86. CHAPTER LXXXVI.
THE TWO LETTERS.
Bonnybel had rightly supposed that nothing but the
sickness of Mr. Alston had detained Mr. St. John in Virginia.
That sickness having now yielded, he rapidly made
every preparation, and paid his adieus to the places, the
things, the personages of his youth.
She had chanced to meet him as he bade farewell to the
tombs of his mother and his father—that was the last and
saddest of all. From that moment his heart was dissevered
from the soil, and he no longer thought of any thing but
another land where he might forget his sufferings and his
misfortunes.
It was on Friday, the second day of June, when the
young man entered Williamsburg, and on the morning of
Monday, the fifth, he was informed by a message from Captain
Fellowes of the “Charming Sally,” that at twilight the
brig would sail for Europe.
He hastened to make the final preparations for his long
journey, and as this was to be his last sight of Virginia, he
sought all his friends to say farewell.
The stranger was absent, and he sought him in vain at
the well-remembered place; with a sigh, he gave up the
search and retired.
As he went toward the Raleigh, where his horse was
waiting, he met Captain Waters, who was strolling along
humming a song.
When he announced his intention of departing, the
worthy captain stood aghast, and then he plied every possible
argument to induce him to change his resolution.
We need scarcely say that these arguments were in vain,
and at the end of an hour the captain found that he had
simply expended so much breath in vain.
“Well,” he said, “never have I seen such a perfect block!
Mark me, friend, you'll regret this proceeding! It is the
maddest thing, morbleu! which I ever heard of!”
“I know you think so.”
“Parbleu! I do think so; but as you are determined, I
have no more to say.”
“I know I have your good wishes, my dear friend, and I
believe you sincerely regret our parting. But believe me,
't is necessary for me to go. When I shall return I know
not.”
“Basta!” cried the captain, knitting his brows, “that's
the very thing! If you were coming back soon't would
be quite another thing, but I doubt if you'll ever return!”
“And I too, my dear captain, most seriously. Well, well,
I must go. You would not ask me to stay if you knew
why I go. Tell your brother, whose relationship to you,
strangely enough, never occurred to me until lately—tell
Mr. Charles Waters good bye for me.”
“There it is! you take this moment when he's away.
He'll be furious!”
And the captain frowned to hide his emotion.
“I would willingly defer my departure to see him,” said
St. John, sadly, “but I have staid longer now than I intended
owing to Tom Alston's sickness. The `Charming Sally'
sails at twilight with the wind.”
“The `Charming Sally?”
“Yes.”
“You go in her?”
“This evening.”
“Captain Fellowes?”
“Yes, that is the captain's name. What are you thinking
of?”
The captain's brows drooped, and a sigh shook his
breast.
“I was thinking of old times, mon ami, and of other
faces. Pardon me, 't is a bad habit, and, morbleu! I must
break myself thereof. But again she rose before me as I
heard that name—the old days all rushed back—I saw
her, Beatrice, one whom you never knew, whom I loved!
There! there! my mind wanders to another epoch. Let
us dismiss the subject.”
St. John inclined his head.
“Yonder is Jack Hamilton,” he said, gazing sadly at the
approaching figure, “I will bid him farewell again; a long
farewell, for I shall never return.”
And the young man smiled, but so sorrowfully that a
moisture came to the soldier's brilliant eye.
“Ventre Sainte Gris!” cried the captain, dashing his hand
across his eyes; “do you know, comrade, you make me cry
like a baby with your sad way of talking? Something's
wrong with me or I never would feel thus.”
“Something's right with you, friend,” said St. John,
again smiling, as he looked at the honest soldier; “'t is
your heart!”
And leading Tallyho by the bridle, he went to meet Jack
Hamilton, whose face at sight of St. John clouded over, and
lengthened deplorably.
To all the protestations and persuasive arguments of his
friends the young man made brief replies. He must go;
all was ended.
“Could any thing induce me to continue in Virginia,”
he said, “'t would be the true hearts of men like you—faces
I would not go away from but for an inexorable destiny
which drives me. You will think of me sometimes, though,
will you not?” he said, holding a hand of each. “Under
other stars I will think of you,” and pressing the hands of
the two men, who looked at him with drooping heads, the
young man made a movement to get into the saddle.
