ELFIE’S RETURN.
One by one, thy duties wait thee,
Let thy whole strength go to each,
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these can teach.
One by one, bright gifts from Heaven,
Joys are sent thee here below;
Take them readily when given,
Ready, too, to let them go.—A. A. PROCTOR.
It was nearly ten o’clock when the train steamed into the station. Elfie
got out on the platform. As she had no luggage to look after nor even a
parasol nor a hand-bag to encumber her, she quickly made her way to the
street, where omnibus-drivers and cab-men were cracking their whips, and
vociferating their routes; and where porters were quarreling over their
loads, and policemen adding much to the general noise and confusion.
Elfie had not been robbed by the guerrillas; and she had still in her
pocket the little portemonnaie, well filled with “greenbacks” and
“fractional currency,” that her father had given her some weeks before,
when he had gone to join his regiment. So she called a carriage, taking
care to pass by all those with yelling drivers, and to select one in
charge of a well-conducted coachman.
“Where to, Miss?” inquired the latter, touching his hat, after he had
assisted Miss Fielding into her seat.
Elfie gave him the direction. The man got upon his box. And the carriage
was driven off towards the parsonage.
“Now I wonder if my sudden arrival will shock Erminie very much? Or if
it does, if the shock will hurt her? She has no reason whatever to
expect me. She may even have retired to bed. Perhaps I ought rather to
go to a hotel to-night, and send for Dr. Sales in the morning, and get
him to break the news gently to Erminie,” mused Elfie, as she sat back
in her carriage.
But she did not act upon her thought. On the contrary, she exclaimed to
herself:
“Bosh! it won’t be such a shock to her, after all! I am not returning
from the grave! She had no reason to believe me dead! And if she had
had, though she loved me very much, she didn’t love me to such excess as
to die of joy at my resurrection. And besides, I couldn’t possibly wait
till to-morrow to see her, and to hear from dear little Mim.”
And upon this decision Elfie rested, laying back at ease in her cushions
until the carriage reached the gates of the parsonage.
Then she eagerly looked out to see if there were any external signs by
which she could guess whether the household had retired for the night.
“All right! I see the lights gleaming through the library shutters, and
I know by them Erminie is still up,” she said to herself, as the
carriage stopped and the coachman got down and opened the door.
“Here is the dollar agreed upon for your fare! And here is half a dollar
extra to reward you for not roaring at travellers like the other hackmen
did!” said Elfie, as she quickly thrust the money into the man’s hand,
and opened the gate.
As the carriage drove off again, she ran up the walk leading from the
gate to the front door of the house. And when she reached it she seized
the bell-pull and rang a peal like a fire-alarm.
The door was opened by old Uncle Bob, who, on seeing his young mistress,
jumped a yard backward, exclaiming:
“Praise the Lord, Miss Elfie! is this you?”
“Yes! yes! Where is Erminie?” cried Elfie, and without waiting for an
answer, she rushed past the old man, tore open the library door, and
bounced in upon the young mistress of the mansion.
Erminie, looking like some fair spirit of peace, sat in her deep
arm-chair by the library table, reading by the light of a shaded
gas-burner.
On raising her eyes to see who it was who rushed into her presence so
rudely, and recognizing Elfie, she laid down her book and arose and
opened her arms, and folded the wild girl fondly to her bosom, while her
tears fell warmly on the little, black head.
“Thank Heaven for your safe return! Oh, Elfie, my dear, I am so happy to
have you back again!” said Erminie, gently releasing Elfie, and placing
her in the easiest resting-chair.
“I was half afraid to come upon you so suddenly, Erminie, dear. I was
afraid I should shock you. But indeed, indeed, I had not self-denial
enough to go to a hotel and stop all night, and wait until I could send
for Dr. Sales to break the news to you.”
“I am very glad you came at once to the house, my dear. The other
proceeding would have been highly improper in a young lady, travelling
alone, in a city full of soldiers,” said Erminie.
“‘Full of soldiers!’ fiddle-de-dee! I have been marching and counter
marching, fighting and flying, among soldiers and guerrillas, for the
last ten days! So I have no reason to be frightened at them. But I am
glad I didn’t startle you by pouncing in upon you so unexpectedly.”
“You startled me a little, dear; but it was with a very pleasant shock.”
“And oh! I was so impatient to see you, and to hear from my brave little
Mim. Oh, Erminie, can you tell me about my little Mim?” anxiously
inquired Elfie.
