ABOUT ALBERTA.
The look, the air that frets thy sight
May be a token that below
The soul has closed in deadly fight
With some infernal fiery foe,
Whose glances would scorch thy smiling grace,
And cast the shuddering on thy face!—A. A. PROCTOR.
Erminie, in the midst of all her distress about Alberta, felt also a
growing anxiety concerning Britomarte.
Another day was passing, and Miss Conyers had not made her appearance at
the parsonage.
Erminie feared that she was ill, and longed to go to her boarding-house
to see her, but dared not to leave home while so doubtful a guest as the
guerrilla’s wife was under her roof, and while she was looking for the
arrival of her pastor to consult with him as to what should be done in
the case of Alberta.
It is true that she might have sent a messenger to inquire after
Britomarte, but in the momentary expectation of Dr. Sales’ call, she
hoped to get the interview over in time to visit her friend in person.
She also hoped that Britomarte herself might make her appearance.
So she waited, and the day wore on to the dinner hour. And she now began
to think that Alberta was sleeping very long—unusually long, even for an
exhausted traveller. It was more than four hours since she had lain
down.
Erminie stole softly up to her chamber, noiselessly opened the door and
peeped in.
The room was quiet and shaded, and the white curtains were drawn around
the bed as she had left them; so she softly closed the door and stole
quietly down stairs again.
The table was set in the dining-room, and Catherine was in the act of
bringing up the soup, when Erminie met her in the hall.
“You may keep the dinner back for a little while, Catherine. Madame
Corsoni has not yet waked up,” she said.
“Very well, Miss,” replied the girl, turning back towards the kitchen.
Besides Alberta and Britomarte, a third subject of anxiety troubled the
young girl; for three days she had not visited the hospitals. On Tuesday
she had waited at home all day long to take leave of her brother before
his departure for the front. On Wednesday she had stopped to see her
guests, Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel, off to their respective
posts of duty; and to-day she was detained by the necessity of watching
over her distracted visitor. In truth, the minister’s orphan daughter
had enough upon her hands just now.
Another hour passed, and Erminie began to grow uneasy, and Elfie
impatient, and Frederica rather cross.
Again Erminie stole up to the room and peeped through the door. No
change since she was there last. Curtains drawn, room cool, shady and
quiet. She returned to the library and said, “We will wait a little
longer. I do not like to wake her up, or to eat dinner without her.”
And so, to the disgust of Elfie, the annoyance of Catherine and the
indignation of Frederica, the dinner was still kept back.
“There,” said Elfie, “she has been sleeping six hours now! The clock has
struck seven. She ought to be waked up for her own sake.”
“I will go and look at her. If she is still sleeping quietly, I will not
wake her, but I will have the dinner served at once. If however she is
awake and feeling well, I will get her up and help her to dress.”
So once again Erminie went up stairs and entered her chamber.
All shady, cool and quiet as before.
She stole to the bedside and drew the curtains.
The bed was empty.
“She has got up and gone to the bath-room. She was always a duck in her
love of laving in water,” thought Erminie, feeling no sort of uneasiness
at her guest’s absence from the chamber.
But to assure herself of the truth of her own surmise, she went to see
if the bath-room door was shut. She found the door wide open and the
room empty.
Perplexed and anxious, she made a hasty tour through all the rooms on
that floor, then ran up to the story above and searched the rooms there,
then up into the attic and searched that.
“I know she is deranged, and she may be lurking somewhere about the
house with a fit upon her,” said Erminie, as she hurried from place to
place in her vain quest.
But the guerrilla’s wife was nowhere to be found.
“It cannot be that she is in any of the rooms below. Some of us must
have seen her,” reflected Erminie, as she ran down the three flights of
stairs to the first floor.
“Well, has Alberta finished her Rip Van Winkle sleep yet?” inquired
Elfie.
“Yes; but I cannot find her. I have looked in her room and in all the
other rooms above and she is nowhere to be seen in any of them. I think
she must have come down here.”
“Of course she must if she isn’t up stairs; but I haven’t seen or heard
anything of her. I will go and hunt her up, while you order the dinner
put on the table. I am as hungry as an unhurt hero after a fight,” said
Elfie, dancing out of the room in search of the guest.
