MYSTERY.
We must leave our three shipwrecked voyagers on the desert island, and
return on the wings of thought to look after their friends left behind
at home.
While the missionary ship had been sailing toward the sun and toward the
reef, our ship of state, our beloved nation, was also sailing toward the
sun and toward the reef—toward the glorious sun of emancipation, toward
the fatal reef of disunion. I shall not burden this light and simple
story with the politics of the Civil War. I shall only allude to it
where it immediately concerns the people of whom I am writing.
When, in October, the missionary ship sailed from the United States
disunion was not dreamed of, except by a few leading politicians. But
after the election of Mr. Lincoln, in November, and before any overt act
of secession took place, it is now well known that secret meetings were
held in Washington, Richmond, Annapolis, and all the principal cities in
the border States, to take measures to prepare the people of those
States to act promptly and in concert when the opportunity for seceding
should present itself. But the foremost object of this conspiracy was to
muster into Maryland and Virginia a secret military force strong enough
to seize and occupy Washington, and prevent the President-elect from
taking his seat there.
Among the most active, secretive, and persevering of these conspirators
was the accomplished scholar, soldier, and statesman whom I have
introduced to you, my readers, under the name of Colonel Eastworth.
You know already that during the greater part of the summer of that year
he was in Washington, ostensibly on a visit to his father’s friend and
his own old tutor, the retired Lutheran minister. In September he left
the city to return to his home in the South. In October he reappeared in
Washington, and took rooms in one of the best hotels most frequented by
Southern gentlemen. But while he made Washington his headquarters, he
went on frequent journeys to Charleston, Richmond, Annapolis, and other
cities. And not even to his betrothed did he ever mention the object of
these sudden journeys.
Such was his manner of life until the first of December, when, as usual
at the meeting of Congress, the city became crowded with visitors. All
the boarding-houses and hotels were full of people, and very full of
discomfort.
Colonel Eastworth, a constitutional sybarite and epicurean, escaped as
often as he could from the crowded rooms and scuffling meals of his
“best hotel” to the quiet fireside and dainty table of the Lutheran
minister’s home. Colonel Eastworth was certainly no petulant
fault-finder; yet in his close intimacy with the family of his
betrothed, he sometimes let fall half-laughing expressions that betrayed
how ludicrously uncomfortable he was when in his quarters at the “best
hotel.”
Dr. Rosenthal, in his earnest German nature, considered betrothal almost
as sacred as marriage, and looked upon the betrothed lover of his
daughter as already his own son. And so, one day, when they chanced to
meet in the Capitol library, and the colonel was unusually sarcastic on
the subject of hotel living, the minister said:
“Now, see here, Eastworth. We have a very large house, with four rooms
on a floor, and sixteen rooms in all, counting basement and attics, and
only myself and my daughter and our two servants to occupy them. Now, as
you are to pass the whole winter in Washington, what should hinder you
from coming and stopping with us?”
“Thanks! Really, you are very kind; but—circumstantial evidence to the
contrary notwithstanding—I did not mean to angle for and draw out this
invitation,” laughed the colonel.
“Don’t I know that you didn’t? But you will come?”
“It would be too great a trespass on your kindness.”
“Nonsense! not at all! You are one of us! You are my son. And really,
now, Eastworth, I want you to come.”
“A thousand thanks! I shall be too glad to do so! I accept your kindness
as frankly as it is offered.”
“That is right. And now I will go home and tell Erminie to have fires
lighted in your rooms, to air them comfortably for you against your
arrival. She will be glad, I know. But—when shall we expect you? This
evening, shall it not be?”
Colonel Eastworth hesitated, smiled, and then replied:
“This evening? Yes, if you please, if it will be convenient for you.
There is really no reason on my part for delay.”