“He is quite out of danger, and is getting well fast.”
“Thank Heaven for that! I should never have got over his death if he had
died, the dear little hero! But—he _was_ in danger?”
“Oh, yes. However, that is quite past. I saw him this morning. I went to
see him every day, for your sake, Elfie.”
“Heaven bless you for that, dear! Erminie, were you very anxious about
me when I didn’t get home that night?”
“I was uneasy,” replied the Lutheran minister’s daughter, who was by no
means “gushing,” and never exaggerated her emotions. “I was uneasy: but
I thought you must have decided to prolong your excursion, and I knew
you were with a large party, well able to protect you.”
“Umph—umph!” said Elfie, who was slightly disappointed in not having
created a greater sensation. “Umph—umph! But next day, when the
excursionists got back, bringing little Mim with his skull fractured,
and the news that I had been carried off by guerrillas! How then,
Erminie?”
“I was very much shocked, and very anxious at first; and I called on
some of the ladies to learn the facts. And when I discovered that it was
your cousin and old adorer, Albert Goldsborough, who had carried you
off, I felt reassured.”
“Upon what ground, if one might inquire?” demanded Elfie, rather piqued
at her friend’s self-possession.
“Upon that of a certainty that Albert Goldsborough would allow no injury
to be done you. I foresaw that he would detain you in a sort of
honorable captivity for a while, and use all his influence and eloquence
to induce or persuade you to marry him; and that when he should fail to
do so, he would send you back to your home, as he has apparently done.”
“Indeed! Well, you have a good deal to learn from me yet, Erminie,” said
Elfie.
“You shall tell me all your experience since you left me dear; but not
until you have had rest and refreshment. My curiosity can wait,” said
Miss Rosenthal, touching the bell.
Catherine came to answer the summons. She had heard from Old Bob of the
arrival, and now she came in—eager, smiling diffident, and curtesying to
welcome Miss Fielding.
“Come and shake hands with me if you are glad to see me, girl! and don’t
stand there bobbing at me like a Chinese mandarin. That is no way to
welcome a friend who has returned safely from captivity among the
guerrillas,” said Elfie, heartily offering her hand to the German girl,
who snatched and pressed it to her heart and lips.
“Now, my dear Elfie, what will you have prepared? The fire, I know, is
in full blast in the kitchen range, and there is a plenty of hot water
in the boiler, and plenty of provisions in the pantry. Order what you
like, my dear. You are at home here, you know,” said Erminie.
“I know I am, thanks to your boundless hospitality. But I had a
substantial meal hours ago at an old farm-house near the railway station
at the Point of Rocks. What I want first of all is a warm bath and a
change of clothes. Oh, just only think of it, I have been ten days
without the one or the other!”
“Dear me!” said Erminie, opening her brown eyes in dismay.
If Miss Rosenthal had heard that her friend had been under fire in forty
separate fights in this time, it would not have shocked her so much.
“It is a fact, Erminie. And I tell you the deprivation has cured me of
one folly,” said Elfie, nodding her head.
“What is that?”
“The desire to serve as a soldier in the ranks. There is too much
_grime_ mixed up with the glory. I shouldn’t so much mind the sabre
strokes, nor the shot and shell, nor even the commissary coffee, salt
pork and hard tack. But I wouldn’t—no, not even for the sake of my
country—would I endure the lack of clean linen and fresh water and the
abundance of dirt and—‘_inthects_,’ as my friend Billingcoo delicately
puts it. So I think I will leave the men who are not fastidious to fight
the battles, and wear the breeches, and I will rest contented with
crinoline and cleanliness for the remainder of my life.”
“I think you would do well,” answered Erminie. “But now, after your bath
and change of clothing, you will require something. What shall it be? A
glass of mulled wine, a cup of coffee and sandwiches?”
“A cup of tea and a round of toast, if you please, my dear. I couldn’t
go anything heavier than that. Afterwards we will have such a talk! You
have no idea how much I have got to tell you, Erminie.”
“Then you shall have your bath immediately, after which you shall slip
on a dressing gown and come to my bed-room. I will order your tea served
there, where we can talk at ease.”
“You angel!—There! I don’t want to say anything sentimental or
sickening, but you _are_ an angel, if I know anything about the cloudy
creatures, which perhaps I don’t. A mere mortal might have put me off
with my own room, or any other one in this big house; but you take me to
yours; consequently you are an angel!”
