One day, shortly after Constance had started on the road to recovery,
and before she had been removed from "Rosemont" to her home, Virginia,
Hazel and Sam were grouped on the piazza discussing in low tones the
probable sentence of Rutley and Jack Shore. Sam held the morning paper
in his hand, which he casually perused. Virginia was particularly
happy and vivacious, and indeed, had she not reason in the
reconciliation of John Thorpe and Constance; the rescue of Dorothy;
the recovery by Constance of her reason, so threatening and dire in
its flight, and the passing of that awful consuming fever that had
seized upon the frail mind and body of Constance--was productive of
such devout and fervent gladness that she felt at peace with the
world. Even that old bitterness, so virulent and overpowering toward
Corway, had gone out from her heart completely, and as she pondered on
his sudden disappearance, the thought that he may have come to a
violent death caused tears to spring into her beautiful eyes. It was a
mute but an inexpressibly sad testimony to the final closing of love's
first dream.
At that moment Sam exclaimed, "Well, what do you think of this?" and
then he looked over the paper and grinned at Hazel knowingly.
The girl stood his stare for a moment, then impatiently said, "Why
don't you read it?"
And Sam read: "The item is headed, 'A Bottle Picked Up at Sea. As the
bar tug Hercules was cruising beyond the bar, farther out than usual,
last Tuesday, Captain Patterson espied a bottle bobbing about in the
wash of a swell and picked it up. On being opened, it was found to
contain a sealed message to a young Portland woman, with instructions
for the finder please to deliver at once.
"'The bottle had been cast overboard September 15th, from the British
bark Lochlobin, two days out, bound for Sydney.'"
Expressions of wonder and speculation from the young ladies were
scarcely ended when a messenger boy was seen approaching. At the foot
of the piazza steps he produced two letters and, tipping his cap to
the group above, enquired for Miss Hazel Brooke.
Yes--a message from the deep.
He delivered one of the letters which he held in his hand to Hazel,
and then said: "The other letter is for Miss Virginia Thorpe," which
the housekeeper at Mr. Thorpe's home, where he had first enquired for
Miss Brooke, had asked him to deliver at Rosemont, too.
The boy touched his cap respectfully and left. Sam accompanied him a
short distance, and slipped a gold piece into his hand. The boy
thanked him, and took his departure whistling.
Meanwhile Hazel opened the letter, and her eyes raced over the
contents; then she fairly danced with joy.
"Oh, such good news, Virginia!" she exclaimed, without taking her eyes
from the letter. "It's from Joe. Poor Joe! He was sandbagged or
shanghaied, whatever that is, but he is well now, on a ship bound for
Australia, and will be home in about three months."
But the glad message to one fell on the unreceptive ears of the other.
Virginia had also opened the letter addressed to her. She had noted
the bold letters and familiar writing, glanced at the postmark, and
noted its date; dated at Portland over two weeks past; but, undeterred
save by a slight fluttering at her heart, she read:
"Dear Virginia: For some time past; in fact, since our hasty
engagement, I have been searching the depths of my heart, to see if
my love for you is genuine, and I am sorry to say that I have found
the love I had rashly expressed is not deeply felt, and in spite of
all my determination to think only of you, my heart would stray to
another.
"Dear Virginia, I implore you to consider me a trifler, quite
unworthy of the exalted love that is in your noble nature to bestow;
and I beg of you to release me from our engagement, which, if
insisted on being maintained, must result in a life of unhappiness
for us both. Let us be to each other as brother and sister, and I
shall ever bless you and pray for you.
"Joseph Corway."
She did not tear the letter to shreds, nor stamp it under her feet.
She stood with it in her hand, which slowly fell down by her side,
while a look of sadness and of reminiscence stole into her eyes. And
she commenced to experience, too, the greatest difficulty in
restraining a dewy profuseness that would arise and cloud her sight.
She had thought that her heart was steeled against any expression of
tenderness for him that might assail it, but she discovered that she
was still a young girl with a girl's emotions, impossible of
subjection.
An overpowering desire to be alone until she could master her emotion
and clear away the mist from her eyes caused her to descend the steps.
The sense of motion steadied her, and it enabled her to think and to
say unconsciously, half aloud to herself, "If father had burst his
cerements and arisen from his grave to tell me this, I should have
refused to believe him," and with the thought of what Constance had
suffered, a moan unconsciously escaped her.
Here, then, was the key to Virginia's transformation. This delayed
letter--cruel, it was true--was addressed to her at the farm three days
before her sudden return home, and had as slowly followed her, for
rural postal facilities were at that time dependent on the farmer
going to town for his mail.
Hazel heard the moan, and looked up from the note which she had read
and re-read, and kissed time and again. She saw Virginia in apparent
pain, and at once flew down the steps, crying, "Oh, Virginia, dear!
What has caused you so much grief?" and she sought to caress her.
But Virginia, with an effort subduing her emotions, drew away,
answering, "Nothing, dear, nothing; it's all past, all gone now!"
Sam came up just then. He cast a swift glance at her distressed face,
and then to the letter which she held in her hand, and surmised that
it had to do with her trouble. His first thought was, "Damn that
messenger boy!" He, however, made no attempt to break in on her mood.
Virginia returned his look almost defiantly at first, as though his
questioning glance was rude, but the little cloud quickly vanished,
when Hazel said, "Something serious, dear? Won't you let me share your
trouble?"
"Oh, no! It's all past, all gone," she answered firmly. "I'm quite
strong now, and to prove it, we will have a little bonfire. Sam, have
you a light?"
Quietly Sam produced a match-box from his pocket, took a match,
lighted it and handed it over.
Virginia applied the fire to the letter. As it burned down to the last
bit, which she dropped from her hand, and disappeared in smoke, she
looked up and as her eyes fell on the transcendently beautiful autumn
vista, and then rested on Sam's strong and at that moment deeply
apprehensive face, there gradually came into them a steadfast look of
admiration and loyalty.
Sam caught the wondrous expression. He stepped forward, his arms
opened, and she fell on his shoulder, her arms about his neck.
"Will it ever return, darling?" he said soothingly.
"Never again, Sam," and as she turned her face up to him their lips
met in a seal of absolute trust and affection.