“A thousand thanks to dear Caroline for her
letter, and to Rosamond for her journal. They,
who have never been an inch from home, cannot conceive
how delightful it is, at such a distance, to receive
letters from our friends. You remember, in Cook’s
voyage, his joy at meeting in some distant island
with the spoon marked London.
“I hope you received my letters, Nos. I
and 2. Not that there was any thing particular
in them. You know I never do more than tell the
bare facts—not like Rosamond’s journal—with
which, by-the-bye, Gascoigne has fallen in love.
He sighs, and wishes that Heaven had blessed him with
such a sister—for sister, read wife.
I hope this will encourage Rosamond to write again
immediately. No; do not tell what I have just
said about Gascoigne, for—who knows the
perverse ways of women?—perhaps it might
prevent her from writing to me at all. You may
tell her, in general, that it is my opinion ladies
always write better and do every thing better than
men—except fight, which Heaven forbid they
should ever do in public or private!
“I am glad that Caroline did not marry Mr. Barclay,
since she did not like him; but by all accounts he
is a sensible, worthy man, and I give my consent to
his marriage with Lady Mary Pembroke, though, from
Caroline’s description, I became half in love
with her myself. N.B. I have not been in
love above six times since I left England, and but
once any thing to signify. How does the Marchioness
of Twickenham go on?
“Affectionate duty to my father, and love to
all the happy people at home.
“Dear mother,
“Your affectionate son,
“G. PERCY.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
LETTER FROM ALFRED TO CAROLINE.
“MY DEAR CAROLINE,
“I am going to surprise you—I know
it is the most imprudent thing a story-teller can
do to give notice or promise of a surprise; but you
see, I have such confidence at this moment in my fact,
that I hazard this imprudence—Whom do you
think I have seen? Guess—guess all
round the breakfast-table—father, mother,
Caroline, Rosamond—I defy you all—ay,
Rosamond, even you, with all your capacity for romance;
the romance of real life is beyond all other romances—its
coincidences beyond the combinations of the most inventive
fancy—even of yours, Rosamond—Granted—go
on—Patience, ladies, if you please, and
don’t turn over the page, or glance to the end
of my letter to satisfy your curiosity, but read fairly
on, says my father.
Copyrights
Tales and Novels — Volume 07 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