At the same moment he heard his name uttered by the
voice of a child, and, turning around, found himself accosted
by Blossom.
The child was almost breathless with the haste she had
used to reach him, and her bosom labored heavily for a moment.
Then, regaining her breath, she said, looking at Mr.
St. John with deep affection,
“You will not leave us, will you, sir?”
“I must, my child; I am glad I have met you. Take
my love and this kiss,” he added, stooping and pressing his
lips to those of the child, “and pray for me.”
The tears rushed to Blossom's eyes, and she clung to his
hand obstinately.
“Oh, do not go!” she said, sobbing, “please do not go,
sir!”
“I must, my dear. 'Tis written, as the Orientals say.
Farewell!”
Blossom seemed to be too much overcome to speak, but,
seeming suddenly to remember something, put her hand
into her pocket and took therefrom a letter.
“Papa told me to give you this or make Uncle Ralph
give it to you,” she said, blinded with tears; then, bursting
into sobs again, she cried, “Oh, do not go away! please do
not go away! Papa said you were going away never to
come back. Oh! please do not go!”
The young man smiled sadly, but shook his head. His
eye fell carelessly upon the letter, which seemed to be
double, and he tore it open. It was, in truth, two letters.
The first was in the hand-writing of the stranger, and contained
these words:
“I have looked everywhere to find you, friend, having,
by a strange chance, received what I know is of importance
to you. 'Tis a letter which, with this, I entrust to my
child, having an instant call away; my foot is in the stirrup.
'T will reach you in time, however, I do not doubt, for
Blossom has the unerring instinct of affection, to which I
trust.
“You might remember that one night when you visited
me I opened my drawer, while you were speaking, and
drew forth a letter which I looked at with what probably
seemed to you discourtesy. That letter was, however, about
yourself, and others have reached me of the same tenor.
I have not spoken with you about these affairs, but I am
convinced, that, in the matter of your suffering, you are the
victim of some diabolical conspiracy and fraud.
“To the point now. I was traveling yesterday in Isle of
Wight county, post haste, when, just as I passed the residence
of the man Lindon, lieutenant of the guards, I was
accosted by a servant girl who delivered me the enclosed
letter, saying that her mistress bade her bring it me. On
a slip of paper was written, in a woman's hand, `If you are
a friend of justice and right bear this to Mr. Henry St.
John, of Prince George county.' I took the letter, brought
it hither, and searched everywhere for you. I think it contains
what most nearly concerns you, and, in giving it to
Blossom, I do best. You must, necessarily, visit Williamsburg
for preparations before your departure, if you depart,
and she or my brother Ralph will deliver it.
“I know not what the letter contains, but a presentiment
—a sentiment I can not explain, bids me say to you, do not
leave Virginia till you see the woman who wrote that letter.
“I can add no more, friend. My horse neighs, and the
cause calls me. Every moment now is a century. Farewell.
Mr. St. John finished the letter, and, looking from Blossom
to Captain Waters, and from the soldier to Hamilton,
with blank, wondering eyes, seemed for a time speechless
with astonishment at the contents of the stranger's letter.
Then, letting the paper fall, he turned over the other letter,
which was securely sealed and directed to “Mr. Henry
St. John, Prince George county.”
Mechanically, without looking at it intelligently, as it
were, he opened it and held it for some moments in his
hand without reading it. Then his eyes fell upon the
sheet.
No sooner had he read the first few lines, however, than
a fiery flush blazed on his cheeks, his hands grasped the letter
so violently as almost to tear it asunder, and with his
distended eyes glued to the paper he ran over its contents
rapidly, and ending it, almost gasped for breath.
A deadly paleness invaded his countenance, a tremor ran
through his frame, and holding out the paper, he tried to
say to Waters and Hamilton, “Read!” His dumb lips did
not utter a sound, however, and he stood thus like a statue
of marble.
Waters caught the letter and ran hastily over it.
