To her feminine mind,--to her, living, not in the world of London, but in the very moderate fashion of Cheltenham,--it seemed to be impossible that an entail should be thus blighted in the bud. Why was an entail called an entail unless it were ineradicable,--a decision of fate rather than of man and of law? And to her eyes Mountjoy Scarborough was so commanding that all things must at last be compelled to go as he would have them. And, to tell the truth, there had lately come to Mrs. Mountjoy a word of comfort, which might be necessary if the world should be absolutely upset in accordance with the wicked skill of her brother, which even in that case might make crooked things smooth. Augustus, whom she had regarded always as quite a Mountjoy, because of his talent, and appearance, and habit of command, had whispered to her a word. Why should not Florence be transferred with the remainder of the property? There was something to Mrs. Mountjoy's feelings base in the idea at the first blush of it. She did not like to be untrue to her gallant nephew. But as she came to turn it in her mind there were certain circumstances which recommended the change to her--should the change be necessary. Florence certainly had expressed an unintelligible objection to the elder brother. Why should the younger not be more successful? Mrs. Mountjoy's heart had begun to droop within her as she had thought that her girl would prove deaf to the voice of the charmer. Another charmer had come, most objectionable in her sight, but to him no word of absolute encouragement had, as she thought, been yet spoken. Augustus had already obtained for himself among his friends the character of an eloquent young lawyer. Let him come and try his eloquence on his cousin,--only let it first be ascertained, as an assured fact, and beyond the possibility of all retrogression, that the squire's villainy was certain. "I think, my love," she said to her daughter one day, "that, under the immediate circumstances of the family, we should retire for a while into private life." This occurred on the very day on which Septimus Jones had been vaguely informed of the iniquitous falsehood of Harry Annesley. "Good gracious, mamma, is not our life always private?" She had understood it all,--that the private life was intended altogether to exclude Harry, but was to be made open to the manoeuvres of her cousin, such as they might be. "Not in the sense in which I mean. Your poor uncle is dying." "We hear that Sir William says he is better." "I fear, nevertheless, that he is dying,--though it may, perhaps, take a long time. And then poor Mountjoy has disappeared. I think that we should see no one till the mystery about Mountjoy has been cleared up. And then the story is so very discreditable." "I do not see that that is an affair of ours," said Florence, who had no desire to be shut up just at the present moment.