I had received, of course, a great many letters from Reggie, and I wrote
to him every day. He expected to return in the fall, and he wrote that
he was counting the days. He said very little in his letters about his
people, though he must have known I was anxiously awaiting word as to
how they had taken the news of our engagement.
Toward the end of summer, his letters came less frequently, and, to my
great misery, two weeks passed away when I had not word from him at all.
I was feeling blue and heartsick and, but for my work at the Château, I
think I would have done something desperate. I was really tremendously
in love with Reggie and I worried and fretted over his long absence and
silence.
Then one day, in late September, a messenger boy came with a letter for
me. It was from Reggie. He had returned from his trip, and was back in
Montreal. Instead of being happy to receive his letter, I was filled
with resentment and indignation. He should have come himself and, in
spite of what he wrote, I felt I could not excuse him. This was his
letter:
“DARLING GIRLIE:
I am counting the hours when I will be with you. I tried to get up
to see you last night, but it was impossible. Lord Eaton’s son,
young Albert, was on the steamer coming over, and they are friends
of the governor’s and I simply had to be with them. You see,
darling, it means a good deal to me in the future, to be in touch
with these people. His brother-in-law, whom I met last night, is
head cockalorum in the House of Parliament, and as I have often
told you, my ambition is to get into politics. It’s the surest road
to fame for a Barrister.
Now I hope my foolish little girl will understand and believe me
when I say that I am thinking for you as much as for myself.