AGNES FINDS THE LETTER.
If there was one thing more than another which Agnes detested, it was
carpet-bugs; those little black pests which, within a few years, have
crept into the houses in certain sections of the country, carrying with
them ruin to whatever they fasten upon, and dismay and wretchedness to
those who will persist in hunting for them. Among the latter class was
Agnes, who, from the moment the cry of carpet-bugs was raised in
Holburton, had spent half her time upon her hands and knees, searching
for them on the edges of the carpets, and the rest of her time hunting
them in bundles, and boxes, and drawers. They seemed to owe her a
special spite, for they had eaten her woolen shawl, and her furs, and
her best delaine dress, and life was becoming a burden to her, when she
received Josephine’s letter, begging her to come at once to the Forrest
House.
Always ready at a kind word to forgive her sister for any amount of
unkindness, Agnes decided at once to go, feeling that it would be some
comfort to escape from the dreadful bugs. She did not think they had yet
reached Rothsay; but she meant to make it her first business to hunt for
them, and equipped herself with all the ingredients named in the
category for their extirpation. Persian powder, red pepper, Scotch
snuff, cut tobacco, Paris green, hellebore, and even Prussic acid formed
a portion of her luggage when she reached the Forrest House, and found
her sister so ill and weak that for a time she had no thought for
carpet-bugs, and had there been an army there they would have reveled in
perfect security for all of her interference. But after a few days, when
Josephine seemed better and was sleeping quietly, the desire for
research and battle came upon her again, incited by the softness of the
velvet carpet in her sister’s room, which she thought furnished such a
rich field for the marauders. As it happened, the bay window was the
point at which she commenced operations, as it was farthest from
Josephine’s bed.
“They have been here, too,” was her whispered exclamation as she caught
sight of the familiar sign, the carpet loosened from the floor; and
eager in her search she turned the carpet back farther and farther until
she saw the corner of the letter just protruding in sight. To draw it
out and glance at the name upon it, “J. Everard Forrest,” was the work
of a moment, and then she wondered how it came there, and if it were
some old thing received by Everard years ago, and left lying about as
something of no interest to him or anybody. It looked old and worn, and
as if it had been read many times. Surely there could be no harm in her
glancing at the contents just to see if it were of any value.
Thus reasoning, Agnes opened the letter, saw the signature and the date,
and then with lightning rapidity read the whole, and Josephine’s secret
was hers no longer, for Agnes had it, and the effect on her at first was
almost as great as it had been on Josephine. That a great wrong had been
committed she was certain, just as she was certain that the letter was
being withheld from its rightful owner. But by whom? That was the
question she asked herself during the moment she sat motionless upon the
floor, unable to move, or scarcely think clearly, in her bewildered
state of mind. She did not quite believe it was Josephine, and if not,
then it must be Dr. Matthewson, and he, if the letter were true, was
capable of anything wicked and bad; and there came over her a great fear
of him just as it had crept over Josephine when she first knew his sin.
Agnes must not let him know what she had found, and, believing Josephine
innocent, she must not disturb her, and add to her nervousness. Everard,
she had heard, was out of town for a little vacation, which he usually
took at that season, and Miss Belknap was therefore the only person in
whom she could safely confide.
“She will know just what to do,” Agnes thought, and, hiding the letter
in her pocket, she arranged the carpet and curtains very carefully, put
the easy-chair in its place, and was at her sewing by the window when
Josephine awoke, after a sleep of nearly two hours’ duration.
She was feeling better, and was disposed to be very kind and indulgent
toward Agnes, who, she saw, was looking tired and pale.
“Why, Agnes,” she said, “you are almost as white as I am. What is the
matter? You have been shut up too closely with me. You have not been out
since you came, and you are so accustomed to the air and exercise.
Suppose you go for a walk. I am sure it will do you good.” Now was
Agnes’ opportunity, and saying that she thought a walk would do her
good, she hurried from the room, and was soon on her way towards Elm
Park.
Beatrice was going to be married, and notwithstanding what Dr.
Matthewson had said of her faded looks, she had never been so beautiful
and sweetly attractive in her fresh girlhood as she was now at
twenty-nine, with the great happiness shining in her face and showing
itself in every action. Poor, nervous Mollie was not forgotten, for her
memory lived in her lovely children, Trix and little Bunchie; but
Theodore had felt it right to claim at last his early love, who was not
ashamed to confess how dear he was to her and how glad she was to be his
wife and the mother of his children.
