"A letter from—her!" Then taking the letters in hands that were strangely unsteady, Barnabas crossed to the window, and breaking the seal of a certain one, read this:
DEAR MR. BARNABAS (the 'Beverley' crossed out),—Her Grace, my dear god-mother, having bullied my poor Tyrant out of the house, and quarrelled with me until she is tired, has now fixed her mind upon you. She therefore orders her dutiful god-daughter to write you these, hoping that thereby you may be induced to yield yourself a willing slave to her caprices and come down here for a few days. Though the very dearest and best of women, my god-mother, as you may remember, possesses a tongue, therefore—be warned, sir! My Tyrant at this precise moment sits in the 'round house,' whither he has retreated to solace his ruffled feelings with tobacco. So, I repeat, sir, be warned! And yet, though indeed, 't is strange, and passing strange, she speaks of you often, and seems to hold you in her kind regard. But, for all that, do not be misled, sir; for the Duchess is always the Duchess,—even to poor me. A while ago, she insisted on playing a game of chess; as I write the pieces lie scattered on the floor. I shan't pick them up,—why should I? So you see her Grace is quite herself to-day. Nevertheless, should you determine to run the risk, you will, I think, find a welcome awaiting you from,
Yours, dear sir,
CLEONE MEREDITH.
P.S.—The Bo'sun assures me the moon will last another week.
This Postscript Master Barnabas must needs read three times over, and then, quick and furtive, press the letter to his lips ere he thrust it into his bosom, and opened and read the Captain's:
The Gables,
Hawkhurst.
Written in the Round-house,
June 29, 18—.
MY DEAR BEVERLEIGH,—How is Fashion and the Modish World? as trivial as usual, I'll warrant me. The latest sensation, I believe, is Cossack Trousers,—have you tried 'em yet? But to come to my mutton, as the Mounseers say.