University of Virginia Library

“Your letter, my dear friend, was scarcely different from
what I expected. I was perfectly well aware of the fact
that my account of the singular influence I experienced
would excite rather laughter than sympathy, and I even
add that your reply contained less of banter than I expected.

“It is unnecessary for me to say that your laughter did not
annoy me at all. I recognize your right to scold me as vigorously
as you choose, for, as you say, we are too close friends
to stand upon the least ceremony. I thank you indeed for
your letter, filled as it was, the greater part of it, with the
most friendly assurances of regard, and the most labored

attempts to raise my drooping spirits, and cheer me after
my afflicting adventure. After reading the sheets carefully
I laid them down, thinking your views admirably just. I
said to myself that I would not further continue the discussion,
but leave to after events the determination of the matter.
I would willingly believe, if she met me as of old, and
if the presentiments did not return, that I was merely carried
away by fancy, and there would be the end of the argument,
and your triumph. If, on the contrary, this change
became more marked in her—if these influences attacked
me more unmistakably—then, too, there would be an end
of the discussion, and I should have wofully triumphed.

“I announce to you, with a groan as I write, that the last
is the fact. I can not come to Moorefield—I can not move
now. I do what I can—I write.

“In order to understand what has taken place since the
arrival of your letter, and to make myself better understood
in the further account of what has befallen me, I shall begin
at the beginning, and trace the matter through all its steps;
briefly, however, for I am weak and faint.

“To go back, then.

“I left Vanely a fortnight or more ago, and came hither
to see to a number of arrangements connected with Flower
of Hundreds, which is sadly in want of repairs, owing, I
suppose, to my long absence. As you may imagine, I carried
away from Vanely, in the looks and tones of somebody,
what made these toils a happiness, for she was to share the
home I was bent on beautifying for her reception.

“I came hither, therefore, with a light heart, and proceeded
to work. But the strangest thing happened to me
—so strange in connection with what has taken place since
that—but I will narrate.

“On the very day of my arrival I encountered at the
Raleigh tavern that strange man of whom I have spoken to
you more than once—the stranger of the old church of St.
John, at Richmond town. We talked of political matters,
and when he came to allude to the assistance the province

demanded from all her patriotic inhabitants, I returned his
strange confidence up yonder, by speaking of myself, and
saying that I would be able to do little, since I had received
from a woman an avowal of her affection, and was happy and
content, and disposed to think all things in the world just
as they should be. He replied, with a strange look, `Do
not think that Heaven will permit you to withdraw yourself
from the contest.' Those were his very words, and though
I listened to them then with careless inattention, I now remember
them, and find them echoing, like his deep voice,
in my mind and my heart.

“Some days after the interview with the stranger, I rode
out, went to Jack Hamilton's, and, with him, visited Effingham
Hall, where I had a long and very pleasant conversation
with Mrs. Kate Effingham, her friend, you know. Sure
a woman never tires of dwelling on the merits of her friend,
and my cheek glowed, I think, as I listened to her praises.
I came away with those gracious words of love and praise
resounding in my heart, and having left Hamilton at the
`Trap,' proceeded toward Williamsburg. I stopped, however,
to exchange a few words with old Mr. Doubleday at
the school house, and in some way, here too the conversation
turned upon human happiness and the female character.
As the stranger had intimated that Heaven would not
permit me to enjoy tranquil happiness in wedded life at such
a juncture as the present, so now the old philosopher of the
school house croaked, `Time is uncertain, woman more uncertain
than time.' He presented an admirable commentary
on his sermon by dropping, accidentally, a letter from a fair
friend with whom he had an affair, `simply Platonic,' he said,
and I came away laughing. But still these coincidences
trouble me.

