His friends accepted the office; and while they are thus employed, we may glance over their shoulders, and register a few extracts from the letters.
"Such fun—" thus wrote Walter's lover; "what do you think, Walter? Only yesterday, when I was gathering filberts, you know where, to send to market to-day, who should make his appearance but that stupid John Tincroft. He had come up to High Beech, as he had done a deal oftener than I have liked, and finding nobody in the house but Meg, he came blundering into the garden, where I was. I was that mad with him that I could have boxed his ears, but I didn't; I left that for you to do. But I set him to work, and made him help me gather the filberts. You can't think what a ninny he is; he doesn't know how to do anything properly; and he kept pulling down the boughs, and breaking them off—there, nobody knows how. I hope he got covered with harvest-bugs, I do; and won't they tease him?"
"Well, when we had filled the basket—the old bushel basket, you know, that we used to gather apples in, when—oh dear, you know when, Walter—I told him I was going to darn stockings in the holly arbour, and made sure that would get rid of him. But no such thing. There he followed me; and there he sat staring, with both his eyes wide open, till I was ready to scream out. I don't know but what I should, if he hadn't opened his mouth at last, and told me that he had come up to the farm to say good-bye; for he was going next day (that's to-day, you know) to Oxford, because his lawyer had sent for him. Wasn't that a relief, Walter? Then, after that, he began to talk wild about father. What stuff he had got in his head, I can't think; but he was going on at a rate, when, who do you think should pop her head into the arbour, but cousin Elizabeth, your sister!"
"I was never more put out in my life—never; and I couldn't say a word, till she went in at us, about being so sorry she had interrupted us, and all that sort of thing. And then, before I could speak, off she marched, as grand as my lady, and left me and that Tincroft alone again. But I know Elizabeth had been watching all the time; and she will be trying to make mischief between us out of it, I know she will; but don't you believe a word she says, Walter."
"Mr. Tincroft didn't stay long after that; and he is gone off to Oxford to-day, I know that, for Meg was down at the shop, and she saw him drive by in the squire's cart, and Master Tom Grigson with him; and what I hope is, that he will never come to these parts again."
"And, dear Walter, don't believe anything Elizabeth tells you, for it is all spite—all."
So much for the cousin and lover. Now for the sister:
"And now I have got something to tell you that you won't like to hear, but it is my duty to let you know how things are going on at High Beech, and I must do my duty by you, whether you like it or not. You know, in my last letter, I wrote to you about the goings on of Sarah and that college man, and you sent me word it was all stuff and nonsense. Not a pretty thing to say to your sister, who is only thinking of your good, Walter. But that's how it often is, when the best friends get the worst treatment. But I shan't be turned out of my proper and right way for any hard words you have written. And I didn't know, when I last wrote, all I do now, not by a long way: and so you shall have it, whether you like it or not; for I mean to save you from making a bad match of it, if I can."
"No, I didn't know, when I wrote last, of what happened more than a month ago at the squire's picnic; but I have heard the rights of it since. There was uncle Mark and aunt and Sarah—all there, as I told you; and after tea, as I told you too, aunt had to take uncle home—you know why. But where do you think Sarah was all that long evening till after dark? Ah, you wouldn't guess; but I'll tell you, I will. I won't deceive you, Walter, if SHE does. Why, she was shut up all that time, for hours and hours, along with that college man, in the stone summer-house, at the far end of Mr. Grigson's lawn; and you know how far-off that is from sight and sound. And there they were drinking wine together, that I do know, and courting, of course, till after all the people had left; and then Sarah was so bad, what with the wine, I suppose, and having her head turned with praise, that she couldn't go home alone, and that—that gentleman—a pretty sort of gentleman he is, too—had to see her safe to High Beech."
"I daresay you will want to know how I know this. I'll tell you, Walter; I saw some part of it with my own eyes. I saw Sarah in the summer-house my own self, for I followed her there, and had some words with her about her shameful using of you, in keeping you to your boy and girl engagement. And there I left her. Ah, I didn't know who she was waiting for then; but he knew well enough, I warrant. And no sooner was I gone than in he went, to comfort her, of course, as he did. I wish I had seen him—that I do! I would have comforted him, I reckon."
"And I did see them together later that night—ever so long after I had got home. I was looking out of my window, into the bright moonlight, before I got into bed, when what should I see but two persons going up the hill together through the Lees right on the way to High Beech. Ah, I didn't give a guess who it was then, for it was too far-off to see distinct. But I did see that them two were uncommon close together, and walked slow, as if they didn't mean to get to the end of their moonlight walk sooner than they could help. But now I know who that loving pair was; and so does everybody else about here. And you have only to ask the question yourself, and you will be told that they was none other than that college man and your dear Sarah!"
"Have I anything more to tell you? Yes, Walter, I have; and mean to. If you like not to read it, you can put the letter in the fire without; but you will have to take the consequences. I have this more to say, that uncle Mark goes about everywhere, but oftener at the White Hart, where he spends most of his time, and money too, as you know,—telling everybody that you are not going to have Sarah, and that the college man is; and that when the college man comes into his great fortune, Sarah will be a lady—a pretty lady, she indeed! There; what do you think of that?"
"Anything else? Yes, there's something else, Walter," the letter went on, like the second edition of a morning paper, keeping the latest news till last. "Yes, there is something else. It was only yesterday—" (only yesterday, as being more forcible) "that I went up to High Beech to see how they were going on. Of course uncle Mark wasn't at home—he was at the White Hart, I found out afterwards; and aunt was in bed. Sarah was in the garden; so there I went. And what do you think? There she was with that college man, Tincroft, having high romps, pretending to be gathering filberts; and you know what that means. I kept myself out of sight till they had done; and then where should they go but into the holly arbour, where you have made a fool of yourself hundreds of times I daresay. Well, there they were, billing and cooing like a pair of pigeons—" (it was spelt "pigguns" in the letter, but no matter), "and I thought it was time for somebody to see after them. So in I went. And there was Sarah, darning her stockings, and looking as innocent as a new-born; and there was that college man, pretty near on his knees, looking so loving, and talking so earnest! And didn't I give them a start! They hadn't a word to say for themselves; and so, after I had said my say, I left them to make the best of it. But, Walter, if you are the man I expect you to be, you'll have nothing more to say to Sarah Wilson."
Thus far the letter. But there was a postscript: "The college man is off this morning, back to Oxford. I reckon I frightened him away. But he will be back again, no fear."
"Poor Walter!" sighed Mary Burgess, when she had laid down the second letter.
"Poor Walter!" echoed Ralph, in a tone accordant. "A pretty fix he is in, and no mistake."
"He will want your advice, Ralph."
"And I can't give it. What am I to say to him?"
"What would you do in such a case, brother?" asked Mary.
"I fancy I should throw the girl overboard," said he.