ABOUT BRITOMARTE.
Your wisdom may declare,
That womanhood is proved the best,
By golden brooch and glossy vest,
That mincing ladies wear.
Yet it is proved and was of old,
Anear as well—I dare to hold
By truth, or by despair.—E. B. BROWNING.
Early the following morning Erminie arose very much refreshed and
invigorated by a good night’s rest.
After breakfast, accompanied by Elfie, she went the rounds of the
hospitals.
At two o’clock she sent Elfie home, while she herself went to
Britomarte’s boarding-house.
A sickening presentiment of evil overcame her as she entered the little
gate, walked up to the door and rapped.
Mrs. Burton opened the door.
“Oh, Miss Rosenthal! how do you do? I have been hoping that you would
call. Please to come in,” said the mistress of the house.
“Mrs. Burton, how is Miss Conyers? Is she quite well?” anxiously
inquired Erminie, as she followed the widow into the little parlor.
“Why, my darling child, she is gone,” answered Mrs. Burton, as she sat a
chair for her visitor.
“Gone!” echoed Erminie, in dismay, sinking into the offered seat, and
gazing at the speaker.
“Yes, my dear—gone. She has been gone these three days.”
“And without taking leave of me!” said Erminie, in a sorrowful voice.
“My dear, she left a letter for you. And I ought to have sent it over
before this. But you see I had nobody to send it by but one of my
daughters. And we are all so busy working upon a lot of havelocks that
_must_ be finished by Saturday, that we can’t take time to eat or sleep,
or hardly to say our prayers. But I did mean to steal time to bring the
letter over to you this blessed evening. I will go and get it now,” said
the widow, leaving the room.
“Gone! I can scarcely realize it. Though indeed she has often hinted to
me that she might leave the city at any moment,” said Erminie, as she
arose to receive the letter from the landlady when the latter returned
to the room and put it into her hand.
Britomarte’s letter was dated on the very evening of the day on which
Justin’s regiment had marched. It was written in Miss Conyers’ usually
firm and clear chirography, and ran thus:
“MY DEAR AND GENTLE FRIEND:—Duty, or what I believe to be such, calls
me hence very suddenly. I have no time to bid you farewell in person,
even if I could trust myself to such a parting interview. From time to
time I will write and let you know where and how I am. I hope that you
also will keep me advised of your well-being. For the present, a
letter addressed ‘B. C., Baltimore Post Office, till called for,’ will
find me. Give my love to Elfie. And, dear and good Erminie, accept my
love and my prayers, which are always offered up for you.
BRITOMARTE.”
When Erminie had finished reading this letter, she dropped again into
her chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept.
Mrs. Burton brought her a glass of water, saying:
“Drink this, my dear; it will revive you.”
Erminie drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the landlady, and
said:
“Dear Mrs. Burton, please tell me all about it. She went away the
evening she wrote this letter, or the next morning?”
“The same evening, my dear. The evening of the day on which the brigade
marched,” said the widow, placing the empty tumbler on the table, and
taking the chair nearest her visitor.
“Yes?” exclaimed Erminie, in tearful eagerness.
“You never heard of anything so sudden in your life! You know, your old
negro man, Uncle Bob, had been here in the morning to bring her a note.”
“It was from me.”
“Well; so she went away with Uncle Bob, and staid away all day.”
“She was with me.”
“At seven o’clock, while we were at tea—I and my girls—she came in. I
jumped up to make fresh tea for her; but she stopped me, saying that she
would take nothing then, but might make a cup for herself by and by. And
so she hurried through the parlor and up into her own bed-room. She
looked very much agitated, and that is the sacred truth. I spoke of her
appearance to my girls; and they thought it was because she was grieving
after some friends who might have gone with the brigade.”
“Yes, that was it,” said Erminie, frankly.
“Later in the evening she came down. I and my girls were still at work.
I thought she wanted her tea, and again I got up to make her some; but
again she stopped me, saying something like this:
“‘Mrs. Burton, I am about to leave you—I must do so to-night. Would you
mind sending Johnny to call a carriage for me?’
“(Now Johnny is my nephew, on a visit to me at present.) I looked at her
in perfect astonishment to hear her talk of leaving me so suddenly at
that hour of the night. And when I looked I saw her face was as white as
marble and nearly as hard in its expression of settled determination.