“You see when a man has staked his whole earthly happiness
upon the faith of a single heart, he is no longer free,
he no longer laughs with careless indifference at theories
affecting him; he is bound with a chain of gold, and at a
certain spot he is forced to pause and reflect. Happiness

is more than life to the heart, at least, happiness such as I
play for, and I could not resist a sentiment of disquiet in
spite of my laughter and incredulity. I had built all my
hopes on a woman's faith; I had played my own happiness
against that stake, and I could not bear in my mind even a
suspicion of the genuine nature of the coin. See my miserable
player illustrations—my figures, borrowed from the
gaming table! I attempt thus to divert my mind from
what follows.

“Let me say at once that I determined to go back, were
it even for an hour, to Vanely. I determined to escape thus
from my foolish fancies; the very sight of her tender and
confiding countenance would dissipate my uneasiness and
gloom.

“You know the result of that visit, for I wrote you a
lengthy account of it, laboring, unsuccessfully it seems, to
impress upon you the singular change which proved the rationality
of my fears, first suggested by the words of the
stranger and the old schoolmaster. It was in writing that
letter, as you remember, that a strange and mysterious presentiment
attacked me—a presentiment which you laughed
at when you read my letter, and argued against in your reply,
as a mere hallucination, springing from nervousness, or
illness. You shall judge whether I was not sane and well—
what follows will cut the knot.

“Your letter, as I have said, communicated to my mind
great cheerfulness. I read, and reread it, and dwelt upon
your views connected with the physical and mental organization
attentively and carefully. They seemed to me of
excellent soundness, and positively irrefutable. Not only
your argument, but your laughter, had a strong effect upon
me. I imagined you remonstrating with Lafonge—I saw
his gestures—the horror you experienced at the discovery
of the musk; and Milo's look of reproach as you declared.
Your laughter dispelled my gloom; your gayety brought
back the sunshine. From clouds I came forth into the sunny
air; my surrounding of presentiment was dispelled by

your surrounding of merriment. Thus, your arguments and
your smiles together made me think that I had indeed
yielded to an unhealthy melancholy; that my nerves had
disordered my mind, and that the distressing change in her
demeanor existed only in my faney.

“I therefore determined to go again to Vanely, and to
enter the hospitable doors unaccompanied by the least suspicion.
All that should be left behind in this detestable
place, which I wonder now that I ever could have dwelt in.
I would go to Vanely with the smiling face of the past—
with my arms stretched out to press welcoming hands, as in
old days. I would say to her, frankly, that I had foolishly
thought her feelings changed toward me, and would have
a hearty laugh at my imaginary disquiet. Sitting down,
with a smile, I leaned my head upon my hand, and imagined
her replying, with a look of reproach, that I must have indeed
been very ill to think that she could ever change; and
as I fancied her smiling and tender countenance, my fears
were all dissipated, and I rose up joyfully and mounted my
horse.

“Never had I seen a morning so bright, I thought. Williamsburg
no longer frowned, the white houses smiled and
saluted me, as on one happy morning when I cantered by,
from Richmond town, thinking of her and laughing. `Tallyho'
bore me into the open country, to the ferry, across
the bright waters, and into the smiling fields of Vanely, far
away from turmoil and confusion. As I entered that long-loved
land—as I breathed the fresh and balmy air, which,
sure, is nowhere so inspiriting as in our good Old Dominion
—as I went along thus rapidly through forests, and across
blooming meadows, where the lark sang, and the wheat
waved in luxuriant gold, my last anxiety was dissipated, and
I felt that I had not only been irrational and ridiculous in
my fancies; I had been unjust to one of the purest and loveliest
natures ever sent into the world.

“I linger upon these emotions of freshness and joy, and
pass to what followed with reluctance and a sort of dread.

I pause under the blue skies, without a cloud, and turn away
from the storm.

“Well, I came thus to Vanely.

“What I write now, friend, is between my lips and your
ear, as though we sat alone beneath a tree, in the middle of
a field, you know, with no foliage to conceal a listener—for
you, and you only. Not only would it compromise a young
lady, if known, by speaking of her former demeanor to one
who is not the same to her, but it would, perhaps, procure
me the reputation of a madman, and make me the subject
of a writ de lunatico inquirendo. But I have set out with
the intention of telling you all, and I write nothing that I
should not write.

