[Editorial note: The observant reader will have noticed this is the
second letter bearing the number XXXI. The original
text contained two Letters XXXI, and we have chosen
to let the letters retain their original numbers,
rather than renumber them.]
_To Henry Colden_
Philadelphia, November 11.
How shall I tell you the strange--_strange_ incident? Every fibre
of my frame still trembles. I have endeavoured, during the last hour, to
gain tranquillity enough for writing, but without success. Yet I can
forbear no longer: I must begin.
I had just closed my last to you, when somebody knocked. I heard
footsteps below, as the girl ushered in the visitant, which were not quite
unknown to me. The girl came up:--"A gentleman is waiting."
"A gentleman!" thought I. "An odd hour this" (it was past ten) "for any
man but one to visit _me_. His business must be very urgent." So,
indeed, he told the girl it was, for she knew me averse to company at any
time, and I had withdrawn to my chamber for the night; but he would not be
eluded. He must see me, he said, this night.
A tall and noble figure, in a foreign uniform, arose from the sofa at
my entrance. The half-extinct lamp on the mantel could not conceal from
me--_my brother_!
My surprise almost overpowered me. I should have sunk upon the floor,
had he not stepped to me and sustained me in his arms.
"I see you are surprised, Jane," said he, in a tone not without
affection in it. "You did not expect, I suppose, ever to see me again. It
was a mere chance brought me to America. I shall stay here a moment, and
then hie me back again. I could not pass through the city without a 'How
d'ye' to the little girl for whom I have still some regard."
The violence of my emotions found relief in a flood of tears. He was
not unmoved, but, embracing me with tenderness, he seated me by him on the
sofa.
When I had leisure to survey his features, I found that time had rather
improved his looks. They were less austere, less contemptuous, than they
used to be: perhaps, indeed, it was only a momentary remission of his
customary feelings.
To my rapid and half-coherent questions, he replied, "I landed--you
need not know where. My commission requires secrecy, and you know I have
personal reasons for wishing to pass through this city without notice. My
business did not bring me farther southward than New London; but I heard
your mother resided in New York, and could not leave the country without
seeing you. I called on her yesterday; but she looked so grave and talked
so obscurely about you, that I could not do less than come hither. She
told me you were here. How have been affairs since I left you?"