DEAR NORA: You have, I suppose, been expecting to hear from me; but I
have not written, because I am unable to write as I wish and
unwilling to write as—other people would wish! I left Boston
suddenly, but not unadvisedly. I shall for the present be occupied
here. The last month I spent there will remain one of the best
memories of my life. But it was time it should end! Remember me a
little—what do I say?—forget me! Farewell. I received this
morning from the doctor the best accounts of Roger.
Nora handled this letter somewhat as one may imagine a pious maiden
of the antique world to have treated a messenger from the Delphic
oracle. It was obscure, it was even sinister; but deep in its sacred
dimness there seemed to glow a fiery particle of truth. She locked
it up in her dressing-case and wondered and waited. Shortly after
came a missive of a different cast. It was from her cousin, George
Fenton, and also dated New York.
DEAR NORA,—You have left me to find out your return in the papers.
I saw your name a month ago in the steamer’s list. But I hope the
fine people and things you have been seeing haven’t driven me quite
out of your heart,—that you remember at least who I am. I received
your answer to my letter of last February; after which I immediately
wrote again, but in vain! Perhaps you never got my letter; I could
scarcely decipher your Italian address. Excuse my want of learning!
Your photograph is a joy forever. Are you really as handsome as
that? It taxes even the credulity of one who knows how pretty you
used to be; how good you must be still. When I last wrote I told you
of my having taken stock in an enterprise for working over refuse
iron. But what do you care for refuse iron? It’s awfully dirty, and
not fit to be talked of to a fine lady like you. Still, if you have
any odd bits,—old keys, old nails,—the smallest contributions
thankfully received! We think there is money in it; if there isn’t,
I’m afloat again. If this fails, I think of going to Texas. I wish
I might see you first. Get Mr. Lawrence to bring you to New York for
a week. I suppose it wouldn’t do for me to call on you in the light
of day; but I might hang round your hotel and see you going in and
out. Does he love me as much as ever, Mr. Lawrence? Poor man, tell
him to take it easy; I shall never trouble him again. Are you ever
lonely in the midst of your grandeur? Do you ever feel that, after
all, these people are not of your blood and bone? I should like you
to quarrel with them, to know a day’s friendlessness or a day’s
freedom, so that you might remember that here in New York, in a dusty
iron-yard, there is a poor devil who is your natural protector.