Chapter VII: About Alberta

The look, the air that frets thy sight
May be a token that below
The soul has closed in deadly fight
With some infernal fiery foe,
Whose glances would scorch thy smiling grace,
And cast the shuddering on thy face!—A. A. PROCTOR.

Erminie, in the midst of all her distress about Alberta, felt also a growing anxiety concerning Britomarte.

Another day was passing, and Miss Conyers had not made her appearance at the parsonage.

Erminie feared that she was ill, and longed to go to her boarding-house to see her, but dared not to leave home while so doubtful a guest as the guerrilla’s wife was under her roof, and while she was looking for the arrival of her pastor to consult with him as to what should be done in the case of Alberta.

It is true that she might have sent a messenger to inquire after Britomarte, but in the momentary expectation of Dr. Sales’ call, she hoped to get the interview over in time to visit her friend in person. She also hoped that Britomarte herself might make her appearance.

So she waited, and the day wore on to the dinner hour. And she now began to think that Alberta was sleeping very long—unusually long, even for an exhausted traveller. It was more than four hours since she had lain down.

Erminie stole softly up to her chamber, noiselessly opened the door and peeped in.

The room was quiet and shaded, and the white curtains were drawn around the bed as she had left them; so she softly closed the door and stole quietly down stairs again.

The table was set in the dining-room, and Catherine was in the act of bringing up the soup, when Erminie met her in the hall.

“You may keep the dinner back for a little while, Catherine. Madame Corsoni has not yet waked up,” she said.

“Very well, Miss,” replied the girl, turning back towards the kitchen.

Besides Alberta and Britomarte, a third subject of anxiety troubled the young girl; for three days she had not visited the hospitals. On Tuesday she had waited at home all day long to take leave of her brother before his departure for the front. On Wednesday she had stopped to see her guests, Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel, off to their respective posts of duty; and to-day she was detained by the necessity of watching over her distracted visitor. In truth, the minister’s orphan daughter had enough upon her hands just now.

Another hour passed, and Erminie began to grow uneasy, and Elfie impatient, and Frederica rather cross.

Again Erminie stole up to the room and peeped through the door. No change since she was there last. Curtains drawn, room cool, shady and quiet. She returned to the library and said, “We will wait a little longer. I do not like to wake her up, or to eat dinner without her.”

And so, to the disgust of Elfie, the annoyance of Catherine and the indignation of Frederica, the dinner was still kept back.

“There,” said Elfie, “she has been sleeping six hours now! The clock has struck seven. She ought to be waked up for her own sake.”

“I will go and look at her. If she is still sleeping quietly, I will not wake her, but I will have the dinner served at once. If however she is awake and feeling well, I will get her up and help her to dress.”

So once again Erminie went up stairs and entered her chamber.

All shady, cool and quiet as before.

She stole to the bedside and drew the curtains.

The bed was empty.

“She has got up and gone to the bath-room. She was always a duck in her love of laving in water,” thought Erminie, feeling no sort of uneasiness at her guest’s absence from the chamber.

But to assure herself of the truth of her own surmise, she went to see if the bath-room door was shut. She found the door wide open and the room empty.

Perplexed and anxious, she made a hasty tour through all the rooms on that floor, then ran up to the story above and searched the rooms there, then up into the attic and searched that.

“I know she is deranged, and she may be lurking somewhere about the house with a fit upon her,” said Erminie, as she hurried from place to place in her vain quest.

But the guerrilla’s wife was nowhere to be found.

“It cannot be that she is in any of the rooms below. Some of us must have seen her,” reflected Erminie, as she ran down the three flights of stairs to the first floor.

“Well, has Alberta finished her Rip Van Winkle sleep yet?” inquired Elfie.

“Yes; but I cannot find her. I have looked in her room and in all the other rooms above and she is nowhere to be seen in any of them. I think she must have come down here.”

“Of course she must if she isn’t up stairs; but I haven’t seen or heard anything of her. I will go and hunt her up, while you order the dinner put on the table. I am as hungry as an unhurt hero after a fight,” said Elfie, dancing out of the room in search of the guest.

