And here at the
Buergenstock, when he got into his room, his letters stared him in the
face.
"Damned officiousness!" he said to himself, thinking of Tompson.
He did not want to be reminded of any existence other than the dream of
heaven he was now enjoying.
Oh! they were all very real and material, these epistles--quite of earth!
One was from his mother. He was enjoying Lucerne, she hoped, and she was
longing for his return. She expected he also was craving for his home and
horses and dogs. All were well. They--she and his father--were moving up
to the town house in Berkeley Square the following week until the end of
June, and great preparations were already in contemplation for his
twenty-third birthday in July at Verdayne Place. There was no mention of
Isabella except a paragraph at the end. Miss Waring was visiting friends
at Blackheath, he was informed. Ah, so far away it all seemed! But it
brought him back from heaven. The next was his father's writing. Laconic,
but to the point. This parent hoped he was not wasting his time--d--d
short in life! and that he was cured of his folly for the parson's girl,
and found other eyes shone bright. If he wanted more money he was
to say so.
Several were from his friends, banal and everyday. And one was from
Tremlett, his own groom, and this was full of Moonlighter and--Pike! That
gave him just a moment's feeling--Pike! Tremlett had "made so bold" as to
have some snapshots done by a friend, and he ventured to send one to his
master.
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