My dear Nancy,
I was very glad to receive your letter, which makes everything clear. Fate was dead against that interview, perhaps I may get home when this bit of a scrap is over; we are expecting to have a brush with the tribes at once. If I do manage leave, I shall return immediately, and hope our meeting may come off,—the third time is the charm. I write in desperate haste to catch the Dâk just going down, as I want you to have this answer without delay. My hands are so frozen, I can scarcely hold my pen; will write again next week.
Yours always,
D. M.
This letter filled Nancy with a glow of happiness and a sense of joy and relief, such as she had not known for many a long day. She hurried up the avenue clutching her treasure, half afraid that Finchie would overtake and cross-examine her, but looking back she noticed, that Finchie, with a large bundle of correspondence in her hand, was still gossiping with the postman.
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE AVOWAL
It was mid October and the woods round Newenham were not now dressed in green, but clothed in various shades of brown, dark red, and deep orange; in the grounds, one no longer heard the continual rattle of the mowing machine; the gardeners were busy with barrows and brooms, sweeping up, and removing, the endless showers of withered leaves. Within, the atmosphere was gay and sunny, here were various congenial guests: Roger De Wolfe and Major Horne had come for the pheasant shooting. Mrs. Horne, Billy and Baby Miller were of the party, and Mrs. Hicks who had rushed down on a flying visit, before she sailed for India, also Mrs. Ffinch, and Mr. Mayne.
The solitary old gentleman, had seemed so dull and depressed, that Mrs. De Wolfe insisted that he should join her circle—even for a few days. To Nancy she said, "I've no doubt that the gossips will think that we are going to be married at last; they settled a match years and years ago, and how my boys used to laugh and chaff me! You will look after him, Nancy, the old man is devoted to you, and you are devoted to him, and I must confess, I admire the courage with which you take him on at Bridge; a most hopeless and expensive partner, who doubles and re-doubles, even if he holds a Yarborough; the old gambling spirit re-appearing in a milder form!"
It was five o'clock in the afternoon, the party were collected round the tea table in the hall,—a table laden with rare old silver, a fine Crown Derby tea-service, hot scones—savoury sandwiches and cakes too numerous to mention—and Mrs. Ffinch,—who never lost sight of an opportunity,—had cleverly manœuvred dull Roger De Wolfe into a seat next to lively Baby Miller. In the opinion of this astute matron, it was full time that Roger was married; he was forty, his hair was thinning on the top, his figure was thickening; in short, she was resolved upon this match. Glancing over the girls in the neighbourhood, she found none so suitable to be the future mistress of the Court, as pretty, red-haired "Baby."