“I am driven to communicate with you like this, for I dare not try to post a note. Pray do not think ill of me; I cannot do as I would, and I am very, very unhappy.”
That was all; and Charley Melton read it through again, and then stood looking puzzled, as if he could not comprehend how he came by the letter.
“Why, Joby must have stayed behind to-day,” he cried, “and—yes—no—of course—here are the silken threads attached to his collar, and—and—oh, you jolly old brute! I’ll never repent of giving twenty pounds for you again.”
He patted Joby until the caresses grew too forcible to be pleasant, and the dog slipped under his master’s chair, while the note was read over and over again, and then carefully placed in a pocket-book and transferred to the owner’s breast—a serious proceeding with a comic side.
“No, my darling,” he said, “I won’t think ill of you; and as for you, my dear Lady Barmouth, all stratagems are good in love and war. You have thrown down the glove in casting me off in this cool and insolent manner; I have taken it up. If I cannot win her by fair means, I must by foul.”
He walked up and down the room for a few minutes in a state of intense excitement.
“I can’t help the past,” he said, half aloud. “I cannot help what I am, but win her I must. I feel now as if I can stop at nothing to gain my ends, and here is the way open at all events for a time. Joby, you are going to prove your master’s best friend.”