“As sure as that the wind blows,” he returned, cheerfully. “Well, that’s settled. You and I are to be in the same boat for good and all,—eh, Miss Mattie? Now let us walk on; and I won’t say another word until we reach Mrs. Sparsit’s.”
Perhaps he had taken this resolution because he saw that Mattie found speech impossible. Her very footsteps tottered as she struggled against the opposing wind. Only the arm on which she leaned seemed to give her strength; and yet Mattie no longer shivered in the cutting blast. She was no longer cold, and numb, and desolate. Something wonderful and incredible and altogether unreal had befallen her,—something that had turned her dizzy with happiness, and which she could not in the least believe. All she knew was that he had told her that no one should scold her now.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Sir Harry, stopping at a trim little cottage, with a side-view of the sea; “and, by Jove, there is the poodle himself at the window. How do you do, Mrs. Sparsit?” as a pleasant, wrinkled dame appeared on the threshold. “You know Miss Drummond, I believe? though not as well as you know me. How is Popples? Oh, there you are, old fellow,—ready to give me your paw, as usual! Look at him, Miss Mattie! Now, Mrs. Sparsit,” in a coaxing voice, “this lady is dreadfully tired; and I know your kettle is boiling––” but here Mrs. Sparsit interrupted him:
“Oh, yes, indeed, Sir Harry; and you shall have some tea directly. Dear me, Miss Drummond, you do look poorly, to be sure! Let me stir the fire a little, and draw out the couch. Bettie has gone out to see her sick mother, Sir Harry; but if you don’t mind my leaving you a minute, while I just brew the 355 tea––” And without waiting for his answer, the worthy creature bustled off to her tiny kitchen, leaving Popples to entertain her guests.
Sir Harry closed the door, and then he helped Mattie to divest herself of her warm jacket, and placed her in a snug corner of the old-fashioned couch.
“You will be all right directly,” he said, as he sat down beside her. “The wind was too strong; and I was a little sudden: wasn’t I, Mattie?” And now the color began to come into Mattie’s face.
Sir Harry found plenty to tell her as Mrs. Sparsit brewed the tea and prepared the hot buttered cakes.
Mattie shed tears of pure happiness when she heard from his own lips how good and unselfish and amiable he thought her, and how he had liked her from the first in a sort of way,—“not quite the right way, you know,” explained Sir Harry, candidly; “but every one was so hard on you, and you bore it so well, and were such a good little woman, that I quite longed to stand your friend; and we were friends,—were we not, Mattie? And then somehow it came to me what a nice little wife you would make; and so––” but here Mattie timidly interrupted him:
“But Grace,—I thought you liked Grace best!”
Sir Harry laughed outright at this; but he had the grace to look ashamed of himself: