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NEVER in his whole life had the mind of Sir Peter been so agitated asit was during and after the perusal of Kenelm's flighty composition.He had received it at the breakfast-table, and, opening it eagerly,ran his eye hastily over the contents, till he very soon arrived atsentences which appalled him. Lady Chillingly, who was fortunatelybusied at the tea-urn, did not observe the dismay on his countenance.It was visible only to Cecilia and to Gordon. Neither guessed whothat letter was from.
"No bad news, I hope," said Cecilia, softly.
"Bad news," echoed Sir Peter. "No, my dear, no; a letter on business.It seems terribly long," and he thrust the packet into his pocket,muttering, "see to it by and by."
"That slovenly farmer of yours, Mr. Nostock, has failed, I suppose,"said Mr. Travers, looking up and observing a quiver on his host's lip."I told you he would,—a fine farm too. Let me choose you anothertenant."
Sir Peter shook his head with a wan smile.
"Nostock will not fail. There have been six generations of Nostockson the farm."
"So I should guess," said Travers, dryly.
"And—and," faltered Sir Peter, "if the last of the race fails, hemust lean upon me, and—if one of the two break down—it shall notbe—"
"Shall not be that cross-cropping blockhead, my dear Sir Peter. Thisis carrying benevolence too far."
Here the tact and /savoir vivre/ of Chillingly Gordon came to therescue of the host. Possessing himself of the "Times" newspaper, heuttered an exclamation of surprise, genuine or simulated, and readaloud an extract from the leading article, announcing an impendingchange in the Cabinet.
As soon as he could quit the breakfast-table, Sir Peter hurried intohis library and there gave himself up to the study of Kenelm'sunwelcome communication. The task took him long, for he stopped atintervals, overcome by the struggle of his heart, now melted intosympathy with the passionate eloquence of a son hitherto so free fromamorous romance, and now sorrowing for the ruin of his own cherishedhopes. This uneducated country girl would never be such a helpmate toa man like Kenelm as would have been Cecilia Travers. At length,having finished the letter, he buried his head between his claspedhands, and tried hard to realize the situation that placed the fatherand son into such direct antagonism.
"But," he murmured, "after all it is the boy's happiness that must beconsulted. If he will not be happy in my way, what right have I tosay that he shall not be happy in his?"
Just then Cecilia came softly into the room. She had acquired theprivilege of entering his library at will; sometimes to choose a bookof his recommendation, sometimes to direct and seal his letters,—SirPeter was grateful to any one who saved him an extra trouble,—andsometimes, especially at this hour, to decoy him forth into his wontedconstitutional walk.
He lifted his face at the sound of her approaching tread and herwinning voice, and the face was so sad that the tears rushed to hereyes on seeing it. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and saidpleadingly, "Dear Sir Peter, what is it,—what is it?"
"Ah—ah, my dear," said Sir Peter, gathering up the scattered sheetsof Kenelm's effusion with hurried, trembling hands. "Don'task,—don't talk of it; 'tis but one of the disappointments that allof us must undergo, when we invest our