And Bella, sitting now in her arm-chair in front of the drawing-room
fire, with a letter lying open on her lap before her, was thinking of
the writer of that letter, as well as of all that it contained. If one
glances at it as it lies there before her, much may be gleaned of what
has happened in those nine months; while perhaps, also, some idea,
some light, may be gained of that which is to come.
'My Darling,' it commenced (and possibly the writer, far away, may
have hoped that, as he wrote those words, they would be kissed as
often by the person to whom they were addressed as he fondly desired),
'My Darling--Your letter came to me to-day, and I must write back to
you at once--this very instant--not only because I want to put all my
thoughts on paper, but also because I can thus catch the P. and O.
mail. How good! how good you are! While, also, I do not forget how
good your mother is. I know I ought not--at least I suppose I ought
not--to ask you to do such a thing as come out to me, and I can assure
you I hesitated for weeks before daring to do so. Yet, when I
reflected that, if you could not bring yourself to come, as well as
induce your mother to give her consent to your coming, we could not
possibly be married for three years, I could not hesitate any longer.
And now--now--oh, Bella, my darling! I could dance for joy if my cabin
was big enough to allow of such a thing--you are coming! You will
come! How happy we shall be! I can think of nothing else--nothing. You
don't know how I feel, and it's useless for me to try to tell you....'
No more need be read of this letter, however, and, since the reader
will shortly be informed of what led to it, nothing more need be said
than that, after a good deal of explanation as to how the young lady
to whom it was addressed was to make her plans for reaching Bombay, it
was signed 'Gilbert Bampfyld.'
So that one sees now what had been the outcome of that week of delight
at Portsmouth during the last summer; one understands all that had
been the result of those garden-parties and that ball.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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