“Is it wrong for me to write to you? We were cousins
once, with some affection for each other—I at least for you.
I do not add that we have ever been any thing more, for
that would doubtless wound and offend you. I would not
wound or offend you; I am too unhappy to think of reproaches.
Once I might have given way to my passionate
temperament, and uttered wild words; now I have no
such words to utter. I acquiesce in all you do and say,
and scarcely dare to write these lines—to my cousin, as it
were.
“My memory has been impaired of late, but I think we
were playmates in our youth, were we not? Are not you the
Bonnybel of my childhood? She was very lovely, and had
the kindest and tenderest heart, and a face full of the most
delicate loveliness. I have been thinking about her, and you
must not think me unmanly because the tears come to my
eyes. I do not think any one ever loved Bonnybel as I did.
She seemed to me like an angel, holding out her pure white
hands and blessing me. I used to weave flowers for her,
and once she showed me the wreath, a long time afterwards
—she had kept it for my sake, she said.
“I believe I am wandering from what I intended to write.
I have been sick, but am very well to-day. My friend, Tom
Alston, has been to see me in my sickness, and he has taken
up the strangest idea, he thinks that we have quarreled—
you and myself. Could any thing be more absurd? Ordinary
persons quarrel and fall out, but the very idea of Bonnybel
and Harry being any thing but friends! I told him
that it was absolutely silly, and the grounds of his opinion
are the silliest part of it. He thinks, because you were unwell
the other day, when I was at Vanely, and did not come
down, that for this reason you do not like me. I wrote him
word, on my return that night, or rather early in the morning,
for I preferred traveling in the night, as the weather
was warm—I wrote him word about the visit, and said I
had not seen you, because you were sick. My letter had
scarcely reached Moorefield, I thought, when he broke into
my chamber here in the strangest manner, with tears in his
eyes, crying, most singularly, `O, Harry! Harry!' and sitting
down with his hands over his face. He then came and
put his arm around me and asked me how I felt, as though
I had been sick. I was not at all sick then, but became unwell
that evening, strange to say; I believe it was on account
of his visit. He persuaded me that I must be sick, or
I never would have written him such a letter, when my letter
was the simplest in the world, and just such as I generally
write to him. A physician came to see me, and he and
Tom went out just now together. I have risen from the
sofa, to write to you.
“I believe I am not quite well this morning, and I have
a strange feeling, as if we had quarreled. Write to me,
darling, and tell me that you still love me. My whole heart
is wrapped up in you, and I can not breathe without your
love. How kind and good in the merciful Creator to give
me your love. I have been very ungrateful not to thank
him, and obey his commands, but I will try in future to be
better. I expect much from your love, I think it will make
me purer and better. I do not love you only because your
face is beautiful, but because you are pure and good. When
we are married, I shall be far better, and you will have made
me so.
“They spoke of something which had come between us.
Is it not strange? Why, what could ever separate us?
There was a strange man who hinted at something of this
sort, I remember, but how foolish.
“I have not seen you for some days now, but I will come
soon. I am a little unwell to-day, but I am happy, thinking
of you.
“There's Tom Alston's step upon the stairs, and he must
not see me writing to you; I can not write to you in company,
as I can not speak to you when others are present.
We must be alone, darling, to address each other as we
wish. I can not call you by your name in society, and I
can not even write it when another's present.
“They are near the door now, Tom and his friend, and I
must close my letter, which my servant shall carry to the
post office when they are gone.
“Write to me very soon, my own Bonnybel, and a good
long letter, such as you used to send me over to `Flower of
Hundreds,' when I was detained.
“Good bye.
“Your faithful
“Henry St. John.”
“P. S.—Tom and his friend have just gone out, and I am
glad I hid my letter from their eyes. They affect to think
that I am sick, and even say that writing and reading will
be injurious. How strange it is that intelligent men like
Tom and the doctor, do not understand that I am merely a
little fatigued and indisposed from want of rest and working
at the plans for `Flower of Hundreds.' I have devised a
very pretty wing, I think, such as you said you liked when
we looked at the old house from the hill in front. You did
not know that you were describing your preference to a
company of invisible architects. The addition will contain
a sitting-room for you, a smaller library, looking out upon
the lawn, and two guest chambers. I am sure you will like
it, and you know I only live to please you. Farewell.”