“‘My dear Miss Conyers,’ I said, ‘I hope you have heard no bad news that
takes you away to-night. Hadn’t you better wait till to-morrow? It is
very late to leave the house.’
“‘I must go nevertheless. Can you let Johnny call a carriage for me?’
she said.
“I declare I was so struck all in a heap that I hardly knew whether I
was standing on my head or my heels. Johnny was drawing pictures on the
slate by my side. And the livery stable was no great distance off; so I
said ‘Yes,’ and sent the boy right away to call the carriage.
“And she went up stairs to put on her things, and I went down into the
kitchen to make her a cup of tea and a round of toast; for I knew I
should have time to do it, because the livery men would be at least
twenty minutes getting the carriage ready; and the kettle was already
boiling; and I was determined she shouldn’t go out of my house without
her tea. So, sure enough in about ten minutes I had it all ready, and
took it up on the waiter, and set it on the parlor table. She was
sitting there, with her bonnet and shawl on, and her traveling basket in
her hand.
“‘Try and eat a bit, my dear,’ I said. ‘You will have plenty of time.
The carriage won’t be here for ten minutes yet.’
“She smiled and thanked me her own gracious way, that always reminds me
of a princess, though I never saw one, and she sat down and drank the
tea and ate the toast, and by that time the carriage came, little Johnny
riding on the box with the driver.
“So she got up and sent the driver up to her room to bring her trunk
down; and while he was doing that, she took out her little purse and
paid me the week’s board, though it wanted two days of being due. And
then she gave me this letter for you.
“And when the man had put her trunk on the carriage, she bade us all
good-bye.
“‘But where are you going, my dear?’ I asked, as I held her hand,
unwilling—oh, yes, the Lord knows how unwilling to see her go.
“‘To Baltimore,’ she answered.
“‘But there is no train to-night,’ I said.
“‘I shall go by the very first train in the morning. In order to make
sure of it, I shall stop to-night at the best hotel that I can find
nearest the station.’
“And so, kissing me and thanking me for what she called my motherly
kindness to her, she went out.
“‘But you will write and let us know how you are?’ I called after her.
“‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, waving her hand from the carriage which was
then driving off.”
The widow ceased to speak, and Erminie, leaning her head upon her hand,
sighed deeply.
“And is that all you can tell me, Mrs. Burton?” inquired Miss Rosenthal.
“Every bit, my dear.”
“You haven’t heard a word from her since?”
“Not one word.”
“Have you the least idea of what she intends to do in Baltimore?”
“Not the least. She went away so suddenly that I hadn’t time to question
her much, even if she would have submitted to be questioned. Dear me, it
all passed like a flash of lightning. Before I could realize that she
was going, she was gone!” said the widow. Then, after a short pause, she
inquired: “Have you any suspicion what she intends to do, Miss
Rosenthal?”
“Indeed no. I wish to Heaven I had!” answered Erminie, mournfully.
And then, finding that she could learn no more to throw light on the
mystery of Britomarte’s departure, she arose, thanked the widow for the
information given, and left the house.
On reaching the parsonage, Erminie found luncheon ready, and Elfie
waiting for her.
“Minie,” said that impatient young lady, “if you are of the heavens,
heavenly, and can live without eating, I’ll have you know that I’m ‘of
the earth, earthy,’ and can’t do without victuals. It was seven o’clock
when we breakfasted, and now it is three.”
“My dearest Elfie, always eat when you are hungry, and don’t wait for
me. I have been to Britomarte’s boarding house,” said Erminie.
“Yes, I know, and found her all right, I dare say.”
“I found her place empty. She has left!”
“‘Left!’” echoed Elfie in astonishment.
“Yes. Oh, what a pity!”
“But where has she gone?”
“To Baltimore; but to what part of the city we do not know. She gave no
address, but simply ‘W. W., Baltimore post office.’ Here is the letter
she left me. The landlady could tell me little more than the letter,”
said Erminie, handing it to Elfie.
“‘My heyes!’ as the cockneys observe, here is a go! Have you any idea
what she is going to do, Erminie?”
“Not the slightest!”
“I have, then!”
“What? What?”
“She is going into the army!”
“Oh, Elfie! never!”
“I tell you she is! I am just as sure of it as I am of my own life! Else
why should she go off without taking leave of us?”
“Why, indeed!” repeated Erminie.
“You see she didn’t want to be cross-questioned, as to her intentions.”
