish us to do anything else, mamma? We don’t care about it.’
‘No, my dear,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘I see no reason against it. But—’ and she felt as if she was making a desperate plunge, ‘there is something I want to say to you.’
