“Emmy, dear—­I can tell you—­and I—­no, no, not now, not now; if he comes back—­then—­then; poor children!  Oh, the sin of secresy!”

“But, dearest sir, do not be so sad; Charles has happy news, he says.”

“Happy, child?  Good Heaven! would it could be so!”

“Indeed, indeed, a week ago he was as miserable as any could be, and so was I; for he heard something terrible about me—­I don’t know what—­but I feared I was a—­Pariah!  However, now he is all joy, and coming home again as soon as possible.”

The general shook, his head mournfully, as physicians do when hope is gone; but still he looked perplexed and thoughtful.

“You will show me the letters, dear, I dare say:  but I do not command you, Emmy; do as you like.”

“Certainly, my own kindest guardian—­all, all, and instantly.”

And flying up to her room, she returned with as much closely-written manuscript as would have taken any but a lover’s eye a full week to decipher.  The general, not much given to literary matters, looked quite scared at such a prospect.

“Wait, Emmy; not all, not all; show me the last.”

I dare say Emily will forgive me if I get it set up legibly in print.  May I, dear?

CHAPTER XXI.

CHARLES AT MADRAS.

LUCKILY enough for all mankind in general, and our lovers in particular, Charles’s last letter was very unlike some that had preceded it; for instead of the usual “Oh, my love"’s, “sweet, sweet eyes,” “darling"’s, and all manner of such chicken-hearted nonsense, it was positively sensible, rational, not to say utilitarian:  though I must acknowledge that here and there it degenerates into the affectionate, or Stromboli-vein of letter-writing, at opening especially; and really now and then I shall take leave to indicate omitted inflammations by a *.

“DEAREST, DEAREST EMMY,

* * * * *

[and so forth, a very galaxy of stars to the bottom of this page; enough to put the compositor out of his terrestrial senses.]

“You see I have recovered my spirits, dearest, and am not now afraid to tell you how I love you.  Oh, that detestable Captain Forbes! let him not cross my path, gossiping blockhead! on pain of carrying about ’til deth,’ in the middle of his face, a nose two inches longer.  I heartily wish I had never listened for an instant to such vile insinuations; and when I look at this red right hand of mine, that dared to pen the trash in that black postscript, I look at it as Cranmer did, and (but that it is yours, Emmy, not mine), could wish it burnt.  But no fears now, my girl, huzza, huzza!  I believe every one about me thinks me daft; and so I am for very joyfulness; notwithstanding, let me be didactic, or you will say so too.  I really will endeavour to rein in, and go along in the regular hackney trot, that you may partly comprehend me.  Well, then, here goes; try your paces, Dobbin.