The wedding, which was to be very private, was to take place the 15th of
September, now only two weeks in the distance, and Beatrice was
exceedingly busy with her preparations,—so busy that she had not found
time to call upon Agnes, as she intended to do when she heard of her
arrival at the Forrest House. She had always liked Agnes, and was glad
when her maid came to her room saying that she was in the parlor waiting
to see her.
“Ask her to come up here,” she said, and in a moment Agnes was with her,
seeming so agitated and excited that Beatrice guessed at once that
something was wrong, and asked what was the matter.
It was not in Agnes’ nature to keep one in suspense, and she answered by
putting the letter into Beatrice’s hand and saying:
“I found it under the carpet, and because I dared not show it to
him,—the doctor, I mean,—who I am sure put it there, I brought it to
you. Read it quick, and then we must act together; but never let him
know I had a hand in it; he would kill me if he did; there’s murder in
his nature, or he never could have done this.”
Agnes was speaking to ears which did not hear what she was saying, for
Bee had taken the letter, postmarked at “Wien,” and addressed in a
handwriting she knew so well, and the very sight of which made her heart
throb with pain as she remembered the dear little girl whom she believed
to be dead in the far-away foreign town. But when she glanced at the
date, a vague terror seized her and held her fast while she read the
letter, which I give to the reader:
“HAELDER-STRAUCHSEN, Austria,
June 10th, 18—.
“DEAR EVERARD:—Are you dead? Is everybody dead in America, that I am
forgotten,—deserted,—and left here alone in this dreadful place? Not
dreadful because they are unkind to me, for they are not. Only they
say that I am mad, and treat me as such, and I always have an
attendant watching what I do, and I cannot get away, though I have
tried so many times. Where my brother is I do not know; he left me
here more than a year ago, to go to Vienna for a day or two, he said,
and I have never seen him since or heard from him; and the head of the
house,—Dr. Van Schoisner, says that he is undoubtedly dead; and I
might believe him, perhaps, if he did not insist that I am his niece,
Myra Van Schoisner, and not Rosamond Hastings at all. He says she died
last April, a year ago, and was buried by the river which I can see
from my window, and that her brother, Dr. Matthewson, left soon after
and has not returned.
“Oh, Everard, it is all so dreadful, and sometimes my head buzzes and
feels so big that I am afraid I shall go crazy, as they say I am. I
have written and written to you and Bee and Lawyer Russell, and even
to my brother, hoping he might be living; but no answer has come, and
now I do not think my letters ever left this _Maison de Sante_, as
they call the institution, which stands several miles back from the
Danube. Take the boat at Lintz, and get off at ——, and come quick, and
get me away from here before I die. I wonder I have not died before
this, it is so awful to be shut up and called somebody else, and hear
only a foreign language, of which at first I could not understand a
word, and they tried not to let me learn. Only the doctor speaks
English, and a woman called Yulah Van Eisner, who came as attendant
two months ago, and who has promised to get this letter off for me.
“I spoke brother’s name to her,—Dr. Matthewson,—and she almost foamed
at the mouth, and actually spit upon me because I was his sister; but
I made her know I was good, made her listen to me; and she became my
friend, and taught me to speak with her, and will help me to get away
if she can. She says my brother is not dead; he is a villain, and
wants my money; and that Myra Van Schoisner is in the grave where they
say I am; and it’s all horrible, and I am so sick and frightened, and
so afraid I shall be mad if you don’t come quick.
“Dear, dear Everard, come to your poor
“ROSSIE.”
This was all Rossie had written, but a postscript had been added, in a
cramped, uneducated hand, and broken English, to this effect:
“I open this paper to tell when comes come to Hotel _Rother Krebs_, in
Lintz, where I is work _zu hause_, and wait for _die Amerikaner_. Asks
for Yulah Van Eisner. I hates him much.”
To say that Beatrice’s nerves were shaken by this letter would be
putting in very mild language just how she felt. With her usual
quickness of perception, she saw and understood the diabolical plot
which had been so long successful, and her first impulse was to rush
through the streets of Rothsay, and, proclaiming the doctor’s perfidy,
have him arrested at once. Her next and soberer thought was to proceed
in the matter more quietly and surely, and to this end she questioned
Agnes minutely as to where and how she found the letter, and if she
could throw any light upon the way in which it came there. But Agnes
could not; she only knew she had found it, and that she believed Dr.
