65. CHAPTER LXV.
“HOW STRANGE! I KNEW A BONNYBEL ONCE!”
Three days after this letter was dispatched, Mr. Alston,
who was now permanently residing at the Raleigh tavern,
entered his friend's chamber, after breakfast, and found him
holding in his hand a paper which his eyes were fixed upon
as though riveted to it by iron chains.
The sound of his footsteps did not arouse Mr. St. John,
who continued to gaze at the paper.
Mr. Alston approached, and, without ceremony, looked
over the young man's shoulder.
As his eyes ran over the letter, all color forsook his cheek,
a sort of tremor passed through his frame, and leaning one
hand on the back of the carved chair, he remained silent
and motionless.
The letter was in the following words:
“I have received your strange letter, in which you speak
of our union, and your plans in making additions to you residence,
suggested, you say, by myself. It was not my intention
to make such suggestions, and I hope the addition
will be stopped. At least I do not wish you to indulge the
hope that I shall ever become its inmate.
“It pains me to refer to what was, I hoped, forgotten—
that is, our engagement. What has occurred since that
time makes such engagement null, and it is no longer binding
upon either of us.
“Your strange letter will, I hope, be the last on this subject.
I am entirely resolved.
It was this letter which Mr. St. John was gazing at with
wide eyes. His friend took it out of his hand and placed it
in his own pocket. Mr. St. John did not move.
Mr. Alston went and sat down at some distance, and with
eyes hollow and red from want of rest, watched the young
man, the very sight of whose figure seemed to send a pang
through his honest heart.
St. John remained for nearly an hour perfectly motionless,
his shoulders drooping, his head bent down, his eyes fixed
upon the floor, across which a long bar of sunshine ran like
a stream of gold.
“It was a glorious sail we had upon the river,” he at
length murmured with a smile. “What a day it was!”
Mr. Alston half rose, but fell back in his seat.
“The sky was so blue, and the sun shone so brightly!”
continued St. John, laughing. “Even now I remember
how the foam danced along, far whiter than the wings of
the sea birds who hovered over us! What a happy time!
They may talk of the great wide ocean, but there's nothing
like our stately river—nothing! It runs from the mountains
of Virginia to the east, and Virginia is the fairest of
all lands, is it not? How the foam danced before us, and
the winds were blowing! The air was perfumed by the
forest as we sailed!”
“Harry! Harry!” murmured Tom Alston, in a stifled
voice.
“Ah! are you there, friend?” said the young man, turning
gayly, “are you there, good mine host of the Raleigh
tavern? 'Tis a fine tavern, and a stranger told me they
were making history there—ah! is it so? But we'll not
mind them. Bring me some sherry, host—or stay! let it
be Canary. 'Tis a gentleman's wine, and I am a gentleman
—though a poor one: very, very poor!”
And the head sank.
“Are we in the capitol?” he murmured, smiling as before.
“I am a stranger, but it seems that I have been here
once before! One night, when the violins played, and I
danced a minuet with some one—who could she have been?”
And with the air of a man who tries to recall something,
Mr. St. John touched his forehead and was silent.
“Well, well, well!” he murmured at length, in a low,
measured voice, “I can not remember—it was very long ago.
How long, good host? A decade? Well, well, well—
't was a merry time, I think. What a noble gift is memory!”
And with the same musing smile, both sad and joyous,
the young man raised his head. The colored drawing on
the opposite wall attracted his attention—the drawing purchased
for its chance likeness to Bonnybel—that which he
had selected on the night of the assembly, with the words
“The fallen salutes his victor.”
“Ah!” he murmured, “who is that, mine host? Is the
wine coming? Who is that—a fair face, I think!”
“He does not even recognize Bonnybel!” muttered Tom
Alston, covering his face, with a sob.
Only the last word caught the young man's wandering
attention.
“Bonnybel!” he murmured, “did you say Bonnybel was
her name? How strange! I knew a Bonnybel once: she
was very beautiful and tender. Eyes bright and of the tenderest
violet; hair a soft brown, and the very same lips—the
same, as I live! But no, no, no! that picture is not like her.
She was truer looking than that portrait—answer me not,
sir! Who says she was false? Do you wear a sword? I
who stand here am Henry St. John, of Prince George, in
Virginia!”
And an expression of haughty anger drove all smiles from
the wan face.
“Oh, me! oh, me!” was all Tom Alston could repeat, in
a voice stifled with emotion.
St. John continued for some moments gazing wildly at
the picture, and, as he gazed, a shudder ran through his
frame, his eyes expanded with a sort of dread, and, rising
violently from his seat, he drew his sword, shouting:
“Who are you that stand beside the picture of my love
and darken it? Away! I have seen you before, with
your burning eyes, and I defy you! I will meet you breast
to breast!—back!”
And with a fiery flash from his haughty eyes, the young
man cut at the air with his sword.
Tom Alston ran to him, and, sobbing like a child, put his
arms round him, and with gentle force compelled him to sit
down again.
“Oh, Harry! Harry! my poor, poor Harry!” he sobbed,
“'t is only your fancy: there is no one in the room. Oh,
Heaven! that it should come to this!”
St. John looked with a dreamy, absent air into the face
of his friend, and then turned away.
His momentary excitement soon disappeared, and, reclining
now against the tall, carved back of his chair, his shoulders
drooped, and he traced figures idly with the point of
his scabbard on the floor.
As he did so, his excitement seemed completely dissipated,
and, with a smile, he murmured to himself:
“Yes, yes! she is very beautiful and faithful! Who says
she's not?—poor creature, unworthy of my steel! Is that
a flower you hold in your hand? I have seen that rose before—it
is white. Were there not red roses too? Did you
tell me that you loved me? Oh, how dearly I love you!
Is your name Bonnybel? I knew one once like you—she
was very good and beautiful—but she died, and flowers are
growing from her bosom. Do I dream? Oh, me! Is she
dead, then—my own girl? Is she dead, then—my own
faithful girl? Oh, no! I should not be alive to ask you!
—that was another! You are my own dear Bonnybel, are
you not? You hold the flower in your hand, and smile.
You have the dearest eyes, and your hair is gold in the sunlight.
Do you love me? I shall die if you do not love
me! There is the moon!—take care or your horse will
stumble!—Oh, to die now since I have pressed your lips,
with your head on my bosom, with that light in your eyes!
—my own faithful, noble girl!”
And with an expression of the most radiant happiness,
the young man fixed his eyes upon the image of his memory,
and remained thus, lost in his reverie of joy and delight.
At five paces from him, his friend followed every movement,
caught every murmur. With a heaving bosom, and
with eyes wet with tears, honest Tom Alston, whom the
world called fop and derided, watched, wofully, the progress
of the delirium.
At last he breathed more freely, his eyes turned eagerly
toward the door. He heard the step of the old physician
slowly ascending, and he soon entered.
A single glance at Mr. St. John told him all: he shook
his head.
“He has a brain fever,” said the old doctor, “produced
by mental excitement, exposure to the sun, after sickness,
perhaps, and loss of rest; of course chiefly by the former.
The sooner he is in bed the better, Mr. Alston. Ring for a
servant, and give orders that no person whatever be admitted.”
A powerful opiate was administered to the young man,
and he slept for some hours.
When he awoke, it was to toss and rave, deliriously,
from a violent brain fever, as the old physician had predicted.
