8. VIII.
THE TWO LETTERS.
Ruthven mechanically opened the
letter, glancing at it with little interest.
As he read, however, his expression
grew more gloomy. Having finished it,
he placed it upon the table, muttering—
“Impossible!”
Fergus glanced at his master, hesitated,
then returned a step, and said:
“Will your lordship send a reply by
the servant?”
Ruthven raised his head.
“No—yes—let him wait a few moments.”
Fergus communicated this order to
the governor's servant, who closed the
door, and descended the stairs.
“Fergus!” said Ruthven, without
raising his eyes.
“My lord!”
“That same fate we were talking of
has taken a new form.”
“A new form, my lord?”
“The form of his excellency the governor.”
Fergus nodded; nothing ever seemed
to astonish him.
“Listen!” said his master, in a cold,
careless voice.
And, taking the letter from the table,
he read:
“My dear Lord: I have the honor
to say that I have received your note of
yesterday, informing me of your desire
to return to Scotland, but I trust 'tis not
essential to your plans, or required by
circumstances, that this departure should
be so very sudden. 'Twill subject me, I
fear, to serious inconvenience, as I highly
appreciate your services, my lord,
and should with difficulty supply your
place.
“Your lordship will observe that I
plead for a temporary change in your
determination, both officially and as a
personal friend.
“Receive, my lord, —.”
“You see,” said Lord Ruthven, stopping
suddenly, and throwing down the
letter.
“Yes, my lord. And what will be
your reply? My own movements will
depend thereon.”
“I shall not change my decision.”
“Your lordship will go, all the
same?”
“Yes.”
Fergus went toward the door.
“Wait an instant and take my reply,”
said Lord Ruthven. “These strange
serving-men sink their eyes before me,
but look pryingly at my poor pale face,
Fergus, when my eyes are turned from
them. I would be served by none but
yourself.”
And, drawing his chair to the table,
Lord Ruthven took up a pen, and began
to write.
He had written but two or three
lines, when steps again ascended the
stairs without, and a second knock was
heard at the door.
Fergus went and opened it. A servant
belonging to the tavern stood before
him, a letter in his hand.
“This was left for Lord Ruthven,”
said the man.
“By whom?” said Fergus.
“By young Mr. Innis.”
At that name Lord Ruthven quickly
raised his head.
“Mr. Innis!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, my lord,” said the man.
“When was this note brought—give
it me!”
The man was about to approach, but
Fergus intercepted him.
“No one waits on his lordship but
myself,” he said.
Placing the letter on the silver waiter,
he handed it to Lord Ruthven, who took
it hurriedly, and tore it open with visible
agitation. The letter contained these
lines:
“My Lord: You have twice, with
great courtesy, expressed your good-wishes,
in bidding me farewell—it is I
who go from Williamsburg the first, now:
and I can do no less than reciprocate
your lordship's obliging sentiments, and
express the hope that you may enjoy
health and happiness, whether in Virginia
or in Scotland.
“Having terminated my business at
the capital in a briefer space of time
than I supposed I should do, I am just
getting into the saddle to return to the
mountains. Should your lordship ever
find it suit your convenience, a visit to
my little cottage there would greatly
please Your lordship's
“Very obedient servant,
“Edmund Innis.”
Lord Ruthven drew a long breath,
and then turned to the servant who had
brought the letter.
“Who left this?” he said.
“Mr. Innis himself, my lord. He
was riding by with young Mr. Cary.”
“On a journey?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Ruthven looked at the letter—
glanced then at the governor's—tore up
what he had written, and said to Fergus
in a low tone:
“As there is no further danger, you
need not ride to-day.”
Fergus bowed.
As he left the room, he muttered in
Gaelic as before:
“It is fated!”
An hour afterward, his excellency
the governor received a note from Lord
Ruthven, saying that, in order not to subject
his excellency to inconvenience, he
would abandon for the present his intended
voyage, which nevertheless might
be rendered necessary at any moment.
Having dispatched this reply, Lord
Ruthven shut himself up, locked his
door, and, drawing from a secret pocket
in his breast a book, began to write in it.
“Fatality—that is strong!” he said
in a low tone, “but the will of a man—
is that nothing? I have willed—naught
shall move me!”
