But this morning Leicester seemed to have nerved himself to read everything that came to hand. Bills, letters heavy with red wax from the counting-room, and even dirty, square-shaped missives, stamped with keys or thimbles, passed successively through his hands. These coarse letters he took up first, sorting them out with his white fingers from the rose-tinted and azure notes, glittering with gold and fancy seals, with which they were interspersed. These notes, breathing a voluptuous odor, eloquent of that sentimental foppery from which deep, pure feeling recoils, Leicester flung aside in disgust.
When all the business letters were read, he selected from this perfumed mass three little snow-white notes, traced in delicate characters, that seemed yet unsteady with the trembling hand that had written them. A single drop of pale green wax, stamped with a gem, held the envelopes, and in all things these notes were singularly chaste, and unlike those he had left so contemptuously unread. He broke the seals coldly, and perused each note according to its date. The contents must have been full of eloquence, wild and passionate; for they brought the color even to his hardened cheek, and toward the last he became somewhat excited.
"By Jove, it is a pity these could not be published. How the creature writes—a perfect nightingale pouring forth her heart in tears. After all, it is amusing to see downright, earnest love like this. One—two—three—I wonder if there are no more!"
He began tossing over the notes again. "Yes, yes, here is another, like a snow-drop in a cloud of buttercups. How is this?—the seal black, the handwriting delicately rigid—that of my lady mother."
He spoke a little anxiously, and, unfolding the note, read the few lines it contained with a darkened brow.
"Ill—is she, poor girl?—ill, and delirious at times—unfortunate that—physicians must be called, nurses—all a torment and a plague. My friend Robert has been of little use here, after all; I did think his handsome face might have helped me safely out of the whole business. Now, here is the question—shall I go up—re-assure her—take her away from the old lady—brave her friends? No, it is not worth while; a bullet through the brain must be unpleasant, especially to a reflecting mind; and these haughty southerners make short settlements. Besides, I hate scenes. But then the girl is ill, has fretted herself to the brink of the grave. These are the very words—I wonder my stately mamma ever brought herself to utter anything so pathetic. Well, she has suffered—the worst is over. When all hope is extinguished she will find consolation, or die. Die—that would end all; but then death is so gloomy, and she does write exquisite letters."
If is lips ceased to utter these cold thoughts, and falling back on his couch he closed his eyes, still holding the open note in one hand. It was terrible to see how calm and passionless his features remained while he settled in his mind the destiny of one who had loved him so much. After some ten minutes, he opened his eyes, turned softly on the couch, and laid down his mother's letter.
"No, I will not go near her," he said, "and yet this is another heart that I am casting away—another that has loved me. How soon—how soon shall I have need of affection? A whole life—conquest upon conquest, and yet never truly loved save by these two women—the first and the last. It is strange but this moment my heart softens toward them both. What, a tear in Leicester's eye!" and with a look of thrilling self-contempt the bad man started up, scoffing at the only pure feeling that had swelled his bosom for months.
A waiter stood in the door. "Sir, there is a man below, who says you told him to call."
"What does he seem like?"