They were forgeries both. It was in concocting them that Captain Scarthe had spent the half-hour, between the time of his parting with Marion Wade, and betaking himself into the presence of her father.
Before Sir Marmaduke he now stood, prepared for an emergency he had already contemplated—ready for its extremest measures.
“Pardon me, Sir Marmaduke Wade!” began he, bowing with ceremonious respect. “Pardon me for intruding upon you at this early hour; but my business is of importance. When you have heard it, you will no doubt excuse this deviation from the rules of etiquette.”
“Captain Scarthe is, I presume, on the performance of some duty; and that will be his excuse.”
“In truth, Sir Marmaduke, I have a double errand. One is on duty—and I grieve to say a painful duty to me. The other I might designate an errand of affection; and could I flatter myself that it would prove a welcome one to you, I should deem it as pleasant as that of my duty is painful.”
“You speak in enigmas, sir? I cannot comprehend them. May I ask you to tell me, in plain speech, what are your two errands? One, you say, is painful to yourself—the other, on certain conditions, may prove pleasant. Choose which you please to communicate first.”
“Sir Marmaduke Wade,” rejoined the cuirassier captain, “you accuse me of circumlocution. It is an accusation I will not give you cause to repeat. My first errand—and that to me of most importance—is to tell you that I love your daughter; and that I wish to make her my wife.”
“I admire your candour, Captain Scarthe; but permit me to say, in reply, that the information you have thus volunteered concerns my daughter, more than myself. You are free to impart it to her; as is she to answer you according to her inclinations.”
“I have imparted it. I have already proposed to her.”
“And her answer?”