“Well, to proceed.

“As I entered the grounds, I more than ever busied my
imagination happily with the reception which I was sure to
receive. When formerly I had gone from Vanely to `Flower
of Hundreds,' or elsewhere, and returned in the evening, she
had come always to meet me, sometimes to the outer gate,
in her little chip hat, with a smile on her lips and a flower
in her hand. On such occasions I had strained my eyes,
from the far distance, to discern her form, relieved clearly
against the emerald sward, and even `Tallyho' had tossed
his head when the fair figure glimmered in the sunset, for
he knew and shared the delight of his master. As I drew
nearer, the animal's speed would increase, he would almost
fly; in a moment he would bear me to her side, and leaping
from the saddle, I would hold in mine a hand throbbing,
like my own, with happiness. We ascended the Vanely hill,
I leading `Tallyho,' she leaning on my arm, and stopping at
times to caress the neck of the animal, because he was mine,
she said. And then she would turn again with sweeter
smiles to me; I would cover her hand with kisses, and if
my lips touched the pure forehead, she did not shrink, but,
looking into my eyes with an expression of the tenderest
affection, told me, thus, that her feeling for myself was an
echo of my own for her. As I write now, her eyes shine

on me; I see the light on her hair, the flower in her hand;
I hold that hand, and groan, and endeavor, in vain, to forget!

“Well, I won't groan so! I think the sound must have
attracted the attention of my servant! A man can't see all
his hopes pass from him, though, and smile as they depart.
I will stop my recollections, and proceed with the relation.
It was in the manner which I have described that I now expected
to be met, and, sure, I thought, she would at least
meet me thus, after an absence of what seemed a century to
myself. I hastened forward, with eager looks, I am sure,
certain of meeting her upon the portico, or in the hall, for
't is impossible for her not to have known of my approach,
as `Tallyho' neighed at the foot of the hill, and I saw the
faces of the family looking from the window. You know
the sonorous sound of the animal, and it announced my coming
from the commencement of the winding road, where
the great elm stands by the gate.

“She was not on the portico, she was not in the hall.
Instead of her figure, I saw Helen's and uncle's advance to
greet me with friendly smiles and open hands.

“I entered the sitting-room. She was bending over an
embroidery screen, with cheeks as red as blood, and I saw
her tremble. As Helen came in again (uncle had remained
without to give orders about my horse), she rose, and with
a sort of spasmodic gesture, held out her hand. I took it
in silence; nor do I know whether I looked pale or red.
Helen gazed at her in silence, too, and for a moment she
stood thus, cold and pale now as a statue, and fixing upon
me eyes which burnt into my brain, so wild was their expression.
She looked like a stricken bird, and leaned upon
the screen for support.

“Helen asked her if she were unwell. With something
like a gasp, she said, in a faint voice, `Yes,' and passing before
me like a phantom, was gone. I heard her ascend slowly
the broad stair-case, and then, as her footsteps died away,
I looked toward Helen with an expression of incredulous

despair, and terrible curiosity, at least, if my face spoke my
thoughts. Helen was as profoundly astonished and shocked
as myself, however, and could only say that she could not
imagine what made Bonnybel unwell. I saw from her eyes,
as she spoke, that she did not believe the change in the
young girl's manner of receiving me attributable to illness;
but we had no further opportunity of talking upon the subject,
as my uncle came in after seeing `Tallyho' taken, smiling,
hearty, and cordial as before.

“The old gentleman was in excellent spirits, and asked
me a thousand questions about the doings in Williamsburg,
the convention at the Raleigh tavern, the Governor's view
of it—every thing. I replied at random, and I suppose he
thought me utterly careless whether my answers pleased
him or not. You see I was racked by my feelings; my
mind was filled with an absorbing thought; I scarcely knew
where I was. I gazed at him when he spoke with the air
of a man who is waked suddenly from sleep, and is not permitted
time to collect his thoughts. You will not feel astonishment
at this; my only surprise is that I did not burst
forth into the cry of an idiot or a madman, and toss and
rave.

