At
present, however, he took her word for it, and asked her who had taught
her.
"I had to teach myself. Nobody cares enough for me to teach me. Well,
I'll forgive you if you will write me a nice letter for mine."
"What! when we can meet here and say everything?"
"No matter; I have written to you, and you might write to me. They all
get letters, except me; and the jades hold 'em up to me: they see I
never get one. When you are out, post me a letter now and then. It will
only cost you a penny. I'm sure I don't ask you for much."
Bassett humored her in this, and in one of his letters called her his
wife that was to be.
This pleased her so much that the next time they met she hung round his
neck with a good deal of feminine grace.
Richard Bassett was a man who now lived in the future. Everybody in the
county believed he had written that anonymous letter, and he had no
hope of shining by his own light. It was bitter to resign his personal
hopes; but he did, and sullenly resolved to be obscure himself, but the
father of the future heirs of Huntercombe. He would marry Mary Wells,
and lay the blame of the match upon Sir Charles, who had blackened him
in the county, and put it out of his power to win a lady's hand.
He told Wheeler he was determined to marry; but he had not the courage
to tell him all at once what a wife he had selected.
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