Beecher re-read the letter from the beginning; nor was it an easy matter for him to master at once all the topics it included. Of himself and his own affairs the information was vague and unsatisfactory; but Grog knew how to keep him always in suspense,—to make him ever feel that he was swimming for his life, and he himself the only “spar” he could catch at.
“Bring me to book about my care of his daughter!” muttered he, over and over, “just as if she was n't the girl to take care of herself. Egad! he seems to know precious little about her. I 'd give a 'nap' to show her this letter, and just hear what she 'd say of it all. I suppose she 'd split on me. She 'd go and tell Davis, 'Beecher has put me up to the whole “rig;”' and if she did—What would happen then?” asked he, replying to the low, plaintive whistle which concluded his meditation. “Eh—what! did I say anything?” cried he, in terror.
“Not a syllable. But I could see that you had conjured up some difficulty which you were utterly unable to deal with.”
“Well, here it is,” said he, boldly. “This letter is from your father. It's all full of private details, of which you know nothing, nor would you care to hear; but there is one passage—just one—that I'd greatly like to have your opinion upon. At the same time I tell you, frankly, I have no warranty from your father to let you see it; nay, the odds are he 'd pull me up pretty sharp for doing so without his authority.”
“That's quite enough, Mr. Beecher, about your scruples. Now, mine go a little further still; for they would make me refuse to learn anything which my father's reserve had kept from me. It is a very easy rule of conscience, and neither hard to remember nor to follow.”
“At all events, he meant this for your own eye,” said Beecher, showing her the last few lines of the letter.
She read them calmly over; a slight trembling of the lip—so slight that it seemed rather like a play of light over her face—was the only sign of emotion visible, and then, carefully folding the letter, she gave it back, saying, “Yes, I had a right to see these lines.”
“He is fond of you, and proud of you, too,” said Beecher. A very slight nod of her head gave an assent to his remark, and she was silent. “We are to leave this at once,” continued he, “and move on to Bonn, where we shall find a letter with your father's address, somewhere, I take it, in that neighborhood.” He waited, hoping she would say something, but she did not speak. And then he went on:
“And then you will be once more at home,—emancipated from this tiresome guardianship of mine.”
“Why tiresome?” asked she, suddenly.