"Good God, Anne, has anything happened? Are you ill?"
"Mary! my poor, lost, murdered, dear, dear Mary!"
That was all I could say before I fell on his breast.
May 2d. Misfortunes and disappointments have saddened him a
little, but toward me he is unaltered. He is as good, as kind, as
gently and truly affectionate as ever. I believe no other man in
the world could have listened to the story of Mary's death with
such tenderness and pity as he. Instead of cutting me short
anywhere, he drew me on to tell more than I had intended; and his
first generous words when I had done were to assure me that he
would see himself to the grass being laid and the flowers planted
on Mary's grave. I could almost have gone on my knees and
worshiped him when he made me that promise.
Surely this best, and kindest, and noblest of men cannot always
be unfortunate! My cheeks burn when I think that he has come back
with only a few pounds in his pocket, after all his hard and
honest struggles to do well in America. They must be bad people
there when such a man as Robert cannot get on among them. He now
talks calmly and resignedly of trying for any one of the lowest
employments by which a man can earn his bread honestly in this
great city--he who knows French, who can write so beautifully!
Oh, if the people who have places to give away only knew Robert
as well as I do, what a salary he would have, what a post he
would be chosen to occupy!
I am writing these lines alone while he has gone to the Mews to
treat with the dastardly, heartless wretch with whom I spoke
yesterday.
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