The notary who had taken Morning’s acknowledgment to the deed whose delivery would complete his business in Denver, brought the instrument to Morning’s office, and, not finding him in, slipped the paper in the top of a desk with a circular cover. This desk was one of Morning’s first possessions in the way of office furniture, and, finding it convenient and commodious, he had caused it to accompany every change of quarters which his increasing business had from time to time rendered necessary.
Entering his office, Morning hurriedly threw back the cover of the desk, not noticing the deed in the top of it until it was too late to prevent the paper from being carried by the revolving cover into the interior of the desk, where it could only be reached by removing a portion of the back. The services of a mechanic from a neighboring furniture store were procured, the back of the desk was removed, and Morning recovered the deed.
He also recovered another paper. It was an unopened letter addressed to himself, which had doubtless reached its resting-place in the old desk through the same process as that which carried the deed there. The envelope was covered with dust; it was postmarked “Boston, Mass., February, 1883”—ten years before—and the superscription was in the handwriting of Ellen Thornton, now the Baroness Von Eulaw.
Dispatching the recovered deed to its destination, Morning closed the door of his private office, and, with breath coming thick and fast, proceeded to open and peruse the missive. It read as follows:—
Roxbury, Mass., Feb. 13, 1883.
My Dear Mr. Morning: This letter may bring you a moment of surprise; if it be not a surprise mixed with chagrin, I am less justly repaid than perhaps I deserve for that which may seem my instability of purpose. But I have heard you say that you scarcely knew which was the weaker, the man who changed his mind too often or who never changed it at all, and in this recollection I find refuge.
With men as intuitive as yourself, explanations are almost superfluous. Nevertheless, you will bear with me while I pass under review a few of the causes which have led to this action.
After the change in my father’s fortunes and our subsequent removal to Boston, life began to open up new possibilities, and what with the increased demands upon my time, and the many beguilements of flattering tongues, together with—let me confess it—an unresting desire to forget the act of folly which had shut out every ray of sunshine from my heart, as I found too late, I at length fixed my footing to the artificial conditions of the situation, and for a brief time flattered myself that you were forgotten.
My letter, if written at all, ought to stop here. But thus much I have learned—that passion tinctured with sorrow is the greatest of egotists, and that the feeling that brooks no measure of repression or discouragement inspires a degree of courage little short of defiance. Thus stimulated, I feel a growing joy in being able to surmount artificial restraint and to address you as I know you would wish an honest girl who loves you with her whole heart, should speak.
What will you think of me? Will you call me fickle and unworthy? unwomanly? In a word, will you misunderstand me? How could I know till my eyes were opened that there was but one sun? that the whole world to me was adjusted to your simple, noble qualities? How could I know that the music of the spheres meant the remembered tones of your voice, that your face should haunt alike every scene of splendor and every secret shadow, or that I would give my patrimony to be able to pass my fingers through your brown locks for ever so brief a moment?