 | Randolph |  |
We have, at last, determined to go through New England;
and I am to be left, next summer, they tell me,
somewhere in the District of Maine; what will become of
me—heaven only knows. But I shall be among a host
of relations, who, I am told, are the worthiest people in
the world. Let this account for my levity, cousin, and
apologise for the little that I have to say. Enclosed is the
letter which led to the discovery of Helen. She was
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to conjecture, as all traces of a lady, whom they supposed
to be her, were lost in Richmond, Virginia. It
was then that my father was written to; and his extensive
correspondence was immediately brought in aid of
the wretched parents. But all to no purpose, as a last expedient,
the advertisement, which you saw, was written.
That led to the very point, by a most lucky circumstance.
You know, that all dead letters, as they are called, after
some previous ceremonies, are sent to the general Post
Office, and opened. One of the clerks, struck by the singular
beauty of the writing in one, that he opened, read
it; and, when he came to the bottom, found the initials H.
W. O. He happened to recollect the advertisement, for
he had pasted it up in the office; and, on comparing the
whole, he felt himself justified in directing the letter, not
to H. W. O. at the place where it was written, (the usual
practice, when they apprehend it to be of importance,)
but to my father.—He received it, and, sending immediately
for the young man, (a most interesting fellow, too, as
our fashionables say,) was confirmed, beyond all doubt,
in the belief that Helen was the writer. The next thing
was to ascertain where she was. The letter, as you
perceive, was written in this city, but we were not satisfied
with our inquiries here; and whether we should
have ever fallen upon the right track, is very problematical,
had I not seen the direction, one day, by chance,
as my father was reading it again, and commending the
style. Judge of my astonishment. I had heard of Molton's
half sister; and I knew of a circumstance that seemed
rather mysterious, if she were truly his half sister. So I
wrote to Washington. The result you know. You
may keep her letter till we meet. I am unwilling to
trust it by mail, and I hope to see you soon. Mr. Marion
(the youngster of whom I spoke,) appears greatly
concerned in the affair; and a venerable old man has
called, repeatedly, on my father, since I left the city. I
am told, who is determined upon taking some serious measures.
There is one thing certain: they say, that, if Molton
be her betrayer, he is, actually, at this moment, holding
his life at the mercy of the law. I should begin to
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Edward Molton, if I heard that he was arraigned for his
life. It is even said—(but this in confidence, Frank, you
understand me, and will have an interest in keeping it
to yourself)—it is said that there was something inexplicable
in the death of William.—Do you start!—And that
—I tremble. Frank—and that an inquiry will yet be instituted.
If so, let Molton beware! There is an inconceivable
mysteriousness about all that concerns that man.
Something has happened of late, to make me question
my own knowledge of his affair with Juliet. His chaacter
darkens, and she—she is mad, I verily believe;
for, I have good reason to think, that she—let it not hurt
you, my dear Frank, to hear it—that she loves him yet.
Yes, I am aware of the contradiction; but hitherto I
have been mistaken.
SARAH.
| Randolph | |