“Do tell me: what can it be?”
“Read this,” said he, presenting a very dirty-looking note which bore the mark of a red wafer most infernally plain upon its outside.
Miss Dashwood unfolded the billet, and after a moment’s silence, instead of participating, as he expected, in her father’s feeling of distress, burst out a-laughing, while she said: “Why, really, Papa, I do not see why this should put you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a character, as her note evinces, but after a few days—”
“Nonsense, child; there’s nothing in this world I have such a dread of as that confounded woman,—and to come at such a time.”
“When does she speak of paying her visit?”
“I knew you had not read the note,” said Sir George, hastily; “she’s coming here to-night,—is on her way this instant, perhaps. What is to be done? If she forces her way in here, I shall go deranged outright; O’Malley, my boy, read this note, and you will not feel surprised if I appear in the humor you see me.”
I took the billet from the hands of Miss Dashwood, and read as follows:—
DEAR BROTHER,—When this reaches your hand, I’ll not be far
off. I’m on my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the ould
complaint. Cowley mistakes my case entirely; he says it’s nothing
but religion and wind. Father Magrath, who understands a good
deal about females, thinks otherwise; but God knows who’s right.
Expect me to tea, and, with love to Lucy,
Believe me, yours in haste,
JUDITH MACAN.
Let the sheets be well aired in my room; and if you have a spare bed, perhaps we could prevail upon Father Magrath to stop too.
I scarcely could contain my laughter till I got to the end of this very free-and-easy epistle; when at last I burst forth in a hearty fit, in which I was joined by Miss Dashwood.