XV.—-SOMETHING HAPPENS TO THE MAN MUGGS
SOME people are so careless with their affections that they even forget where they laid 'em the day before, and often go about sputtering like an old gentleman who has lost his spectacles. My grandfather was once so mad at a table on which he had found them lying, unexpectedly, that he seized a poker and put a dent in it. He was like many modern lovers—divorced and otherwise. They should remember that misplaced affection has made more trouble than anything else.
Mrs. Mullet had been a bit careless with her affections, and especially in taking Mr. Pike's recommendation of Colonel Wilton. What could have been the motive of Mr. Pike?
Mrs. Mullet called to see us next morning.
“Something very strange has happened,” said she.
“If you were to tell me something that wasn't strange I wouldn't believe it,” I answered. “Go ahead; you can't astonish me.”
“Please read this letter,” she requested, as she drew a sheet of paper from an envelope and put it into my hands and added, “It's from Colonel Wilton.”
“From Wilton!” I exclaimed, and began reading aloud the singular human document. His emotion conferred rank upon her, for he had addressed Mrs. Mullet in this baronial fashion:
My dear Lady Maude,—I have completed the payments due to date on the bust and the oil-painting, because I have decided that if I cannot have you I must have them. I want to live with them, for I believe they will help me. I tell you the God's truth, I have been a bad man, but I want to be better and make good to every one I have wronged. I can't do it for a little while yet, but I'm going to as sure as there's a God in heaven. I was a fool to write that letter, but I was discouraged. You are the only woman I ever loved. I take back all that I wrote in that letter. I won't put any price on you. I can't. You are better than all the money in the world. I don't blame you a bit for not having anything more to do with me. You don't know what I have suffered; you can't know, but I know. I shall never give you a moment's trouble. Don't be afraid to meet me in the street. I may look at you, but I shall not speak to you. Don't hate me; but, if you can, ask Jesus Christ to forgive me and help me to live honest. I don't believe that He wants me to suffer always like this. Don't hate me, because I love you, and please remember me as Lysander Wilton.
Its script was curious. Every word was written with extreme care, and some were embellished with little flourishes. I remembered how slowly and carefully he had formed the letters in that signature in my office.