Dinner was served and only waited the reappearance of Elfie. But fifteen minutes passed, when she came into the dining-room, flushed, excited and almost indignant.

“I can’t find her. She is neither in the house nor the garden, that is certain. And it is my opinion she has taken French leave!”

“Taken French leave!” echoed Erminie, in surprise.

“Yes, it would be just like her,” said Elfie, who, since the escape of Vittorio, had lost much of her pity for Alberta.

“I can easily ascertain. I will go and see if her bonnet and mantle are in their places,” said Erminie.

And once more the patient girl ran up stairs to examine the chamber that had been occupied by her guest.

But bonnet, mantle, parasol and reticule were all gone.

Not a doubt now remained upon the mind of Erminie that the guerrilla’s wife had gone away. But whether to return again Erminie could not decide. While she stood perplexed in the middle of the room, a scrap of paper attached to the toilet pin-cushion caught her eye. She went and unfastened it, and read the pencilled words:

“_Thanks and blessings, and good-bye._”

And now she felt assured that Alberta had indeed gone to return no more.

But for Erminie’s compassion for her suffering state, the absence of the guerrilla’s wife would have been felt as a great relief. But Erminie had no time now to analyze her contradictory emotions. She hastened down to the dining-room, and showed the scrap of paper, with its six words of adieu, to Elfie.

“I felt sure she was gone,” was the comment of Miss Fielding; “and now I hope we shall have our dinner,” she added.

“Certainly,” said Erminie.

“But no,” said Fate; for at the moment the front door bell rang sharply, and in a few minutes Dr. Sales was ushered into the drawing-room and his card was brought to Erminie.

“Elfie dear, go on with your dinner; don’t wait for me,” said Miss Rosenthal, as she arose from the table, and passed into the drawing-room to receive her visitor.

“Your message only reached me a few minutes ago, my dear, and I came away directly to answer it,” said the reverend gentleman, rising and shaking hands with the orphan.

“Thank you, Dr. Sales. I ventured to send for you on a very important matter, that has perplexed and distressed me very much; and not the less because I could not clearly see my own duty in the affair. The absence of my brother and Major Fielding made it necessary that I should trouble you for counsel.”

“My dear child, you know that I am always happy to serve you. You do indeed look as if you were worried almost to death! What is the matter, my child?”

“Oh, Dr. Sales! I have had such a terrible fright!” exclaimed Erminie, on the brink of bursting into tears, but controlling herself.

“Come! tell me all about it.”

“I hardly understand it myself. I may have been on the eve of witnessing one of the most appalling crimes that ever was perpetrated! one of the most tremendous misfortunes that could befall our country!” exclaimed Erminie, shaking violently with agitation at the bare memory of the threats in the President’s anteroom.

“Compose yourself, my dear; and, in order to do so, avoid using strong language, which only excites you,” said the clergyman, laying his hand solemnly on the bowed head of the girl.

“But you see I cannot recur to it without horror.”

“Is it necessary to recur to it at all, my child.”

“Oh, yes, else I had not sent for you. I have a solemn duty to perform in the matter, and do not see clearly how to do it. And I want your counsel.”

“Then tell me all about it, my dear. Come, now, quietly like a Christian child,” said the clergyman, in a soothing manner, and speaking with much more calmness than he really felt, for the words of Erminie had surprised and alarmed him.

Erminie made a great effort to control her agitation, and then began to tell him of the visit of Alberta Corsoni.

And Dr. Sales put a constraint upon himself, and listened composedly, without making a single comment upon the narrative, lest he might increase the excitement under which his companion was laboring.

Erminie faithfully related all that had occurred—the visit to the President’s house, the muttered threats of the guerrilla’s wife, “_I will have my husband pardoned, or do that which shall place me on the scaffold by his side_,” her own alarm at hearing these awful words, the difficulty with which she got the desperate woman out of the White House, the subsequent apology made by the woman for her wicked threats, the paragraph relating to the escape of Vittorio Corsoni, the excessive joy of Alberta, and her secret flight from the house.

“Now,” said Erminie, in conclusion, “Alberta’s apology for her sinful threats seemed very earnest and might have been quite sincere, and but for her gloomy looks, and muttered threats and strange behavior, I should have received it without a doubt.”

