“Yes,” said Lemuel, sick at heart, and
feeling how much more triumphantly he could have borne
ignominy and rejection than this sweet sympathy.
She seemed to think he would say something more, but
he turned away from her, and after a little silence
of expectance she let him go, with promises to come
again, which she seemed to win from him for his own
sake.
In the street he took out Berry’s letter and
read it.
“DEAR OLD MAN,—I’ve been trying
to get off a letter to you almost any time the last
three months; but I’ve been round so much, and
upside down so much since I saw you—out
to W. T. and on my head in Western Mass.—that
I’ve not been able to fetch it. I don’t
know as I could fetch it now, if it wasn’t for
the prospective Mrs. A. W. B., Jr., standing over
me with a revolver, and waiting to see me do it.
I’ve just been telling her about that little
interview of ours with Williams, that day, and she
thinks I ought to be man enough to write and say that
I guess I was all wrong about you; I had a sneaking
idea of the kind from the start almost, but if a fellow’s
proud at all, he’s proud of his mistakes, and
he hates to give them up. I’m pretty badly
balled up now, and I can’t seem to get the right
words about remorse, and so forth; but you know how
it is yourself. I am sorry, there’s no
two ways about that; but I’ve kept my suspicions
as well as my regrets to myself, and now I do the best
thing I can by way of reparation. I send this
letter by Miss Carver. She hasn’t read
it, and she don’t know what it’s all about;
but I guess you’d better tell her. Don’t
spare, yours truly, A. W. BERRY, JR.”
The letter did not soften Lemuel at all towards Berry,
and he was bitterly proud that he had spoken without
this bidding, though he had seemed to speak to no
end that he had expected. After a while he lost
himself in his day-dreams again, and in the fantastic
future which he built up this became a great source
of comfort to him and to his ideal. Now he parted
with her in sublime renunciation, and now he triumphed
over all the obstacles between them; but whatever
turn he willed his fortunes to take, she still praised
him, and he prided himself that he had shown himself
at his worst to her of his own free impulse.
Sewell praised him for it in his reverie; Mr. Corey
and Mr. Bellingham both made him delicate compliments
upon his noble behaviour, which he feigned had somehow
become known to them.
At the usual hour he was at Mr. Corey’s house,
where he arrived footsore, and empty from supperless
wanderings, but not hungry and not weary. The
serving-man at the door met him with the message that
Mr. Corey had gone to dine at his club, and would not
be at home till late. He gave Lemuel a letter,
which had all the greater effect from being presented
to him on the little silver tray employed to bring
up the cards and notes of the visitors and correspondents
