I have now told you (I presume) how I became whimsical, and I fear it
would please Mary not at all. But speaking of her, and, as the cat's
light keeps me in a ruminating mood, suppose, instead of returning Mary
to her lover by means of the letter, I had presented a certain clubman
to her consideration? Certainly no such whimsical idea crossed my mind
when I dropped the letter, but between you and me and my night-socks,
which have all this time been airing by the fire because I am subject to
cold feet, I have sometimes toyed with it since.
Why did I not think of this in time? Was it because I must ever remain
true to the unattainable she?
I am reminded of a passage in the life of a sweet lady, a friend of
mine, whose daughter was on the eve of marriage, when suddenly her lover
died. It then became pitiful to watch that trembling old face trying to
point the way of courage to the young one. In time, however, there came
another youth, as true, I dare say, as the first, but not so well known
to me, and I shrugged my shoulders cynically to see my old friend once
more a matchmaker. She took him to her heart and boasted of him; like
one made young herself by the great event, she joyously dressed her pale
daughter in her bridal gown, and, with smiles upon her face, she cast
rice after the departing carriage. But soon after it had gone, I chanced
upon her in her room, and she was on her knees in tears before the
spirit of the dead lover. “Forgive me,” she besought him, “for I am old,
and life is gray to friendless girls.” The pardon she wanted was for
pretending to her daughter that women should act thus.