To conceal from Bramble or Bessy the state of mind to which I was reduced was impossible. I was in a condition of prostration against which I could not rally; and I believe that there never was a person who had been disappointed in his first love who did not feel as I did—that is, if he really loved with a sincere, pure, and holy feeling; for I do not refer to the fancied attachments of youth, which may be said to be like the mere flaws of wind which precede the steady gale. I could not, for several days, trust myself to speak, I sat silent and brooding over the words, the looks, the smiles, the scenes which had promised me a store of future happiness—such as would probably have been the case, as far as we can be happy in this world, had I fixed my affections upon a true and honest, instead of a fickle and vain, woman; had I built my house upon a rock, instead of one upon the sand—which, as pointed out by the Scriptures, had been washed away, and had disappeared for ever! Bramble and Bessy in vain attempted to gain from me the cause of my dejection; I believe that they had many conversations upon it when I was absent, but whatever may have been their surmises, they treated me with every kindness and consideration. About a week after I had received the letter, Bramble said to me, “Come, Tom, we have had an easterly wind for ten days now, they are going off in a galley to-morrow—suppose we go too; it’s no use staying here moping and doing nothing. You’ve been out of sorts lately, and it will do you good.” I thought so too, and consented; but the other pilots were not ready, and our departure was deferred till the day after. Bramble had acquainted me in the morning with this delay; I was annoyed at it, for I was restless, and wished for change. My bundle had been prepared; I had passed the best part of the night in writing to Virginia, and was, as people very often are when under such oppressed feelings, in anything but a good humour at being obliged to remain another day at Deal. I had walked out to the beach after we had breakfasted, and had remained there some time. Bramble had gone out in the direction of the post-office, and I asked him to inquire if there was a letter for me, for I thought it very likely that Virginia might have written to me again. I had remained for an hour on the beach, when I recollected that my knife required to be sharpened, and I walked round the cottage to the back yard, where there was a small grindstone. I had not put my knife to it, when I heard Bramble come in and say to Bessy—
“Well, girl, I’ve found it all out; for, you see, I thought old Anderson might know something about it, or, if he did not, he could inquire,—and I’ve got the whole story. Here’s Anderson’s letter. I thought there must be something of that sort.”
Here there was a pause, as if Bessy was reading the letter.
“Only to think—she’s run away with a young lord,” said Bramble. “So it seems,” replied Bessy. “I’m sorry for poor Tom, for he feels it severely.”
“I’m not sorry,” rejoined Bramble; “she wasn’t deserving of him; and, Bessy, I’m glad for your sake.”
“Don’t say that, father; Tom will never think of me, nor do I care about him.”
“I don’t exactly believe that, Bessy, for all you say so. It’s my wish, and you know it, Bessy, to see you and Tom spliced before I die; and I thank Heaven, that this false girl is out of the way—I’ve more hopes now.”
“Marriages are made in heaven, father,” replied Bessy; “so, pray don’t say anything more about it. It will be time enough for me to think of Tom when Tom appears to think of me. I shall always love him as a brother.”
“Well, God’s will be done! We must now try and console him, poor fellow: and I’m very glad that we’re off to-morrow. Salt water cures love, they say, sooner than anything else.”
“It may, perhaps,” replied Bessy; “but I feel that if I were once really in love the whole ocean itself could not wash my love out. However, women are not men.”