I cannot but confess it—I felt hurt, twitted by the easiness, the unconcern of Fred. Of course I should have thought it very foolish, nay, worse in him, to be jealous. That would have been ridiculous, unworthy of him. Nevertheless, I could not help endeavouring to place myself in his situation—to enter into the feelings of a husband, and to think myself a man!
That a letter—and such a letter—should have been sent to me, was, of course, a mistake. But, for all that—putting myself in the place of a man and a husband—for that was, of course, the most reasonable and the most natural way for a woman to come to a right conclusion—I could not have been so calm, so tranquil, I may, indeed, say—so stone-cold. Indeed, judging, moreover, from my own feelings as a woman and a wife, it would have been impossible: not that I'm of a jealous habit of mind. No, certainly; I should say, quite the reverse. Still, it is quite plain, that if we really value and love a thing—we must be anxious accordingly. That is but natural. Nevertheless, I cannot disguise it from myself that Fred—even after he had handed me the letter to read, and I—all in a twitter I must say—had read it to him, did nothing but laugh. I've no doubt he was very right; and yet, if I know myself and I'd been in his place—I don't think I should have laughed.
"Read the letter, Lotty,"—cried Fred—"by all means read it; it may amuse us."
"To be sure," said I; "not that it can be for me." And then, when I opened the stupid bit of paper, it seemed to scorch my face and something came into my throat, as I began to read the ridiculous words—'My dear and beautiful girl.'
"Must be a mistake," cried Fred: though I thought I saw him just bite his lip, and just a little wrinkle his eye brows. "But go on."
"'I have beheld you in silent admiration; but now I feel longer silence impossible!' I shan't read any more," said I, "for how can it concern me—I mean us?"
"Go on," cried Fred, hooking his fore-finger round his nose and rubbing it in his manner, when he is thinking.
'It is plain you were intended for a brighter destiny than what has befallen you.'
"Come," said Fred in his aggravating way, "that's no compliment to me."
"To you! Then, if it comes to that," said I, "and if for a minute you think this stuff was written to me, you may read the rest yourself." And with this—with all the spirit I could—I flung the letter at him. Yes; at him; and as he looked up, and a little astonished, but more hurt, as I thought, opened his eyes at me—I felt myself so wrong, so rebuked, that I flung my arms about his neck, and the next snatched up the note to tear it to pieces.