“And is it quite certain—are you sure?” she stammered with a curious catching of her breath.
“As sure as I am standing here, my dear child! Here’s his letter, you may read it if you like!”
“Oh, no! no!” averting her face with a kind of shuddering sigh. Belle in her innocence was turning the knife in the wound.
“Why, Bet! What’s this, are you not glad? Bet, don’t be silly, you won’t miss me so very much, you have plenty of friends, and perhaps, if you are good, I shall send for you some day to come out and live with us. Eh—why don’t you speak? I thought you would have been delighted!”
“It is all so sudden,” faltered the domestic martyr in a strange voice, “and—and of course,” turning her white face bravely on her cousin, “I am glad you are so happy,” but she might have been a different girl, so changed was she.
“Then look glad, my dear! and kiss me, my Queen Elizabeth. My! how icy cold you are this broiling afternoon, a walk will warm you.”
Belle was far too pre-occupied with her own happiness to take serious notice of her cousin’s deadly pallor.
“I want you to go into town on an errand for me at once. I have so much to do, and think of, and so very little time. I feel completely bewildered. First of all, I must write to those friends of George’s by this post on account of taking my passage. He pays for it; is he not generous? And I am to send him a wire. Look here, do you think this will do?” producing a bit of paper on which was pencilled:
“George Holroyd, Mangobad, India. Yes, coming.”
“Six words at four shillings and six-pence a word, no need to put who it is from. He knows,” and she laughed triumphantly. “It will come to one pound seven; here is the family purse; will you send it at once, and write it on the proper office form?”