The postscript ran thus:—“Culduff meant to have given some small Church promotion to young L'Estrange, and, indeed, believed he had done so: but some difficulty has arisen. It is either not his turn, or the Bishop is troublesome, or the Ecclesiastical Commissioners—if there be such people—are making objections. If he—I mean L'Estrange—be still disengaged, would it be wise to offer him the chaplaincy to the embassy? I mean wise as regards ourselves; but I take it the sister may be still unmarried, and if she be like what I remember her, a person not easily suppressed, nor at all indisposed to assume airs of perfect equality, even with those separated from her by a whole hemisphere of station. Give me your candid advice on this point, not thinking of them, but of me, for though I feel Julia—is not that her name?—would be insupportable, the parson himself would be very useful, and I think a comfort to me.
“Of course you will not consult any one upon this matter. It is your own personal opinion I want, and you will give it to me, knowing me and my prejudices,—I suppose I had better call them,—and not thinking of your own leanings and likings for the girl. She may, for aught I know, have changed. Culduff has some wise saw about acid wines growing dry by age; I don't know whether young ladies mellow in this fashion, but Julia was certainly tart enough once to have tested the theory, and might be the 'Amontillado' of old maids by this time.”
It may be imagined that after a sally of this kind it was not easy for the writer to recover that semi-moralizing vein in which the letter opened. Nor did she. The conclusion was abrupt, and merely directed Nelly to address her next to the Summer Palace at Therapia; “for those horrid people, our predecessors, have left the embassy house in such a condition it will take weeks and several thousand pounds to make it habitable. There must be a vote taken 'in supply' on this. I am writing Greek to you, poor child; but I mean they must give us money, and, of course, the discussion will expose us to many impertinences. One writer declared that he never knew of a debate on the estimates without an allusion to Lord Culduff's wig. We shall endure this—if not with patience, without resentment. Love to dear Gusty, and believe me your affectionate sister,
“Marion Culduff.”
Such were the most striking passages of a long letter which, fortunately for Nelly, Mr. Cutbill's presence at the breakfast-table rescued her from the indiscretion of reading aloud. One or two extracts she did give, but soon saw that the document was one which could not be laid on the table, nor given without prejudice to the public service. Her confusion, as she crumpled up the paper, and thrust it back into its envelope, was quickly remarked, and Mr. Cutbill, with his accustomed tact, observed, “I'd lay a 'fiver' we 've all of us been led out for a canter in that epistle. It 's enough to see Miss Ellen's face to know that she wouldn't read it out for fifty pounds. Eh, what!” cried he, stooping and rubbing his leg; “I told you to say, 'Stop her, Master Jack,' when you wanted to take weigh off, but I never said, 'Kick my shins.'”
This absurd exclamation, and the laugh it provoked, was a lucky diversion, and they arose from table without another thought on Marion's epistle.
“Has Nelly shown you Marion's note?” asked Jack, as he strolled with Julia through the garden.
“No, and it is perhaps the only letter I ever knew her to get without handing me to read.”
“I suspect, with Cutbill, that we all of us catch it in that pleasant document.”
“You perhaps are the only one who has escaped.”