THE LETTER.
There is a magic in the refreshing sleep of youth, calculated to
exorcise the megrims. When Sprague, arising after a good night's rest,
found the world bathed in the sunshine of a crisp January day, he felt
the physical pleasure of living which comes from supple muscles, from
the coursing of a generous blood through the veins, from the cravings
of a healthy appetite.
He remembered the "blue devils" of the day before, and found it
difficult to account for them. He was in love, certainly. But that in
itself did not furnish a sufficient reason for despondency. It was
rumored that the object of his affections was on the eve of betrothal
to another. But what dependence can be placed upon a public rumor? As a
matter of fact, Miss Murdock wore no rings; in the absence of the badge
of the betrothed woman, was he not justified in believing her fancy
free?
In that case, there was a fair field and no favor. Why should not he
have as good a chance of winning the prize as another man? No man, of
course, was worthy of Agnes Murdock. That was the fundamental axiom.
But in love success does not perch only upon the banner of the worthy.
If it did, the human race would soon become extinct.
So the young man's thoughts ran on, while hope once more found a
resting place in his heart.
Miss Murdock was not to pose again, but Sprague was eager to work on
the portrait. He was about to step into the studio after breakfast,
when the housekeeper announced a call from his lawyer, who wished to
consult him about some important matters. The entire morning was thus
consumed in necessary but tedious business, and it was not until after
luncheon that the artist was at last free to set to work.
Uncovering the portrait, he stood off to examine it. As he did so,
something white upon the floor caught his eye. He stooped to pick
it up. It was a letter in a beautifully regular masculine hand.
Mechanically he turned it over and unfolded it. His eyes carelessly
swept the written page; then in a flash he realized what it was, and
he flung it violently from him.
Only a few words had left their impress upon his retina--a few
scattered words and a signature. But these were branded deep upon his
brain for all time, in letters of fire which burned their way to his
very soul. For he had recognized the letter which had been delivered by
the messenger to Miss Murdock the day before, and he had seen enough to
know that it was couched in words of passionate love. In that instant
was quenched the last ray of hope which had lurked within his heart.
Overwhelmed with a sense of utter desolation, he sank back upon a
divan; and for a long time remained lost in bitter reflections.
But Sprague, in spite of his dilettanteism, was a man of grit when
occasion called for it. Summoning at length his fortitude and his
pride, he proceeded to carry out what he conceived to be the duty of a
gentleman under the circumstances.
Picking up the letter again, he placed it unread in an envelope, into
which he slipped his card, with a brief explanation of the finding of
the paper. Then, after addressing the envelope, he started out to mail
it himself.
"Thomas Chatham!" he mused, as he went down the stairs; "Thomas
Chatham! Why, he is the man who took such pains to inform me that
Miss Murdock was betrothed, or on the point of being betrothed,--the
flashily dressed young man with red hair who is so regular an attendant
at the Murdocks' informal receptions, and who never seems to be invited
on state occasions; an insignificant and conceited puppy. Poor girl,
what a pity that she should throw herself away upon such a man. But if
he marries her, he shall make her happy, or else----"
The balance of his thought was not put into words; but his face became
set in stern lines and his hands clenched in grim determination.
* * * * *
Sprague, with the letter for Miss Murdock in his hand, hurried to the
nearest letter-box, raised the lid of the drop, inserted the letter in
the slot and then tightened his grasp of it and began to think.
The letter, if mailed, might perhaps not reach its destination until
the following morning. It might be of importance, since it had been
sent by messenger and to the studio instead of to Miss Murdock's house.
Besides, Miss Murdock would probably be worried when she discovered
that she had lost it. It ought therefore to be returned to her at once.
The letter, by this time, had been withdrawn from the slot of the
letter-box.
Yes, it ought to be returned by messenger instead of by mail. By
messenger? It was about half a mile to the nearest district-messenger
office. The Murdocks' house was not much further. Why not deliver the
letter himself?
Why not, indeed? The human heart has unfathomable depths. Why should a
hopeless lover pine for a mere sight of the woman whose presence only
adds to his misery? Explain that who can.
Sprague carefully placed the letter in his breast pocket and started
off again, this time directing his steps toward the Murdocks' home.