SUCCESS IN THE CHASE.
Alberta Goldsborough had been a pupil in the convent school for somewhat
more than four months. In all that time she had not once heard from her
lover. She bore her trial with great stoicism, disdaining to complain,
and doing all that was required of her with quiet indifference. She made
no friends either among the teachers or the pupils. She was, as the
little girl described her to be, proud and still. She felt sure that
some time or other Vittorio would, with his Italian craft, succeed in
discovering her retreat and effecting her deliverance. And she calmly
awaited the time.
Julie McKnight, the little girl whom Vittorio had intrusted with the
letter to his ladylove, watched all the afternoon for an opportunity of
delivering it to Miss Goldsborough. Chance favored her. She was sent by
her class mistress into one of the small music-rooms to practice her
lesson on the piano. As she passed on the long hall, flanked on each
side by a row of such rooms, she saw the door of one of them open and
Miss Goldsborough seated at the piano. The child cast a hurried look up
and down the hall, and, seeing no one near, she slipped in and thrust
the letter into Alberta’s hands, whispering eagerly:
“He gave it to me outside. You are to answer it, please, and give me the
answer to take to him. You had better make haste, please, and write it
and give it to me before we have to go down in the classrooms again. I
am in the music-room, number seven.”
“Thanks, my dear——” began Alberta; but the little girl did not wait to
hear thanks. She was off like an arrow.
Miss Goldsborough opened her letter and read:
MY OWN AND ONLY LOVE:—I have but a few minutes to write to you in; if
I would seize the earliest opportunity of getting this letter into
your hands I must have it ready in a quarter of an hour. After long
months of unremitting and unavailing search, I have but just learned
the place of your incarceration. Oh, my beloved, my adored, my
worshiped queen, you know that I would die to deliver you. Events are
on the wing, sweet love, that may separate us—‘it may be for years, or
it may be forever’—unless we meet and unite our destinies immediately.
I have neither time nor opportunity to explain farther. Let it suffice
for me to say that I will be on the watch outside the north front of
the building every evening from six o’clock p. m. to six a. m. I will
have a carriage and horses waiting near, but out of sight. Dear love!
if you can effect your escape from the inside of those jealous walls I
will secure your safety on the outside. Or if you will give me a hint
as to how I can further aid your deliverance, I will risk my life—nay,
more—my eternal salvation to serve you. And always, for time and for
eternity, I devote myself body and soul to your service.
VITTORIO.
Alberta read this with flushed cheeks and beaming eyes. Before she had
finished it her plan was formed. Ever since she had been in the convent
all the senses and faculties of her mind and body had been on the alert
to discover the best means of escape. And she knew them and she might
have availed herself of them long before, but for this one
consideration—she was ignorant of the whereabouts of her lover, and she
was destitute of any other refuge. Out of the convent, where could she
have found Vittorio, or where could she have gone for shelter? These
unanswered questions held her captive as bolts and bars could never have
done.
But now, if she should make her escape, Vittorio would be outside
waiting to receive her. And her resolution was taken immediately.
She had no proper writing materials at hand. But she took an end of a
pencil from her pocket and tore the blank page from Vittorio’s letter
and wrote her answer. It was very pithy:
Be at your post to-night and wait till you see me.
She turned his envelope inside out and put her answer into it, and took
it into the little music-room where the child, Julia McKnight, was
practicing.
“You will give this to the gentleman as you go home,” she said, handing
the letter to the little girl.
“Oh, yes, that I will, Miss Goldsborough. I am so glad you wrote the
answer to his letter. He will be delighted to get it,” replied little
Julia, hiding the letter in her bosom.
These two could not remain long together. Their interview was altogether
against the rules of the school, where the elder and the younger pupils
were not allowed to associate, except in the presence of their teachers.
Now, as soon as the affair that had brought them together was thus far
concluded, they separated, the cold Alberta warming with gratitude
enough to stoop and kiss her ardent little friend before leaving her.
Alberta returned to her own room. And when the inspecting sister came
around she found the two pupils diligently practicing at their
respective pianos.
