GOING HOME.
Three weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter, the _City of
Berlin_ came slowly up the New York harbor, and of all the eager,
expectant faces in the crowd of people upon the deck, none was happier
or more eager than that of Beatrice, who, now that her work was
accomplished, and Rossie safe in her possession, had given herself up to
the pleasures of her honeymoon, and been the merriest, happiest, most
loving of brides, during all the voyage, except when she looked at the
white-faced girl who lay in her berth so quietly, or sat so still in her
chair on deck, looking out upon the sea with eyes which did not seem to
see anything or take note of what was passing.
The flight from Haelder-Strauchsen to the nearest railroad had been
accomplished in safety, and there they waited a few hours for the
arrival of the train, which was to take them away from the scene of so
much danger. And here it was that Beatrice suggested to Yulah that she
go with them to America, either as Rossie’s maid or her own.
“I mean to do it all the time, then I see what come to he,—the
villain,—and I take much care my poor little one, who so tired and
scared in her head, but who come right sure when the boy Everard is
near,” Yulah said, as she stroked the thin, hot hands, folded so
helplessly across Rossie’s breast.
Very rapidly she communicated her intention to Michel, telling him at
the same time the full particulars of Rossie’s incarceration in the
_Maison de Sante_, and bidding him repeat it in Haelder-Strauchsen, if
there was a great stir on account of the abduction. Mr. Morton had paid
his bills at the inn, and said that he should not return, as he was
going to a point higher up the river, so no suspicions could be awakened
there of anything wrong until the alarm was given at the house. And
this, in all human probability, would not be till late the next morning,
when, as Yulah failed to appear, inquiries might be made, and the door
of No. — be forced open, and by that time the fugitives would be miles
and miles away, speeding on toward the west, and Michel Fahen would be
smoking his pipe very unconcernedly at the door of his kitchen, knowing
nothing whatever of any escaped lunatic, or of Yulah Van Eisner’s
whereabouts; knowing nothing, except that he carried some
English-talking people to a railroad station, and was rewarded for it by
many, many _thalers_. So, of whatever commotion or excitement there was,
Mr. and Mrs. Morton were ignorant, and kept rapidly on their way until
the continent was crossed, and they felt safe in the seclusion of
crowded London. Here they rested in lodgings a few days, and called the
best medical advice for Rossie, who, since recovering from the dead
faint in which she had been more than an hour, had been just on the
border land, where her reason seemed hesitating whether to go or stay.
When it first came to her in the carriage who it was bending so lovingly
over her, she had burst into a wild fit of weeping, which frightened
them more than the faint had done. Her first words, when she did speak,
were:
“Everard, where are you? hold my hand in yours and I shall not be
afraid.”
At a sign from his wife, Mr. Morton took Rossie’s hand in his and held
it, while Bee whispered to her, “Don’t talk now, darling. It is all
right. We are going home.”
How much Rossie realized of that rapid journey, which was continued day
and night, they could not guess, for she never spoke again or showed any
sign that she understood what was passing around her, except to answer
their questions in monosyllables and smile so sweetly and trustfully in
their faces when they told her, as they often did, that she was safe,
until London was reached, and they laid her in the clean, sweet bed in
the large, airy room in quiet Kensington, where they had taken lodgings.
For several days they staid in London, and then took passage for home in
the _City of Berlin_, where everything was done to make the voyage
comfortable and easy for Rossie, who talked but little, and who, when
she did speak, always asked, “How long before I shall see Everard?”
It was only the _Maison de Sante_ and the incidents connected with it
which had any power to excite or even interest her. With regard to
everything else, except Everard, she was silent and indifferent, asking
no questions, and even taking Beatrice’s marriage as a matter of course,
and never offering a comment upon it. But when at last America was in
sight and they were coming up the harbor, she roused from her apathy and
went up on deck with the others, and sat in her chair, with a bright
flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes which made them as bright
as stars. She was looking for Everard, and trying to make him out in the
group of men waiting on the distant wharf for the boat.
“I must tell her,” Bee thought; and sitting down beside her, she said:
“Darling, I know you expect Everard to meet you, but he is not here. He
did not even know we were going for you, and we would not tell him for
fear we might fail, and then he would feel worse than ever. But he is in
Rothsay, and will be so glad to get his dear little girl once more.
Don’t cry,” she added, as the great tears gathered in Rossie’s eyes and
rolled down her cheeks. “We meant it for the best, and you shall see him
soon, very soon. We will go on to-night, if you think you can bear it.
Are you strong enough?”
“Yes, go on,—quick,—fast, just as we came through Europe. I want to see
Everard,” Rossie whispered, and so they went on that night in the
express which left for Pittsburg, from which city a telegram was
forwarded to Lawyer Russell, to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Morton
would be in Rothsay on the late train.