A MYSTERIOUS LETTER.
The barouche containing Dr. Rosenthal and his party reached the steamer
in such good season that the two young ladies had time to go down into
the cabin and choose their berths from among those left vacant, and to
make all arrangements for their comfort during the voyage. They took two
berths in a stateroom together, unpacked their traveling bags, laid
their toilet articles in order upon the little shelf below the tiny
looking-glass, and then returned to the deck.
They sat down on the side that still looked toward Bellemont College,
whose white walls arose from amidst green foliage on the crest of a
gentle hill at a short distance up the river. Half in joy at work
accomplished and freedom gained, half in regret at leaving the school
where they had been so happy for so many years, and teachers whom they
had loved so well, the young friends gazed upon their late home.
The gentlemen of their party meanwhile walked up and down the deck,
wondering when the steamer would start, and betraying all the impatience
and restlessness of their restless and impatient sex, until, as they
passed near the two young ladies, Justin Rosenthal left his companions,
and, with a bow and a smile, as if asking permission, or apologizing for
taking it for granted, seated himself beside Miss Conyers.
Britomarte would have given a year of her life to have repressed the
blush that mantled over her cheek and brow as Justin took the seat
beside her.
His first words were well chosen to set her at ease.
“The scenery of James River is quite new to me, Miss Conyers. We came
down from Washington by railroad to Richmond, and thence by stagecoach
to Bellemont. I look upon this fine river for the first time,” he said,
not, as before, fixing his eyes upon her, but letting them rove over the
bright waters of the James and the verdant hills beyond.
Britomarte only bowed in reply. She would have given another year of her
life for the power of controlling the unusual tremor that seized her
frame and made it dangerous to trust her voice for a steady answer in
words.
Justin, still letting his eyes rove over the river, and rest here and
there upon particular points of interest in the scenery, spoke of the
beautiful effects of the shining light and shade as the clouds floated
over the sun’s disk and their shadows passed over the hills.
And Britomarte merely answered “yes” or “no,” until, indignant at the
influence that was growing upon her, she suddenly erected her haughtly
little head with an impatient shake, and said:
That she could not appreciate the minutiae of river scenery; that only
the ocean in its grandeur and might could awaken her admiration.
At this moment Dr. Rosenthal called to his son, and Justin, with a bow,
left the side of Britomarte.
“Why, Britty, dearest! I always thought you loved river scenery,” said
Erminie, when they were left alone together.
“So I do, as a general thing, but I don’t care about it to-day,”
answered Miss Conyers.
“Well, Britty, dear, I never knew you to be capricious before.”
“Nature has given me no immunity from the common weaknesses of
humankind.”
Erminie looked so hurt at the curtness of her friend’s words and manner,
that Britomarte suddenly took her hand and tenderly caressed it.
Erminie, touched by this new proof of love, was encouraged to press
Britomarte to go home with her to the parsonage.
Miss Conyers caressed her and thanked her, but reiterated her resolution
to go to Witch Elms.
“Ah! don’t, ah! don’t—don’t go to that horrid place, dear Britomarte!
You don’t know what it is! They say—that the place is haunted.”
“Of course, they say every isolated old country house is haunted.”
“But—forgive me once again, dear Britomarte—are you expected or desired
there?”
“I do not know. My old aunt has never written to me. The half-yearly
payments for the schooling, for which I am indebted to her, always have
been forwarded by her agent in Washington. On each occasion I have
written to her a letter of thanks, but I have never received an answer.”
Just then a boy rushed up with a letter for Britomarte.
She opened it wonderingly, and turned to the signature.
Her face was suddenly blanched to the hue of death, and she reeled, as
though about to fall.
“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, what is it? Any bad news?” anxiously
exclaimed Erminie.
But Miss Conyers raised her hand with a silencing gesture, and arose to
go down below. She trembled so much as she moved, that Erminie started
forward to attend her. But with a repelling motion the pallid girl
stopped her friend, and hurried alone on her way.
All the morning the _Thetis_ steamed down the river. At the dinner hour
Erminie was very glad of the excuse to go down into the stateroom she
occupied in common with Britomarte, to take off her bonnet and mantle,
and brush her hair, to go to the public table.
She opened the door timidly.
Miss Conyers was lying on the upper berth, with the curtains drawn down
before her.
“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, how are you? Can I do anything for you?”
murmured Erminie, stealing to the berth and cautiously lifting a corner
of the curtain.
“No! don’t speak to me! leave me!” was all that Miss Conyers replied,
and in a voice so hoarse as to be nearly inaudible.
Pale with pity and with awe, Erminie dropped the curtain, and sank into
the one chair their little den boasted.
She sat there quite still, and forgetting to prepare for dinner until
the bell clanged out its invitation to the table and aroused her from
her trance of trouble.
Then she hastily arose, threw off her bonnet, shook back her auburn
ringlets, and hurried out to join her father and his friends, who were
on their way to the dining-room.
Much concern was expressed by them that Miss Conyers was not able to
come to dinner.
Once again in the course of that afternoon Erminie went to the stateroom
to implore Britomarte to take some refreshment.
Then Miss Conyers suddenly drew the curtain back, and turned upon the
intruder a face so pale and ghastly in its grief and horror that Erminie
shrank back appalled.
“Don’t you see that it takes the whole power of my will to hold body and
soul together until I get to New York?” she demanded, in a voice husky
with suffering.
“To New York!” repeated the panic-stricken girl.
“Yes—I can do no more. I cannot eat, or drink, or talk—much. I can only
manage to live until I get there. Leave me.”
“Oh! Heaven of heavens, what has happened to you, Britomarte!” exclaimed
Erminie, as she turned, unwillingly, to leave the stateroom.
Miss Conyers did not divulge what had upset her, but pleaded headaches
for absenting herself from the table. Erminie was unable to comfort her,
nor was she taken into the confidence of the sullen and solitary
mourner.
In due time the _Thetis_ landed at her pier at Washington.
And the great bustle of arrival ensued.
“My dear Miss Conyers,” said Dr. Rosenthal, “I understand from my
daughter that you have positively declined making us a visit; but now,
at the last moment, let me prevail with you to make us all happy by
consenting to go home with us at least for a day and night, if no
longer, to rest before you go farther.”
“I thank you very much—more than I can express. But it is not in my
power to accept your kind invitation. Urgent business compels me
immediately to go to New York. I know that a train leaves in an hour
from this. And I must drive to the station instantly.”
Miss Conyers embraced Erminie, who was bathed in tears, and then turned
to shake hands with Mr. Justin Rosenthal.
But, raising his hat with a grave bow, Justin said:
“I will see you to the station. Eastworth and my father are a sufficient
bodyguard to Erminie.”
And before the beautiful man-hater could object, he had taken her hand
and was leading her from the boat.
He placed her in a carriage, entered and took a seat by her side, and
gave the order to drive to the Baltimore railway station.
All this was done in spite of Britomarte’s tacit protest. He did not,
however, obtrude his conversation upon her. The drive was finished in
silence.
On their arrival at the station, he procured her ticket, checked her
baggage, and then placed her in one of the most comfortable seats in the
ladies’ car.
Even then he did not leave her, but remained stationed by her until the
shrill, unearthly whistle of the engine warned him to leave.
Then, bending over her, he took her hand and whispered low:
“Miss Conyers, I never utter vain or hasty words. What I speak now, I
speak earnestly from the depths of my heart. In me you have a friend
through good report and evil report, through life and death, through
time and eternity. I have never spoken these words to any human being
before this; I never shall speak them to any other after this. Good-by;
we shall meet again in a happier hour.”