“Well, dear!” said Emily. “May I ask what it is he says?”
Nora paused a moment, holding the letter tight in her hand, and then she held it out to her sister. “There it is. You may read it.” Mrs. Trevelyan took the letter and read it slowly, during which Nora stood looking out of the window. She would not watch her sister’s face, as she did not wish to have to reply to any outward signs of disapproval. “Give it me back,” she said, when she heard by the refolding of the paper that the perusal was finished.
“Of course I shall give it you back, dear.”
“Yes;—thanks. I did not mean to doubt you.”
“And what will you do, Nora?”
“Answer it of course.”
“I would think a little before I answered it,” said Mrs. Trevelyan.
“I have thought—a great deal, already.”
“And how will you answer it?”
Nora paused again before she replied. “As nearly as I know how to do in such words as he would put into my mouth. I shall strive to write just what I think he would wish me to write.”
“Then you will engage yourself to him, Nora?”
“Certainly I shall. I am engaged to him already. I have been ever since he came here.”
“You told me that there was nothing of the kind.”
“I told you that I loved him better than anybody in the world, and that ought to have made you know what it must come to. When I am thinking of him every day, and every hour, how can I not be glad to have an engagement settled with him? I couldn’t marry anybody else, and I don’t want to remain as I am.” The tears came into the married sister’s eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, as this was said to her. Would it not have been better for her had she remained as she was? “Dear Emily,” said Nora, “you have got Louey still.”
“Yes;—and they mean to take him from me. But I do not wish to speak of myself. Will you postpone your answer till mamma is here?”
“I cannot do that, Emily. What; receive such a letter as that, and send no reply to it!”
“I would write a line for you, and explain—”
“No, indeed, Emily. I choose to answer my own letters. I have shown you that, because I trust you; but I have fully made up my mind as to what I shall write. It will have been written and sent before dinner.”
“I think you will be wrong, Nora.”
“Why wrong! When I came over here to stay with you, would mamma ever have thought of directing me not to accept any offer till her consent had been obtained all the way from the Mandarins? She would never have dreamed of such a thing.”
“Will you ask Aunt Mary?”
“Certainly not. What is Aunt Mary to me? We are here in her house for a time, under the press of circumstances; but I owe her no obedience. She told Mr. Stanbury not to come here; and he has not come; and I shall not ask him to come. I would not willingly bring anyone into Uncle Oliphant’s house that he and she do not wish to see. But I will not admit that either of them have any authority over me.”
“Then who has, dearest?”
“Nobody;—except papa and mamma; and they have chosen to leave me to myself.”
Mrs. Trevelyan found it impossible to shake her sister’s firmness, and could herself do nothing, except tell Mrs. Outhouse what was the state of affairs. When she said that she should do this, there almost came to be a flow of high words between the two sisters; but at last Nora assented. “As for knowing, I don’t care if all the world knows it. I shall do nothing in a corner. I don’t suppose Aunt Mary will endeavour to prevent my posting my letter.”
Emily at last went to seek Mrs. Outhouse, and Nora at once sat down to her desk. Neither of the sisters felt at all sure that Mrs. Outhouse would not attempt to stop the emission of the letter from her house; but, as it happened, she was out, and did not return till Nora had come back from her journey to the neighbouring post-office. She would trust her letter, when written, to no hands but her own; and as she herself dropped it into the safe custody of the Postmaster-General, it also shall be revealed to the public:—
Parsonage, St. Diddulph’s, January, 186‒.
Dear Hugh,
For I suppose I may as well write to you in that way now. I have been made so happy by your affectionate letter. Is not that a candid confession for a young lady? But you tell me that I owe you the truth, and so I tell you the truth. Nobody will ever be anything to me, except you; and you are everything. I do love you; and should it ever be possible, I will become your wife.
I have said so much, because I feel that I ought to obey the order you have given me; but pray do not try to see me or write to me till mamma has arrived. She and papa will be here in the spring—quite early in the spring, we hope; and then you may come to us. What they may say, of course, I cannot tell; but I shall be true to you.
As soon as ever the letter was written, she