The clergyman slowly shook his head, but made no remark.

“My mind has been distracted with grief and perplexity,” continued Erminie; “for on the one hand it seems beyond measure cruel and treacherous to lodge information against a poor, unfortunate woman who has sought the refuge of my home, who may be quite innocent of any wrong intention, and who may suffer great injustice from a mere suspicion. And on the other hand, the probability of her insanity, and the bare possibility of such an atrocious—oh, I cannot speak the word! But you see I feel as if I dare not withhold this information from the authorities,” exclaimed Erminie, shuddering.

“No, you dare not withhold it,” said the clergyman. “It is your solemn duty to go to the Provost Marshal, and tell him exactly what you have told me. It will be for him to judge whether there is sufficient cause for pursuing and arresting this miserable young woman.”

“It is one of the most repugnant duties I ever had to perform. Oh, the office of a spy or an informer is very, very abhorrent to my feelings. And she was my old schoolmate, and friend and guest. Ah, it is very bitter!” said Erminie, trembling with emotion.

“I know how hard it is, my child. But if you should not perform this duty, think what might happen. Erminie, my dear, next to our duty to God is our duty to our country, and neither friends, guests nor kinsfolk should stand between us and that. Now, go get your bonnet on, my child, and I will myself attend you to the Provost Marshal’s office to lodge this information,” said Dr. Sales.

And Erminie, feeling as miserably as she had ever felt in her life, went obediently to prepare herself, thanking Heaven, in the meantime, that Alberta was no longer in her house.

When she was quite ready she came down. And she and her pastor set out for the Provost Marshal’s office.

Meanwhile Elfie waited for her hostess. But when she saw Erminie, attended by Dr. Sales, leave the house, she lost all patience, exclaiming:

“Well, really, people in this place never seem to know when other people ought to eat. Catherine, bring in the pudding.” Elfie finished her dinner, and rang the bell for the parlor maid. Catherine came in.

“Here, you remove these things, and tell Frederica that Miss Rosenthal has gone out without her dinner, and direct her to have a young chicken ready for the gridiron, and to keep the kettle on the fire and make some toast. Miss Rosenthal having missed her dinner, will require something warm with her tea.”

“Very well, Miss,” answered acquiescent Catherine.

And Elfie arose rather impatiently and passed into the library, where the gas was now lighted, and flung herself into one of the easy chairs, exclaiming crossly:

“Plague take the people, I do wish they would let poor Minie have some peace of her life. From her early rising to her late retiring, she has not one hour to herself, poor child. She is at everybody’s beck and call. And between the wounded soldiers in the hospitals and the refugees from the South, and the contrabands, and—bless patience—yes, the guerrillas, too, she is harrassed almost to death, poor girl. And now where on earth has the old parson taken her? I declare she doesn’t even get time to eat!”

So grumbled Elfie, unable to settle herself to any sort of employment. After awhile she again rang the bell, and brought Catherine to her presence.

“You may lay the cloth for tea in this room. It is more comfortable than the dining-room. And you must have everything ready for Miss Rosenthal by the time she returns.”

“What time do you expect her, please, Miss Fielding?” inquired the girl.

“I expect her every moment, for it is after eight o’clock, though it is very possible she may not be in before ten, but you do as I bid you,” replied Elfie.

And as she was fully recognized as commanding officer in the absence of Erminie, her orders were immediately obeyed.

The cloth was no sooner spread than Erminie’s ring was heard and answered.

Erminie lingered at the hall door for a moment, trying to persuade Dr. Sales, who had attended her home, to come in and rest himself before going farther. But the clergyman pleaded an engagement and bade her good night.

And Erminie came into the library.

“Well, upon my word! But I suppose angels can do without food or sleep, and that is the secret of your living and working without either,” exclaimed Elfie, as she arose and made Erminie sit in the easy chair and rest herself, while she untied and removed her bonnet, and unpinned and took off her shawl.

Erminie, instead of answering, burst into tears, and wept softly behind her pocket handkerchief.

