At last there came a post which brought me, not a sermon from Miss
Fenne, nor gossip from Pollie, but a message from the Islands of the
Blest. All that evening and night it lay unopened under my pillow. I was
saving it up. And never have I passed hours so studious yet so barren of
result. It was the end of February. A sudden burst of light and sunshine
had fallen on the world. There were green shining grass and new-fallen
lambs in the meadows, and the almond tree beyond my window was in full,
leafless bloom. As for the larks, they were singing of Fanny. The next
morning early, about seven o'clock, her letter folded up in its small
envelope in the bosom of my cloak, I was out of the house and making my
way to the woods. It was the clear air of daybreak and only the large
stars shook faint and silvery in the brightening sky.
Frost powdered the ground and edged the grasses. But now tufts of
primroses were in blow among the withered mist of leaves. I came to my
"observatory" just as the first beams of sunrise smote on its upper
boughs. Yet even now I deferred the longed-for moment and hastened on
between the trees, beech and brooding yew, by what seemed a faint
foot-track, and at last came out on a kind of rising on the edge of the
woods. From this green eminence for the first time I looked straight
across its desolate garden to Wanderslore.
It was a long, dark, many-windowed house. It gloomed sullenly back at me
beneath the last of night. From the alarm calls of the blackbirds it
seemed that even so harmless a trespasser as I was a rare spectacle. A
tangle of brier and bramble bushed frostily over its grey stone
terraces. Nearer at hand in the hollow stood an angled house, also of
stone--and as small compared with Wanderslore as a little child compared
with its mother. It had been shattered at one corner by a falling tree,
whose bole still lay among the undergrowth. The faint track I was
following led on, and apparently past it. Breathless and triumphant, I
presently found myself seated on a low mossy stone beside it, monarch of
all I surveyed. With a profound sigh I opened my letter:--
"BURN THIS LETTER, AND SHOW THE OTHER TO M.
"DEAR MIDGETINA,--Don't suppose, because I have not written, that
Fanny is a monster, though, in fact, she is. I have often thought
of you--with your stars and knick-knacks. And of course your
letters have come. My thanks. I can't really answer them now
because I am trying at the same time to scribble this note and to
correct 'composition' papers under the very eyes of Miss
Stebbings--the abhorred daughter of Argus and the eldest Gorgon.
Dear me, I almost envy you, Midgetina. It _must_ be fun to be like
a tiny, round-headed pin in a pin-cushion and just mock at the
Workbox. But all things in moderation.
"When the full moon came last I remembered our _vow_. She was so
dazzling, poor old wreck. And I wondered, as I blinked up at her,
if you would not some day vanish away altogether--unless you make a
fortune by being looked at. I wish I could. Only would they pay
enough? That is the question.
"What I am writing about now is not the moon, but--don't be
amused!--a Man. Not Monsieur Crapaud, who is more absurd than ever;
but some one you know, Mr Crimble. He has sent me the most alarming
letter and wants me to marry him. It is not for the first time of
asking, but still a solemn occasion. Mother once said that he was
like a coquette--all attention and no intention. Sad to say, it is
the other way round. M., you see, always judges by what she fears.
_I_ by what this Heart tells me.
"Now I daren't write back to him direct (_a_) because I wish just
now to say neither Yes nor No; (_b_) because a little delay will
benefit his family pride; (_c_) because it is safer not to--he's
very careless and I might soon want to change my mind; (_d_)
because that's how my fancy takes me; and (_e_) because I love you
exceedingly and know you will help me.
"When no answer comes to his letter, he will probably dare another
pilgrimage to Beechwood Hill, if only to make sure that I am not in
my grave. So I want you to tell him _secretly_ that _I have
received his letter and that I am giving it my earnest
attention_--let alone my prayers. Tell me exactly how he takes this
answer; then I will write to you again. I am sure, Midgetina, in
some previous life you must have lived in the tiny rooms in the
Palace at Mantua--you are a born _intrigante_.
"_In my bedroom, 11 p.m._--A scheme is in my mind, but it is not
yet in bloom, and you may infer from all this that I don't _care_.
Often I wish this were so. I sat in front of my eight inches of
grained looking-glass last night till it seemed some god(dess)
_must_ intervene. But no. My head was dark and empty. I could hear
Mr Oliphant cajoling with his violin in the distance--as if music
had charms. Oh, dear, they give you life, and leave you to ask,
Why. You seem to be perfectly contented in your queer little prim
way with merely asking. But Fanny Bowater wants an answer, or she
will make one up. Meanwhile, search for a scrap of magic mushroom,
little sister, and come nearer! Some day I will tell you even more
about myself! Meanwhile, believe me, petitissimost M., your
affec.--F.
"PS.--_Burn this._
"PPS.--What I mean is, that he must be _made_ to realize that I
will not and cannot give him an answer before I come home--unless
he hears meanwhile.
"Burn this: the _other_ letter is for show purposes."