But the Reverend was not so hospitably inclined as he would have been had the old horse been sound. “They can have plenty of oysters at Harborough,” said he. “They won’t care to drive all that way in the dark. Bad roads, wet nights, perhaps, and nobody to meet them. Better put it off, I think, Dottie, till the days get a little longer.”
You or I would hardly have thought of calling so ample a lady as Mrs. Dove, whose baptismal name indeed was Dorothy, by the above diminutive. Nevertheless, when in his best humour, it was the Reverend’s habit to address her by the old pet name, and she returned to the charge accordingly.
“Better do it at once, dear,” she replied. “The end of the season comes upon us before we know where we are. And if frost should arrive, or anything, they are all off to London by the express train. As for not liking to come, they’ll jump at it. Mr. Crasher says yours is the best claret within three counties, and I’m sure you all sit long enough at it to appreciate its merits. How you will talk about hunting: won’t they, Cissy? Well, we can’t wonder at it—gentlemen are so enthusiastic. Why, if I was a man, with such wine as that, I’d sell ’em every horse in my stable before coffee came in.”
The Reverend burst out laughing. The last argument was irresistible. “Have it your own way, Dottie,” said he; “I must be off to write my sermon.” And he betook himself to his study accordingly, leaving his wife and daughter to issue the invitations.
Of these it is unnecessary for us to trace the delivery of more than one. Mr. Sawyer, eating devilled kidneys the following morning for breakfast, felt his heart leap into his mouth at the reception of a primrose-coloured, highly-scented billet, in a long narrow envelope, bearing on the reverse what is called a “monogram”—a thing not unlike the puzzle-wit lock on a gate—consisting of the letter D and others twisted into every variety of shape. Though his experience in ladies’ letters was limited, being indeed confined to one from Miss Mexico at the conclusion of their intercourse, in which she “wished to have no further communication with him, but hoped always to remain friends,” something told him that the delicate, neatly-written superscription must have been indited by a fair hand. For an instant, the delightful suggestion flashed across him, that Miss Dove, forgetting maidenly reserve in the ardour of her affection, had plunged into a correspondence with himself, and he turned hot and cold by turns. Opening the missive with a trembling hand, it proved to be, if not from the young lady, at least from her mamma, and as it lay open all that day on his table, it is no breach of confidence on my part to publish its contents for the reader’s benefit. Thus it ran:—
“Dear Mr. Sawyer,
“Can you give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on Tuesday next, at half-past seven o’clock? Mr. Dove desires me to say that as you will probably drive, you had better not attempt the short way, but come by the high-road. My daughter unites with me in hoping that your poor horse has recovered the hard day in which he carried you so well, and I remain,
“Dear Mr. Sawyer,
“Yours sincerely,
“Dorothy Dove.