Dear Sir,--When I inform you, as you are doubtless informed ere the
receipt of this, that I saw your sister in Patesville last week and
learned the nature of those antecedents of yours and hers at which you
hinted so obscurely in a recent conversation, you will not be surprised
to learn that I take this opportunity of renouncing any pretensions to
Miss Warwick's hand, and request you to convey this message to her,
since it was through you that I formed her acquaintance. I think
perhaps that few white men would deem it necessary to make an
explanation under the circumstances, and I do not know that I need say
more than that no one, considering where and how I met your sister,
would have dreamed of even the possibility of what I have learned. I
might with justice reproach you for trifling with the most sacred
feelings of a man's heart; but I realize the hardship of your position
and hers, and can make allowances. I would never have sought to know
this thing; I would doubtless have been happier had I gone through life
without finding it out; but having the knowledge, I cannot ignore it,
as you must understand perfectly well. I regret that she should be
distressed or disappointed,--she has not suffered alone.
I need scarcely assure you that I shall say nothing about this affair,
and that I shall keep your secret as though it were my own.
Personally, I shall never be able to think of you as other than a white
man, as you may gather from the tone of this letter; and while I cannot
marry your sister, I wish her every happiness, and remain,
Yours very truly,
GEORGE TRYON.
Warwick could not know that this formal epistle was the last of a dozen
that Tryon had written and destroyed during the week since the meeting
in Patesville,--hot, blistering letters, cold, cutting letters,
scornful, crushing letters. Though none of them was sent, except this
last, they had furnished a safety-valve for his emotions, and had left
him in a state of mind that permitted him to write the foregoing.
And now, while Rena is recovering from her illness, and Tryon from his
love, and while Fate is shuffling the cards for another deal, a few
words may be said about the past life of the people who lived in the
rear of the flower garden, in the quaint old house beyond the cedars,
and how their lives were mingled with those of the men and women around
them and others that were gone. For connected with our kind we must
be; if not by our virtues, then by our vices,--if not by our services,
at least by our needs.