“Here, Catherine, take Miss Rosenthal’s bonnet and shawl up stairs, and put them away. And you needn’t come in again until I ring,” said Elfie handing the articles named to the parlor maid, who was still engaged in arranging the table.

The girl took the things and left the room.

And then Elfie caressing Erminie, inquired:

“Where have you been?”

“To the Provost Marshal’s office, to lay before him certain information regarding poor Alberta. Dr. Sales said that I must do it, and took me there,” replied Erminie, weeping.

“But what did the Provost Marshal say or do to set you grieving so?” demanded Elfie.

“Oh, nothing at all. He put me upon my oath, and then took down my statement regarding poor Alberta’s visit here and to the President’s house, and all that happened there,” replied Erminie, remembering that Elfie knew nothing about the episode of the concealed revolver.

“And what then?”

“The Provost Marshal thanked me for the information given, and requested me not to speak of it to others. So, Elfie dear, let us drop the subject, if you please.”

“But how will the Provost Marshal act upon your information?”

“I do not know. They never tell anything. They hear all that they can, but they tell nothing. It is not their business to do so.”

“Then I don’t see what there was in the interview to distress you so much,” said Elfie, rising and touching the bell.

“Oh, my dear, it is this. Though I have done only my duty—a most painful duty to me—I feel like an informer and a spy. Oh, Elfie, this awful war, that upsets not only all material but all moral life!” wept Erminie.

“Heaven bless your tender conscience! You seem to me to have done your duty by everybody. You didn’t invite the guerrilla’s wife to your house. She walked in upon you, told you that she had taken the oath of allegiance, and you received her kindly and treated her well. She left you under such suspicious circumstances—I know they must have been suspicious, else you would have had nothing to tell the Provost Marshal—that your pastor, on hearing of it, insisted that you should lodge information in the proper quarters, and actually took you off to do it. So why you should reproach yourself _I_ don’t know.—Yes, Catherine, tea immediately.”

This last to the parlor maid who answered the bell.

Tea was soon served.

“And now I hope you will try to eat a little. Lord knows, between the saints and the sinners, you can scarcely call your body or soul your own,” said Elfie, as she sat down and began to wait on Erminie—pouring our her tea and placing the wing and breast of the broiled chicken on her plate.

“Thanks, Elfie; but help yourself, my dearest,” urged Erminie.

“Oh, I can’t eat. I had my dinner so late and ate then so heartily, having fasted so long, that I can’t touch a morsel now. I will have a cup of tea, however,” said Elfie.

“Britomarte has not been here this afternoon?” inquired Erminie.

“No.”

“I am very uneasy about her.”

“Oh, of course,” grumbled Elfie. “Some one or other of your friends are always making you uneasy, plague take them!”

“But, Elfie, I am afraid she is ill.”

“Mrs. Burton would have sent you word.”

“Yes, I hope she would. And then, to be sure, I have no more reason to wonder at her mysterious absence than my poor soldiers have to wonder at mine. Oh, Elfie, think of it! I never missed a day visiting them before, and now three days have passed since I have been to see them. What will the poor fellows think?” sighed Erminie.

“Whatever they think, it will not be to the effect that you are neglecting them. Perhaps they fancy that you are a little worn with your exertions in their behalf, and they hope to see you soon again.”

“Oh, Elfie! many a poor fellow that _I_ hoped to see again has passed away in these three days, I know. They die every day. No day do I go without missing some familiar face,” sighed Erminie.

“See here, my dear! your pretty shoulders are tolerably fine ones for a young woman. But I doubt if they are so strong as to be able to bear the burdens of all the world. You have done what you could for the brave fellows. Continue to do what you can; and for the rest trust them to their Heavenly Father and ours, you weeping philosopher,” said Elfie.

“That is good advice, dear; and I will try to follow it. I am no weeping philosopher, Elfie. But to-night I believe I am despondent because broken down by the events of the last twenty-four hours.”

“Then you must go to bed and try to get some sleep. In the morning you will feel better.”

“I think I will go, Elfie; and I do hope I shall feel better; for to-morrow we must make our rounds of the hospitals, and also look up Britomarte, unless she should first make her appearance here,” said Erminie, rising from the tea table.

And soon after this the girls retired.