But I am
not the one to grumble about bad measure--as the boy said about old
Busby. Now, Maria, listen, but say nothing; if feminine capacity may
compass it. Why, bless my heart, every word of it is French!" The rector
threw down his spectacles, and gazed at his wife reproachfully. But she
smiled with superior innocence.
"What else could you expect, after all his years abroad? I cannot
make out the whole of it, for certain. But surely it is not beyond the
compass of masculine capacity."
"Yes, it is, Maria; and you know it well enough. No honest Englishman
can endure a word of French. Latin, or Greek, or even Hebrew--though I
took to that rather late in life. But French is only fit for women, and
very few of them can manage it. Let us hear what this Frenchman says."
"He is not a Frenchman, Joshua. He is an Englishman, and probably a very
fine one. I won't be sure about all of his letter, because it is so long
since I was at school; and French books are generally unfit to read. But
the general meaning is something like this:
'MY BELOVED AND HIGHLY VALUED AUNT,--Since I heard from you there
are many years now, but I hope you have held me in memory. I have the
intention of returning to the country of England, even in this bad time
of winter, when the climate is most funereal. I shall do my best to call
back, if possible, the scattered ruins of the property, and to institute
again the name which my father made displeasing.
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