"I have not preserved it," was the answer. "My correspondence is so extensive that there would be no limit to the acc.u.mulation if I did not destroy the trivial letters."

There was a sudden flush on Philip"s pale face that caused his sister to pause in her measured, self-satisfied speech, and ask if he was in pain.

"No," he replied, shortly, and Margaret pondered on his strange manner, little guessing what profanation her mention of Amabel"s letter had seemed to him, or how it jarred on him to hear this exaggerated likeness of his own self-complacent speeches.

She was much shocked and grieved to see him so much more unwell than she had expected. He was unfit for anything but to go to bed on his arrival.

Dr. Henley said the system had received a severe shock, and it would be long before the effects would be shaken off; but that there was no fear but his health would be completely restored if he would give himself entire rest.

There was no danger that Margaret would not lavish care enough on her brother. She waited on him in his room all the next day, bringing him everything he could want, and trying to make him come down-stairs, for she thought sitting alone there very bad for his spirits; but he said he had a letter to write, and very curious she was to know why he was so long doing it, and why he did not tell her to whom it was addressed.

However, she saw when it was put into the post-bag, that it was for Lady Morville.

At last, too late to see any of the visitors who had called to inquire, when the evening had long closed in, she had the satisfaction of seeing Philip enter the drawing-room, and settling him in the most comfortable of her easy-chairs on one side of the fire to wait till the Doctor returned for dinner. The whole apartment was most luxurious, s.p.a.cious, and richly furnished; the fire, in its brilliant steel setting, glancing on all around, and illuminating her own stately presence, and rich glace silk, as she sat opposite her brother cutting open the leaves of one of the books of the club over which she presided. She felt that this was something like attaining one of the objects for which she used to say and think she married,--namely, to be able to receive her brother in a comfortable home. If only he would but look more like himself.

"Do you like a cushion for your head, Philip? Is it better?"

"Better since morning, thank you."

"Did those headaches come on before your second illness?"

"I can"t distinctly remember."

"Ah! I cannot think how the Edmonstones could leave you. I shall always blame them for that relapse."

"It had nothing to do with it. Their remaining was impossible."

"On Amabel"s account? No, poor thing, I don"t blame her, for she must have been quite helpless; but it was exactly like my aunt, to have but one idea at a time. Charles used to be the idol, and now it is Amy, I suppose."

"If anything could have made it more intolerable for me, it would have been detaining them there for my sake, at such a time."

"Ah! I felt a great deal for you. You must have been very sorry for that poor little Amy. She was very kind in writing while you were ill. How did she contrive, poor child? I suppose you took all the head work for her?"

"I? I was nothing but a burden."

"Were you still so very ill?" said Margaret, tenderly. "I am sure you must have been neglected."

"Would that I had!" muttered Philip, so low that she did not catch the words. Then aloud,--"No care could have been greater than was taken for me. It was as if no one had been ill but myself, and the whole thought of every one had been for me."

"Then Amabel managed well, poor thing! We do sometimes see those weak soft characters--"

"Sister!" he interrupted."

"Have not you told me so yourself?"

"I was a fool, or worse," said he, in a tone of suffering. "No words can describe what she proved herself."

"Self-possessed? energetic?" asked Mrs. Henley, with whom those were the first of qualities; and as her brother paused from repugnance to speak of Amabel to one so little capable of comprehending her, she proceeded: "No doubt she did the best she could, but she must have been quite inexperienced. It was a very young thing in the poor youth to make her executrix. I wonder the will was valid; but I suppose you took care of that."

"I did nothing."

"Did you see it?"

"My uncle showed it to me."

"Then you can tell me what I want to hear, for no one has told me anything. I suppose my uncle is to be guardian?"

"No; Lady Morville."

"You don"t mean it? Most lover-like indeed. That poor girl to manage that great property? Everything left to her!" said Mrs. Henley, continuing her catechism in spite of the unwillingness of his replies.

"Were there any legacies? I know of Miss Wellwood"s."

"That to Dixon"s daughter, and my own," he answered.

"Yours? How was it that I never heard of it? What is it?"

"Ten thousand," said Philip, sadly.

"I am delighted to hear it!" cried Margaret. "Very proper of Sir Guy--very proper indeed, poor youth. It is well thought of to soften the disappointment."

Philip started forward. "Disappointment!" exclaimed he, with horror.

"You need not look as if I wished to commit murder," said his sister, smiling. "Have you forgotten that it depends on whether it is a son or daughter?"

His dismay was not lessened. "Do you mean to say that this is to come on me if the child is a daughter?"

"Ah! you were so young when the entail was made, that you knew nothing of it. Female heirs were expressly excluded. There was some aunt whom old Sir Guy pa.s.sed over, and settled the property on my father and you, failing his own male heirs."

"No one would take advantage of such a chance," said Philip.

"Do not make any rash resolutions, my dear brother, whatever you do,"

said Margaret. "You have still the same fresh romantic generous spirit of self-sacrifice that is generally so soon worn out, but you must not let it allow you--"

"Enough of this," said Philip, hastily, for every word was a dagger.

"Ah! you are right not to dwell on the uncertainty. I am almost sorry I told you," said Margaret. "Tell me about Miss Wellwood"s legacy," she continued, desirous of changing the subject. "I want to know the truth of it, for every one is talking of it.""How comes the world to know of it?"

"There have been reports ever since his death, and now it has been paid, whatever it is, on Lady Morville"s coming of age. Do you know what it is? The last story I was told was, that it was 2O,OOO, to found a convent to pray for his grand--"

"Five thousand for her hospital," interrupted Philip. "Sister!" he added; speaking with effort, "it was for that hospital that he made the request for which we persecuted him."

"Ah! I thought so, I could have told you so!" cried Margaret, triumphant in her sagacity, but astonished, as her brother started up and stood looking at her, as if he could hardly resolve to give credit to her words.

"You--thought--so," he repeated slowly.

"I guessed it from the first. He was always with that set, and I thought it a very bad thing for him; but as it was only a guess, it was not worth while to mention it: besides, the cheque seemed full evidence. It was the general course, not the individual action."

"If you thought so, why not mention it to me? Oh! sister, what would you not have spared me!"

"I might have done so if it had appeared that it might lead to his exculpation, but you were so fully convinced that his whole course confirmed the suspicions, that a mere vague idea was not worth dwelling on. Your general opinion, of him satisfied me."