“I indulge in no suppositions of the sort.
I content myself with thinking that Gordon is clever,
insinuating, young; and it is a very good chance of
bettering himself that you have thrown in his way.
However, it is no affair of mine; and though on the
whole I like Kenelm better than Gordon, still I like
Gordon very well, and I have an interest in following
his career which I can’t say I have in conjecturing
what may be Kenelm’s—more likely no
career at all.”
“Mivers, you delight in provoking me; you do
say such uncomfortable things. But, in the first
place, Gordon spoke rather slightingly of Miss Travers.”
“Ah, indeed; that’s a bad sign,”
muttered Mivers.
Sir Peter did not hear him, and went on.
“And, besides, I feel pretty sure that the dear
girl has already a regard for Kenelm which allows
no room for a rival. However, I shall not forget
your hint, but keep a sharp lookout; and, if I see
the young man wants to be too sweet on Cecilia, I
shall cut short his visit.”
“Give yourself no trouble in the matter; it
will do no good. Marriages are made in heaven.
Heaven’s will be done. If I can get away
I will run down to you for a day or two. Perhaps
in that case you can ask Lady Glenalvon. I like
her, and she likes Kenelm. Have you finished?
I see the brougham is at the door, and we have to
call at your hotel to take up your carpet-bag.”
Mivers was deliberately sealing his notes while he
thus spoke. He now rang for his servant, gave
orders for their delivery, and then followed Sir Peter
down stairs and into the brougham. Not a word
would he say more about Gordon, and Sir Peter shrank
from telling him about the L20,000. Chillingly
Mivers was perhaps the last person to whom Sir Peter
would be tempted to parade an act of generosity.
Mivers might not unfrequently do a generous act himself,
provided it was not divulged; but he had always a
sneer for the generosity of others.
Wandering back towards Moleswich, Kenelm found
himself a little before sunset on the banks of the
garrulous brook, almost opposite to the house inhabited
by Lily Mordaunt. He stood long and silently
by the grassy margin, his dark shadow falling over
the stream, broken into fragments by the eddy and
strife of waves, fresh from their leap down the neighbouring
waterfall. His eyes rested on the house and the
garden lawn in the front. The upper windows were
open. “I wonder which is hers,”
he said to himself. At last he caught a glimpse
of the gardener, bending over a flower border with
his watering-pot, and then moving slowly through the
little shrubbery, no doubt to his own cottage.
Now the lawn was solitary, save that a couple of thrushes
dropped suddenly on the sward.
“Good evening, sir,” said a voice.
“A capital spot for trout this.”
Kenelm turned his head, and beheld on the footpath,
just behind him, a respectable elderly man, apparently
of the class of a small retail tradesman, with a fishing-rod
in his hand and a basket belted to his side.