“I suppose my uncle thought the inattention due to fatigue,
for he made me go and drink some Canary with him,
and then dinner was served. She did not appear, but she
did come down in the evening, and my heart bled to see
how pale and sad she looked. As she gazed at me I saw
her eyes swim in tears, and then she turned away. All I
could extract from her was an assurance that she felt grieved
at her coldness in meeting me, that she was very unwell—
had been suffering much, and—I must pardon her. She
felt weak now, and believed she would retire, but Helen
would talk with me; I must not think her wanting in—politeness—or—or—affection.
She uttered the word with a
hesitation, a flush in her cheeks, and a swimming of the eyes,
which showed how profoundly she was moved. I think her
eyes gushed with tears as she left the room, for she raised

her handkerchief quickly as she disappeared, and I thought
I heard a sob. I strangle one in my own throat as I write,
friend, but I shall proceed.

“The interview I have just described will serve for the
two or three others which I held with her during this and
the next day. There was the same mixture of coldness and
pain in the eyes, which spoke with a more terrible eloquence
than any lips could. More than once she pressed my hand
in the most convulsive way, and her lips opened as though
she were about to speak. Before she uttered a word, howover—when
I was wholly silent, fearful lest I should interrupt
her, did I speak—before the dumb lips formed the
least sound, an expression of constraint and coldness, almost
of fear, would diffuse itself over her countenance, and coloring
to the temples, she would turn away in silence.

“This is an exact description of the interview which we
held about twilight on the day after my arrival. We were
on the portico alone, and after refusing thus to speak, she
pleaded a headache and retired, going to her chamber with
the faint step of one who is indeed sick, as she evidently
was, for her eyes were red, and her face so pale that it made
my heart bleed to look at her.

“She left me thus and I sat down, and looked out upon
the fields. The sun was setting, and throwing long shadows
along the meadows, over the golden grain, which undulated
in the evening breeze, and from the great oaks, red now in
the flush of sunset, a low dreamy sigh seemed to steal, and
die away in the bloody sky. Never had I seen a landscape
fuller of the elements of beauty, but never did I think a
night so sad. That sorrowful splendor in the sunshine,
which I spoke of before, again attracted my attention, and
an oriole, upon the summit of the great oak before the door,
seemed to sing a funeral dirge.

“Prepare now to laugh, friend—collect your incredulous
philosophy. I am about to utter more of my stupidities—I
am going to make you think me more than ever superstitious.
I care not, I will continue. As I sat thus upon the portico,

and saw the mournful beauty of the sunset die away across
the lands, I felt again that same presentiment of evil which
I formerly described. It seemed to me that again I was
encircled by hidden foes, that the atmosphere grew dark as
though from a great midnight cloud, and though I struggled
to resist the impression, my nerves again began to tingle,
my pulse to throb unaccountably, my hair moved upon
my head, and a shiver ran through my body. I seemed to
feel rather than see the presence of something hostile to me
—something cunning, insidious and dangerous—something
I must struggle against or yield to. A nameless dread
seized upon me, and all color forsook my cheek—as before,
I laid my hand convulsively upon my sword.

“In a moment the feeling disappeared, and I looked
around to see if any one had observed my agitation. I saw
no person, and rising, entered the house, feeling completely
wretched. You think this only another evidence of disordered
nerves; well, you will soon see that I was ere long
the victim of another hallucination, if you choose, more
strange and terrifying than this even.

