11. XI.
THE PACKAGE.
Crossing the Rapidan at Germanna Ford, I pushed on through
Culpepper Court-House, toward the mountains, intending to pass
the Blue Ridge at Ashby's Gap.
The strange scenes which had greeted my eyes and ears in the
Wilderness still absorbed my whole attention; and I taxed my
memory to recall every circumstance, however minute, connected
with my sojourn in the abode of the White Lady. I was
thus engaged, and rode on musing deeply, when, chancing to put
my hand in my coat pocket, it struck against something.
I drew this something out, and found that it was a package of
papers in a large envelope, securely sealed in several places, with
a crest stamped on the sealing wax—but the astonishing circumstance
was that the envelope bore no direction whatever.
All at once I saw something in one corner, in the delicate
handwriting of a woman, and deciphered the words:
“Read these when I am dead—and remember
Your own Frances.”
That was all! But that little was a whole world of wonder.
Who could this “Frances” be, and whence came this package?
All at once came the recollection of that vision of the preceding
night. I remembered the faint footfalls on the floor of my
chamber, as though delicate feet without slippers were tipping
along, and something told me that the White Lady had entered my
chamber and placed that package in my pocket. The more I reflected,
the stronger was my conviction of the fact. She had,
no doubt, experienced a confused impression of my identity or
acquaintance with the person whom she had expected on that
“certain anniversary in April” mentioned by Miss Grafton—
had entered my apartment—deposited the package in my coat
pocket for delivery to the unknown, and, before I could detect
her, had glided away, with the cunning of insanity, and disappeared.
Such was my explanation of this singular circumstance; but
another question now presented itself: What was I to do with
the package? I could not lose a whole day's journey and return
—that was impossible; and yet I did not wish to retain the
papers of the poor, deranged lady. What should I do? The
best decision to which I could come was, to take care of them
until I had an opportunity of returning or sending them back by
a safe hand; and, having thus decided upon my course, I replaced
the package in my pocket, pondering deeply upon that
strange indorsement:
“Read this when I am dead—and remember your own
Frances.”
Then her name was Frances. What was the rest?