When the hours for study were over for that afternoon, and the day
pupils were dismissed, little Julia hurried away to deliver the letter
to its destination.
Alberta, in furtherance of her plan of escape, went to the large
apartment known as the recreation-room, where the boarding pupils always
spent their play time in bad weather. The windows on one side of this
apartment overlooked the north road, where she had warned Vittorio to be
upon his post. When she entered this room she found many of her
schoolmates assembled, and the question, “What shall we play?” eagerly
discussed among them.
“I will tell you,” said Alberta.
“What? what?” demanded the girls, pressing around her in much surprise
that the still, proud Miss Goldsborough should move in any play.
“Hide and seek. It is a fine, exhilarating play for a cold winter
afternoon,” said Alberta.
“Yes, that will be just the thing,” replied the girls.
To the ever-increasing astonishment of her companions, Miss Goldsborough
engaged eagerly in the play, but not successfully at first, for she
caught no one. At length, however, when the afternoon deepened into
night, and the gas was lighted, and the snow was falling very fast,
Alberta succeeded in finding the hider. Then it was her turn to hide.
“Now, mind,” she said, addressing her companions, “you must act fairly,
and go quite out of sight, and refrain from watching me. I mean to hide
where none of you have hidden before. You will have great difficulty in
finding me, but I assure you it will be good fun when you do find me.
Don’t come back until I call ‘Whoop!’”
“No, no, we won’t, Alberta!” exclaimed several of her companions in a
breath.
And they all hurried out into the passage.
Alberta stole behind them, and not only closed the door upon them, but
silently slipped the bolt. Then she went to the only other door of the
room, which was at the opposite end, and she drew the key from the other
side and locked it fast. Having thus secured the room, she went to the
north windows. The green linen blinds were drawn down, and the outside
shutters were closed. She stopped at a window at the extreme end of the
row, and the most out of the range of vision of any one who might, at a
later hour, force an entrance into the room, and she lifted the blind,
but did not draw it up, and she hoisted the window and opened the
shutters. It was dark as pitch outside, and snowing fast; it was a
terrible night to take the road in. But what will not a self-willed
girl, bent upon her own destruction, venture? She leaned far out of the
window and peered into the darkness, but she could see nothing except
the falling snow.
Then she ventured to call softly:
“Vittorio! Vittorio!”
There was no response. After a minute she called again, but with no
better success. She paused another minute, and then called for a third
time:
“Vittorio!”
“I am here, my love—I am here!” answered a hushed and vehement voice
below the window.
“I have called you three times,” she said.
“I must have been at the other end of my beat. I have been pacing the
whole length of this building from one end to the other, and looking up
to those windows—oh, how longingly!”
“Is all clear below this?”
“Yes, dear love.”
“Then wait there. I will be with you in a moment,” she said, and she
withdrew from the window.
Her schoolmates, who had grown impatient at her long delay in hiding,
were now clamoring for admittance at the closed door, which, however,
they did not know was fastened.
“Why don’t you ‘whoop’ and let us in? Haven’t you hid yourself yet?”
inquired one and another.
“No,” answered Alberta, going up to the door—“not quite yet; I shall in
a minute. Don’t you be in such a hurry, and don’t come in until I
whoop.”
“Make haste, then,” exclaimed several of the girls in a breath; “it is
cold out here.”
“I will,” said Alberta. And she went to the peg where her own everyday
bonnet and shawl hung, and she took them down and put them on. Next she
turned off the gas, leaving the room dark.
Then she went to the window, pushed it up as high as it would go, got
upon the sill, letting the blind drop behind her to hide her means of
exit, and took a clear leap down to the sidewalk below. It was a fall of
about eight feet, and she came down with a severe shock but with whole
bones.
“My own! my own! are you hurt?” exclaimed her lover, in the extremity of
anxiety, as he picked her up.
“I—let me recover myself! No, I am not hurt,” answered Alberta,
confusedly.
“The carriage is round the corner. Let me lift you and bear you to it.”
“No, I can walk very well now, if you will give me the support of your
arm,” answered Miss Goldsborough.
He drew her hand through his arm, and carefully conducted her to the
waiting carriage.
