Part 22 (1/2)
”No, it isn't,” laughed Falkenstein. Elliot Tweed--Idiot Tweed, as they all call him--who was hanging after Bella, abhorred all caligraphy, and wrote his own name with one _e_.
”Mr. Dashaway, then?”
”Dash never scrawled anything but I. O. U.s.”
”Lord Flippertygibbett, perhaps?”
”Wrong again. Flip took up a pen once too often, when he signed his marriage register, to have any leanings to goose quills.”
”Charlie Montmorency, then?”
”Reads nothing but his betting-book and _Bell's Life_.”
”Dear me! how tiresome. Who can it be? Wait a moment. Let me see. Is it Major Powell?”
”Guess again. He wouldn't write, save in Indian fas.h.i.+on, with his tomahawk on his enemies' scalps.”
”How provoking!” cried Bella, exasperated. ”Stop: is it Mr. Beauchamp?”
”No; he scribbles for six-and-eightpences too perseveringly to have time for anything, except ruining his clients.”
”Dr. Montressor, then?”
”Try once more. His prescriptions bring him too many guineas for him to waste ink on any other purpose.”
”How stupid I am! Perhaps--perhaps---- Yet no, it can't be, because he's at the Cape, and most likely killed, poor fellow. Could it be Cecil Green?”
Falkenstein laughed. ”You needn't go so far as Kaffirland; try a little nearer home. Think over the _ladies_ you know.”
”The ladies! Then it _is_ a woman!” cried Bella. ”Well, I should never have believed it. Who can she be? How I shall admire her, and envy her!
A lady! Can it be darling Flora?”
”No. If your pet friend can get through an invitation-note of four lines, the exertion costs her at least a dram of sal volatile.”
”How wicked you are,” murmured Miss Cashranger, delighted, after the custom of women, to hear her friend pulled to pieces. ”Is it Mrs.
Lus.h.i.+ngton, then?”
”Wrong again. The Lus.h.i.+ngton has so much business on hand, inditing rose-hued notes to twenty men at once, and wording them differently, for fear they may ever be compared, that she's no time for other composition.”
”Lady Mechlin, perhaps--she is a charming creature?”
Falkenstein shook his head. ”Never could learn the simplest rule of grammar. When she was engaged to Mechlin, she wrote her love-letters out of 'Henrietta Temple,' and flattered him immensely by their pathos.”
”Was there ever such a sarcastic creature!” cried Bella, reprovingly; her interest rather flagged, since no man was the incognito author.
”Well, let me see: there is Rosa Temple--she is immensely intellectual.”
”But immensely orthodox. Every minute of her life is spent in working slippers and Bible markers for interesting curates. It is to be hoped one of them may reward her some day, though, I believe, till they _do_ propose, she is in the habit of advocating priestly celibacy, by way of a.s.sertion of her disinterestedness. No! Miss Cashranger, the talented writer of 'Scarlet and White,' is not only of your acquaintance, but your family.”