35. XXV.
I RETURN THE PACKAGE.
My object was to return the package which had been so mysteriously
deposited in my pocket at the house in the Wilderness.
For more than two months, now, I had constantly carried it
about with me, trusting to find some opportunity to return it,
but none had presented itself. I had heard of no one travelling
toward the Wilderness, and I knew of no post-office. The package
threatened to wear out in my pocket, when all at once
chance threw me once more with Miss Grafton, and I could rid
myself of the unpleasant responsibility.
To my request for a brief private interview she gave a prompt
assent, and in a few moments I found myself alone with the
young lady, in a plain sitting-room, lit by a single tallow candle.
“I am afraid I am keeping you from your rest, Miss Grafton,”
I said, “but I trust you will excuse me. I expect to set out for
the Valley in half an hour, and am anxious, before I go, to ask
your assistance in an affair which has not a little annoyed me.”
I then explained the origin of the package, which I drew from
my pocket, and stated my belief that it belonged to the white
lady. It had no directiou. I could not venture to open it;
would Miss Grafton return it, or, if the owner was dead, dispose
of it in such manner as seemed best to her?
At those words, “if the owner is dead,” the young lady, who
had listened with drooping head, suddenly looked up.
“I see you know all,” she said, in a low tone. “Yes, the
person we buried the other night, at that desolate spot, was my
poor cousin—your acquaintance, sir, in the Wilderness.”
“Poor thing!”
“Yes, she was truly to be pitied. Something pressed upon
her heart, and it killed her. After your visit she did not leave
her bed, and, a few days since, she died.”
Such was the dry, bare statement of the young girl. It was
plain that she did not design more confidential communication.
I was to remain in ignorance still of the meaning of the
strange scene at the Stone House. Between the impassive coolness
of Mordaunt and the gentle reserve of my companion, my
curiosity threatened to be crushed.
“And you really believe that my poor cousin placed this in
your pocket, sir,” said the young lady, pensively.
“I am sure of it, Miss Grafton.”
She sighed unconsciously, and glanced at the worn and discolored
envelope.
“ `Read these when I am dead, and think of your own Frances!'
” she murmured. “Yes, her name was Frances.”
And, as she gazed at the delicate handwriting of the dead
woman her eyes filled with tears.
“Captain Surry,” she said, passing her handkerchief over her
eyes, and speaking with calm sadness, “you became connected
with some very sorrowful persons by stopping, that night, in the
Wilderness. It is annoying—even painful—to me, to appear to
you ever surrounded with mystery—for mystery is generally
discreditable—but I cannot help it. Some day you may know
all. Now I must go on and do my duty as I can not speaking
of affairs which do not concern me.”
“You will pardon me, Miss Grafton, for asking if you design
returning to the Wilderness.”
“Never, sir.”
“Have you a protector?”
“None.”
“You pain and shock me,” was my earnest reply. “Who will
watch over and guard you in these troubled times?”
“God, sir,” was the calm reply.
I looked with pity and admiration at the beautiful girl who
spoke so calmly. There was something inexpressibly revolting
in the idea that she had no protector from Fenwick—actually no
roof over her head. Here was a delicate girl of seventeen,
without friends, relatives, or home—and yet so calm and confident,
that you felt that such confidence could not be misplaced!
I begged the young lady to accept a home at my father's
house, but she declined.
“Where was she going?”
“She did not know.”
As she spoke, a knock was heard at the door, and Mordaunt
made his appearance, pale and gloomy.
He bowed low, and said with freezing coldness:
“I shall have the honor to conduct Miss Grafton, as soon as
she has rested, to a place of safety. This house may be exposed
to the enemy's fire in the battle about to be fought, and General
Beauregard wishes Miss Grafton to proceed to the rear.”
What could have induced Mordaunt, the cynical woman-hater,
to accept such a commission? I vainly puzzled my mind
to solve the question.
Miss Grafton rose. Her perfect calmness had not altered in
the least.
“I do not feel at all sleepy, sir,” she said, “and am ready to
set out whenever you wish.”
“I will, then, order Miss Grafton's horse,” was Mordaunt's
reply in the same cold tone; and with another inclination he
left the apartment.
I took advantage of his absence to utter a few parting words.
“Your fate is a singular one,” I said, “to be thus tossed to
and fro in these dangerous times. Where are you going?”
“I do not know,” was her calm reply.
“And yet you are not disquieted?”
“Why should I be, sir?”
“You do not know Captain Mordaunt—you do not know
whither he is about to conduct you—and yet you are perfectly
composed!” I said, with a sort of admiration. “Allow me to
say, Miss Grafton, that your equanimity is something wonderful.”
She looked at me with her large, thoughtful eyes for an
instant, and replied with unmoved calmness:
“God will watch over me, and I shall find friends.”
I could say no more. In presence of this supreme resignation
and reliance upon a higher power than man's, I stood
abashed.
Mordaunt entered.
“Miss Grafton's horse is at the door.”
“I am ready, sir.”
“I trust Miss Grafton will not be alarmed by the darkness,”
he said with grim courtesy.
“By the darkness, sir?” she said.
“It is heavier than before, madam.”
“I rode by myself all night,” she replied simply.
“Miss Grafton may rely upon my exertions to make her ride
as agreeable as possible,” came from Mordaunt in the same cold
tone.
“I am sure of it, sir,” was her calm reply, as she gave him her
hand with an air of confiding simplicity which struck me.
Something like a slight color came to the swarthy cheeks of
Mordaunt as he took it and assisted her to mount at the door.
He then got into the saddle and took his place at her side.
I exchanged a grasp of the hand with him, and turning to
Miss Grafton:
“You will not forget me, I hope, or cease to remember me as
your friend,” I said.
“I shall gladly think of you as such,” was her reply, with a
courteous little inclination of her head. And leaning down, she
said in a low tone, as her horse moved:
“I think I have discovered for whom the package of papers
was intended.”
A glance of the large blue eyes, which I long remembered—
a pressure of the small ungloved hand—and Violet Grafton
disappeared with her escort in the darkness.
