CHAPTER XL.

YOUNG BOSWORTH RECEIVES A LETTER.

That day I resolved to go and see young Bosworth. I had no lover to get jealous or find fault with this; indeed, it was doubtful if any one cared enough about my movements to observe them when disconnected from the family.

I had no heart to enjoy the walk; it was a cold, raw day, with gloomy clouds floating along the sky, and gloomier shadows sweeping the earth. The dampness of a night succeeded by no sunshine lay upon the meadows; spiders' webs were stretched across my path; and a rain of moisture fell from the hazel-bushes as my garments brushed them in walking. Still, it was not absolutely stormy, and the gray shadows harmonized with my feelings so completely, that I had no wish to change them. Nothing could be more gloomy than my own heart.

When I reached the house, old Mrs. Bosworth came to the door herself. She seemed a good deal disturbed, and I fancied, from the heaviness of her eyes, that she had been crying.

"Come in, Miss Hyde," she said, taking my hand. "He is not so well this morning. Indeed, indeed he is much worse. A letter came here last night, and I was foolish enough to let it go to him. One of your people brought it, and I fancied, perhaps, that it might do him good, for it was a lady's handwriting, and she was so kind that morning."

"You thought it was from our Jessie," I answered, in the first impulse of my surprise.

"Yes, it was a foolish thought, I dare say,--but that was my idea."

"And have you learned whom it did come from?"

"No," answered the noble old lady. "He fainted, and it fell from his hand; but I laid it under his pillow without even looking at it; it might have wounded him, you know."

"And is he so much worse?"

"Oh, Miss Hyde, the fever has come back; he is wild again."

"And had you no way of guessing the cause?"

"I think it was something about Mr. Lawrence, for he called for him till the house rang with his cries, after the first dumb shock went off."

"Did Mr. Lawrence know of this?"

"He was away at the time; and after that your young friend's name was so wildly mingled up with it all, that I could not think it right to bring Mr. Lawrence to the room. It would have seemed like challenging his compassion."

My heart ached, for I saw that her penetration had discovered Jessie's secret, and that she was protecting it with much delicacy.

"Besides, he is our guest," she said, prompted by that old-fashioned feeling of honor which rendered the shelter of a friend's roof a sanctuary, "and he might have construed my grandson's words into a reproach; altogether, we thought it best to keep them apart."

There was a mystery about all this that baffled me. Who could have written that letter brought by one of Mr. Lee's servants? Not Jessie, I was sure of that, for she never could have taken a step of so much importance thus privately. Besides, save for the brief time of Lawrence's visit that day, when, wounded and heart-sick, she left the house, and wandered off into the thickest of the woods, she had not been absent from her mother's room scarcely a moment. Mrs. Dennison had seen her passing through the outskirt of the woods, or she would never have ventured to call for her so loudly.

All this I knew, but it was unnecessary; a thorough understanding of Jessie's character rendered conjectures regarding her part in this matter quite superfluous. But who had written the letter? and what was its import? Of course, my suspicions fell on that woman; but what was her object? Surely she was not anxious to ensnare this young man also--her vanity could not be so insatiable as that.

Perhaps it was Mr. Lee; his handwriting was exquisitely clear and delicate as a woman's; what if his displeasure against our visit had been expressed here? But no, Mr. Lee was not a man to rudely force his anger into a sick-room.

Again my thoughts fell back on the widow; what unprincipled work was she doing here? What benefit could she find in sowing discord upon that poor young man's pillow?

Of course, one thinks rapidly, and all these broken ideas took but little time in flashing through my brain. The old lady stood with one hand on the back of her easy-chair, observing me with a troubled look.

"You think the letter was not from your young friend?" she said, reading my thoughts with that subtile magnetism which is a part of true womanliness.

"I am sure it was not, dear lady!"

"Nor from her father?"

"Not if it gave him pain; Mr. Lee is incapable of that."

The old lady drew a deep breath, as if infinitely relieved, and sat down, spreading out her ample skirts mechanically after her usual dainty habit.

"Miss Hyde," she said, with a little tremor of the voice, and a movement of the hands, which fell into her lap and clasped themselves nervously, "Miss Hyde, I am sure you are my poor boy's friend!"