How long her school companions remained outside the door of the
recreation room, clamoring to come in; or when their patience became
exhausted; or how they affected an entrance; or whether they gave the
alarm; or who first discovered her flight, Alberta never knew and never
cared.
Her lover placed her in a carriage and drove her immediately to the
dwelling of a clergyman, where, with the special license Vittorio had
taken care to provide, they were married; for in the District of
Columbia there is no law to prevent a minor marrying, without the
consent of parents or guardians, at any hour.
From the house of the officiating clergyman they went to a hotel, where
they remained until the next morning, when they took the boat to
Richmond.
You see Vittorio Corsoni, with all his faults, did not shrink from
facing his father-in-law. In the Italian’s creed, love was law, and in
his inmost soul he was unconscious of having done a great wrong.
But there was no chance of Vittorio’s meeting Mr. Goldsborough in
Richmond just then. The very boat upon which the newly-married pair
embarked, and which had reached the Washington wharf late on the evening
before, had brought up Alberta’s father on a visit to herself. As it was
too late for him to see his daughter that night, and as the hotels were
almost uncomfortably crowded, the old gentleman decided to quarter
himself upon his good friend, the retired Lutheran minister.
It seemed that Erminie had been booked for surprises that day, and that
the tribe of cousins or friends as numerous as a Scotch clan, of which
her father had jestingly spoken, were really beginning to pour in. She
had scarcely curtsied Vittorio Corsoni out, before a cab rolled up to
the door and her two uncles, Hans and Friedrich Rosenthal, got out of
it.
Hans had suddenly come from Germany the day before, and they had both
come on to see their brother Ernest, the retired Lutheran minister.
Erminie welcomed them with the warmest affection, and showed them into a
spare room, where she hastened to have a fire lighted, and to make them
comfortable; and then she dispatched Catharine to the Congress Library
to look for her father and tell him of the arrival of his brothers, so
that he might hurry home. The old Lutheran minister came with the
messenger, his face beaming with joy, and embraced his brothers warmly
in his earnest German manner.
Colonel Eastworth did not appear until the six o’clock dinner, when he
was introduced to the strangers. He was, as often now, moody and
preoccupied; but even he could not long resist the influence of that
cordial spirit of love which seemed to pervade the Lutheran minister’s
family.
It was some time after they had had tea in the library, and had gone
into the drawing-room, and it was while Erminie, her uncles and her
lover were at the piano, singing some of the finest selections from the
German operas, that the doorbell rang and Mr. Goldsborough was
announced.
Old Dr. Rosenthal started up with the agility of youth to welcome his
friend.
Erminie stopped singing and playing, and turned around with a frightened
look. Her first impression, that came quick as lightning at the sight of
Mr. Goldsborough, was that he had come to Washington in fierce pursuit
of Vittorio Corsoni; but she arose to receive her father’s guest with
all the calmness and courtesy she could command.
Mr. Goldsborough’s first words somewhat allayed her fears.
“You look surprised and even shocked to see me here so unexpectedly, at
this late hour, my dear young lady; but you will be pleased to learn
that I have come to withdraw your friend, my daughter Alberta, from her
convent school,” said Mr. Goldsborough, cordially shaking her hand.
“I am very glad to see you at any hour,” replied Erminie, smiling.
“Thanks! The boat was behind time in getting in, or I should not have
been so unseasonable in my appearance,” added Mr. Goldsborough.
“You are not unseasonable at all, my old friend. It is not yet eleven
o’clock. And we had not begun to think of retiring. For, you see, here
are my two brothers, just arrived, and one come all the way from
Germany! Let me present them to you: Mr. Hans Rosenthal, Mr. Friedrich
Rosenthal—Mr. Goldsborough.”
The Virginia gentleman bowed with old-fashioned ceremoniousness as the
simple-hearted German merchants were introduced. And then he sat down
and became one of the party.
“Have you supped?” hospitably inquired the young mistress of the house.
“Yes, my dear, on the boat. Give yourself no trouble,” said Mr.
Goldsborough, with a bow.
“I am very glad that you are going to take my favorite, Alberta, out of
the convent,” said the doctor.