“She might not have wished to be cross-questioned; and yet she might
have had no such intention as you suspect,” said Erminie.
“Bosh! I tell you, Erminie, she has gone into the army. You know what
her sentiments are! You know what her spirit, courage, and independence
are! You know that she is not responsible to any human being in the
world for her actions! And you also know what a consummate actress she
is, and how perfectly she would enact the part of a soldier. And
finally, Erminie, you know, for you have often heard her declare, that
she will keep the laws of God and man, and in other respects do as she
pleases!”
“Yes, yes, yes! I know all that you have said. But, oh! Heaven forbid
that she should have done as you suppose,” sighed Erminie.
“She has done the deed! And neither you nor I could prevent her from
doing it! So now come sit down and have some luncheon! Pap’s gone,
Ethel’s gone, Justin’s gone, Alberta’s gone, (but she’s a good riddance
of bad rubbish!) and now Britomarte’s gone! All are gone but me! But
take comfort, Minie, dear! Though all the rest are gone, I will never
go! I will never leave you alone!” said Elfie, with some real feeling,
and with full faith that she could keep the promise she had made.
But Elfie “reckoned without her host.” Destiny, had ordained that she
should be torn away from her friend and carried off by guerrillas.
Erminie wrote to Britomarte, entreating her to return to Washington, or
at least to write and satisfy her anxious friends as to her prospects.
By return mail she received an answer, in which Miss Conyers thanked her
for her affectionate interest, but begged her to dismiss anxiety and
trust Britomarte’s welfare to Britomarte’s wit.
But Erminie’s anxiety was only diverted to another quarter. That
evening’s papers brought news of a severe battle in which Justin’s
regiment had been engaged, and in which the Union arms were victorious.
And Erminie suffered the most acute anxiety until she received a letter
from her brother full of good news of the victory and kind messages to
friends, proving that he was quite well.
And Erminie’s soul rejoiced in thanksgiving.
Indeed, that summer of victories had so raised the spirits of all loyal
people in Washington, as well as elsewhere, that long discontinued
festivities began to be resumed; and, among the rest, picnic excursions
became frequent.
The fine weather lingered long that season, and the early autumn was
followed by an Indian Summer of unparalleled beauty and geniality.
In the very midst of that delicious season, when any rational human
being, free from care or pain, might have been happy in any place, Elfie
grew weary of the pleasant parsonage and wished for a change of scene,
“if only for a day,” she said.
And so, instigated, no doubt, by the great enemy of mankind, she went
about among her young acquaintances—idle young ladies, with nothing to
do, and worse than idle young men who had dodged the draft, and she
proposed to get up a picnic party to go to—The Great Falls of the
Potomac, of all places in the world.
“You know, Erminie,” she argued, in defending herself to her hostess, “I
have been shut up in this beleagured city so long, for nearly three
years, unable to get into the country on account of the guerrillas, that
indeed I feel like a prisoner longing to escape.”
“But I thought you promised not to leave me,” said Erminie, who (though
from no selfish motive) disapproved the venture altogether.
“Neither do I intend to leave you. I intend that you shall go too.
Think, Erminie! the weather is so perfectly beautiful! pleasanter than
we could have it at any other season of the year. It is just dry and
cool and bright enough to be entirely delightful!”
“But, Elfie, in these unsettled times and that unsettled neighborhood it
is scarcely prudent to have a picnic.”
“Oh, gammon! There is nothing to be dreaded from the guerrillas now. Of
the three great bands that ravage the banks of the Potomac, not one is
in the neighborhood of Washington—not within a hundred miles. Monck is
in the Shenandoah Valley, where he has enough to do to take care of
himself and his command. The ‘Free Sword’ is a fugitive and his band
dispersed or hiding in the fastnesses of the Alleghanies. And _my_
traitor, set fire to him! must be very far away indeed, since he has not
been heard of for so many months. I tell you it will be as safe as
safety to have a picnic excursion to the Great Falls—so far as the
guerrillas are concerned,” pouted Elfie.
“Yes, perhaps, so far as they are concerned. But the guerrillas are not
the only dangers, or the most likely ones to beset you, Elfie. The
country you would have to pass through is infested with stragglers and
deserters from both armies. And these are equally as cruel and ruthless
as the guerrillas. Indeed, we hear of many more outrages from the former
than the latter.”
“So we do, but not along that road particularly. What should our pickets
be about, to let such beasts of prey rampage all over the country?”
