The after-dinner cigar lasted only until one o’clock; newspapers by the noon-day mail occupied their time for but a scant hour more, and an attempted game of cribbage was speedily dropped by unspoken but mutual consent.
Suddenly the garden gate creaked. The lieutenant sprang to his feet, looked out of the window, and exclaimed:
“It’s her darkey—he’s got an answer—oh, major!”
“Steady, boy, steady!” said the major, arising hastily and laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, as that excited person was hastening to the door. “‘Officer and gentleman,’ you know. Let Sam open the door.”
The bell rang, the door was opened, a word or two passed between the two servants, and Mrs. Wittleday’s coachman appeared in the dining-room, holding the letter. The lieutenant eagerly reached for it, but the sable carrier grinned politely, said:
“It’s for de major, sar—wuz told to give it right into his han’s, and nobody else,” fulfilled his instructions, and departed with many bows and smiles, while the two soldiers dropped into their respective chairs.
“Hurry up, major—do, please,” whispered the lieutenant. But the veteran seemed an interminably long time in opening the dainty envelope in his hand. Official communications he opened with a dexterity suggesting sleight-of-hand, but now he took a penknife from his pocket, opened its smallest, brightest blade, and carefully cut Mrs. Wittleday’s envelope. As he opened the letter his lower jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide. He read the letter through, and re-read it, his countenance indicating considerable satisfaction, which presently was lost in an expression of puzzled wonder.
“Fred,” said he to the miserable lieutenant, who started to his feet as a prisoner expecting a severe sentence might do, “what in creation did you write Mrs. Wittleday?”
“Just what you gave me to write,” replied the young man, evidently astonished.
“Let me see my draft of it,” said the major.