“I shall trace the remaining incidents in regular order.
That evening she came down, looking, as usual, pale, very
pale, and so sad that my heart sank as I gazed at her. I
announced my intention of returning to Williamsburg on
the next morning, and as I did so I saw her turn her head
hastily. It was in the direction of myself, and for a moment
our eyes met, and a long look was exchanged. I
never saw any thing so sad as those eyes—even now they
haunt me, and make me groan as I write. I went to her
side, carelessly, but with a throbbing heart; and taking a
volume from the table, played with it, and tried to smile,
saying, with a wretched affectation of mirth, that I was no
longer my own master now, and that the repairs at Flower
of Hundreds must not be delayed, under the circumstances.
I am a bad actor; I assume badly, and I think that human
laugh never before rang out so harsh and false. My muscles
refused to obey me—they rebelled—and the sound that

should have been mirthful must have almost been tragical
and sinister.

“She did not reply with a word; I waited in vain for her
to speak, and after an hour, during which she took part in
the conversation only fitfully, and at intervals, in the same
forced way, she glided out of the apartment, and did not
return. My heart grew cold as she disappeared, for I had
determined to hold a private interview with her that night,
when the rest of the family had retired, and entreat her to
explain her demeanor toward me. I had planned all this,
down to the very words which I would utter, the arguments
I would use, and I thought she would be unable to resist.
You have seen how she defeated this scheme by simply
retiring without a word.

“Well, I curbed, by a violent effort, all exhibition of my
disappointment and distress, determining to have the interview
on the next morning, in the library, before my departure.
I felt as if I must either have this explanation or go
mad, and the discovery of the grounds of this terrible
change must come from her lips alone. The rest of the
family, with the exception of Helen, did not seem to perceive
any thing unusual. Busy about other things, they left
us to ourselves, and did not occupy themselves with the expression
of her countenance. Certainly they never dreamed
of watching her face with that rabid anxiety which led me
to bestow the closest scrutiny upon its most minute details
—upon the most flitting lights and shadows.

“They must certainly have observed her constraint in my
society—that she was not, wholly, the same. But this was
doubtless attributed by them all, as you suggested, to maidenly
modesty and timidity at her novel position in relation
to myself. I saw that I should only be stared at by Aunt
Mabel or Miss Seraphina if I declared myself surprised by
the young girl's manner. They would think me the most
irrational of men, even foolish, if I gave expression to my
pain—insulting, perhaps, if I spoke of feeling offended.
That could not be thought of, and I placed all my hopes

upon the interview with herself on the next morning. I
therefore talked upon other subjects, and finally retired to
my chamber.

“Now comes the account of my final hallucination, if you
like the word, friend. I approach what will doubtless lead
you to believe that I am really a lunatic.

“I went to my chamber at the hour of ten about, for in
the country they retire early, and I remained for an hour,
perhaps, sitting by the open window, from which I looked
out upon the moonlit fields, and pondered. All was hushed,
and no sound disturbed the silence but the low twitter of
the swallows which have their nests beneath the eaves, and
were going to sleep. The fitful sighing of the ocean breeze
in the great moonlit oaks served as a sort of burden to my
sad thoughts, and silent thus by the open window I reflected
long and painfully upon the woful change which had
taken place in the feelings of that one whom I loved more
than my life. I remember that at last my thoughts dwelt
upon the singular warnings I had received before I had the
least reason to suspect this change, and a slight feeling of
superstitious fear may have agitated me. I think that no
man is wholly free from this influence, which is due either to
the stories of those old negro nurses who frighten children,
and instill thus early the seeds of superstition, or to the perusal
of those authors who make use of hobgoblins to lend
attraction to narratives otherwise stupid. There was some
excuse for this sentiment, too, in my surroundings. The
chamber which I occupied was the `haunted chamber,' that
invariable adjunct of a Virginia country house. Here, it
was said, Mrs. Vane, my uncle's mother, had died in great
pain, and here, said the servants, she often `walked.'

“I was not afraid of the old gentlewoman's spirit at all,
however, and if I thought of her at all it was with a smile
at my childish disquiet and foolish superstition. I threw
off my clothes, tried to make my prayer as my dear mother
taught me at her knee, and then, somewhat quieted by this

appeal to a higher power, extinguished the light in the tall
candlestick, and was soon asleep.