Dinner was served and only waited the reappearance of Elfie. But fifteen
minutes passed, when she came into the dining-room, flushed, excited and
almost indignant.
“I can’t find her. She is neither in the house nor the garden, that is
certain. And it is my opinion she has taken French leave!”
“Taken French leave!” echoed Erminie, in surprise.
“Yes, it would be just like her,” said Elfie, who, since the escape of
Vittorio, had lost much of her pity for Alberta.
“I can easily ascertain. I will go and see if her bonnet and mantle are
in their places,” said Erminie.
And once more the patient girl ran up stairs to examine the chamber that
had been occupied by her guest.
But bonnet, mantle, parasol and reticule were all gone.
Not a doubt now remained upon the mind of Erminie that the guerrilla’s
wife had gone away. But whether to return again Erminie could not
decide. While she stood perplexed in the middle of the room, a scrap of
paper attached to the toilet pin-cushion caught her eye. She went and
unfastened it, and read the pencilled words:
“_Thanks and blessings, and good-bye._”
And now she felt assured that Alberta had indeed gone to return no more.
But for Erminie’s compassion for her suffering state, the absence of the
guerrilla’s wife would have been felt as a great relief. But Erminie had
no time now to analyze her contradictory emotions. She hastened down to
the dining-room, and showed the scrap of paper, with its six words of
adieu, to Elfie.
“I felt sure she was gone,” was the comment of Miss Fielding; “and now I
hope we shall have our dinner,” she added.
“Certainly,” said Erminie.
“But no,” said Fate; for at the moment the front door bell rang sharply,
and in a few minutes Dr. Sales was ushered into the drawing-room and his
card was brought to Erminie.
“Elfie dear, go on with your dinner; don’t wait for me,” said Miss
Rosenthal, as she arose from the table, and passed into the drawing-room
to receive her visitor.
“Your message only reached me a few minutes ago, my dear, and I came
away directly to answer it,” said the reverend gentleman, rising and
shaking hands with the orphan.
“Thank you, Dr. Sales. I ventured to send for you on a very important
matter, that has perplexed and distressed me very much; and not the less
because I could not clearly see my own duty in the affair. The absence
of my brother and Major Fielding made it necessary that I should trouble
you for counsel.”
“My dear child, you know that I am always happy to serve you. You do
indeed look as if you were worried almost to death! What is the matter,
my child?”
“Oh, Dr. Sales! I have had such a terrible fright!” exclaimed Erminie,
on the brink of bursting into tears, but controlling herself.
“Come! tell me all about it.”
“I hardly understand it myself. I may have been on the eve of witnessing
one of the most appalling crimes that ever was perpetrated! one of the
most tremendous misfortunes that could befall our country!” exclaimed
Erminie, shaking violently with agitation at the bare memory of the
threats in the President’s anteroom.
“Compose yourself, my dear; and, in order to do so, avoid using strong
language, which only excites you,” said the clergyman, laying his hand
solemnly on the bowed head of the girl.
“But you see I cannot recur to it without horror.”
“Is it necessary to recur to it at all, my child.”
“Oh, yes, else I had not sent for you. I have a solemn duty to perform
in the matter, and do not see clearly how to do it. And I want your
counsel.”
“Then tell me all about it, my dear. Come, now, quietly like a Christian
child,” said the clergyman, in a soothing manner, and speaking with much
more calmness than he really felt, for the words of Erminie had
surprised and alarmed him.
Erminie made a great effort to control her agitation, and then began to
tell him of the visit of Alberta Corsoni.
And Dr. Sales put a constraint upon himself, and listened composedly,
without making a single comment upon the narrative, lest he might
increase the excitement under which his companion was laboring.
Erminie faithfully related all that had occurred—the visit to the
President’s house, the muttered threats of the guerrilla’s wife, “_I
will have my husband pardoned, or do that which shall place me on the
scaffold by his side_,” her own alarm at hearing these awful words, the
difficulty with which she got the desperate woman out of the White
House, the subsequent apology made by the woman for her wicked threats,
the paragraph relating to the escape of Vittorio Corsoni, the excessive
joy of Alberta, and her secret flight from the house.
“Now,” said Erminie, in conclusion, “Alberta’s apology for her sinful
threats seemed very earnest and might have been quite sincere, and but
for her gloomy looks, and muttered threats and strange behavior, I
should have received it without a doubt.”
