LETTERS.
Months had passed since Grantley Mellen's departure for California; the
winter had gone, the summer faded, and though his absence had been
prolonged almost two years, there was little hope of his speedy return.
The business upon which he had gone out was not yet settled, and however
great his anxiety to meet his family, he would not endanger his worldly
interests so vitally as he would have done by any neglect or reckless
inattention in that affair.
Since the night of that unpleasant scene in the hall at Piney Cove,
Elsie Mellen had been at home so irregularly that all intimate relations
had died out between her and her sister-in-law. Some dark thought seemed
to possess the young girl, since the night of that strange adventure;
and, though the subject was never mentioned between her and Elizabeth,
Elsie's demeanor towards her brother's wife was one of cold, almost
hateful distrust, while Elizabeth grew more pensively sad each day, and
seemed to shrink from any explanation with painful sensitiveness.
At last Elsie almost entirely absented herself from the house. The very
premises seemed to have become hateful to her. Without deigning to
consult Elizabeth, she had been visiting about among her former
schoolmates, making Mrs. Harrington's house her headquarters. This was
all the announcement of her movements that she chose to make to the
woman who had been left her guardian.
How this fair, thoughtless girl lost all respect for her brother's wife
so completely that she refused to remain accountable to her for
anything, no one could tell, for she never mentioned the affair of that
night to her nearest friend. It evidently worked in her heart, but never
found utterance.
So the winter wore away drearily enough at Piney Cove; for with all her
waywardness, Elsie had been like a sunbeam in the house; and Elizabeth
pined in her absence till the dark circles widened under her eyes, and
her voice always had a sound of pain in it. But with the most sorrowful,
time moves on, and even grief cannot retain one phase of mournfulness
for ever.
The second spring began to scatter a little brightness about the old
house, and in this fresh outbloom of nature Elizabeth found some sources
of enjoyment. Since her virtual separation from Elsie she had received
no company, but lived in utter seclusion. Letters from her husband came
regularly, but her replies were studied, and written with restraint. She
never folded one of these missives without tears in her eyes, and when
his letters spoke of coming home, she would ponder over the writing with
a look of strange dread in her face.
One lovely spring morning Elizabeth Mellen was alone in that quiet old
mansion. Elsie had not been home for months, and only brief notes
announcing some change of place, or anticipated movements, had warned
Elizabeth of her mode of existence. These notes were cold as ice, and
the young wife always shivered with dread when she opened them.
It might have been a package of these letters that she had been
reviewing. She was alone in the library; quite alone, of course, but the
repose and silence about her brought no rest to her soul. Her whole
appearance was in strange contrast to the quiet of the scene; her face
so changed by the thoughts which kept her company, and forced themselves
upon her solitude, that it hardly seemed the same.
She walked up and down the room in nervous haste, her head bent, her
eyes looking straight before her, full of wild bewilderment which
follows an effort at reflection when the mind is in a fever of unrest.
Sometimes she stopped before the table, on which lay a package of open
letters; she would glance at them with a shudder of horror, wringing her
hands passionately together at the time, and uttering low moans which
sounded scarcely human in their smothered intensity.
Then she would glance towards the mantel, upon which lay a letter with
the seal still unbroken, though it had reached her early that morning.
It was from her husband, and she had not yet dared to read its contents!
She had been thus for hours, walking to and fro, sometimes sweeping the
package on the table away, as if unable longer to endure it before her
eyes, only an instant after to recover it as if there were danger in
allowing it out of her sight. Then she would take up her husband's
letter and attempt to open it, but each time her courage failed, and she
would lay it down, while that sickening trouble at her heart sent a new
pallor across her face, and left her trembling and weak, like a person
just risen from a sick bed.
It was growing late in the afternoon; the sunlight played in at the
windows, and cast a pleasant glow through the room; but the glad beams
only made her shiver, as if they had been human witnesses that might
betray her fear and misery.
At last she took up the package, resolved to put it resolutely away
where she could no longer look at it; as she raised it a miniature fell
from among the papers, and struck the floor with a ringing sound. She
snatched it up quickly, crushed the whole into a drawer, locked it and
put the key in her bosom.
Then, with a sudden struggle she started forward to the mantel, caught
up her husband's letter, and began to read. A sharp cry broke from her
lips; she dropped slowly to her knees, and went on reading in that
attitude, as if it were the only one in which she could venture to
glance at those kindly words:
"Not coming quite yet," she gasped at length; "thank God, not yet--not
yet."
She allowed the letter to drop from her hand, and for a few moments gave
herself completely up to the horrible agitation which consumed her.
It would have been a piteous sight to the coldest or most injured heart
to have seen that beautiful woman crouched on the floor, in the
extremity of her anguish, writhing to and fro, and moaning in mortal
agony, which could find no relief in tears.
She remained thus for a long time; at last some sudden thought appeared
to strike her, which brought with it an absolute necessity for
self-control and immediate action.
She rose to her feet, muttering:
"He will be here again soon; he must not find me like this!"
She walked to the mirror, arranged her disordered dress and hair, and
stood gazing at her own features in a sort of wondering pity; they were
so death-like and contracted, with suffering that she felt almost as if
looking into the face of a stranger.
At length she caught up a cloak which lay on the sofa, wrapped herself
in it and went out of the house.
She took her way through the woods, walking rapidly, quite regardless
that the moisture from the damp earth was penetrating her thin shoes,
not feeling the keenness of the wind, which was growing chill with the
approach of evening.
The expression of her face changed; she was deadly pale still, but a
look of resolution had settled over her features, and a naturally strong
will had begun to assert itself.
Beyond the shrubbery that thick grove of evergreens extended to the very
shore, and into their shadow Elizabeth walked with a determined step.
Evidently waiting for some one she paced up and down among the trees,
the dry leaves rustling under her tread and making her start, as if she
feared being surprised in that solitary spot by some curious wanderer.
It was growing almost twilight, but still she kept up that dreary
promenade, struggling bravely with herself, and trying to restrain the
agonizing thoughts which threatened to overwhelm her forced composure.
"He will not come," she muttered; "I must wait--wait--he will not come
to-day."
She shuddered at the very sound of her own voice, but it seemed to have
disturbed some one else; for a step sounded on the grass, and a man came
out from the deeper recesses of the grove, and paused for a moment,
glancing on either side as if uncertain which path to pursue.
It was Mr. North.