She began—once—twice—but tore up each sheet. Her news was a supreme happiness, but so difficult to transmit!
At last she finished three sides of her own rather large sized note-paper, but as she read over what she had written, she was not quite content; it did not express all that she desired John to know.
But how could a mere letter convey the wordless gladness in her heart?
She wanted to tell him how she would worship their baby, and how she would pray that they should be given a son—and how she would remember all his love words spoken that last time they were together, and weave the joy of them round the little form, so that it should grow strong and beautiful and radiant, and come to earth welcomed and blessed!
Something of all this finally did get written, and she concluded thus:
"John, is it not all wonderful and blissful and mysterious, this coming proof of our love? And when I lie awake I say over and over again the sweet name you called me, and which I want to sign! I am not just Amaryllis any longer, but your very own 'Sweetheart'!"
John received this letter by the afternoon post in camp. He sat down alone in his tent and read and re-read each line. Then he stiffened and remained icily still.
He could not have analysed his emotions. They were so intermixed with thankfulness and pain—and underneath there was a fierce, primitive jealousy burning.
"Sweetheart!" he said aloud, as though the word were anathema! "And must I call her that 'Sweetheart'! Oh! God, it is too hard!" and he clenched his hands.
By the same post came a letter from Denzil, of whose movements he had asked to be kept informed, saying that the 110th Hussars were going out at once, so that they would probably soon meet in France.