“Belvidere,
“Conn.”
Whose writing was it, and how came the letter to be mailed in New York, if, as Hester had said, it had been written on board the ill-fated “Sea Gull”? Roger asked himself this question, as he lingered over the unread letter, till, remembering that the inside was the place to look for an explanation, he turned to the first page and began to read. It was dated on board the “Sea Gull,” off Cape Hatteras, and began as follows:
“My Husband:—It would be mockery for me to put the word dear before your honored name. You would not believe I meant it,—I, who have sinned against you so deeply, and wounded your pride so sorely. But, oh, if you knew all which led me to what I am, I know you would pity me, even if you condemned, for you were always kind,—too kind by far to a wicked girl like me. But, husband, I am not as bad as you imagine. I have left you, I know, and left my darling boy, and he is here with me, but by no consent of mine. I tried to escape from him. I am not going to Europe. I am on my way to Charleston, where Lucy lives, and when I get there I shall mail this letter to you. Every word I write will be the truth, and you must believe it, and teach Roger to believe it, too; for I have not sinned as you suppose, and Roger need not blush for his mother, except that she deserted him—”
“Thank Heaven!” dropped from Roger’s quivering lips, as the suspected evil which, as he grew older, he began to fear and shrink from, was thus swept away.
He had no doubts, no misgivings now, and his tears fell like rain upon poor Jessie’s letter, which he kissed again and again, just as he would have kissed the dear face of the writer had it been there beside him.
“Mother, mother!” he sobbed, “I believe you; oh, mother, if you could have lived!”
Then he went back to the letter, the whole of which it is not our design to give at present. It embraced the history of Jessie’s life from the days of her early girlhood up to that night when she left her husband’s home, and closed with the words:
“I do not ask you to take me back. I know that can never be; but I want you to think as kindly of me as you can, and when you feel that you have fully forgiven me, show this letter to Roger, if he is old enough to understand it. Tell him to forgive me, and give him this lock of his mother’s hair. Heaven bless and keep my little boy, and grant that he may be a comfort to you and grow up a good and noble man.”
The lock of hair, which was enclosed in a separate bit of paper, had dropped upon the carpet, where Roger found it, his heart swelling in his throat as he opened the paper and held upon his finger the coil of golden hair. It was very long, and curled still with a persistency which Mrs. Walter Scott, with all her papers, could never hope to attain; but the softness and brightness were gone, and it clung to Roger’s finger, a streaked, faded tress, but inexpressibly dear to him for the sake of her who sued so piteously for his own and his father’s forgiveness.