University of Virginia Library

62. CHAPTER LXII.
HOW MR. ALSTON TRAVELED ALL NIGHT, AND WHAT
FOLLOWED.

The letter which we have just laid before the reader
reached Mr. Alston on the afternoon of the day after it was
written, and in fifteen minutes that gentleman, looking very
sad and gloomy, was on his way to Vanely.

On the next morning, just as Mr. St. John had finished
his toilet, he entered the young man's chamber, having
traveled all night.

Up to the moment when his foot touched the threshold,
Mr. Alston's face had worn an expression of anxiety and
care, very unusual with him, but no sooner had he entered
the presence of his friend, than this changed to an appearance
of the most careless humor.

“Well, Harry, my boy,” said Mr. Alston, “how is it this
morning? how are the nerves?”

Instead of resenting this banter or expressing any surprise,
Mr. St. John merely held out his hand, rising for that
purpose from the sofa upon which he lay, with drooping
head, and then having given this evidence of welcome, he
sank back as cold and silent as before.

The reception did not seem to please Mr. Alston; he
gazed for a moment with an expression of great feeling at
the pale, cold face, turned away from him; at the drooping
brows, the half-closed eyes, and the lips indicating hopeless
despair.

“Come, Harry, my dear fellow,” he said, rapidly changing
his expression, and speaking in a tone of careless good
humor, “this is a poor greeting, and you have not replied
to my question.”

“Your question, Tom?” asked Mr. St. John, waking up,
as it were, and looking absently at his friend.

“Yes, my question!”

“What was it? You must pardon me, Tom, I'm not
very well this morning, or very lively, as you may imagine.”

“Bah! all the imagination is on your side. My question
was in the words and figures following, to wit: `how are
your nerves?' ”

“Quite firm.”

“Has a mouse run across the floor?”

His friend looked at him with an expression of inquiry.

“I say, has a mouse squeaked this morning, and thrown
you into agonies?”

The look of inquiry changed to one of cold surprise,
which it seemed Mr. Alston comprehended.

He burst out laughing.

“I understand!” he said, “you are ready to cut my throat
because I refer to your nerves. Well, I believe I am competent
to form an opinion, and empowered to express the same,
I only being responsible, under the circumstances, for the
said expression of the said opinion. The practical application
which I make, on the present occasion, of this little observation,

is simply as follows. The dreadful words have
been uttered now, and if my opinions upon the nervous system
do not please monsieur, I am entirely at his orders, my
preference being for the short sword!”

St. John sat down and leaned his head upon his hand.

“Pardon my coldness and irritation, Tom,” he said, “I
can't afford to lose any friends now.”

“Ah! you come to reason, do you?”

“Yes, I would keep the few hearts I retain. You see
I'm a poor miserable devil that do n't dare to quarrel—I'm
too wretched for that.”

“Wretched folly it indeed is, Harry my boy, to say that
you are wretched—or rather, to proceed logically, to say
that you have any reason to be wretched.”

“Have you received my last letter?” said St. John, suppressing
a groan.

“Yes, I have.”

“And you laugh still?”

“Most heartily.”

“It is at my distress, then.”

“No; at your philosophy.”

“Of what?”

“Why, of spirits.”

St. John made a movement with his head, signifying
plainly, “You are at liberty to laugh.”

“I understand very well,” said his friend; “you mean by
that lordly nod to grant me permission to think as I may.
Well, my dear friend, I cheerfully avail myself of your permission,
and consider that you ought to have a nurse to put
you in bed, and to sleep in the same room with you.”

St. John was silent. What he had said in his letter was
true. He no longer cared to discuss the strange presentiments,
and the dream, if it were a dream. In his agony all
other things were swallowed up, and after the momentary
outbreak he felt no anger even at the rough address of his
friend.

This, however, seemed to be just what Mr. Alston desired

to excite—he wished to arouse the young man. When his
taunts were received with indifference he seemed disappointed.

“Come,” he said, returning to the attack, “confess, my
dear Harry, that you are a baby.”

“If you choose, I will.”

“A child frightened by a buggaboo.”

“I have no objection.”

“Really,” said Mr. Alston, with a compassionate air, “you
do seem to me a mere girl; put the cover over its head and
stop whimpering, and go to sleep—mammy's sitting by its
bed!”

St. John made no reply.

“Would you have a little pap, mother's darling?” inquired
Mr. Alston.

“No, I thank you.”

“A sugar rag's convenient.”

Mr. St. John nodded his head.

