“I feel as if I could break his neck,” muttered Hunter, below his breath; then added, “Do you remember that I asked leave to write to you once,—only once?”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“And you would not answer me. You shook your head, as though to say the permission would be of no service to me; that I might write, but, you understand, that it would only be to indulge in a delusion—”
“What an expressive shake of the head that meant all that!”
“Ah! there it is again; never serious, never grave! And now I want you to be both. Since I landed in England, I ran down for a day to Devonshire. I saw an old aunt of mine, who, besides being very rich, has retained no small share of the romance of her life. She always had a dash of hero-worship about her, and so I took down Tom with me to show her the gallant fellow whose name was in all the newspapers, and of whom all the world was talking. She was charmed with him,—with his honest, manly simplicity, his utter want of all affectation. She asked me ten times a day, 'Can I not be of service to him? Is there no step he wishes to purchase? Is there nothing we can do for him?' 'Nothing,' said I; 'he is quite equal to his own fortune.' 'He may have brothers,' said she. 'He has a sister,' said I,—'a sister who has made him all that he is, and it was to repay her love and affection that he has shown himself to be the gallant fellow we have seen him.' 'Tell her to come and see me.—that is,' said she, correcting herself, 'give her a letter I shall write, and persuade her, if you can, to oblige me by doing what I ask.' Here is the letter; don't say no till you have read it. Nay, don't shake your head so deploringly; things may be hard without being impossible. At all events, read her note carefully. It's a droll old hand, but clear as print.”
“I'll read it,” said she, looking at the letter; but the sorrowful tone revealed how hopelessly she regarded the task.
“Ask Tom about her; and make Tom tell you what she is like. By Jove! he has such an admiration for the old damsel, I was half afraid he meant to be my uncle.”
They reached the cottage laughing pleasantly over this conceit, and Polly hurried up to her room to read the letter. To her surprise, Josephine was there already, her eyes very red with crying, and her cheeks flushed and feverish-looking.
“My dearest Fifine, what is all this for, on the happiest day of your life?” said she, drawing her arm around her.
“It's all your fault,—all your doing,” said the other, averting her head, as she tried to disengage herself from the embrace.