36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
BLOSSOM.
The views of his friend had little effect upon St. John.
It was not his pride which was so deeply wounded; it was
his heart.
His letter was one of those tissues of self-deception, which
are woven to blind their eyes by the most clear seeing. He
loved the girl more than ever when he found her beyond
his reach, and his faint flush of anger gave way to misery.
It was not long, however, before this sentiment also yielded.
The first pangs of his disappointment gradually became
less poignant. He coolly set about seeing to his neglected
affairs on the estate, and having attended to every thing,
and wound up the machine, cast about him for some occupation
to divert his thoughts.
“I'll go to town,” he said, with a sardonic smile; “I'll
go give his Excellency a chance to arrest me! What an
admirable scene will be enacted if he tries it; perhaps the
cause will be affected by my act, and historians will put
my name in their books!”
The real object of the young man was to divert his mind
from thought, and he had no sooner conceived his plan than
he proceeded to execute it.
Mounting “Tallyho,” he rode to the nearest ferry, crossed
the river, and approached the capital as the sun was setting.
He went along carelessly through the forest illumined
by the orange light, and with eyes fixed on the ground, gave
free rein to his thoughts. He did not observe that his horse
had taken a wrong turn in the road, and was aroused from
his abstraction suddenly by a voice. This voice, which seemed
that of a child, said,
“Won't you stop a minute, sir? I'm very glad to see
you!”
In the little maiden who spoke, he recognized Blossom,
and she stood at the gate of the small cottage, which smiled
on him, embowered in foliage and flowers.
“Will I stop? Why with pleasure, my little spring blossom;”
replied the young man, pleased with the fair face; “I
am not the least in a hurry, and I am glad to see you in
turn.”
With these words he dismounted, and securing Tallyho,
shook hands with Blossom, and followed her to the trellised
porch.
“My dear, you are the very image of your namesakes,”
he said, caressing the child's hair; “where did you get such
roses?”
Blossom took a cluster of buds from her bosom, and
said—
“They are from the flower-bed yonder, sir.”
St. John smiled.
“I mean the roses in your cheeks, my dear; they are
prettier than the others.”
“Oh it's nothing but running about playing,” said Blossom,
blushing, “I run sometimes as far as town, sir, you
know—as I did that day—”
“When my horse nearly killed you—yes,” said St. John;
“well he'll never do so any more. I saw our friend, the
Governor, the other day, and I'm happy to say for the last
time as his servant.”
“Oh! I hope you did not quarrel, sir! he's a dreadful
man!”
“Quarrel?” said St. John, with his sardonic smile, “what
put such a thought in your head? Why his Excellency and
myself fairly dote upon each other, and the room was full
of the first gentlemen of the colony, invited to attend and
meet me! His lordship talked more with me than with any
one else, and when I went away, called a soldier to escort
me!”
Having made this elaborate jest, St. John smiled on Blossom.
“Oh! I'm very, very glad that you did n't quarrel!” she
said, “he's so fierce looking, and spoke so cruelly of papa.”
“Of your father? Oh yes, I remember—where is he,
Blossom?”
“I do n't know, sir.”
“Ah?”
“I never know where papa goes, sir,” she said, simply, “I
believe he has a great deal to do.”
As she spoke horse's feet were heard, and Blossom jumped
up crying,
“Oh there he is, sir!”
At the same moment a gentleman entered the gate.
In the father of the child whom he had so nearly crushed
beneath the hoofs of his horse, St. John recognized the
stranger of the old church at Richmond.