“Mammy won't let bogy frighten mother's darling—ugly
bogy, coming here to scare his mother's own sweet ducky
dear.”

Mr. St. John had even ceased to hear the voice of his
friend; stretched upon a lounge, he was thinking, with far
away eyes set in a face as pale as death.

“Harry St. John,” said Mr. Alston, suddenly dropping
his tone of banter, “do you wish to hear my real opinion of
you?”

Mr. St. John turned toward his friend, looked at him for
a moment, intently, and said:

“I will listen.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Alston, austerely, “I consider you
an idiot.”

And Mr. Alston raised his head with a haughty air, and
placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

Mr. St. John only looked at him more attentively.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Alston, coldly, “I understand your
gaze very well; you think to intimidate me. But you will

not, sir! no, sir! I am not to be bullied! I say again, sir,
and I will repeat it a third time, if necessary, that my real
opinion of you is that you are an idiot—a fool. There,
sir! I am ready to take the responsibility of that declaration.”

St. John scarcely raised his head, and for a moment did
not speak.

“Miserable coward!” said Mr. Alston, sotto voce, and
frowning.

A long silence followed—it was broken by Mr. St. John.
He rose wearily from the sofa, passed his hand over his forehead
and said,

“You're a good friend, Tom. I can not, however, say as
much for your acting. You are quite transparent. I see
plainly what brings you, and I know very well what you
intend by your affected taunts and insults. You overdo it;
but even were it acted with a reality which persuaded me
of the sincerity of your desire to offend me, I doubt if I
should resent your words. You wish to arouse me by your
stage-play, but I am too dreary and despairing. All's over
for me; I yield. I do not even hear your insults distinctly,
for my mind is paralyzed.”

And Mr. St. John sank back again, and was silent.

An expression of real pain diffused itself over Mr. Alston's
countenance, and gazing at his friend, he said,

“Harry, you afflict me to the heart.”

“I am sorry.”

“And I groan! How can you yield to this infatuation?”

“Infatuation?”

“Yes, 't is nothing more.”

St. John looked at his friend.

“Do you think me infatuated after going and seeing for
yourself?” he said.

“Seeing for myself?” asked Mr. Alston.

“Yes; are there many of those jessamines left under the
window?”

And Mr. St. John pointed to a flower in Mr. Alston's button
hole, plucked at Vanely as he departed.

“That reminds me of a little flower I pulled one day at
Jamestown island,” added the young man, “a long, long
time ago.”

And he was silent.

Mr. Alston looked at his friend with the same expression
of pain, and said,

“I see you have divined my movements. Well, I have
been to Vanely.”

“And traveled all night to come and comfort a poor
devil, your friend. Thanks, Tom.”

“You have hit it. I come to comfort you.”

Mr. St. John shook his head.

“You wish to make me think you have something to tell
me which will raise my spirits. But 't is impossible. All 's
at an end.”

And Mr. St. John sank back again, silent and despairing.

Mr. Alston seemed touched to the very depths of his nature
by this agony of his friend; it almost silenced him,
for he scarcely hoped to make any impression upon one so
resolute in his despair. He nevertheless collected all his
strength, and commenced the assault.

We shall not repeat the conversation, for it consisted only
of a description, in all their details and ramifications, of the
events which have been described in Mr. St. John's letters.
From these letters, with the reply of Mr. Alston, the reader
will gather exactly what the present interview concerned
itself with. On one side, arguments against imaginary influences,
presentiments and superstitions; on the other, either
silence or indifferent replies. Then came the question of
the young girl's change; and here, too, Mr. Alston dwelt
upon the same views which he had expressed in his letter—
maidenly modesty and indisposition. Mr. St. John only
shook his head, making no reply.

“For Heaven's sake, Harry!” said his friend, “do n't meet

my arguments with that eternal gesture of simple dissent.
Really you are not open to conviction, for here, after two
hours' discussion, you seem absolutely more than ever determined
to despair; you hug your wretchedness and resist
every attempt I make to remove it.”

“It hugs me,” said St. John, groaning.

“Because you invite it to do so. Look away from it.”

“I can not.”

“Have I then been merely wasting my time?”

