Wednesday Afternoon.
My dear Tom,—I had thought to have despatched this prosy epistle without being obliged to inflict you with any personal details of the Dodd family. I was even vaunting to myself that I had kept us all "out of the indictment," and now I discover that I have made a signal failure, and the codicil must revoke the whole body of the testament. How shall I ever get my head clear enough to relate all I want to tell you? I go looking after a stray idea the way I 'd chase a fellow in a crowded fair or market, catching a glimpse of him now—losing him again—here, with my hand almost on him,—and the next minute no sign of him! Try and follow me, however; don't quit me for a moment; and, above all, Tom, whatever vagaries I may fall into, be still assured that I have a road to go, if I only have the wit to discover it!
First of all about Morris, or Sir Morris, as I ought to call him. I told you in my last how warmly he had taken up Mrs. D.'s cause, and how mainly instrumental was he in her liberation. This being accomplished, however, I could not but perceive that he inclined to resume the cold and distant tone he had of late assumed towards us, and rather retire from, than incur, any renewal of our intimacy. When I was younger in the world, Tom, I believe I'd have let him follow his humor undisturbed; but with more mature experience of life, I have come to see that one often sacrifices a real friendship in the indulgence of some petty regard to a ceremonial usage, and so I resolved at least to know the why, if I could, of Morris's conduct.
I went frankly to him at his hotel, and asked for an explanation. He stared at me for a second or two without speaking, and then said something about the shortness of my memory,—a recent circumstance,—and such like, that I could make nothing of. Seeing my embarrassment, he appeared slightly irritated, and proceeded to unlock a writing-desk on the table before him, saying hurriedly,—
"I shall be able to refresh your recollection, and when you read over—" He stopped, clasped his hand to his forehead suddenly, and, as if overcome, threw himself down into a seat, deeply agitated. "Forgive me," said he at length, "if I ask you a question or two. You remember being ill at Genoa, don't you?"
"Perfectly."
"You can also remember receiving a letter from me at that time?"
"No,—nothing of the kind!"
"No letter?—you received no letter of mine?"
"None!"