Margaret, meanwhile, who had quietly completed all her arrangements and packed her trunks, went to her room, and, after laying aside her rose-colored dress, and putting on her wrapper, sat down to her table and wrote her letter. It did not seem at all difficult to her to write, though she once or twice laid down her pen and thought for a few minutes, with a grave face.
She wrote no rough copy, and made no alterations; but went on firmly, line by line, till she had signed her name, when she read it carefully over, sealed and directed it. It took her about half an hour, and then she went directly to bed, and slept as soundly as a child.
Dr. James's state of mind grew worse and worse, as he approached his home, and, after leaving Rosanna at her stable, he walked up and down before the house many times, before he went in to write his letter. Never before had any letter given him such trouble. He wrote and rewrote it; left it and walked about his room; took refuge in a book, and then put it down in despair. At last he resolved to try for the last time, and keep what he should write; and this was his letter:
"My Dear Miss Lester: I have a humiliating confession to make to you; but before I make it (afterward it would be impossible) I feel obliged to say to you that your conduct since you have been at Shellbeach has compelled my respect and admiration. I appreciate the courage and earnestness with which you adopted your change of life, and, instead of seeking in it only your own amusement, made your stay here not only a pleasure to your friends, but a blessing to persons whose number I can only guess at, but whom your own heart knows.
"I know, Miss Lester, you are wealthy; I knew it long before you came here. And your wealth, I acknowledge it to my shame, has been a temptation to me. I believe you consider all men mercenary, and fortune-hunters. I think you are mistaken; and I wish you to take the humiliation of what I am going to say as a proof that you are wrong. Miss Lester, I know I do not love you, and here is the proof: If I think of you as my wife, the thought of what your money would be to me comes first to my mind. Having said that, I can say no more; but I am, always yours faithfully,
"Francis James.
"Shellbeach, July 18, 1868."
The clock struck one as the doctor signed his name, tore up the unfinished letters which lay around him, and hastened to extinguish his light and go to bed. He was angry with himself, and disgusted with his letter; and for the first time for years, found that he could not sleep. One minute he repented of what he had done, and called himself a fool; the next, he said to himself, "I must tell her the truth; she deserves it." He then asked himself what she did deserve? It was plain to him what her plan of action was to be: she wished to part friends, because she supposed that she would by her letter give a dreadful blow to his hopes, and consign him to despair. At this, he laughed with pleasure, to think that his letter would undeceive and disappoint her. Then rose up clearly before him the always recurring temptation of his great need of money, and all the good he could do with it. What a chance had been offered him! Would he ever have such another? Might he not, if he had gone to work differently, won her heart? Other men had done such things; and he was better worthy of her, he was sure of it, than the society-men she had so often spoken of with contempt. Had he not heard that "any man can have any woman"? No, that was not right; it was, "Any woman can have any man." Then, had she tried to ensnare him? had she really endeavored to please him? He could not say she had; but he remembered, with some discomfiture, her apparent enjoyment in shocking and teasing him. She was an enigma; but he believed her honest, and was glad he had told her the truth.
To tell all Dr. James's reflections of that night, would take considerably longer than it took him to make them, which was two or three hours; so we will leave him to his uncomfortable pillow, and not return to him till he opened his chamber-door, at seven o'clock in the morning, and saw Tommy McNally waiting with a letter in his hand. The doctor handed the boy his own, and walked into his study, where he sat down at his table and contemplated the square white envelope and graceful monogram, and his own name written in a large, firm hand. He slowly opened the letter, struck by its neatness and the fair, distinct writing, and read as follows:
"Sweet Brier Cottage,
July 18, 1868."My Dear Dr. James: When, six months ago, I promised to write you this letter, I certainly had no idea that I should say in it what I am about to say now. Whether, if this possibility had occurred to me, I should have made that promise, or whether I should have come to Shellbeach at all, it is profitless to consider.
"I know you always speak the truth frankly, and I am resolved, in all my dealings with you, to do the same; for I feel that I shall thus best show my appreciation and approbation of your character, and of the plain truth which I know you will write to me to-night. You deserve honest treatment, and you shall have it. I consider the time I have spent here to be the great lesson of my life, and one which I on no account regret, though I weigh well the significance of the words. I have learned to know and value the useful and unselfish life and work of one man, and from him to believe in the capacity for noble things in other people whom I once despised. In recognizing your superiority, I have grown humble; and from your wisdom and good sense, I have come to be aware of my own ignorance and conceit. I know how strongly you will object to hearing this, but be patient a little longer. You have given me a lesson you will be glad to hear of, and it is this: I believe that a useless life will never again content me, and that to do some active good will be the only way to make my life happy.
"But you will say all this is not to the purpose, and not in the bond. You are very right; and though I beat round the bush, I do not mean to beg the question, and I know very well that honor, esteem, appreciation, good resolutions, etc., etc., were not to be the subjects of this letter. Truly then, I love you, and I have never loved before. I believe that to be your wife, in this little town, with no society and no excitements, to share your work and your poverty, (if poverty indeed it were,) would be a happy lot. I tell you this, because I trust you; I know it is not maidenly, but it is honest. I shall not see you again; for I know you do not love me, and that your letter will tell the truth. I thank you for your kindness, and your wise and good advice. I hope it has not all been lost upon me. I hope you will sometimes let me know what you are interested in, and how you are prospering.
"Good-by, and believe me your true friend,
Margaret Lester.
"Once more, I do not regret any thing."
Poor Dr. James! He read the last word, and sat like a man in a dream staring at the letter before him. Suddenly he started up, seized his hat from its peg, put it on, and rushed to the door; then came back, threw his hat away from him and sat down again, burying his face in his hands. Fool, fool that he had been! What had he thrown away? Was there ever a woman like this? What would it not be for him, for any man, to go through life with such a companion; who would never hold him back from what was right; who would not fear to meet any thing for the sake of truth and justice? What woman in a hundred would have done this? knowing, too, that her love was not returned. And how did she know it? Oh! how much more clear-sighted she had been than he, with all his wisdom and experience! If he had not shut his eyes, if he could have had the least suspicion of this, what a difference might it not have made? Then he resolved to seek her, to go through fire and water if need be, if he could only find her, and bring her back, and never let her leave him again.
At that moment, the words he had written to her came before him, and threw him again into despair. No; all was lost! He had insulted her, causelessly and needlessly; he had said that he valued her money more than herself! Her money! Would she had not a cent; would she were dependent and friendless, that he might work for her, share with her all that he had, and win name and fame for her!