University of Virginia Library

I.

“How long it seems now since I've written to my own
dear Kate! I received, more than three weeks since, your
kind, sweet letter, and only my unhappiness has prevented
me from replying. You may not consider this a good reason,
but it is true. When we suffer little sorrows, and are
sad only, then we fly to our friends and unbosom ourselves,
and the act brings us consolation. This is not the case, I
think, when we are deeply wounded, as I am. I ask only
silence and quiet, for nothing relieves me, not even writing
to my Kate!

“But I'll not write so sadly. I will try and relate cheerfully
what has happened to us all. It is nothing, scarcely.
There is little that's new. Papa continues to have gout,
but his health, I think, improves with the spring; mamma,
too, seems stronger since the advent of May, and Helen and
Aunt Seraphina are as blooming as roses. My cheeks have
not reddened yet, as they will soon, I trust. The spring
will, doubtless, restore my strength and spirits, which, you
know, dearest, have not been good since—well, let me not
speak of that sad subject again. Papa is going to send me,
in a day or two, to Mr. Burwell's. He thinks the fresh sea
breeze will quite cure me.

“I thought I would not write upon sad subjects, but I
can think of little besides that which my Kate knows about.
It continues to depress me very much, and I will tell you
how it has been again brought up to me. Since the meeting
at Mammy Liza's, of which I told you, I have seen him
twice, but we have never spoken.

“The first time was at Moorefield, Mr. Alston's, you
know, whither we went in the chariot to see Mrs. Alston,
Mr. Thomas' aunt. Our staying away was becoming absolutely
marked, and so we went. As the chariot drove up to
the door, he had just mounted his horse to ride away. As
I afterwards discovered, he had been staying some days
with Mr. Alston, who is sick, and now returned to Williamsburg.
He passed within a few feet of the carriage, and made
us a low and ceremonious salute. I saw him distinctly, and
though still very pale, he looked stronger and more cheerful.
His arm was no longer supported by the scarf, and
seemed to have quite healed.

“I need not tell you, dear, how much I was rejoiced to
see him thus well again, and his sickness seemed even to
have added to that singular grace which, you know, has
ever characterized him. His air had lost none of its dignity,
and I observed that extraordinary smile as he passed—a
smile which seemed now both happy and sad. All this I

descried as he passed quickly; in a moment he was gone.
That is the first meeting.

“The second was the other evening, and at the old graveyard,
where his mother and father are buried, you know.
When you were last here, we visited it one afternoon, and,
you know, it lies down the vale, within sight of the upper
window of my chamber. I can see the distant oaks as I
write. Helen and myself had gone out to take a walk about
twilight, and we extended it so far that the night caught us,
as we passed the old graveyard on our return. The moon
was shining, however, and we were not afraid, as we heard
the voice of Uncle Robin, on the hill near by, driving home
the cattle and singing one of his rude songs. The moonlight
was nearly as bright as day as we came near the graveyard,
and Helen went to the gate and looked in. You
know it is surrounded by an old brick wall, which is beginning
to crumble, some of the bricks having been knocked
off by mischievous boys, and the enclosure, in other places,
cracked by the roots of the trees forcing up.

“Helen went to the old wooden gate, which was closed
with a log laid against it, and peered through the bars. I
followed her, and for a moment we stood thus silently gazing
at the tombstones. We were about to return when suddenly
we heard a low sigh, and a figure, which had been
kneeling in the shadow upon the grave of Aunt St. John,
rose erect in the moonlight. We drew back quickly into the
shadow of the great oak, for we were somewhat frightened,
as you may imagine. In an instant, however, I recognized
him, and my terror yielded to sorrow. He leaned upon the
tall tombstone in the moonlight, and rested his forehead on
the cold marble. I shall never forget his figure as he stood
thus. His right arm encircled the weeping willow cut on
the top of the stone, his long dark hair fell upon the white
surface, and only the movement of his breast proved that
he himself was not a form of marble. He remained thus for
about a quarter of an hour, and then, raising his head, looked
in succession at every object in the graveyard, apparently

bidding them farewell, one after another. He then stooped
and plucked a wild rose from the turf on his mother's grave,
stood looking at it for a moment, and then slowly passed
through a cleft in the wall and disappeared. We heard his
horse neigh from a copse near by, and then the sound of
hoof-stokes dying gradually into silence. He was gone,
and we came home without a word—I think Helen was
crying too.

“I thought I would write of these two meetings, my own
Kate, because it affords me a painful consolation to speak of
him. O, why will he leave us? for he came to bid farewell
thus to his mother, I know, before going to foreign lands,
whither, I'm told, he would long since have gone but for
the late troubles and the sickness of his friend, Mr. Alston.
He leaves many who love him, and ask only that he will
come back again. My wounded pride is no longer mistress
of me, and though he can never be the same to me, I should
love and cherish him still—though I never could be his
wife.

“I am not happy. Please write and give me some comfort,
if you can. I must end my sad letter now, dearest. I
will write you again from Mr. Burwell's, whither I go, as I
said, in a day or two.

“Much love to Willie, and farewell, dear.

II.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

“In my last letter, dear Kate, I told you I was coming
hither in search of some color for my cheeks. I am sorry
to say I've not found it. I think the air's not as wholesome
to me as that of Prince George, and in a day or two I
shall set out on my return to Vanely.

“I need not tell you that I have received every kindness

and goodness from the family. The Burwells are admirably
cheerful and kindly, and I tink `Belle-bouche,' as they still
call her, from some old jest, is a beauty, and as tender as
she's lovely. She delights us as usual—for Bel Tracy is
here—with stories about her `youth,' as she calls it with a
laugh, and certainly, from her own relation, Monsieur Belle-bouche,
if the name is proper, had a very difficult time in
his courtship. They began talking about these old scenes
one evening on the portico, when Mr. Mowbray and that
dazzling lady, his wife, Mistress Philippa, had ridden over
from their house, not far off, and I think the stories which
they repeated would make a lively comedy. There seemed
to be even more than Belle-bouche told, for she was going
on, laughing, when Mistress Philippa stopped her, and blushing
deeply, prayed her to refrain. Mr. Mowbray turned his
fine head with a smile, and said, `Silence was better,' after
which he went on talking with Mr. Nelson, from Little York.
How merry and happy all are, except myself! But that's
envious, and I will not complain.

“This is all that I think of to tell you, dear, but I've forgotten
the chief incident of all! Mr. Lindon and myself
had a violent scene yesterday morning, and we have parted
for the last time, I trust. He renewed his addresses, which,
you know, I have repeatedly rejected, and had the discourtesy,
when I simply said I could not accept his attentions
any further, to reply, that he would yet find the means to
make me change my resolution! Can you imagine such
rudeness? It aroused all my pride, and I told him, with a
look as freezing as ice, that I despised his threat, and cared
nothing for him. I regretted it afterwards and do now—I
mean my passion, but his tone was insufferable. The scene
made me sick all day, but I believe I have now quite recovered
from it. I left Mr. Lindon in the parlor, and came up
stairs, and he soon went away. His abuse of him has for
ever ruined him in my estimation.

“I must close, as the mail passes very soon, dear. Please
write to me a good long letter, such as my Kate knows how

to write. Direct to Vanely, where I shall be before your
letter can arrive.

“Do not let my sadness grieve you, and we should trust
in our dear heavenly Father, who sends the clouds and the
sunshine in mercy. In him I put my trust.

“Much love to Willie—I hope you enjoyed your visit to
the Hall, where Mr. Hamilton says he saw you.

“Good bye now, dear—pray for me, as I do for you
night and morning.