A LOVER WRITES A LETTER.
If a Parisian philosopher, animated by the love of that wisdom which is
deducible by philosophic methods from the study of mankind, had emerged
from his abode, on a certain summer evening, in quest of the solution of
that great riddle, Why is this thus? and, seeking an answer, had scanned
the visages of the passers upon the Boulevard, he would, perhaps, have
noticed the face and bearing of a man who strolled alone and listless;
and, it being a fine evening of early summer, at an hour when,
philosophers having dined, are ruminative, he might have fallen into
speculation, and asking himself the meaning of this man's face, would,
perhaps, have deduced discontent, becoming habitual and tending toward
cynicism; and if a philosopher of the weeping, rather than the laughing
variety, he would have mourned over the atom of humanity, beneath whose
careworn lines and shadows of dissatisfaction there lay forgotten noble
promise. And, to sum up the philosophic conclusions (for, like other
philosophers, our hypothetical lover of wisdom is growing tiresome) he,
being aware of the cause of much mundane misery, might have decided that
the man had lost money, and would have been wrong, for the man was one
whom financial loss could hardly touch. The Great Serpent might refuse
to yield for weeks, aye forever, and Mark Claghorn would have been
content. In truth, its annual product was a burden heavier than he
thought he ought, in fairness, to be called upon to bear. He liked
companionship, being naturally well disposed toward his fellows, yet, as
he said to himself, the loneliness of this evening stroll in the centre
of mirth and good fellowship had its reason in his wealth. A man such as
he, so he told himself, is forced, in the nature of things, to purchase
all the joys of life, and being purchased they had but slight attraction
for him; thus ordinarily he was solitary and somewhat given to
brooding, though wise enough to utter no complaint on a score wherein he
certainly would have found but slight sympathy.
He strolled on, paying little heed to any, except when occasionally the
clank of a sabre or the faint jingle of a spur signified a cavalryman in
the vicinity; then he would glance at the cavalryman, and with a quickly
satisfied curiosity, pass on, listless as before.
He entered a cafe, and calling for a "bock," lit a cigar and proceeded
to seek distraction in tobacco and beer, while looking over the pages of
the "_Vie Parisienne_," but apparently found no amusement in that very
Gallic periodical. At last he drew a letter from his pocket. "Little
Paula," he muttered, as he opened the sheet, and his tone was kindly, if
not tender. "I suppose, in the end, my mother will see the fulfilment of
the wish she thinks so carefully concealed," he muttered, and then, as
if to find encouragement to filial duty in the letter itself, he
commenced to read, and was thus engaged when he felt a hand upon his
shoulder, and heard the exclamation, "Claghorn!" He looked up and,
rising, accepted the outstretched hand of Adolphe de Fleury.
"I was not sure whether it was you or your ghost," said Adolphe. "When
did you leave America?"
"Over a year since," replied Mark; then, unmindful of the look of
surprise in the face of his companion, he added: "I hoped I might meet
you. I am only here for a few hours, and the opportunity to congratulate
you----"
"To congratulate! May I ask why I am to be congratulated?" interrupted
the lieutenant.
"Usually a newly married man; or one about to be----"
"Claghorn, you can hardly--do you mean that you believed me married?"
"Married, or about to be. I heard from the Marquise while at St.
Petersburg----"
"And I have suspected you! Know, my dear fellow, though I had rather you
heard it from somebody else, that I am very far from married. I am
jilted; abandoned by our fair but cruel cousin, who has fled from my
mother's protection and taken refuge among the Yankees."
"Do you mean that Natalie is in America?"
"Just that, _mon cher_, and with her Berthe of the wonderful eyes."
Mark's innocence of all knowledge of the fact stated was evident in his
face. He was astounded; at the same time a sense of joy swept across his
soul. He looked hastily at his watch; it was too late to call upon the
Marquise, unless, indeed, she had company, in which case he would not be
able to see her alone. But, looking at his watch inspired him with an
excuse to plead an appointment, which he did, and left his companion.
The next day he called upon Madame de Fleury, and on his return to his
hotel, he wrote the following letter:
"My Dear Cousin Natalie--Last night I arrived here direct from
St. Petersburg, being merely a bird of passage, and on my way
to London. I had expected to be there by this time, but after
meeting Adolphe de Fleury, I deferred my departure until I
could see the Marquise. Doubtless, my letters in London will
convey the information which has been imparted by her. To say
that I was surprised to hear that you had gone to America
hardly expresses my feeling; but surprise is cast into the
shade by gratification. Now that your reasons for the step you
have taken have been so freely disclosed to me by Madame de
Fleury (who insisted upon reading to me passages from your
letters), I hope you will not regard it as intrusive in me if I
express my admiration of your independence and complete
approbation of your conduct. You are in spirit a true American,
and I congratulate both you and our country upon the fact. Do
you remember the day I said 'good-bye' to you? Had you then any
inkling of the true reason for my adieu? Your father had just
informed me that since girlhood you had been the betrothed of
Adolphe de Fleury. Monsieur Claghorn at the time assured me
that had not this been the case I should have had his good
wishes in regard to the aspirations I had just laid before him.
I have never laid those aspirations before you, nor can I do so
adequately in a letter; nor at this time, when so long a period
has elapsed since I last saw you. What I have to say must be
said in person, and so unsatisfactory is this method of
addressing you on the subject that I may not send this letter.
"But, if you receive it, understand why I write it. It seems,
perhaps, laughable--though it does not seem so to me--that I
should be haunted by a terror which darkens the new hope that
has arisen within me. You are thousands of miles away. True, it
is not easily conceivable that you may become lost to me in so
brief a residence in America, yet the idea is constantly with
me. I blame that which I then believed the honorable reticence
which I ought to maintain toward you after my interview with
your father, and having heard his assurances of intentions,
which I, of course, supposed were approved by you. Had I shown
you the least glimpse of a sentiment which it cost me much to
conceal, I might now be freed from the dread which oppresses
me. I am even tempted to send you a telegraphic message; yet I
picture you reading such a message and shrink from seeming
ridiculous in your eyes. As to this letter, I am impelled to
say as much as I have said while that which I desire to say is
plainly enough indicated. I had supposed it possible to
disclose and yet conceal it. But the letter is wiser than I
intended it to be. My most ardent hope is that within a few
days after its receipt you will listen to all that is here
omitted.
"Faithfully,
"MARK CLAGHORN."
He sent the letter, unsatisfactory and feeble as he knew it to be. He
chafed at the necessity of deferring his departure for America; but the
Great Serpent was importunate, and even for love a man cannot disregard
the claims of others. Engagements connected with the mine, made long
since, must receive attention before he could leave Europe.
But, during the intervals of business, even pending its details, he was
hourly tempted to send a dispatch and be ridiculous. But he refrained.
He sailed for America four days after sending the letter. He had not
been absurd; his dignity was saved. Who that is wise in a wise
generation listens to intuitions?