“I am afraid so, Tom, alas! I hear your heart rather
than your head speak to me. You wish to cheer me, but
you have nothing to offer me. For what is the sum of
your argument? You tell me that you have been to Vanely,
that you have adroitly sounded the whole family, and
you tell me their replies to your questions. My uncle, you
say, in reply to one of your allusions to me, expressed himself
well pleased that I was to become his son; Aunt Mabel
loved me in spite of my faults; Miss Seraphina, like
uncle and aunt, saw nothing, and looked forward to the
wedding. Helen alone saw the cloud, but was guarded in
her speech, and mentioned indisposition as the cause of her
change; lastly, she herself being flatly and earnestly interrogated,
replied with—what? `I am very sorry that
my manner has wounded Cousin Henry's feelings; I have
not been well lately, Mr. Alston.' There, Tom, that is but
the old story. You have in vain attempted to lift the burden
of despair weighing me down. I thank you, I recognize
your friendship; it is a gloomy pleasure to me, but I
remain unchanged—all 's over.”

And St. John covered his face, and uttered a moan which
made honest Tom Alston turn away his head and remain
for some time silent.

After a while Mr. Alston returned again to the subject;
but this time, with less vehemence, and a more quiet earnestness.
His object now was to persuade his friend to return.

St. John shook his head.

“Why should I?” he said; “it will only make two persons
more miserable still.”

“And you thus relinquish, without a struggle, the happiness
of your whole life?”

“I must!” said St. John, with a cruel groan.

“You must not, Harry!” said Tom Alston, almost groaning
too; “I tell you, you must not! As your friend, as your
companion and playmate in childhood and youth, and your
friend now in manhood, I beseech you to consider this! By
returning no more, you at once break off all connection with
those who love you and whom you love! By going thither
no more, you end for ever all affection which they have for
you. At present no one but Helen observes any thing
strange; your uncle and aunt will resent your action, and
banish you from their hearts. I beseech you to think what
you are doing, and not wreck the whole happiness of your
future life on a chimerical fancy, which may be a mere
dream!”

At the end of an hour, during which Tom Alston thus
dwelt upon the effects of such a proceeding as his friend had
decided on, with the greatest earnestness—at the end of this
long and elaborate expostulation, St. John, weak and undecided,
promised to think of the matter. Tom Alston pushed
his advantage, and ere long forced from his friend a promise
that he would make a final attempt to penetrate the mystery.

“Yes, you have overcome me,” said the young man, rising,
with a slight color in his pale cheek; “I will go again,
and I will take this with me.”

As he spoke, he drew from the breast pocket of his doublet
a folded paper, on the face of which a slash or cut running
through the direction, “Henry St. John, Esquire,” was
plainly visible.

“Yes, Tom,” said the young man, suppressing a weary
sigh, “I will follow your advice, and make a last attempt.
Look at this letter, it is one which she wrote me some days
before my duel with Lindon, and it turned his sword point.
I will go to her and say, `It was a loyal heart which your

letter saved from being pierced and torn asunder; the heart
which it now covers is as loyal. If an enemy has spoken
against me, tell me what he has said, and I will answer it;
and not punish him if you wish it.' I will go and say that
and beseech her to not leave me in despair. You are right,
Tom, propriety at least requires that from me.”

And the young man finished with an expression of mingled
despair and disdain which was painful to behold.

Mr. Alston was, however, too much pleased with the determination
of his friend to feel longer pained. He replied,
with a cheerful look,

“Be easy, Harry. All will come out right; you have determined
most manfully. I confess there is much to afflict
any one in this matter, but you have only to oppose yourself
to the obstacle like a valorous chevalier, and all will be
well. You say this little flower in my button-hole reminds
you of that one you plucked when you were wounded, as
you told me at Flower of Hundreds. Well, take this flower,
and add to your former address, `When I was wounded
and bleeding, fainting and unable to stand up, one day, I
thought of you more than my wound, and plucked a flower
such as you had plucked on the very same spot, and
even when I lost my senses clung to it, and thought of
you.' Add that to your speech, Harry, and if you do
not move her, and make her return to her old affection,
then I will really sympathise with you, for I shall have
reason.”

Having thus terminated the discussion, and extracting
from his friend a promise that, within three days at farthest,
he would carry out his design of visiting Vanely, Mr. Tom
Alston declared himself extremely hungry, and the friends
proceeded to the Raleigh and breakfasted. St. John scarcely
touched his food, and had never changed his expression of
cold despair.

An hour afterwards he bade his friend good-bye, and they
separated—Mr. Alston to return to Moorefield, where he
was to receive a letter from his friend; Mr. St. John to seek

his lounge, where he now spent hour after hour steeped in
gloomy reverie.

His friend's visit had been like a ripple on the surface of
a dark tarn—the waters again closed over its gloomy depths,
silent and motionless.