“Yes! my doing so before the half-yearly term has expired may seem very
capricious; but, in fact, it is not so. There are grave reasons why all
we Virginians should gather all the scattered members of our families
under our own State roofs. The progress of public affairs makes it
imperative that I should take my daughter home, or risk the being
separated from her for a long and indefinite period. I believe that I am
speaking among friends and sympathizers here—the presence of Colonel
Eastworth in this house, indeed, assures me that I am. And I know, also,
that my esteemed host, although not a native of the country, has been a
citizen of the South for many years. I may, therefore, say that Virginia
will certainly secede from the United States, and that she is now arming
herself in defense of her right to do so.”
No one answered for a while. But the speaker caught the eye of Colonel
Eastworth, who was looking at him with a steady and meaning gaze, that
was intended to convey the impression that the subject must not be
pursued, and must never be resumed in that house.
At length, after a thoughtful pause, Dr. Rosenthal spoke; but he spoke
rather wide of the mark; for though nothing could have been plainer than
the words used by Mr. Goldsborough, and although Dr. Rosenthal
understood the meaning of those words, yet he strangely misunderstood
the position assumed by the speaker. He honestly supposed that the
Virginian gentleman, in speaking of secession, spoke of it only as
deprecating its evils. This was very apparent in his answer:
“You say that Virginia will certainly secede from the United States, and
that she is even now arming herself in defense of her right to do so!
Nonsense, Goldsborough! Don’t alarm yourself! There is, certainly, an
epidemical madness in the air, and a few leading statesmen have caught
it. South Carolina has gone, it is true! She took the malady in its most
malignant form. Let us hope that she will soon get well and come back.
But Virginia secede! The gallant Old Dominion go! Never, Goldsborough!
Don’t distrust your native State, my friend! She is as loyal to the
Union as you are, or as I am! And, Heaven knows, I love this country,
which has fostered me for forty years—I love her as truly and as deeply
as if I had been born her son! And should this madness of secession
become general, and should she have a civil war forced upon her, I, with
my three score years, will take up arms in her defense as promptly as
you, Goldsborough, or as Eastworth, or any other loyal and gallant son
of her soil would do!”
What a speech was this for the brave and true-hearted old man to make to
a couple of conscientious, but unsuspected secessionists, who were his
honored guests.
Neither of them answered a word; they found that they had mistaken their
man; for this was really the first definition of his position that the
Lutheran minister had ever thought it worth while to make; and Eastworth
had supposed him to be indifferent on the subject; and Goldsborough,
seeing one of the strongest spirits of secession an inmate of his house,
had really believed him to be one of that party. They were silent from
surprise.
But Erminie was a picture! She turned upon her father, beaming with
love, admiration and enthusiasm as she exclaimed:
“Right, my dear father! I love to hear you speak so. And I myself would
strap the sword to your side and place the musket in your hand, and
follow you to the field, if you would let me, to dress your wounds if
you should be hurt, and nurse you if you be sick; and to risk my life
with yours and die with you, if need should be!”
“There, there, my darling; I know you are a brave and good girl! and
there are millions of your countrywomen like you! for you are a native
American citizen, my Minie, although I am not,” said the Lutheran
minister, patting his daughter on the head. “But there will be no
necessity, let us hope, for all this self-devotion! The clouds of
secession gather rather thickly and darkly just now, but they will be
dispelled—they will be dispelled,” he added, walking away to the
fireplace.
Colonel Eastworth took the vacant place beside Erminie, and stooped and
whispered very low:
“And what will become of me, my Minie, when you shall follow your father
to the field? Where shall I be, and who will care for me?”
“You will be with my father, and I will care for you both! Surely you
will stand shoulder to shoulder with my father, in defense of our
beloved country! And as surely I shall be near to minister to you both!”
answered Erminie, looking up with surprise.
As the hour was late, the party now separated and retired to their
respective rooms.
The last thought of Colonel Eastworth, in sinking to sleep, was:
“It will come to this—that my beloved Minie must choose between her
loyalty and her lover—and her lover will be quite sure to triumph!”