“I do not know how long I slept, but I suddenly awoke
with the consciousness that something or somebody was at
the side of my bed. I distinctly heard a low and suppressed
breathing, and opening my eyes, I swear I saw a white figure
within three paces of me, crouching and looking toward me,
where I lay! The moonlight fell upon the figure, and I saw
that it was only a long, white garment, not unlike grave-clothes,
and from beneath the folds of this garment two
burning eyes were fixed upon me.

“For a moment I lay motionless, in that stupor which
possesses the frame immediately upon awaking, and I remember
thinking how foolish I was to fancy myself awake,
and not what I was, asleep and dreaming. Then I rose suddenly
in the bed, as the mist was dispelled from my mind,
and as I did so, the figure hastily retreated.

“With a single bound, I was out of the curtains, and
clutched my sword. A glimmer, a stealthy footfall, and the
figure melted into the darkness and disappeared.

“I went quickly to the door, which had been left open,
as the weather was warm, and found it just as I had left it,
almost ajar. A human figure could scarcely have passed
through it. I opened it, and went out in the upper hall.
Every thing was silent. I stood there for a moment with
my sword in my hand, trembling, I think, with a vague
fear—for you must confess the adventure was enough to affect
the nerves of the boldest—and then I reëntered the
room. Every thing was just as I had left it upon the preceding
night; nothing had been disturbed. I looked at my
timepiece; it was half past two o'clock, and the moon, by
whose light I made the examination, was just setting.

“I replaced my sword upon the chair by my bed, and
sitting upon the side of the couch, reflected, as you may
easily imagine, upon what had just occurred. Could I have
been dreaming? Certainly it seemed to me that I was wide
awake, that I saw the thing with my material eyes; its eyes

still burned before me, and I heard the stealthy footfall.
But was not this all fancy? Could the appearance be real?
I dismissed at once, you see, the thought of a spirit, though
I still felt a supersitious dread, and my only question was
the state I had been in—sleeping or awake. If awake, then
some person had entered my room stealthily, and retreated
as noiselessly. Who could it have been, and what possible
object could have produced this nocturnal walking? Decidedly,
I thought, I dreamed the whole thing, and took
the result of my nervous imagination, aroused and stung by
my meditations at the window, for the veritable presence of
an intruder.

“I remained thus lost in thought for half an hour, I suppose,
and then I went and locked the door, and returning
to bed, lay down. After a while my thoughts ran into each
other, I began to dream, and then fell sound asleep. I was
waked by the sun shining in my face, and rose and dressed.
As I did so, I almost laughed at my dream, for it doubtless
was such, as I do not believe in spirits, however superstitious
I may seem to you. Yet was it not strange that I should
thus have sprung up, and caught my sword, and followed
my airy visitant? Think what you may—laugh at me if
you choose, but it seemed to me that those burning eyes
were like the eyes of the hostile figure in my first delirium,
when I dropped the pen upon the paper, writing to you,
and rose clutching at my sword.

“Well, let me finish my long, sad letter; I will proceed
with the events of the morning in turn. Finding that none
of the family were yet stirring, I sat down at the table, upon
which were writing materials, and wrote you a note, asking
you to pay me a visit in Williamsburg—the note to await
your appearance at Vanely. You have doubtless received
it, and pray come, my friend. Your presence will soothe
and cheer me. Do not measure my desire to see you by
the brief nature of the note, which was written, as you may
imagine, under unfavorable circumstances. I must beg you
to pardon its style, and also the apparent discourtesy in not

sealing the wax with my signet. Upon looking on my fin
ger for it, I found it was gone, left, doubtless, on my table
here when I went to Vanely, though, strange to say, I have
not found it, and even think that I remember having it on
when I went thither.