“Our pickets themselves get shot down frequently.”
“Oh, bosh! You’re trying to frighten me, Erminie. _I will go._ So there,
now. The autumn woods are perfectly enchanting now, and I’m just dying
to see them. And I haven’t had a glimpse of the ‘Ole Virginny Shore’ for
three years, and I’m dying to see that also. And I never, in the whole
course of my life, set eyes upon a live guerrilla, or a dead one,
either, for that matter, and I’m dying to have a ‘skrimmage’ with them.
Erminie, I’d go all the sooner if I thought there was the slightest
chance of our having a skirmish with guerrillas. But there’s no such
good luck, unfortunately. Our excursion will be as safe as the
perfection of dullness could desire.”
“Oh, you perverse girl. I see that you are bent upon running the risk,
so I shall say no more about it,” said Erminie.
“Say no more about it, and think no more about it—about its imaginary
dangers, I mean—for no dangers really exist. And you will go with us,
Erminie?”
“No, dear; I have failed to persuade you to give up the excursion, but I
cannot join you in it.”
“You are afraid of the guerrillas, or stragglers, or deserters,” mocked
Elfie.
“No, really I am not—honestly not,” said Erminie.
“Then why not go with us?”
“Because, Elfie, I don’t like to leave my poor wounded boys in the
hospitals. There are some of them that look for their ‘sister,’ as they
call me, every day.”
“You make yourself a slave to those same boys,” crossly exclaimed Elfie.
“No, I don’t. I am free to go and come as I please. I can go and comfort
them, or stay away and neglect them, as I like, but _they_ are
bond—wounded, fevered, weary of their beds, and utterly helpless, they
must depend upon the pleasure or caprice of free, healthy people to come
to see them. And there is the pity of it, Elfie.”
“I wish to goodness you would have a little pity on yourself,” grumbled
Elfie.
Erminie smiled.
“There is not the slightest danger of any one of us failing in pity for
ourselves, Elfie,” she said.
“Then give yourself a holiday once in a way, and go with us on our
picnic excursion. Now, do—now, do, Minie—that’s a darling!”
“I would like to oblige you, Elfie dear, and I should not dislike the
trip up the river this beautiful Indian summer weather, but I cannot go
with you this time.”
“Well, upon my word, you ‘sainted girls’—as I have heard more than one
white-cravated and blue-spectacled young parson call you, are the most
stubborn and ‘stiffnecked generation’ that ever was! I do believe you
refuse just out of opposition to me.”
“No, Elfie. Listen, dear: During the three days that I was prevented
from going to the hospital, one of my poor boys died. And he wanted to
see me, and kept asking for me and looking for me—poor, helpless boy!—as
long as he lingered in life. I shall never cease to be sorry for my
absence then; and _now_, as long as there shall remain a wounded and
bed-ridden soldier in these hospitals, whom my presence can comfort or
cheer, I will never leave the city for a party of pleasure. No dying
eyes shall ever again strain themselves to look for me in vain!” said
Erminie, gravely and earnestly.
“Oh! Erminie, dear, you _are_ a saint, and I fear—I very much fear, that
you will be a martyr, too!” said Elfie, more seriously than she had yet
spoken; for she was at length really and deeply touched by the words of
Erminie.
But the Lutheran’s orphan daughter slowly shook her head, gravely
answering:
“Don’t misapply such terms of praise to me, dear Elfie. ‘Saint’ and
‘martyr’ are holy names that few in this age of the world deserve to
bear, and I least of all.”
“Oh! you mean, I suppose, that the only way to be a saint is to abjure
the world and cleanliness and live alone, in sackcloth and ashes; and to
be a martyr, is to set up some new doctrine and die for it,” said Elfie.
“No, you mocker—you know that I mean no such thing,” laughed Erminie.
“I’m glad you don’t; for I hold that the man or woman who devotes him or
herself to the service of their suffering fellow-creatures, is as good a
saint as ever preferred his own company to other people’s—filthy
sackcloth to clean linen; and he or she who dies in such a service, I
hold to be as good a martyr as ever offered up his life for a difference
of opinion in politics or theology!”
“So do I, Elfie,” said Erminie.
And here the talk stopped.
This conversation occurred on the Wednesday of that week.
And the picnic excursion—that most disastrous picnic excursion—was fixed
for the following Saturday.