CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LETTERS.
Tuesday evening's mail brought him two letters, post-marked Newbury. The sight of them came with a sort of a heart-blow. They were not wholly expected, and he felt that there might still be a little struggle for him, although he was certain that this must be the last.
The well-known hand of Judge Markham addressed one of them. The writing of the other he did not recognize; only after he had lost its envelope, he remembered that it very much resembled the hand that wrote the Greer warning. He put the letters into an inside pocket, and tried to go on with his book; like a very young man he fancied that he was observed. So he took his hat and went to the room he occupied with Case. He pulled open the unknown, knew the hand, ran down and turned over to the second page, and found "Julia" at the bottom, and below, the words "with the profoundest gratitude." It ran:
"NEWBURY, April 8, 1838.
"BARTON RIDGELEY:
"Dear Sir,—Is it characteristic of a brave and generous man to confer the greatest obligations upon another, and not permit that other the common privilege of expressing gratitude? Were I a man, I would follow and weary you with a vain effort to utter the thanks I owe you. But I can only say a few cold words on paper at the risk of being misunderstood." ("Um-m, I don't see what danger she could apprehend on that score," said Bart quite sharply.) "When I had wandered beyond the help of my father and friends, into danger, and, I think, to certain death, you were inspired with the heart, skill and strength, to find and save me. Next to God, who led you, I owe my life to you. When this is said, I cannot say more. I know of no earthly good that you do not deserve; I can think of no gift of Heaven, that I do not ask of It for you.
"You will not be offended that I should most anxiously insist that some little benefit should in some way come to you, from my father; and you will certainly, when you first return to Newbury, give me an opportunity to say to you how much I owe you, and how heavy the obligation rests upon me. You promised me this and will fulfil it. My mother, who sees this note, wants you to realize her profound sense of your service to us, enhanced if possible by the noble and manly way in which you rendered it. She was always your discerning and discriminating friend."
"Discriminating,"—Bart did not like that, but no matter. That was all.
"A very pretty letter, my lady Julia," said Bart with a long breath. "Quite warm. I confess I don't care much for your gratitude—but very pretty and condescending. And it is kind to advise me that whatever may have been your estimate of me, your sweet lady mother 'discerned' differently. What you mean by discriminating is a very pretty little woman mystery, that I shall never know."