The clergyman slowly shook his head, but made no remark.
“My mind has been distracted with grief and perplexity,” continued
Erminie; “for on the one hand it seems beyond measure cruel and
treacherous to lodge information against a poor, unfortunate woman who
has sought the refuge of my home, who may be quite innocent of any wrong
intention, and who may suffer great injustice from a mere suspicion. And
on the other hand, the probability of her insanity, and the bare
possibility of such an atrocious—oh, I cannot speak the word! But you
see I feel as if I dare not withhold this information from the
authorities,” exclaimed Erminie, shuddering.
“No, you dare not withhold it,” said the clergyman. “It is your solemn
duty to go to the Provost Marshal, and tell him exactly what you have
told me. It will be for him to judge whether there is sufficient cause
for pursuing and arresting this miserable young woman.”
“It is one of the most repugnant duties I ever had to perform. Oh, the
office of a spy or an informer is very, very abhorrent to my feelings.
And she was my old schoolmate, and friend and guest. Ah, it is very
bitter!” said Erminie, trembling with emotion.
“I know how hard it is, my child. But if you should not perform this
duty, think what might happen. Erminie, my dear, next to our duty to God
is our duty to our country, and neither friends, guests nor kinsfolk
should stand between us and that. Now, go get your bonnet on, my child,
and I will myself attend you to the Provost Marshal’s office to lodge
this information,” said Dr. Sales.
And Erminie, feeling as miserably as she had ever felt in her life, went
obediently to prepare herself, thanking Heaven, in the meantime, that
Alberta was no longer in her house.
When she was quite ready she came down. And she and her pastor set out
for the Provost Marshal’s office.
Meanwhile Elfie waited for her hostess. But when she saw Erminie,
attended by Dr. Sales, leave the house, she lost all patience,
exclaiming:
“Well, really, people in this place never seem to know when other people
ought to eat. Catherine, bring in the pudding.” Elfie finished her
dinner, and rang the bell for the parlor maid. Catherine came in.
“Here, you remove these things, and tell Frederica that Miss Rosenthal
has gone out without her dinner, and direct her to have a young chicken
ready for the gridiron, and to keep the kettle on the fire and make some
toast. Miss Rosenthal having missed her dinner, will require something
warm with her tea.”
“Very well, Miss,” answered acquiescent Catherine.
And Elfie arose rather impatiently and passed into the library, where
the gas was now lighted, and flung herself into one of the easy chairs,
exclaiming crossly:
“Plague take the people, I do wish they would let poor Minie have some
peace of her life. From her early rising to her late retiring, she has
not one hour to herself, poor child. She is at everybody’s beck and
call. And between the wounded soldiers in the hospitals and the refugees
from the South, and the contrabands, and—bless patience—yes, the
guerrillas, too, she is harrassed almost to death, poor girl. And now
where on earth has the old parson taken her? I declare she doesn’t even
get time to eat!”
So grumbled Elfie, unable to settle herself to any sort of employment.
After awhile she again rang the bell, and brought Catherine to her
presence.
“You may lay the cloth for tea in this room. It is more comfortable than
the dining-room. And you must have everything ready for Miss Rosenthal
by the time she returns.”
“What time do you expect her, please, Miss Fielding?” inquired the girl.
“I expect her every moment, for it is after eight o’clock, though it is
very possible she may not be in before ten, but you do as I bid you,”
replied Elfie.
And as she was fully recognized as commanding officer in the absence of
Erminie, her orders were immediately obeyed.
The cloth was no sooner spread than Erminie’s ring was heard and
answered.
Erminie lingered at the hall door for a moment, trying to persuade Dr.
Sales, who had attended her home, to come in and rest himself before
going farther. But the clergyman pleaded an engagement and bade her good
night.
And Erminie came into the library.
“Well, upon my word! But I suppose angels can do without food or sleep,
and that is the secret of your living and working without either,”
exclaimed Elfie, as she arose and made Erminie sit in the easy chair and
rest herself, while she untied and removed her bonnet, and unpinned and
took off her shawl.
Erminie, instead of answering, burst into tears, and wept softly behind
her pocket handkerchief.