Matthewson himself had by some foul method obtained possession of it and
hidden it away for safe keeping, though why he had not destroyed it and
so made its discovery impossible, neither she nor Beatrice could guess.
Her sister, she said, was in a very strange, nervous state of mind, but
she could not connect her with the crime in any way, for, unscrupulous
as she might be, she would not dare make herself amenable to the law by
being a party to her husband’s guilt.
This was Agnes’ view of the matter, and Beatrice coincided with her, but
bade her to be very watchful at the Forrest House and see if any search
was made for the missing letter, and by whom.
Beatrice’s next interview was with Lawyer Russell, who, in his surprise,
bounded from his chair half-way across the room as he exclaimed:
“Lord bless my soul, Rossie alive! Rossie not dead! but hid away in a
private mad-house! It’s the most hellish plot I ever heard of,—ever,—and
it is State prison for _him_, the villain; but we must move cautiously,
Miss Belknap, very cautiously, as we have the very Old Nick to deal with
in that doctor. I’m glad the boy is gone just now, as it would have been
like you to have blated it out to him, and then all creation couldn’t
have stopped him from throttling the wretch in the street and spoiling
everything. This letter was written long ago, and there’s no knowing
what may have happened since to our little girl. She may be dead sure
enough now, or, what is worse, mad in real earnest. So don’t go to
kicking up a row just yet, till we get more proof, and then we’ll spring
the trap so tight that he cannot get away. I’m honestly afraid, though,
that he has done something worse with the little girl since he had this
letter, which the Lord only knows how he got. He must have a key to
Everard’s drawer; but we’ll fix him! and, Miss Belknap, I say, you or
somebody must go to Europe and hunt up poor little Rossie. I’ll be
hanged if it don’t make me cry to think of her shut up, and waiting and
waiting for us to come. Go on your wedding trip. You and the parson will
do better than Everard, whose name they have heard, and for whom they
may be on the watch. Morton is new to them, and will excite no
suspicion. This girl,—what’s her name,—Yulah Van Eisner, must be found
first, of course, if she is not already put out of the way, and with her
help you’ll fetch her, poor little girl. You ought to go right away, and
we’ll say nothing to Everard till you’ve found her. Suspense and then
disappointment would kill him outright. And _he_ must not go; that hound
would track him sure, and everything be spoiled. You must do it, and you
can, better than anybody else.”
Beatrice felt that she could too, and had rapidly concocted in her mind
a denouement both startling and novel, and highly satisfactory. But
there was one difficulty to be surmounted. Theodore’s people might not
be willing for him to be gone so long, and in that case she said:
“I’ll postpone the wedding and go alone.”
But this was not necessary, for, in response to the long letter which
went that night to Boston, there came a telegram, “I can go!” and then
all Bee’s thoughts were turned to the work she had on hand, and she grew
so restless and nervous and impatient for the day when she could start
that people noted and commented upon her changed looks and manner,
wondering greatly what ailed her, and if her heart were not in the
marriage.
Everard was in Rothsay now, and with her every evening, talking always
of Rossie, whose grave he bade her be sure and find, and bring him
something from it, if only a blade of grass. Once he startled her by
saying he had half made up his mind to join her party, and go with her,
so great was his desire to see where Rossie was buried. But Bee turned
upon him so fiercely, declaring that she preferred going alone with
Theo, that he abandoned the plan altogether, and felt a little hurt at
the vehemence with which his company had been rejected.
The wedding was very quiet and small, and the bride very absent-minded
and non-committal in her answers to their inquiries as to where she was
going, and how long she expected to be gone. But whatever they might
have thought of her, the bridegroom was perfectly satisfied, and seemed
supremely happy as he bade his friends good-by, and followed his
impatient wife into the car which was to take them to New York, and the
ship, which, on the 15th of September, sailed away for Europe, where
they hoped to find poor Rossie.
Agnes was at the wedding, and, with the exception of Lawyer Russell, was
the only one who had the slightest suspicion of the reason which had
taken the newly-wedded pair so suddenly to Europe. But Agnes was safe as
the grave, though often at her wits’ end to know what to make of her
sister, who grew worse instead of better, and who sometimes talked and
acted as if she had lost her reason. She had missed the letter from its
hiding-place, and gone nearly wild in her excitement and anxiety as to
who had found it. But as her husband’s manner was unchanged, except as
he fretted at her continued illness, she gradually grew more quiet,
though there was constantly with her a presentiment of some great evil
which was to be brought about by means of the lost letter.