But now—would any one believe it?—instead of taking the Squire’s advice and not marrying her at all, instead even of allowing a decent time to elapse, in less than a week Nash went to church with Charlotte the Second. Shame, said Parson Holland under his breath; shame, said the parish aloud; but Nash Caromel heeded them not.
We only knew it on the day before the wedding was to be. On Wednesday morning, a fine, crisp, October day, a shooting party was to meet at old Appleton’s, who lived over beyond Church Dykely. The Squire and Tod started for it after an early breakfast, and they let me go part of the way with them. Just after passing Caromel’s Farm, we met Pettipher the postman.
“Anything for the Manor?” asked the pater.
“Yes, sir,” answered the man; and, diving into his bundle, he handed a letter.
“This is not mine,” said the Squire, looking at the address; “this is for Mr. Caromel.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir; I took out the wrong letter. This is yours.”
“What a thin letter!—come from foreign parts,” remarked the pater, reading the address, “Nash Caromel, Esq.” “I seem to know the handwriting: fancy I’ve seen it before. Here, take it, Pettipher.”
In passing the letter to Pettipher, which was a ship’s letter, I looked at the said writing. Very small poor writing indeed, with long angular tails to the letters up and down, especially the capitals. The Squire handed me his gun and was turning to walk on, opening his letter as he did so; when Pettipher spoke and arrested him.
“Have you heard what’s coming off yonder, to-morrow, sir?” asked he, pointing with his thumb to Caromel’s Farm.
“Why no,” said the Squire, wondering what Pettipher meant to be at. “What should be coming off!”