“Nonsense, Elfie.”
“Oh, yes, I dare say it is nonsense—nothing more likely. Whenever I
speak from my heart I am apt to talk nonsense, I believe.”
And then, as Catherine was waiting to attend her, Elfie arose, gave her
friend a rousing kiss and left the library.
An hour later than this, at about eleven o’clock in the night, Elfie,
thoroughly refreshed with her warm bath and fresh clothing, and wrapped
in a white merino dressing gown, and with her feet thrust into white fur
slippers, sat in an easy chair before the bright little wood-fire in
Erminie’s bed-room.
Erminie sat opposite to her, and between them stood a stand with a
little tête-à-tête silver and porcelain tea service.
And while she took her tea, which Erminie shared for sociability sake,
Elfie related her adventures among the guerrillas.
“I have so much to tell you, Erminie dear, that indeed I do not know
where to begin. But first tell _me_: Have you heard from your brother or
from Britomarte lately?”
“They—they are safe?” gasped Erminie, in sudden, deadly fear.
“They are both safe at this present moment. At least it is fair to
presume that they are, for your brother was alive and well at seven
o’clock this morning; and Britomarte was alive and well at seven o’clock
this evening.”
“You saw them? You saw them both? My brother and—and Britomarte?”
anxiously inquired Erminie.
“Now I didn’t say all that. I said they were alive and well at the times
I stated. I will add that they were at liberty, in good spirits, and in
no sort of danger,” said Elfie.
“You speak of them as if they were together—are they?”
“I spoke in no such manner. Nor I did not mean to do so. Together
indeed! That’s likely. But you haven’t answered my question yet. You
haven’t told me when you heard from your brother and from your friend.”
“I got a letter from my dear Justin little more than a week ago. He had
just been appointed to the command of a regiment of cavalry on duty at
W. And he was about to start for that place immediately. His letter was
postmarked H.”
“Yes; well, I believe he is still in command of that regiment. But now
as to Britomarte. When did you hear from her?”
“About a fortnight ago. A letter postmarked Baltimore reached me, merely
saying that she was well, and giving me the mysterious information that
_you_ were under the protection of Madam Corsoni.”
“Oh, Alberta! Poor, poor Alberta!” sighed Elfie.
“What about her, my dear?” inquired Miss Rosenthal.
“Oh, Erminie, as I said before, I have so much to tell you! You have no
idea where Britomarte is?”
“None in the world, unless she is living in obscurity somewhere in
Baltimore and perhaps acting on the stage under an assumed name. Her
letters give me no information of her manner of life, and they bear no
address except the broad one—Baltimore.”
“She is not in Baltimore. She _is_, however, acting under an assumed
name an important part, in the greatest drama and on the broadest stage
the world has ever seen.”
“In the name of Heaven, Elfie, what do you mean?” demanded Erminie.
“I have no right to explain. I had no right even to say as much as I
have said. But this I _will_ impart—That it is to Britomarte’s tact,
courage and heroism that _I_ owe my deliverance from a fate far worse
than death, and Colonel Rosenthal owes the most signal victory of his
military career!—a victory that has rid the Valley of the Shenandoah
from one of its greatest scourges, and that will certainly make the
victor a brigadier-general,” said Elfie, in sympathetic pride.
“You astonish me more and more. You amaze me, Elfie! Was Britomarte a
spy?” inquired Erminie, her large brown eyes dilating to double their
size.
“I am not in Britomarte’s confidence. And if I were so, or even if I had
discovered her secrets by chance, I, who owe my earthly salvation to
her—I should be an ingrate and a traitor to betray her. So you see I
cannot clearly explain my words. But I will relate my adventures among
the guerrillas; and when you have heard them you may judge for yourself
and guess what you like; so that you hold your tongue as discreetly, or
rather, let us hope, _more_ discreetly than I have held mine,” said
Elfie, as she poured out for herself another cup of tea.
“Do so, then, my dear. I am very anxious to hear all you have to tell
me,” urged Erminie.
Elfie drank her tea and then began the story of her captivity.
As she spoke of the spy in the camp of the Free Sword, Erminie nodded
her head several times with a look of comprehension; but she made no
comment in words.
When Elfie came to speak of her forced marriage she wept with anger and
mortification; but Erminie assured her, as Justin had done before, that
the marriage was null and void in law.
