“Umph! if those are your ideas about matrimony, sir,” growled Mr. Frampton, “I think you are quite right to leave it alone—puppy-dogs have no business with wives.” “Now don't be grumpy, governor,” returned Lawless, “when you've had your own way about the toast and all. Take another glass of that old port, that's the stuff that makes your hair curl and look so pretty” [Mr. Framp-ton's chevelure was to be likened only to a grey scrubbing-brush], “we'll send for the new dog-cart to-morrow, and you shall be the first man to ride behind the chestnuts.” “Thank ye kindly, I'll take your advice at all events,” replied Mr. Frampton, helping himself to a glass of port; “and as to your offer, why I'll transfer that to him (indicating Coleman), 'funny boy,' as I used to call him, when he was a boy, and he doesn't seem much altered in that particular now. Umph!”
This, as was intended, elicited a repartee from Coleman, and the evening passed away merrily, although I could perceive, in spite of his attempts to seem gay, that poor Lawless felt the destruction of his hopes deeply.
On my return to the cottage, the servant informed me that a man had been there, who wished very particularly to see me; that she had offered to send for me, but that he had professed himself unable to wait.
“What kind of looking person was he?” inquired I. “He was an oldish man, sir; very tall and thin, with grey hair, and he rode a little rough pony.” “Did he leave no note or message?” “He left this note, sir.”
Hastily seizing it, I locked myself into my own room, and tearing open the paper, read as follows:—
“Honoured Sir,—In case I should not see you, has my time will be short, I takes the liburty of writin' a line, and ham 'appy to hinform you, as things seem to me awl a-goin' wrong, leastways I think you'll say so when you 'ears my tail. Muster Richard's been back above a week, and he and the Old Un is up to their same tricks again; but that ain't awl—there's a black-haired pale chap cum with a heye like a nork, as seems to me the baddest of the lot, and that ain't sayin' a little. But there's worse news yet, for I'm afraid we ain't only get to contend hagainst the henemy, but there's a traytur in the camp, and that in a quarter where you cares most. Meet me tomorrow mornin' at the old place at seven o'clock, when you shall 'ear more from, Your umbel servant, to command,
“Peter Barnett, “late Sergeant in the —th Dragoons.”
Reader, do you wish me a good-night?—many thanks for your kindness, but if you have any hope that your wish will be realised, you must be of a very sanguine temperament, or you have never been in love.