“Nor on mine! nor on Erminie’s! nor on the servants’; I do not wish to
boast of our housekeeping, Eastworth, but I take pleasure in telling you
that we are always prepared to receive our friends. And if to-night we
should be surprised by the sudden inroad of a tribe of cousins as
numerous as a Scotch clan, it could not put us out in the least. There,
now! come when you like! Come home with me now, if you choose, and send
a messenger to the hotel to direct your servants to pack up your
property and follow you!” said the minister, cordially.
“Many thanks! but I must return to my room first. I will join you at
your tea table.”
“Very well! Then I will expect you,” said the minister, as cordially as
if he himself had received a favor.
They parted for a few hours. Colonel Eastworth, for many reasons deeply
gratified with this project, returned to his hotel to prepare for his
removal to his new quarters.
Dr. Rosenthal, pleased with the thought of giving pleasure to others,
hastened home to inform his daughter of the plan and to get ready for
his guest.
Erminie was delighted. It had come to this pass with the minister’s
gentle child—that she only seemed to live in the presence of her lover;
and to have him always under the same roof with herself seemed to be the
perfection of happiness. She could ask no more than that of earth or
heaven. And what comfort she took in preparing for his arrival! Colonel
Eastworth, like most middle-aged gentlemen of a certain class, was an
epicure, and his betrothed bride knew it. First, she went to the kitchen
and gave the cook very particular directions concerning the preparation
of certain dainty dishes sure to delight the fastidious palate of the
expected guest. Then she called the housemaid, and went to get the spare
rooms ready for his accommodation.
Dr. Rosenthal’s house was a large, square, brick building, standing in
its own grounds, which, even in winter, looked very bright and cheerful
with its many evergreens. There were long, vine-shaded porches before
every floor in front of the house, which was of three stories, with
basement and attic. There was a large hall running from front to back
through the center of each floor, and having two rooms on each side. The
basement contained the kitchen, laundry, servants’ room, and cellar. The
first floor contained, on the right hand of the broad entrance hall, the
long drawing-rooms, connected or divided at will by sliding doors; and
on the left hand, the family library in front, and the dining-room back.
The second floor contained, on the right of the hall, the minister’s
private apartments, consisting of a bedchamber and a study, and on the
left, Erminie’s bedroom and private sitting-room.
The third story comprised two suites of spare rooms, neatly furnished
and well kept, for the accommodation of visitors.
To this third floor, Erminie, attended by her handmaid, repaired. She
opened the front windows of the left suite of rooms, letting in a flood
of sunlight to the beautiful parlor, while her attendant knelt down
before the grate and began to light the fire, which was always kept
ready for kindling. Everything was in such exquisite order that there
was but little else to be done than to warm and air the rooms. But when
the fire was burning brightly, Erminie drew the sofa up one side of the
hearth, and the easy-chair up on the other, and placed a footstool and a
sofa-stand before each. Then she went down into the library, and brought
up the magazines of the month and the papers of the day, and placed them
on the center-table. And, finally, she went to the conservatory and
gathered a few choice winter roses and geraniums and placed them in a
grass-green Bohemian vase, and brought it and set it on the mantelpiece,
where the fragrance of the flowers filled the room.
Then, leaving the handmaid to prepare the adjoining bedchamber, she went
down to put a few graceful finishing touches to the arrangements of the
drawing-rooms, library, and dining parlor.
Next to the delight of a mother preparing for the visit of her son is
the delight of a girl preparing for the comfort of her betrothed lover.
Erminie shared her father’s religious belief in the sacredness and
inviolability of betrothal; and she seemed to herself little less than a
wife, making ready for the reception of her husband.
She ordered the tea table to be set in the library; and never was a tea
table more exquisitely neat and dainty in all its arrangements than this
which was prepared under the immediate supervision of the minister’s
daughter. She knew that the library was the favorite room with their
visitor as well as with her father and herself. And never before did it
look more inviting than on this evening when it was made ready to
receive their most welcome guest.
When Erminie had seen these arrangements completed, she contemplated the
effect with a smile of satisfaction, and then went to make her own
toilet.
