Little Jessie Albemarle always had the door-bell to answer, even if
she was making beds in the top story of the house, when she heard
it, for Miss Scrimp considered it beneath her dignity to go to the
door when she was able to keep a cook and a house-servant. Moreover,
she was seldom dressed for appearance at the door except when ready
to go to market or the time arrived when she could watch her hungry
boarders from the accustomed seat at the head of the long table in her
dining-room.
And Jessie heard a sharp, sudden ring thrice repeated, only a week
later than when she had answered the postman’s ring before for Hattie
Butler’s California letter, and she knew by the peculiar ring who was
there. She bounded down stairs two or three steps at a jump, and passed
Miss Scrimp on the landing at the head of the first stairs where she
usually posted herself to listen when any one came to the door.
The postman handed her a letter, and Jessie, at a glance, saw that it
was for Miss Hattie Butler--was postmarked in California and sealed
with red wax with that strange device--two hearts pierced with an arrow.
Scarcely was the door shut when Miss Scrimp screamed out, in her usual
shrill tone:
“You, Jess! who is that letter for?”
“Miss Hattie Butler, ma’am,” said Jess, meekly. “Sha’n’t I keep it and
give it to her when she comes?”
“No, bring it here this minute!”
Jess went slowly up stairs, and reluctantly handed the letter over to
her mistress. She had given her letters before, which she knew never
reached those to whom they were directed. And the poor little servant
loved Hattie Butler, and could not bear that she should be wronged.
Miss Scrimp looked at her letter.
“It’s from Californy again,” she muttered. “There’s somethin’ strange
in so many letters comin’ to that gal from Californy.” Then she turned
to Jessie, and fixing, if she could fix, those cross-eyes on her, she
said, in a whisper, a harsh, fierce whisper: “If you just breathe one
whisper to a living soul about this letter a-comin’ here, I’ll pull the
very ears off your frowsy head. I’m afeared some one is a-tryin’ to
delude that sweet young cretur away, and I’m not a-goin’ to sit still
and see it. No, it’s my Christian duty to take care of her, and I’m
goin’ to do it. I’ll see who it is a-writin’ to her, and what he says.”
“Why, sure, ma’am, you wouldn’t keep Miss Hattie’s own letter from
her?” asked Jessie, with unusual boldness.
“Yes, for her own good, I would. And now, mind you, don’t speak it to a
living soul. If you do, I’ll whip you till you can’t squeal!”
Miss Scrimp was one who never forgot such a promise, as poor Jessie
knew to her sorrow. So she went back up stairs to her work, and Miss
Scrimp darted into her own room with that letter.
She sat down near the dingy window, and looked at it, back and front,
and examined it in every way to see if it was not possible to open it
without breaking the seal.
But this could not be done. The seal must be broken, or the end of the
envelope cut. Miss Scrimp hesitated before acting on either of these
ideas. She had heard of a penalty attached to the crime of opening
another person’s letter.
She didn’t care a pin for the crime, but she did care for the penalty.
She was like the penitent thief. He was sorry to be caught stealing.
“I must know what is in this letter!” she muttered. “I can’t understand
that girl. And she will never tell me anything. There’s a mystery about
her, and for the life of me I can’t get at the bottom of it. But I
will--I will, if I die for it. Jess will never dare tell her about this
letter. I’d skin her alive if she did. I’ll open it, and know who she
has got in Californy, and what he wants.”
With a desperate twitch she ran her dirty thumb-nail under the crease
of the envelope, near the end of the letter, tore it open, and took out
a half sheet of note-paper.
It had neither date nor place of dating at its head. The letter was
composed of but two lines. She read them over aloud:
“My darling, every pledge is kept. Wealth is gained. Let me come to
you!”
There was no signature--not a clew. The handwriting was elegant, but
even the sex of the writer could not be determined by that.
If ever a woman was madly disappointed, that woman was Miss Scrimp.
Literally she had run all her risk for nothing. And her curiosity now
was excited a thousandfold. What pledges had been kept by the one who
dare call Hattie Butler darling? Wealth had been gained, but whose was
it? That the writer wanted to come to Hattie was certain. But who was
that writer? Miss Scrimp would have given her false hair and teeth to
know. Yes, or she would have fed her boarders on turkey for a week if
she could have gotten old and tough ones at half price.
If she had only known who to write to, or even to telegraph to,
an answer would have gone back, signed: “Come along soon as you
can--Hattie Butler.”
But Hattie would not have known it. Miss Scrimp, mean as she was, would
have spent five dollars for telegraphing in a moment if she could by
that have got to the bottom of the mystery which so terribly worried
her.
Little did she dream, while in this turmoil of disappointment, that
a pair of gleeful eyes were fairly dancing over her too evident
annoyance; for Jessie Albemarle, after going noisily up stairs, as if
to her work, had crept down as slyly as a mouse, and peeping through
the key-hole, had been a witness to the opening of the letter.
And when she saw Miss Scrimp put the letter under a book on a shelf
near her bed, the brave little friend of Hattie Butler determined that,
even though the seal was broken, the letter should reach its proper
owner.
“She’ll go down to cut their slices of bread and meat for supper, and
then I’ll get it,” said Jessie to herself. “She will never let me cut
the bread or meat for fear I’ll cut too thick, or maybe eat a bite or
two while I’m cutting ’em. But Miss Hattie is so good to me that I will
help her, and she shall have her letter whether I get whipped for it or
not.”
And the little heroine went back to her work as silently as she had
left it, with her little plan fully arranged.
And Miss Scrimp, having hidden the letter, was pondering in perplexity
over its meaning. She had been often exercised over the secrets of her
boarders, but never so badly as now.