weeks. It will be the usual thing, I suppose.
Father has got the gout in his right toe, or his left
calf, or his wrist, or all his fingers, and is, consequently,
fuller than usual of hatred and malice; mother’s
neuralgia is very bad, and she is sadly in want of
change, but she cannot leave him. Algy has lost
a lot of money at Goodwood, and they are afraid to
tell father, etc., etc. Certainly,
life is rather uphill! I slowly tear the envelope
open, and languidly throw my eyes along the lines.
But, before I have read three words, my languor suddenly
disappears. I sit upright in my chair, grasp the
paper more firmly, bring it nearer my eyes, which
begin greedily to gallop through its contents.
They are not very long, and in two minutes I have
mastered them.
“MY DEAREST NANCY:
“I have such a piece of news for you!
I cannot help laughing as I picture to myself your
face of delight; I would make you guess it, only I
cannot bear to keep you in suspense. It has all
come right! I am going to marry Frank, after
all! What have I done to deserve such
luck! How can I ever thank God enough for it?
Do you know that my very first thought, when he asked
me, was, ‘How pleased Nancy will be!’
You dear little soul! I think, when he went away
that time from Tempest, that you took all the blame
of it to yourself! O Nancy, do you think it is
wrong to be so dreadfully happy? Sometimes
I am afraid that I love him too much! it seems
so hard to help it. I have no time for more now;
he is waiting for me; how little I thought, a month
ago, that I should be ending a letter to you for such
a reason! When all is said and done, what a pleasant
world it is! Do not think me quite mad. I
know I sound as if I were!
“Yours, BARBARA.”
My hand, and the letter with it, fall together into
my lap; my head sinks back on the cushion of my chair;
my eyes peruse the ceiling.
“Engaged to Musgrave! engaged to Musgrave! engaged
to Musgrave!”
The words ring with a dull monotony of repetition
through my brain. Poor Barbara! I think
she would be surprised if she were to see my “face
of delight!”
My eyes are fixed on the mouldings of the ceiling,
while a jumble of thoughts mix and muddle themselves
in my head. Was Brindley Wood a dream? or is
this a dream? Surely one or other must be, and,
if this is not a dream, what is it? Is it reality,
is it truth? And, if it is, how on earth did
any thing so monstrous ever come about? How did
he dare to approach her? How could he know that
I had not told her? Is it possible that he cares
for her really?—that he cared for her all
along?—that he only went mad for one wicked
moment? Is he sorry? how soon shall I have to
meet him? On what terms shall we be? Will
Roger be undeceived at last? Will he believe
me? As my thoughts fall upon him, he opens the
door and enters.
