CHAPTER XVII.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 forcestrong 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 givingpleasure 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 orderthat 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 preventedher 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, Erminiebrought 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 doubtedyour 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 silenceof 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.