“MARRIAGE IS MUTUAL CONSENT, Elfie, and there was no mutual consent
there,” she urged.
“You may be right, or you may be wrong, Erminie. I shall take counsel of
both clergymen and lawyers before I venture to decide a question in
which my honor is concerned. I would rather be a wretched wife than an
erring woman anytime. But let me go on with my story. Ah, Heaven! the
worst is behind! There were greater sufferers than myself in it!”
“Justin?” anxiously exclaimed Erminie.
“I told you before that he was alive and well. Have you forgotten that?”
“Who then?”
“Alberta! poor, poor Alberta!”
“You spoke of her just now. Of course she could not have been otherwise
than most wretched in the life she led, poor woman! But I hope no
greater misfortune overtook her!” said Erminie.
“I will tell you,” sighed Elfie.
And then she resumed the thread of her narrative, describing the march
of Goldsborough’s guerrillas and the battle of the hill, in which
Colonel Rosenthal routed the guerrillas, and in which the Free Sword and
his wife were killed.
“Killed! Oh, merciful Heaven, not that! Don’t say that Alberta was
killed in battle!” exclaimed Erminie, clasping her hand tightly, while
her eyes dilated with horror and amazement.
“Yes, she was killed,” wept Elfie.
“But how was that?”
“Oh, it seems that she would not leave him. You know what a will she
had. She would not leave him. She rode by his side through all that
bloody day! This is the way I heard the story: His horse was shot under
him. _She_ jumped from her saddle and insisted on his mounting hers, and
at that moment she saw one of our sharpshooters aim a rifle at him, and
quick as lightning she threw herself before him and received the shot in
her heart! Oh! Erminie, it was a deadly minie ball! It passed quite
through her body, killing her instantly, and entered the bosom which she
tried to shield, wounding it mortally.”
“Oh! Heaven of Heavens!” exclaimed Erminie, sobbing for pity.
“So the same ball killed them both; but not at the same instant. _He_,
in his great sorrow, never felt his own wound! He bore her off the
field, and sat down with her under the trees at the entrance of an old
turnpike road. His disappearance seemed to decide the fortunes of the
day. The guerrillas lost hope and fled. Some fled down the old turnpike
road; and, seeing Corsoni sitting there with his dead wife in his arms,
they urged him to get up and fly for his life; but he paid no attention
to them. They told him that our cavalry were in hot pursuit, and would
certainty capture him if he should remain where he was. But he scarcely
seemed to hear their words. They reminded him that when he should be
taken an ignominious death awaited him. He did not seem to care for that
or for anything on earth but the face of his dead wife, for he never
lifted his eyes from it.”
“His heart must have been broken!” wept Erminie.
“It was! Justin says it would have moved his bitterest enemy to
compassion to have seen him when he was captured. Some of our cavalry
men rode up and very naturally swore at him, and called him hard names,
and ordered him to yield. He did not return railing for railing, but
without lifting his face from the still face of his wife, he answered
simply, ‘I yield.’ Justin rode up, and, seeing this sight, ordered the
men to withdraw; and then he himself advanced to receive Corsoni’s
sword. But first he spoke some few words of sympathy and compassion for
the prisoner’s awful sorrow. Corsoni did not once reply; but laid the
body of his beloved wife down and arose to deliver up his sword. In the
act of doing so—”
Elfie broke down and wept convulsively for some moments before she could
resume her story.
—“The blood began to spout like a fountain from a wound in his chest.
And Justin said, ‘You are hurt.’ And he answered ‘Am I? I didn’t know.’
And with these words on his lips he fell dead beside his dead wife.”
Erminie was weeping; and it was some time before she could speak. When
she did, it was to say:
“Perhaps theirs was the best fate that could have befallen them—I mean
under the dreadful circumstances.”
“We all thought so. They were buried side by side in an old country
churchyard. It spoke well for the tenderness of our poor soldiers that,
tired as they were, they were willing to march three miles to lay the
poor woman’s remains in consecrated ground; and they laid her husband’s
body beside her.”
“May they rest in peace!” said Erminie, solemnly.
“Amen,” breathed Elfie.
The two girls fell into a thoughtful silence until Erminie arose to ring
the bell for Catherine to remove the tea service.
And then, as it was twelve o’clock, the friends kissed each other good
night, and Elfie went to her own old room that Catherine had prepared
for her.