“I shall set off to-morrow morning,” answered he, a little sulkily, “and I’ll be in Dublin the evening after.”
“Humph! this is the eleventh, that will be the thirteenth. Yes; it will just do. Well, Charley, I believe I will entrust you with a letter; but you must promise and vow that you will put it into the penny-post the very evening you arrive, or I’ll not give it to you; for it must be delivered the morning after, or the Lord knows what would happen.”
“You needn’t be afraid, Lucy,” answered her beau; “you know very well”——
“Oh! to be sure I do,” exclaimed she, interrupting him. “I declare I was very near forgetting all that. This evening, then, I’ll send the letter over to you; and now good-bye, and go get ready.”
With the help of the milestones, as Lucy said, he arrived in Dublin on the evening he proposed, and having left his steed at Dycer’s, and seen him carefully made-up, proceeded to the Hibernian, discussed his dinner and a couple of tumblers, and then, for the poor fellow was terribly tired, sank into a slumber, and finally rose into a snore, from which he was aroused by the waiter recommending him to adjourn to his room; a piece of advice which Charley very gratefully followed. Next morning Lucy’s letter rose in judgment against him; there was only one way to atone for his neglect, and that was, to deliver it personally, no matter at what trouble or inconvenience. So, hastily dressing himself, he took the letter out of his valise, and examined the direction. He had his misgivings; it bore for its superscription the name Edward Fitzgerald, Esq. whose place of abode it indicated was number something in Dominick Street. He could not help asking himself what business had Lucy—his Lucy—corresponding with any male member of the human family whatever. Still, as any assertion of his rights in that particular would be rather premature at present, he determined to execute the commission faithfully, since he had undertaken it; but as soon as she became Mrs Malone, if he’d let such a thing occur again, then might he, Charley, be eternally doomed to a place that shall be nameless.
On reaching the domicile of Mr Fitzgerald, and inquiring if he was at home, our friend was ushered into the presence of a most alarmingly spruce young gentleman, six feet high in his stockings, handsome enough to be a handsome man, and with a head of hair that awfully contrasted with the rather carroty wisp which lay between Charley and high heaven. To him, on questioning him fully as to his identity, he delivered the letter, and likewise the speech which he had been composing on the subject all the morning.
“This letter, sir,” quoth Charley, “was entrusted to my care by a very pretty girl, to whom I pledged myself that I would put it in the penny-post last night, but I was so cursedly tired, that, hang me if I ever thought of it; and so, to redeem my pledge, I have come to place it in your hands, Miss Bindon having some reason best known to herself for wishing it should reach you to-day.”
“Miss Bindon, did you say?” exclaimed the young man, looking very much like a personage who had been wakened out of a dream.
“Yes, sir, Miss Lucy Bindon,” answered Charley, and to prevent mistakes he added with rather a significant tone, “and a young lady, by the bye, in whom I take a very especial interest. You understand me?”
“Oh! perfectly,” stammered the young man in answer. “Somebody told me she was going to be married.”