Colonel Eastworth came in good time. Erminie’s quick ears were the first
to catch the sound of the carriage wheels as they turned into the gate
and rolled up the avenue toward the house.
Dr. Rosenthal himself went out to receive the guest and show him up to
his rooms.
Erminie, who had been so very busy in preparing for him, was now seized
with a strange timidity, which prevented her from going forth to welcome
him. But she rang for the housemaid to show Colonel Eastworth’s servant
where to carry his master’s trunk, and then she went back to the library
and sat down to wait until her father should return with her lover.
In a few minutes they came downstairs and entered the room.
Erminie half arose to receive her betrothed. She saw his look of
appreciation and approbation as he glanced around the room before his
eye fell upon herself, and he advanced toward her.
“This looks like a little paradise, after the pandemonium in which I
have lately existed. A paradise, of which my lady is the Peri,” he
murmured, in a low voice, as he lifted her hand, and, bowing over it,
pressed it to his lips.
Erminie blushed beautifully and murmured something in reply, to the
effect that she hoped he would be happy with them.
“Humph!” thought the good minister to himself—“that is all very
high-toned, I dare say; but, for my part, I had rather seen him kiss her
openly and heartily, as an honest sweetheart and betrothed husband
should! but, then, very likely he is right and I am an old-fashioned
fogy!”
“Are you ready for tea, papa, dear?” inquired Erminie, with her hand
upon the bell.
“Yes, pet—quite; and so is Eastworth. Have it in directly.”
Erminie rang, and tea was immediately served. Everything was in perfect
neatness and taste. Colonel Eastworth’s favorite delicacies were on the
table. Erminie presided over the urn. And the pretty parlor maid waited
on the table.
“A beautiful contrast to the hurly-burly of the hotel ordinary!” said
Eastworth, frankly.
“You should not be too hard upon the hotels. How is it possible they
should be any better than they are, in their present overcrowded state,”
said the charitable minister.
And then their conversation left the hotel grievance and turned upon
more agreeable subjects.
When tea was over and the service cleared away, Erminie brought out
Gustave Doré’s illustration of “Don Quixote,” and laid the volume on the
table.
It was a rare work and a new purchase; and it had cost the good minister
a round sum to import it from Paris. But Erminie had expressed a wish to
possess it; and her father never denied his beloved daughter anything
that she wanted which it was possible for him to procure. So here it lay
upon the table; at this time, perhaps, the only copy of the work to be
found in America.
Colonel Eastworth had never seen it; so Erminie had the delight of being
the first to show it to him.
There are perhaps about a hundred large plates—each plate being a
perfect work of art, to be studied separately and carefully, and with
ever-increasing appreciation and enjoyment of its truthfulness to nature
and richness in humor.
In the examination of this book the hours sped quickly away, so quickly
that ten o’clock, the regular bedtime of the quiet household, came and
passed unheeded.
But if the striking of the clock did not disturb our laughing party,
something else soon after did—the ringing of the street doorbell.
Dr. Rosenthal himself went out to see what this very late summons might
mean.
It was the penny postman of his district. And the minister started; for
this was an unheard of hour for the penny postman to present himself.
“Yes, doctor, it is I,” said the man, handing a letter to the minister.
“You see, it came by the late mail, and, being a foreign letter, I
thought it might be from your son who went out to the Indies, and so I
thought I wouldn’t keep you waiting for it until the regular delivery
to-morrow morning, but I would just step around with it to-night.”
“A thousand thanks, my friend. It is from my son! It is in his
handwriting. A thousand thanks! this is a real act of kindness, which I
shall never cease to remember,” said the minister, earnestly, as he
received the letter.
“Oh, don’t mention such a trifle, doctor. Good-night, sir,” said the
kind-hearted penny postman, taking himself off.
“Erminie, my dear, here is a letter from your brother!” exclaimed the
minister, bursting into the library with all the vehemence of a
schoolboy.
