按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Write me a long； quite letter。 If you are violent or abusive； I'll
take the law to you。
III。
JOHN FLEMMING TO EDWARD DELANEY。
August 11； 1872。
Your letter； dear Ned； was a godsend。 Fancy what a fix I am inI；
who never had a day's sickness since I was born。 My left leg weighs
three tons。 It is embalmed in spices and smothered in layers of
fine linen； like a mummy。 I can't move。 I haven't moved for five
thousand years。 I'm of the time of Pharaoh。
I lie from morning till night on a lounge； staring into the hot
street。 Everybody is out of town enjoying himself。 The brown…stone…
front houses across the street resemble a row of particularly ugly
coffins set up on end。 A green mould is settling on the names of
the deceased； carved on the silver door…plates。 Sardonic spiders
have sewed up the key…holes。 All is silence and dust and
desolation。 I interrupt this a moment； to take a shy at Watkins
with the second volume of Cesar Birotteau。 Missed him！ I think I
could bring him down with a copy of Sainte…Beuve or the
Dictionnaire Universel； if I had it。 These small Balzac books
somehow do not quite fit my hand； but I shall fetch him yet。 I've
an idea that Watkins is tapping the old gentleman's Chateau Yquem。
Duplicate key of the wine…cellar。 Hibernian swarries in the front
basement。 Young Cheops up stairs； snug in his cerements。 Watkins
glides into my chamber； with that colorless； hypocritical face of
his drawn out long like an accordion； but I know he grins all the
way down stairs； and is glad I have broken my leg。 Was not my evil
star in the very zenith when I ran up to town to attend that dinner
at Delmonico's？ I didn't come up altogether for that。 It was partly
to buy Frank Livingstone's roan mare Margot。 And now I shall not be
able to sit in the saddle these two months。 I'll send the mare down
to you at The Pinesis that the name of the place？
Old Dillon fancies that I have something on my mind。 He drives me
wild with lemons。 Lemons for a mind diseased！ Nonsense。 I am only
as restless as the devil under this confinementa thing I'm not
used to。 Take a man who has never had so much as a headache or a
toothache in his life； strap one of his legs in a section of water…
spout； keep him in a room in the city for weeks； with the hot
weather turned on； and then expect him to smile and purr and be
happy！ It is preposterous。 I can't be cheerful or calm。
Your letter is the first consoling thing I have had since my
disaster； ten days ago。 It really cheered me up for half an hour。
Send me a screed； Ned； as often as you can； if you love me。
Anything will do。 Write me more about that little girl in the
hammock。 That was very pretty； all that about the Dresden china
shepherdess and the pond…lily； the imagery a little mixed； perhaps；
but very pretty。 I didn't suppose you had so much sentimental
furniture in your upper story。 It shows how one may be familiar for
years with the reception…room of his neighbor； and never suspect
what is directly under his mansard。 I supposed your loft stuffed
with dry legal parchments； mortgages； and affidavits； you take down
a package of manuscript； and lo！ there are lyrics and sonnets and
canzonettas。 You really have a graphic descriptive touch； Edward
Delaney； and I suspect you of anonymous love…tales in the
magazines。
I shall be a bear until I hear from you again。 Tell me all about
your pretty inconnue across the road。 What is her name？ Who is she？
Who's her father？ Where's her mother？ Who's her lover？ You cannot
imagine how this will occupy me。 The more trifling； the better。 My
imprisonment has weakened me intellectually to such a degree that I
find your epistolary gifts quite considerable。 I am passing into my
second childhood。 In a week or two I shall take to India rubber
rings and prongs of coral。 A silver cup； with an appropriate
inscription； would be a delicate attention on your part。 In the
mean time； write！
IV。
EDWARD DELANEY TO JOHN FLEMMING。
August 12； 1872。
The sick pasha shall be amused。 Bismillah！ he wills it so。 If the
story…teller becomes prolix and tediousthe bow…string and the
sack； and two Nubians to drop him into the Piscataqua！ But truly；
Jack； I have a hard task。 There is literally nothing hereexcept
the little girl over the way。 She is swinging in the hammock at
this moment。 It is to me compensation for many of the ills of life
to see her now and then put out a small kid boot； which fits like a
glove； and set herself going。 Who is she； and what is her name？ Her
name is Daw。 Only daughter if Mr。 Richard W。 Daw； ex…colonel and
banker。 Mother dead。 One brother at Harvard； elder brother killed
at the battle of Fair Oaks； ten years ago。 Old； rich family； the
Daws。 This is the homestead； where father and daughter pass eight
months of the twelve； the rest of the year in Baltimore and
Washington。 The New England winter too many for the old gentleman。
The daughter is called MarjorieMarjorie Daw。 Sounds odd at first；
doesn't it？ But after you say it over to yourself half a dozen
times； you like it。 There's a pleasing quaintness to it； something
prim and violet…like。 Must be a nice sort of girl to be called
Marjorie Daw。
I had mine host of The Pines in the witness…box last night； and
drew the foregoing testimony from him。 He has charge of Mr。 Daw's
vegetable…garden； and has known the family these thirty years。 Of
course I shall make the acquaintance of my neighbors before many
days。 It will be next to impossible for me not to meet Mr。 Daw or
Miss Daw in some of my walks。 The young lady has a favorite path to
the sea…beach。 I shall intercept her some morning； and touch my hat
to her。 Then the princess will bend her fair head to me with
courteous surprise not unmixed with haughtiness。 Will snub me； in
fact。 All this for thy sake； O Pasha of the Snapt Axle…tree！。 。 。
How oddly things fall out！ Ten minutes ago I was called down to the
parloryou know the kind of parlors in farm…houses on the coast； a
sort of amphibious parlor； with sea…shells on the mantel…piece and
spruce branches in the chimney…placewhere I found my father and
Mr。 Daw doing the antique polite to each other。 He had come to pay
his respects to his new neighbors。 Mr。 Daw is a tall； slim
gentleman of about fifty…five； with a florid face and snow…white
mustache and side…whiskers。 Looks like Mr。 Dombey； or as Mr。 Dombey
would have looked if he had served a few years in the British Army。
Mr。 Daw was a colonel in the late war； commanding the regiment in
which his son was a lieutenant。 Plucky old boy； backbone of New
Hampshire granite。 Before taking his leave； the colonel delivered
himself of an invitation as if he were issuing a general order。
Miss Daw has a few friends coming； at 4 p。m。； to play croquet on
the lawn （parade…ground） and have tea （cold rations） on the piazza。
Will we honor them with our company？ （or be sent to the guard…
house。） My father declines on the plea of ill…health。 My father's
son bows with as much suavity as he knows； and accepts。
In my next I shall have something to tell you。 I shall have seen
the little beauty face to face。 I have a presentiment； Jack； that
this Daw is a rara avis！ K