CONQUERED BY CONQUERING.
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!
When Mrs. Day, his housekeeper, put her head into his room,
exclaiming that the breakfast-bell had rung half an hour ago, he
followed her to the dining-room and swallowed his cold coffee without
a word, with a meekness that touched the heart of his Gorgon. She
proposed boiling him an egg, or cutting a few shavings of ham;
but the doctor declined her attentions (to her great relief) and
hurried to the stable for Rosanna. He drove twenty miles away to
his most distant patient, whom he alarmed by his gloomy face and
abrupt manner; he drove Rosanna back to Sealing at a rate she was
unaccustomed to, and walking up the street--it was then late in the
afternoon--encountered Tommy McNally, roaring at the top of his
voice, and rubbing his eyes as if he wished to leave in them no
powers of vision. Dr. James stopped and asked rather crossly what
ailed him:
"O doctor! she's gone away, and she's given me this," holding up a
dollar bill and continuing to cry, "and one for each of us; and she's
gone away, and we won't see her any more!"
"Do you mean Miss Lester?"
"Yes, doctor," said Tommy, beginning to dry his eyes. "I've been to
the station and seen her go off; and she told me to be a good boy and
help mother."
"Mind you do it," said the doctor, hurrying away and home to his
cold dinner. That evening he called on Father Barry, and heard
that Margaret had been there on her way to the cars, and had left
directions for all her _protégés_, especially the McNallys. Father
Barry seemed quite dejected about her departure, and much surprised
at it; but the doctor, of course, chose to throw no light on the
subject.