“Here, Catherine, take Miss Rosenthal’s bonnet and shawl up stairs, and
put them away. And you needn’t come in again until I ring,” said Elfie
handing the articles named to the parlor maid, who was still engaged in
arranging the table.
The girl took the things and left the room.
And then Elfie caressing Erminie, inquired:
“Where have you been?”
“To the Provost Marshal’s office, to lay before him certain information
regarding poor Alberta. Dr. Sales said that I must do it, and took me
there,” replied Erminie, weeping.
“But what did the Provost Marshal say or do to set you grieving so?”
demanded Elfie.
“Oh, nothing at all. He put me upon my oath, and then took down my
statement regarding poor Alberta’s visit here and to the President’s
house, and all that happened there,” replied Erminie, remembering that
Elfie knew nothing about the episode of the concealed revolver.
“And what then?”
“The Provost Marshal thanked me for the information given, and requested
me not to speak of it to others. So, Elfie dear, let us drop the
subject, if you please.”
“But how will the Provost Marshal act upon your information?”
“I do not know. They never tell anything. They hear all that they can,
but they tell nothing. It is not their business to do so.”
“Then I don’t see what there was in the interview to distress you so
much,” said Elfie, rising and touching the bell.
“Oh, my dear, it is this. Though I have done only my duty—a most painful
duty to me—I feel like an informer and a spy. Oh, Elfie, this awful war,
that upsets not only all material but all moral life!” wept Erminie.
“Heaven bless your tender conscience! You seem to me to have done your
duty by everybody. You didn’t invite the guerrilla’s wife to your house.
She walked in upon you, told you that she had taken the oath of
allegiance, and you received her kindly and treated her well. She left
you under such suspicious circumstances—I know they must have been
suspicious, else you would have had nothing to tell the Provost
Marshal—that your pastor, on hearing of it, insisted that you should
lodge information in the proper quarters, and actually took you off to
do it. So why you should reproach yourself _I_ don’t know.—Yes,
Catherine, tea immediately.”
This last to the parlor maid who answered the bell.
Tea was soon served.
“And now I hope you will try to eat a little. Lord knows, between the
saints and the sinners, you can scarcely call your body or soul your
own,” said Elfie, as she sat down and began to wait on Erminie—pouring
our her tea and placing the wing and breast of the broiled chicken on
her plate.
“Thanks, Elfie; but help yourself, my dearest,” urged Erminie.
“Oh, I can’t eat. I had my dinner so late and ate then so heartily,
having fasted so long, that I can’t touch a morsel now. I will have a
cup of tea, however,” said Elfie.
“Britomarte has not been here this afternoon?” inquired Erminie.
“No.”
“I am very uneasy about her.”
“Oh, of course,” grumbled Elfie. “Some one or other of your friends are
always making you uneasy, plague take them!”
“But, Elfie, I am afraid she is ill.”
“Mrs. Burton would have sent you word.”
“Yes, I hope she would. And then, to be sure, I have no more reason to
wonder at her mysterious absence than my poor soldiers have to wonder at
mine. Oh, Elfie, think of it! I never missed a day visiting them before,
and now three days have passed since I have been to see them. What will
the poor fellows think?” sighed Erminie.
“Whatever they think, it will not be to the effect that you are
neglecting them. Perhaps they fancy that you are a little worn with your
exertions in their behalf, and they hope to see you soon again.”
“Oh, Elfie! many a poor fellow that _I_ hoped to see again has passed
away in these three days, I know. They die every day. No day do I go
without missing some familiar face,” sighed Erminie.
“See here, my dear! your pretty shoulders are tolerably fine ones for a
young woman. But I doubt if they are so strong as to be able to bear the
burdens of all the world. You have done what you could for the brave
fellows. Continue to do what you can; and for the rest trust them to
their Heavenly Father and ours, you weeping philosopher,” said Elfie.
“That is good advice, dear; and I will try to follow it. I am no weeping
philosopher, Elfie. But to-night I believe I am despondent because
broken down by the events of the last twenty-four hours.”
“Then you must go to bed and try to get some sleep. In the morning you
will feel better.”
“I think I will go, Elfie; and I do hope I shall feel better; for
to-morrow we must make our rounds of the hospitals, and also look up
Britomarte, unless she should first make her appearance here,” said
Erminie, rising from the tea table.
And soon after this the girls retired.