“Why, why not? I hope there was nothing particular in the letter. I thought”——
“Oh, you odious blundering wretch!” she exclaimed, interrupting him, and bursting into tears; “it was nothing but an innocent, harmless valentine; and now look at all the mischief you have put into it.”
It was with a sorrowing heart that Charley wended his way homeward that evening, after enduring such a mortifying discovery, and the disagreeable consequences entailed thereon, and putting in extreme jeopardy his chance of the incensed Lucy, and her very desirable three thousand appurtenances; but as he passed the little inn where temporary sojourners in B—— were made as comfortable as the nature of the circumstances would permit, he caught a glimpse of the figure of a man standing in the hall, closely muffled and enveloped in that most successful of all disguises which a gentleman can assume, a rough pee-jacket. Could it be? it was decidedly like him; but what could bring him there? Nay, by Jove! it was the identical Mr Edward Fitzgerald himself, arrived, most unaccountably, at the very nick of time, to explain to Lucy how inadvertently her name had been alluded to, and thus get him out of the scrape. Led by this gleam of hope, he hurried up to the stranger, and eagerly claimed his recognition by seizing his hand without ceremony, and welcoming him to B——.
“Down about business, I presume?” quoth Charley.
“No—yes—exactly,” stammered the surprised new-comer.
“Egad, you can do my business at all events,” continued Charley. “I suppose you know by this time what a cursed mistake I made the other day about Miss Bindon’s letter. Oh, you may laugh; but faith it has been no laughing matter to me. However, you can set all to rights, if you choose, by writing a few lines, saying how it occurred, and that it was quite an accident, and all that. Do now, like a good fellow, and I’ll just run back with it, and make my peace.”
“You mean,” observed Fitzgerald, “that I should write to Miss Bindon. My dear fellow, I shall be delighted; but of course you’ll deliver it under the rose. It wouldn’t be the thing, you know, to let the old lady into the secret;” and laughing heartily, and displaying the most laudable alacrity to extricate Charley from his dilemma, he led the way into the parlour, and having procured writing materials, sat down, wrote a few hurried lines, which he said would fully explain the whole occurrence and set it in a proper light, sealed his note, and delivered it to the anxious swain for whose behoof he had penned it, and who hastened away with his prize so quickly, that before the ink was dry, he placed it in the reluctant hands of the still pouting Lucy. “There!” exclaimed he, triumphantly; “since you won’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe that. Now, pray don’t throw it into the fire,” continued he, as a very unambiguous motion of the young lady seemed to imply was her intention; “only read it, and if that don’t satisfy you, I’ll say you’re hard to be pleased, and that’s all.”
Moved by this powerful appeal, Lucy cast her eye on the billet; a strange sort of emotion passed across her face, and she abruptly broke the seal, and proceeded to peruse the contents, while Charley applied himself, with equal zeal, to the perusal of her countenance. In it he could read, first, surprise, extreme and undisguised; secondly, confusion; and lastly, something undefinable, which at all events was not displeasure, for she concluded by looking fixedly at him for a moment or two, and then yielding to a most unladylike fit of laughter.
“Well, Lucy, is all right?” asked Charley, delighted at this demonstration.