It was the postman, no doubt; and he had brought a letter, but it was not for the Laird. We were all apprehensive of a violent storm when the servant passed on and handed this letter to Mary Avon. But the Laird said nothing. Miss Avon, like a properly-conducted school-girl, put the letter in her pocket.
There was no storm. On the contrary, the Laird got quite cheerful. When his hostess hoped that no serious inconvenience would result from the non-arrival of the letter, he said, "Not the least!" He began and told us the story of the old lady who endeavoured to engage the practical Homesh—while he was collecting tickets—in a disquisition on the beauties of Highland scenery, and who was abruptly bidden to "mind her own pussness"; we had heard the story not more than thirty-eight times, perhaps, from various natives of Scotland.
But the letter about which the Laird had been anxious had—as some of us suspected—actually arrived, and was then in Mary Avon's pocket. After dinner the two women went into the drawing-room. Miss Avon sate down to the piano, and began to play, idly enough, the air called Heimweh. Of what home was she thinking then—this waif and stray among the winds of the world?
Tea was brought in. At last the curiosity of the elder woman could no longer be restrained.
"Mary," said she, "are you not going to read that letter?"
"Dear me!" said the girl, plunging into her pocket. "I had forgotten I had a letter to read."
She took it out and opened it, and began to read. Her face looked puzzled at first, then alarmed. She turned to her friend.
"What is it? What can it mean?" she said, in blank dismay; and the trembling fingers handed her the letter.
Her friend had less difficulty in understanding; although, to be sure, before she had finished this perfectly plain and matter-of-fact communication, there were tears in her eyes. It was merely a letter from the manager of a bank in London, begging to inform Miss Avon that he had just received, through Messrs. Todd and Buchanan, of Glasgow, a sum of 10,300*l.* to be placed to her credit. He was also desired to say, that this sum was entirely at her own free disposal; but the donor would prefer—if she had no objection—that it should be invested in some home security, either in a good mortgage, or in the Metropolitan Board of Works Stock. It was a plain and simple letter.
"Oh, Mary, don't you understand—don't you understand?" said she. "He meant to have given you a steam yacht, if—if you married Howard Smith. He has given you all the money you lost; and the steam yacht too. And there is not a word of regret about all his plans and schemes being destroyed. And this is the man we have all been making fun of."