"I am indeed!" was my earnest response.

"And you know--"

"Yes, dear madam, all that an affectionate heart can learn by its own observation."

"I have thought, perhaps," said the dear old lady, coloring as she spoke, "that Mr. Lee, with his enormous wealth, might have considered the modest property of my grandson insufficient, and for this reason have influenced his daughter."

I had nothing to answer. If Mr. Lee knew of this unhappy attachment, he had given no sign; but I told her that his general character was opposed to anything so mercenary.

"If this were so," answered the old lady, growing more anxious, "I think it would be easily remedied. My grandson, it is true, has little more than a handsome independence; but I, Miss Hyde, am perhaps richer than our neighbors think. In fact," she added, blushing, as if there were something to be ashamed of in the confession, "my income, if I chose to use it, would not compare meanly with that of Mr. Lee. When one spends but little, with tolerably fair possessions, property accumulates rapidly at the end of a long life. I had intended to endow charities, perhaps; but the sight of my boy up yonder has changed all this."

I could only say, "You are very liberal, madam;" for I felt sure that the trouble did not lie where she supposed.

"If you could in any way make this understood, Miss Hyde, without bringing it prominently forward, I should be so grateful. I called you in here for this purpose. You have been so kind, so truly good to us."

"Oh, no, no," I protested.

"So delicate," she persisted; "and now when his life is in such fearful peril, I am forced to take liberties--forced to think if anything can be done to save him, forced to beg for help."

"Oh, if I could help you!" I exclaimed, feeling the tears rush to my eyes.

"You have, you can; already we are greatly indebted to your kindness. I am not eloquent to express thanks, sometimes feeling that silence is most delicate; but I feel all this, Miss Hyde, and so did he, my poor boy!"

Again I expressed the happiness it would give me to help her or him.

"I am an old woman," she continued; "very old, and require so little that property has become burdensome. If--if this thing can be arranged, all that I have, every cent, shall go to him; not after my death, but now, while I can see them enjoy it. They will remember my habits, and my little wants, I am sure; and it will be very pleasant to have young voices around me again. Will you take an opportunity to suggest this to Mr. Lee?--not the young lady--my grandson must owe everything to himself there; but with a parent these are important considerations, sometimes."

I could not see her face, for tears half blinded me. The feeling which could induce this fine old woman to give up all the appliances of her pride, all the power of her life, in order to purchase happiness for her grandson, was one of those noble outgushes of human nature that always make me weep. I could have kissed the hem of her garments, and felt ennobled by the act. It was no little thing to uproot the fixed habits of almost a century. With all that love of property which grows strong in age, from a sentiment of generosity another might have thought of dividing, but she was ready to give up all.

I had no heart to discourage her. Warmly and truly as my wishes went with hers, I would not uproot all hope in my own mind. Time, I whispered to myself, has many changes, and so has the human heart. So I took the old lady's hand in mine and kissed it with affectionate reverence. She smiled upon me in her benign way, and called me "her dear young friend, her fair, sweet friend."

Oh! I am getting to be a forlorn creature, or these words would never have swelled my heart with such throbs of gratitude. Have I indeed anything lovable or attractive about me which the old lady's deeper penetration has discovered, or is it only because I have been a little kind to her grandson? I wish it were possible to know about this, for since Mrs. Dennison has been at our house, I have begun to doubt and fear about myself in a way that never possessed me before. Her overpowering elegance has put down all my little quiet claims to notice so completely, that it seems as if I never should lift up my head again. No wonder I cried and kissed that soft hand like a child. People don't think how much we require praise and petting, at all stages of existence, or how much of childhood runs from the cradle to the grave in every human life.

It was very foolish and romantic, but without at all knowing it, I had fallen on my knees by the old lady; and when she saw my eyes so full of tears, she smoothed my hair, and called me a good girl. With this I laid my head on her lap, and begged her to let me love her always, telling her that sometimes I was lonely for the want of a right to love anything. Then I grew ashamed and stood up, blushing through the tears that had betrayed me into such weakness, but her gracious look reassured me.