was but little disposed to pay any part.  He must be talked to, and very seriously talked to, and if possible saved from the sin of offending his easily-offended uncle.  A terrible idea had been suggested to her lately by her husband.  The entail might be made altogether inoperative by the marriage of her brother.  It was a fearful notion, but one which if it entered into her brother’s head might possibly be carried out.  No one before had ever dreamed of anything so dangerous to the Annesley interests, and Mrs. Annesley now felt that by due submission on the part of the heir it might be avoided.

But the squire himself was the foe whom Harry most feared.  He quite understood that he would be required to be submissive, and, even if he were willing, he did not know how to act the part.  There was much now that he would endure for the sake of Florence.  If Mr. Prosper demanded that after dinner he should hear a sermon, he would sit and hear it out.  It would be a bore, but might be endured on behalf of the girl whom he loved.  But he much feared that the cause of his uncle’s displeasure was deeper than that.  A rumor had reached him that his uncle had declared his conduct to Mountjoy Scarborough to have been abominable.  He had heard no words spoken by his uncle, but threats had reached him through his mother, and also through his uncle’s man of business.  He certainly would go down to Buston, and carry himself toward his uncle with what outward signs of respect would be possible.  But if his uncle accused him, he could not but tell his uncle that he knew nothing of the matter of which he was talking.  Not for all Buston could he admit that he had done anything mean or ignoble.  Florence, he was quite sure, would not desire it.  Florence would not be Florence were she to desire it.  He thought that he could trace the hands,—­or rather the tongues,—­through which the calumny had made its way down to the Hall.  He would at once go to the Hall, and tell his uncle all the facts.  He would describe the gross ill-usage to which he had been subjected.  No doubt he had left the man sprawling upon the pavement, but there had been no sign that the man had been dangerously hurt; and when two days afterward the man had vanished, it was clear that he could not have vanished without legs.  Had he taken himself off,—­as was probable,—­then why need Harry trouble himself as to his vanishing?  If some one else had helped him in escaping,—­as was also probable,—­why had not that some one come and told the circumstances when all the inquiries were being made?  Why should he have been expected to speak of the circumstances of such an encounter, which could not have been told but to Captain Scarborough’s infinite disgrace?  And he could not have told of it without naming Florence Mountjoy.

His uncle, when he heard the truth, must acknowledge that he had not behaved badly.  And yet Harry, as he turned it all in his mind was uneasy as to his own conduct.  He could not quite acquit himself in that he had kept secret all the facts of that midnight encounter in the face of the inquiries which had been made, in that he had falsely assured Augustus Scarborough of his ignorance.  And yet he knew that on no consideration would he acknowledge himself to have been wrong.