"My child," said the Pastor, "I believe you are near the goal of your wishes.—This gentleman comes from your father."
The secretary bowed to the son of his patron. And Louis, looking first at him, and then at his uncle, exclaimed—"my father!—and does he—?" He hesitated, he stopped; the eagerness of his hopes interrupted his articulation.
"We will open this packet, and see," returned the Pastor, taking that from the Baron into his hand. But glancing at the shivering figure of his guest, who had drawn near the fire, he did not break the seal, but desiring Louis to ring the bell, requested the Senor to permit the servant who attended, to shew him to an apartment where he should have a change of warm garments, and proper refreshment after so inclement a journey.
As soon as the Spaniard had withdrawn, Mr. Athelstone opened the packet. It presented one for himself, and another for his nephew. Never before had Louis received a letter directed to himself, from his father. Though he always persevered in the duty of addressing his only parent, yet, until this moment, the answers were never more than acknowledging messages through his guardian. It was, therefore, with a peculiar feeling of recognition; a conviction of being now owned by his father's heart as his son; that Louis opened the first letter he had ever received from his hand.—
Its contents were these:
"My dear Son,
"I hear from the Marquis Santa Cruz, that you are worthy the name you bear.—That your acquirements do credit to the liberality of your education; and that you are not deficient in ambition to bring these implements to the test. I offer you an opportunity. Accompany the bearer of this, to the continent.—He is my secretary:—and has my commands to present you to a person there, who will put your talents to the trial. Should the result be to your honour, you shall not be long withheld from the embrace of your father, William
Baron de Ripperda.
"Madrid,
"November, 1725."
Louis pressed these welcome commands to his lips: then turning, to communicate their happy tidings to Mr. Athelstone, he saw the eyes of the venerable man still bent on the other packet; while the spectacles, which he held in his hand, bore tearful proofs how little was his sympathy with the joy that beat in the heart of his nephew. Louis took that trembling hand, and kissed it without speaking.
"I know, my child, that you are going to leave me.—I know that you are glad to go;—and it is natural, but an old man's tears are natural too."
Louis grieved for the grief of his uncle: and anticipated his own pangs in the moment of separation from so paternal a friend; from an aunt and cousins so beloved: but he did not feel the most distant wish to escape these pangs an hour, by delaying the journey that was to draw him nearer to his father, and to the indistinct, but, he hoped, sure objects of his ambition. He was indeed drawn by two attractions: the one tender and persuading; the other, powerful and imperative; and his soul leaped to the latter, as to its congenial element.
In a few minutes Mr. Athelstone recovered his wonted serenity. "The time is now come," said he, "when I must put forth from my bosom the sacred deposit I have so fondly cherished.—Yes, Louis; your spirit, more than your years, demands its active destination; and I will not murmur that the moment for which I have educated your mind and your body, is at last arrived!" He then read aloud, and with composure, the letter which the Baron had addressed to him; but it was not more explanatory than the other, of the circumstances in which he meant to place his son.