“To end my letter with the events of the morning, however.
As I informed you, I had announced, on the previous
evening, my intended departure, and every one had given
me commissions. I had letters to friends from my uncle, a
memorandum from Helen, and a package from Aunt Mabel
for Mrs. Burwell, through a window of whose dwelling, one
night, not very long ago—but I am wandering, and, as it
were, making a sorrowful soliloquy. You see—to continue,
calmly—I had, in every way, impressed upon the family, including
herself, the fact of my departure on that morning
early. I had, I said, pressing business; the architects, with
their plans, were waiting; beyond a preadventure I must
certainly go—I could not remain. I meant her to understand
that I should not lengthen my visit, and that an explanation
must take place upon that morning, or I should
continue miserable away from her, not near her.

“After finishing the note to you, therefore, I drew on my
riding boots, with a pair of large spurs, and leaving my
chamber, descended the stair-case. I thought the heavy
sound of my footsteps, and the metallic ring of the spur
chains, on the oaken floor, would attract her attention, and
bring her down to the library, which I entered. Often when
I was going over to `Flower of Hundreds,' early in the morning,
this sound had drawn her from her chamber, fresh, rosy,
and smiling with happiness and beauty, like a flower of the
morning—how I groan, friend as I write! Well, well! I
thought the desire of seeing me would again make her run
to me, and give me that innocent embrace which her pure
heart accorded to me. Alas! she did not come. I sat in
the library, as yet untenanted, except by myself, and with
the `Gazette' open before me, made pretense to read, as
the servant moved about; in reality, I did not even see the

letters—I was listening for her footsteps. If ever you have
thus sat, with a throbbing heart, and waited for a figure
which did not appear, you will know my breathless expectation,
and my agony. My agony, for she did not come.

“The members of the family, one after another, entered;
every one had a kind word, a smile, and a regret at my departure,
while she—she did not even come to look coldly at
me. I had not even the consolation of her frown. Well, I
did not ask why she delayed, I did not utter a word on the
subject; somehow the words stuck in my throat. I only conversed,
with my eyes fixed upon the door; and when Aunt
Mabel thought I was listening, with the deepest attention,
to her new method of curing colds, I was trying to catch
her approaching footsteps.

“Breakfast was announced, and every one sat down.
Then Aunt Mabel asked the question which I feared to propound,
`Where was Bonnybel?' She was unwell, Helen
said, and begged Cousin Harry to excuse her not coming
down to bid him good-bye.

“As the words were uttered, I think I must have turned
pale, and I sat down the chocolate which I was raising to
my lips. Aunt Mabel diverted attention from me, however,
by pausing, in her operations with the urn, to say, `Unwell!
why she was well last night.' Helen replied that she did
not think her sister had been well for a week or two, and
there the subject was dropped. Half an hour afterwards I
was in the saddle, on my way hither, without having seen
her, and carrying away with me no second message from her
even.

“And now, my friend, you have it all; you have, I think,
the proof, full and unanswerable, that I was not so irrational
in my presentiments as you declared me. I told you, in my
former letter, that a cloud seemed descending on my life;
I now show you that cloud covering my whole existence.
I said, in the commencement of this letter, that I had determined,
if she met me as of old, to consider my foreboding
only fancy, and thus you would triumph—the woful triumph,

as you see, is my own. Of these influences, I have
no word more to say; they may return or disappear, it is
indifferent to me. It is nothing, either way, now when I
am perfectly wretched, when I am ruined, broken-hearted,
overwhelmed by a fatality which I can not oppose, and which
crushes me in its inexorable grasp. I no longer struggle, I
no longer attempt to understand; silent, gloomy, and pale,
I bend under my fate, and only reply with hoarse groans.

“I have written with forced calmness. Why I wrote at
all I do not know, unless it is from that mad despair which
makes the dying soldier turn the weapon in his breast.

“I can write no more. I am faint, and seem to grow cold.
Well, so it ends. I thought—

“I can write no more—not even tears will relieve me.