“They all do that;—nearly the whole day.”
“What; at the Post Office!”
“That’s why I mention it. I don’t think they’re allowed at any of the other offices, but they do what they please there. I shall keep the MS. till I hear from Josephine herself.” Then Mrs. Puffle took her leave with many thanks, and a grateful pressure from her pretty little hand.
Two days after this there came the promised letter from Josephine.
Dear Mr. Brown,
I cannot understand why you should not go to X., Y., and Z. without seeing me. I hardly ever see anybody; but, of course, you must come if you will. I got my sister to go because she is so gentle and nice, that I thought she could persuade anybody to do anything. She says that you know Mr. Puffle quite well, which seems to be so very odd. He doesn’t know that I ever write a word, and I didn’t think he had an acquaintance in the world whom I don’t know the name of. You’re quite wrong about one thing. They never smoke at the Post Office, and they wouldn’t be let to do it. If you choose to come, you must. I shall be at home any time on Friday morning—that is, after half-past nine, when Charles goes away.
Then there was a second postscript, written down in a corner of the sheet of paper.
Our editor was now quite determined that he would see the adventure to an end. He had at first thought that Josephine was keeping herself in the background merely that she might enhance the favour of a personal meeting when that favour should be accorded. A pretty woman believing herself to be a genius, and thinking that good things should ever be made scarce, might not improbably fall into such a foible. But now he was convinced that she would prefer to keep herself unseen if her doing so might be made compatible with her great object. Mr. Brown was not a man to intrude himself unnecessarily upon any woman unwilling to receive him; but in this case it was, so he thought, his duty to persevere. So he wrote a pretty little note to Miss Josephine saying that he would be with her at eleven o’clock on the day named.
Precisely at eleven o’clock he knocked at the door of the house in King-Charles Street, which was almost instantaneously opened for him by the fair hands of Mrs. Puffle herself. “H—sh,” said Mrs. Puffle; “we don’t want the servants to know anything about it.” Mr. Brown, who cared nothing for the servants of the Puffle establishment, and who was becoming perhaps a little weary of the unravelled mystery of the affair, simply bowed and followed the lady into the parlour. “My sister is upstairs,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and we will go to her immediately.” Then she paused, as though she were still struggling with some difficulty;—“I am so sorry to say that Polly is not well.—But she means to see you,” Mrs. Puffle added, as she saw that the editor, over whom they had so far prevailed, made some sign as though he was about to retreat. “She never is very well,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and her work does tell upon her so much. Do you know, Mr. Brown, I think the mind sometimes eats up the body; that is, when it is called upon for such great efforts.” They were now upon the stairs, and Mr. Brown followed the little lady into her drawing-room.
There, almost hidden in the depths of a low armchair, sat a little wizened woman, not old indeed—when Mr. Brown came to know her better, he found that she had as yet only counted five-and-twenty summers—but with that look of mingled youth and age which is so painful to the beholder. Who has not seen it—the face in which the eye and the brow are young and bright, but the mouth and the chin are old and haggard? See such a one when she sleeps—when the brightness of the eye is hidden, and all the countenance is full of pain and decay, and then the difference will be known to you between youth with that health which is generally given to it, and youth accompanied by premature decrepitude. “This is my sister-in-law,” said Mrs. Puffle, introducing the two correspondents to each other. The editor looked at the little woman who made some half attempt to rise, and thought that he could see in the brightness of the eye some symptoms of the sauciness which had appeared so very plainly in her letters. And there was a smile too about the mouth, though the lips were thin and the chin poor, which seemed to indicate that the owner of them did in some sort enjoy this unravelling of her riddle—as though she were saying to herself, “What do you think now of the beautiful young woman who has made you write so many letters, and read so long a manuscript, and come all the way at this hour of the morning to Camden Town?” Mr. Brown shook hands with her, and muttered something to the effect that he was sorry not to see her in better health.
“No,” said Josephine de Montmorenci, “I am not very well. I never am. I told you that you had better put up with seeing my sister.”
We say no more than the truth of Mr. Brown in declaring that he was now more ready than ever to do whatever might be in his power to forward the views of this
