THE HIDDEN PACKAGE.
Herman Ross became a constant visitor at the Laurence cottage after his
sister had called there. Sometimes he spent hours together in the little
parlor, instructing Ruth in her art, and fairly opening a new world to
the genius that burned within her. With all her practice she had gone
astray in many things, and struggled for hours to produce an effect
which he taught her to accomplish with a few dexterous touches of the
pencil. His patience seemed inexhaustible; his kindness brought tears
into her eyes whenever she thought of it. In a few days she had learned
more than blind, unaided practice had done for her in years.
Sometimes Ross saw Eva, but not often, for she came home from her duties
late in the afternoon, and his visits seldom lasted till then; but he
spoke of her frequently, and sometimes questioned Ruth about her, in a
cautious way, as if the mention of her name brought some mental
disturbance with it.
“What, Eva older than I am? Dear, no!—far from it! I am nearly four
years the elder,” she said, one day, in answer to his question. “It is
because she is so tall and well-formed that you think so; but she is
only nineteen, this month, while I am twenty-two.”
“Only nineteen! Just nineteen?”
“Just nineteen, this month!”
“Tell me. Can you remember when she was born?” inquired Ross, more
quickly than he usually spoke.
“I can remember when she was a baby; the very first time I saw her was
in father’s arms, coming through that door.”
“And you remember nothing before that?”
“No! How should I?”
“Nothing whatever—no disturbance in the house; no—”
“Oh, yes! I remember very well how surprised mother seemed, and how she
scolded about something. I suppose it was because father took the baby
out.”
“Strange!” muttered Ross.
That moment Mrs. Laurence came into the room.
“You here, Mr. Ross?” she said, in her cold, half-indifferent fashion.
“Yes, madam. As an old friend of your husband’s, I have taken the
liberty of coming often, hoping to benefit his child a little.”
Mrs. Laurence looked at him, keenly. She was naturally a suspicious
woman, and intimate association with a person connected with the police
had not improved her faith in human nature. She had seen this man
regarding Eva with looks that troubled her, and naturally supposed that
his extreme kindness to Ruth had some reference to the more beautiful
daughter.
“Mr. Ross,” she said, with curt honesty, “I don’t remember my husband
having a friend in the world that I didn’t know something about; but so
far as I can remember, he never mentioned the name of Ross to me in his
life.”
“The name of Ross!” cried the man, half starting from his chair. “No
wonder! what an idiot I was to forget! But it is so long since I have
known my other name. My dear madam, have you never heard your husband
speak of Herman Ross Baker?”
This name seemed to strike Mrs. Laurence dumb. She stood for half a
minute, gazing at the man, as if a ghost had started up before her. The
little color natural to her face died out. Even her lips grew white.
“Herman Ross Baker,” she repeated. “And are you that man?”
“That is my name, Mrs. Laurence; and the only one your husband ever knew
me by. I am an artist, and in other countries chose to call myself Ross,
leaving the rest of the name so long out of use that I almost forget it
myself. Now, I hope that we are not altogether strangers, by name at
least.”
Mrs. Laurence dropped into a chair, and clasped both hands in her lap.
“So, you are that man!”
There was a look of absolute terror in the woman’s face. She sat staring
at Ross, with weird curiosity, as if he had been a ghost.
“I never thought you would come—never wanted you to come,” she said, at
last, wringing her hands with a show of passion of which her
countenance, in its set expression gave little sign; “but when the dead
order, the living have only to obey. That which he left must be given,
though it breaks us all up and turns the house into a tomb.”
The woman rose from her seat, and began to walk the floor, while Ross
and her daughter sat regarding these movements with intense surprise.
“What do you mean, mother—of what are you speaking? Mr. Ross cannot
understand,” said Ruth, arising with pain from her cushions.
Mrs. Laurence paused in her walk, and stood for a moment gazing dumbly
on the sweet, pale face turned so anxiously upon her. Then she resumed
action again, and paced back and forth, as before, muttering to herself.
At last, she came up to the couch, and laying her hand on Ruth’s
shoulder, bade her sit up a little, while she searched for something
that must be found.
Ruth left the couch, and sank into a Boston rocking-chair, which Mr.
Ross drew forward for her use.
Then Mrs. Laurence flung the cushions to the floor, and bringing a pair
of scissors from a work-basket, began to rip the mattress, at one end,
and thrusting her hand into the opening, she drew forth a sealed
envelope.
“That is the name,” she said, reading the address over. “Herman Ross
Baker. My husband did know you. When he wrote this I was told to give it
into your hands, and no other, should you come back to this country,
after he was dead, which I am sure he did not expect. Take it, sir; and
remember he was kind to you and yours.”
Ross took the package, and looked wistfully at the writing. He was
evidently taken by surprise, and his hand shook with the intense desire
that possessed him to tear the envelope and seize upon its secret at
once.
“Not here! Read it at home!” said Mrs. Laurence, who saw his hands
tremble with eagerness. “It may be a thing to read alone, with fasting
and prayer. Who knows? Take it away, and remember how true he was—how
good. Ruth, you are growing pale; let me lift you back to the couch. No,
sir; it is not needed—one is enough. There, now; don’t be troubled,
child. No need of that! You see how weak she is, Mr. Ross; so have some
compassion on us all. You will understand me, by-and-by.”
“If compassion could make you happy, there would be no sorrow under this
roof,” answered Ross, with a ringing sweetness in his voice, that
brought tears to the eyes of Ruth Laurence. “God knows, I will never
bring trouble here.”
Ruth reached out her hand. “You have brought nothing but good to us,”
she said, gently. “We all know that.”
Ross took the pale, little hand in his, dropped it softly to the couch
again, and took his leave, with the feeling of a man who carries destiny
in his hand.
A short walk brought Ross to his sister’s dwelling. He entered the front
door, strode across the tesselated hall, and mounting the stairs,
carpeted so thickly that his footsteps seemed smothered in wood-moss,
entered a chamber in the topmost story, which had been fitted up as a
studio. With a hand that still quivered with emotion, he bolted the
door, and sat down, with the envelope in his hand, overcome with that
strange dread which an unbroken seal often brings upon the possessor.
Eager as his curiosity had been, he was literally afraid to break the
seal. What did it lock in? Why should the man, so long dead, write to
him? Was the vague, wild idea, which had haunted him for weeks, a
reality?
With these questions in his brain, he tore the envelope, took from it
some closely-written pages, and began to read.