“If you think of bringing my cousin Baskelett, give me warning, sir,” cried Beauchamp. “Give me warning, if you want the house for Shrapnel,” replied his uncle, and remarked to Rosamund, as the carriage wheeled round the mounded laurels to the avenue, “He mayn’t be quite cracked. The fellow seems to have a turn for catching his opportunity by the tail. He had better hold fast, for it’s his last.” CHAPTER XXXVII. CECILIA CONQUERED The carriage rolled out of the avenue and through the park, for some time parallel with the wavy downs. Once away from Steynham Colonel Halkett breathed freely, as if he had dropped a load: he was free of his bond to Mr. Romfrey, and so great was the sense of relief in him that he resolved to do battle against his daughter, supposing her still lively blush to be the sign of the enemy’s flag run up on a surrendered citadel. His authority was now to be thought of: his paternal sanction was in his own keeping. Beautiful as she looked, it was hardly credible that a fellow in possession of his reason could have let slip his chance of such a prize; but whether he had or had not, the colonel felt that he occupied a position enabling him either to out-manœuvre, or, if need were, interpose forcibly and punish him for his half-heartedness. Cecilia looked the loveliest of women to Beauchamp’s eyes, with her blush, and the letters of Dr. Shrapnel in her custody, at her express desire. Certain terms in the letters here and there, unsweet to ladies, began to trouble his mind. “By the way, colonel,” he said, “you had a letter of Dr. Shrapnel’s read to you by Captain Baskelett.” “Iniquitous rubbish!” “With his comments on it, I dare say you thought it so. I won’t speak of his right to make it public. He wanted to produce his impressions of it and me, and that is a matter between him and me. Dr. Shrapnel makes use of strong words now and then, but I undertake to produce a totally different impression on you by reading the letter myself—sparing you” (he turned to Cecilia) “a word or two, common enough to men who write in black earnest and have humour.” He cited his old favourite, the black and bright lecturer on Heroes. “You have read him, I know, Cecilia. Well, Dr. Shrapnel is another, who writes in his own style, not the leading-article style or modern pulpit stuff. He writes to rouse.” “He does that to my temper,” said the colonel. “Perhaps here and there he might offend Cecilia’s taste,” Beauchamp pursued for her behoof. “Everything depends on the mouthpiece. I should not like the letter to be read without my being by;—except by men: any just-minded man may read it: Seymour Austin, for example. Every line is a text to the mind of the writer. Let me call on you to-morrow.”