as here she, and the King through her, is likely to learn the truth.”
“Had she no other errand?” Mr. Hampden asked of Lady Carewe.
“She spoke of Henrietta. It was natural. She always does.”
“What did she say?”
“What our own hearts have said before. She dwelt upon the innocence of Henrietta’s intentions,—and upon the poor child’s ignorance of the contents of the despatches.”
Mr. Hampden said nothing. It needed no explanation that these excuses had no bearing upon the fact that Mr. Hampden’s daughter, the wife of a Puritan patriot, had been engaged in an intrigue of the Queen’s.
“Let me ask you one question, brother,” said Lady Carewe. “Are there any circumstances, any conditions, under which you could receive our poor child under your roof again?”
“Do not say ‘No,’ father!” Philip entreated. “Harry is so unhappy! We are all so unhappy!”
“Is she unhappy, Philip?”
“There can be no doubt of it,” Lady Carewe declared. “The first fever of her passion is over. Her mere perplexity must be very great; but what is that in comparison withBrother, I need not tell you that there is nothing in political passion which can fill the void of loneliness after a wedded life.”
“Let her stay among the friends whom she has chosen. Such is my judgment. Harry will act for himself.”
“Do you mean never to see her more?”
“I do not say that.”
“If you should enter the Government, father,” said Philip: “if you should become Secretary of State, and become a counsellor of the King—”
“That will not come to pass, Philip. The plan is too uncertain: the King’s intrigues and misadventures are warnings too strong.”
“Mr. Pym thinks so?”
“We think alike on the matter. But it does not follow that Pym may not have charge of the Exchequer some day. As to my poor daughter, when Harry’s honour permits her return, her father’s tenderness will not be lacking.”
“Bless you, brother!” “Thank you, father!” were the answers.
Though he had been standing with his lighted candle in his hand, Mr. Hampden did not go. He observed, after a moment’s musing, that he had something to say which would be best said now. Yet his voice wholly failed when he would have proceeded.
“To-morrow, brother,” said Lady Carewe. “Rest now, and speak to us to-morrow.”
He spoke now, however.
“I did not think,” he said, “to have taken any order in regard to my own remaining years. I was content to have lived to the end as I have lived for many years: but I have lost my daughter Margaret, who was a dear friend: I have lost my child Henrietta, who was very dear to me. It has pleased God to make my life very desolate—” He stopped.
“We understand, brother; do we not, Philip?”
Philip was silent and very pale.
“I am about to marry again,” Mr. Hampden resumed. “I am about to wed a lady at Reading, about whom I will communicate all you wish at another time. Sister, she is worthy of the place once filled by one whom we have mourned so long. Philip can scarcely remember his mother.”
“I do,” said Philip, in great emotion. “But, father, far be it from me to say—(if you would learn my mind upon this)—that you are not right. You have been sorely tried, and of late—”
“Truly desolate, my son, though I have had such friends as you two.”
“You need the solace,” said Lady Carewe.
“Yet more, the country needs that we should have stout and cheerful hearts, sister: and God knows, mine has of late been neither.” There was a moment’s pause, and then he said, “Her name is Letitia Vachell. And now good-night, good sister and good son!”
When the door closed after him, Lady Carewe asked, “Had you any thought of this, Philip?”
“None whatever. Is it as new to you, and as—as strange?”
“It is neither new nor strange to my expectations, Philip. When he did not marry for some years, I believed he would live as he said just now. But see how grave his countenance is, remember whether you have seen him smile since Margaret’s death, think how we have lost Henrietta, and then marvel if you can that he inclines to renew the life of his heart.”
“I am not wondering, aunt.”
“For my part, Philip, I approve it. I remember what my sister’s love for him was; and on her part I say it is a thing to be desired. Is it not so?”
Philip intimated, in the fewest words, that the times were very grave for new enterprises, involving the domestic happiness of any. He believed that a season was coming during which men’s lives would be as clouds before the wind. If, however, his father was to live to wear grey hairs, and to see his great grandchildren, this new marriage would be looked upon as a great blessing.
“Right,” said Lady Carewe. “And Philip, I know you are not thinking of danger to the interests of the eldest son—”
“Aunt Carewe, I never thought of it at all.”
“So I perceived. But if you had, I would have assured you that your due expectations will be duly regarded. As it is—”
“Aunt Carewe, where all men’s lives are precarious, mine is at risk with the rest. I cannot spend thought on what may be behind the black curtain which the Devil and the King have let down between our eyes and the prospects of England. As my father has lost daughters, he may lose sons.”
“It is not like you, Philip, to speak thus.”
“True: but I speak,—perhaps not without reason.”
“God save us from outliving you, Philip!”
“Blood was nearly shed to-day,” said Philip. “If it is not to-morrow, it will be next week or next month. And how many heads will fall like Strafford’s? Aunt Carewe, the land will be full of widows.”
They parted for the night with full hearts.