Calvert smiled grimly at his friend’s pleasantry. “Here is enough trouble for any man to deal with. Duns, outlawry, and a criminal prosecution!” said he, as he replaced his letter in its envelope, and lighted his cigar. He had not been many minutes in the enjoyment of his weed, when he saw Miss Grainger coming hastily towards him. “I wish that old woman would let me alone, just now!” muttered he. “I have need of all my brains for my own misfortunes.”
“It has turned out just as I predicted, Mr. Calvert,” said she, pettishly. “Young Loyd is furious at having his pretensions referred to you, and will not hear of it. His letter to Florence is all but reproachful, and she has gone home with her eyes full of tears. This note for you came as an enclosure.”
Calvert took the note from her hands, and laying it beside him on the rock, smoked on without speaking.
“I knew everything that would happen!” said Miss Grainger. “The old man gave the letter you wrote to his son, who immediately sat down and wrote to Florry. I have not seen the letter myself, but Milly declares that it goes so far as to say, that if Florry admits of any advice or interference on your part, it is tantamount to a desire to break off the engagement. He declares, however, that he neither can nor will believe such a thing to be possible. That he knows she is ignorant of the whole intrigue. Milly assures me that was the word, intrigue; and she read it twice over to be certain. He also says something, which I do not quite understand, about my being led beyond the bounds of judgment by what he calls a traditional reverence for the name you bear—but one thing is plain enough, he utterly rejects the reference to you, or, indeed, to anyone now but Florence herself, and says, ‘This is certainly a case for your own decision, and I will accept of none other than yours.’”
“Is there anything more about me than you have said?” asked Calvert, calmly.
“No, I believe not He begs, in the postscript, that the enclosed note may be given to you, that’s all.”
Calvert took a long breath; he felt as if a weight had been removed from his heart, and he smoked on in silence.
“Won’t you read it?” cried she, eagerly. “I am burning to hear what he says.”
“I can tell you just as well without breaking the seal,” said he, with a half scornful smile. “I know the very tone and style of it, and I recognise the pluck with which such a man, when a thousand miles off, dares to address one like myself.”
“Read it, though; let me hear his own words!” cried she.