“Oh!” cried his daughter, jumping to meet him.
And for the time being Colonel Eastworth was “left out in the cold.”
“Ah! pray excuse us, sir! Have we your permission?” inquired the
minister, suddenly recollecting himself and bowing to his guest.
“Oh, certainly, certainly! Am I not one of yourselves? Pray do not mind
me,” replied Colonel Eastworth, smiling, and then turning his whole
attention to Gustave Doré, which lay still before him.
Dr. Rosenthal opened the letter; and then the father and daughter held
it between them, bent their heads over it and read it together.
It was the first letter they had received from Justin—a letter that he
had written and mailed at Porto Praya. It merely told them of the ship’s
prosperous voyage and safe arrival at Porto Praya, and of the well-being
of all the passengers.
“I hope you have had good news from my friend Justin and his party,”
said Colonel Eastworth, as they joined him at the table.
“Excellent! They have had a very prosperous voyage as far as Porto
Praya, with every prospect of a continuance of fine weather, thank
Heaven! There, you can see what he says, if you will take the trouble to
look over his letter,” said the minister, putting the paper into the
visitor’s hands.
“Thanks,” said Colonel Eastworth, with a bow. Then he drew Erminie to
his side, so that she could look over the letter again with him, and
opened it, saying, with a smile:
“I know, of course, that you cannot read this too often.”
“I believe you read my thoughts,” answered Erminie, with a beautiful
flush. “And—I do wish I could read yours as well,” she added, gravely.
“I wish you could, my dearest. You would know then, for yourself, how
perfectly I love you,” he replied, in a low whisper.
“I know that already. I never for a moment doubted your love. What,
indeed, but perfect love could draw you down to me?” murmured Erminie,
in a voice tremulous with emotion.
“God bless you in your faith, my dearest! But why, then, do you wish to
read my thoughts?” inquired Colonel Eastworth, with a sidelong glance
toward the minister, to see if he was attending to their conversation.
But no—Dr. Rosenthal was deep in the study of Gustave Doré.
“Why do you wish to read my thoughts, Erminie?” repeated her lover.
“Oh, I do not know. Sometimes when you have been here spending an
evening alone with me, you have been so moody, so grave, so thoughtful,
so absent-minded, so utterly oblivious of all around you; so utterly
oblivious even of me,” replied Erminie, sadly.
“Of you! Never, Erminie. Never, for an instant, better angel of my
life!” exclaimed Eastworth, warmly, though still in a suppressed voice.
Then he paused and reflected for a few moments, and then he said: “Sweet
girl, I am no longer a young man, and middle age brings with it trials
and responsibilities with which I do not wish to burden your gentle
heart. No, Erminie, I am no longer a young man. I remember sometimes
with pain, and with grave misgivings—ay, almost with despair—that I am
your senior for full twenty years!”
“Oh, why do you say that? I never knew and never asked myself whether
you were thirty, or forty, or fifty! But I do know that I—I——” She broke
down in the sweet confession she was trying to make, and dropped her
head and hid her face upon his shoulder.
He encircled her waist with his arm, and stooped to whisper something.
Dr. Rosenthal glanced up over the tops of his spectacles, muttering to
himself:
“Humph! so that is the way in which they read my son’s letter;” and then
he bent his head still lower over Gustave Doré, and became still more
absorbed in study.
“Then you do not love me the less because, like Othello, I am somewhat
‘declined into the vale of years’?” Eastworth asked.
He spoke so low as scarcely to break the dead silence of the room—a
silence which was so profound, that when the mantel clock began to
strike it sounded like an alarm.
“Eleven o’clock! Bless my soul! Erminie, ring for the bedroom candles!”
exclaimed the doctor, rousing himself.
Erminie obeyed. The housemaid appeared with three wax candles in three
little silver candlesticks.
“We have no gas in the bedrooms. I consider it unhealthy. Good-night,”
said the doctor, as he lighted a candle and handed it to his guest.