CHAPTER XXXIII.
A LETTER, A STORY, AND A PROMISE.
“The love of gold, that meanest rage
And latest folly of man’s sinking age.”—Moore.
Mr. Alden was so chagrined, so deeply repentant, so anxious to repair the mischief he had done, that at length he wrote to Ethel himself, apologizing, begging her to forgive and forget, assuring her that his opposition to her union with Espy was entirely withdrawn—nay, more, that he was extremely desirous that it should take place, and entreating her to be kind to the lad should she ever meet or hear from him again.
Ethel was with her aunt in the boudoir of the latter when this letter was handed to her.
The weather was very cold, and a three days’ storm had kept them within doors till the Madame had grown unusually dull and spiritless, weary of every amusement within her reach, and ready to snatch at anything that held out the least hope of relief from her consuming ennui. “Ah, a letter!” she said, with a yawn. “Pansy, you are fortunate! no one writes to me.”
“Because you write to no one, is it not, auntie?” the girl asked playfully. “But will you excuse me if I open and read it?”
“Certainly, little one; who knows but you may find something entertaining? Ah, what is it? may I hear?” as she saw the girl’s cheek flush and her eye brighten, though her lip curled with a half-smile of contempt.
Ethel read the letter aloud.
Madame Le Conte was all interest and attention.