Derwent parted from Miss Stanhope a different man from what he had been before the interview. It was not the knowledge of her love merely which had worked the change in him, but it was the discovery that he had thought the human heart more selfish than it is, that he had doubted the existence of a generous affection.
They parted that evening. Miss Stanhope, though she pledged herself to Derwent, stipulated that he should not accompany her to the South, but that he should at once begin the practice of his profession.
“You may write to me,” she said, playfully, “and I will answer, and we shall then see, from the punctuality of the answers, which loves the most. Next year I shall probably come North again with my cousin, and be assured I will let you know of my arrival the instant we are established at the hotel in New York.”
Derwent had now an object for which to struggle, and nobly did he labor for the great end he had in view. The fall and winter he devoted to assiduous study, taking no relaxation except what was necessary for health, visiting nowhere; his sole solace being a weekly letter to Miss Stanhope. Her replies still breathed unabated affection. High as was the estimate he had placed on her abilities, they fell short of the reality as he discovered by this correspondence, and proud was he that such a woman was some day to be his wife.
Nor did that day appear far distant. His knowledge of European languages brought him several foreign clients, whom other lawyers were unable to converse with; and one of these clients placed a case in his hands which he won, and which from the large claim at risk, as well as from the abstruse points of law involved, brought him much reputation. His business increased so fast that he wrote to Miss Stanhope:
“Congratulate me, I have gained the first move in the game, and am now considered a hard-working lawyer; I am already able to offer you a home, but let us wait another year that we may be certain.”
And she replied—“I have placed my fate in your hands, and rejoice to find you all I hoped. Dear Derwent, you are more precious to me now than if worth millions, since you have shown that you are something more than an idler.”
About a month after Derwent received this letter, a note was brought to him, the superscription of which was in the handwriting of his mistress. He opened it with emotion, for he knew from it that she had arrived in New York. The delicate little missive contained but three lines:
“Come to me: I am in New York; my present home is No. — , Union Square.”
“Who does she, or rather Miss Arnott, know in Union Square?” he said. “I expected to be summoned to the Astor or the Irving.” He thus soliloquized as he drew on his gloves.