Chapter XIV: The Lost Package

"DON'T wake her; I'll call again."

"I think, Doctor, she wished to see you specially."

"Yes, I do," called out Marion, awaking from a refreshing nap, with Annie's letter still in her hand. "Doctor, I'm almost well."

"Decidedly. Are you dismissing me?"

"No, indeed; but I want to ask you something."

She waited a moment, as though uncertain how to state her business. "Doctor, I have something on my mind that troubles me. I feel sure I should be well at once if it were decided."

"Is it a case of blasted affections, or—"

"Don't joke, Doctor: it's a serious affair. It's a breach of trust on my part, and I can't rest until I have done all in my power to remedy the injury."

"Why do you tell me this?" he asked, evidently startled. "Go to your lawyer, or—perhaps your clergymen would do better."

"Because you were my father's friend, and you are my friend. I only tell you now to get your consent to my doing what my conscience tells me is my duty."

"I can't give advice on such general information. I must know particulars."

"I will state a case. Suppose a very sick and dying girl confided to your care a letter or letters containing her last words to a dear friend, name unknown. Suppose that years passed and you never thought of the trust, and at last, when you had reason to suspect you had found the right person, the letters were lost. Suppose that this person was a dreadful sufferer for want of the words which are probably in those lost letters. What would you do, Dr. Ross?"

"I am very sorry for you, my dear child, if you are in such trouble as that. Can't you inform the person of the contents of the letters?"

"If I only knew what the contents are, and that he is the right one to receive them. Years had passed since she had heard from her friend, and she often said it would be a relief to know that he had repented and died. I inferred that he had done her some great wrong, and she had told him she never would forgive him. Before she died she did forgive him with all her heart, and with almost her last breath left him her love and her blessing."

"Tell the person that."

"How can I be sure he is the one, without the packet? It is enclosed in a business envelope, directed to me. It is very aggravating that I cannot recollect her name—but that I could find at the Home for the Sick. I knew her as Stella."

"Have you made a thorough search?"

"Oh, no! I have not thought of it for years. Just before I was taken sick, something occurred of a confidential nature, which led to a suspicion that he is the one I ought to give it to. I began to search at once for it among papers I sent to the country when I left Uncle Williamson's. I have not looked for it here. I cannot recollect seeing it for years. Now I want you to consent that I go to work in earnest. If I don't find it," sighing heavily, "what shall I do?"

"Let me think a minute." He rose and paced the floor, while she gazed at his knitted brows, clenching her hands in impatience for him to speak.

He came back to his seat, and counted her pulse.

"Well," he said, with a grave smile, as he glanced into her eager, wistful face, "if you feel pretty sure you have a clew to the right individual, ask him some leading questions. Has he ever heard of such a lady, naming her? If he is ignorant, or pretends to be, you are relieved from that responsibility. If he should prove to have known her, you can state the circumstance: of her sickness and death, and the messages she left for a dear friend."

"But, Doctor—"

"Yes, I know; and I am trying to choose between two evils. You are recovering from a dangerous illness, and are not fit for any excitement. On the other hand, it is possible that the worry of mind, while waiting for strength, will do you equal harm; so I will make a compromise. Your pulse is pretty steady. You may have as many papers as you please brought here, where Miss Annie can help you search, if you will promise to stop at once if you feel tired, take one of those sweet-tasting pills, and go to bed."

"Thank you, Doctor. I promise. Will you please ring the bell?"

He laughed as he complied. Then saying, "I wish you great success," left the room.

In ten minutes Marion was dressed and seated in an old-fashioned armchair, while within her reach was a drawer of papers, pamphlets, etc., etc. Annie Leman sat on a cricket near by, while James was bringing drawers and boxes from the storeroom.

Having explained what she wanted to find, the work proceeded in silence, occasional sighs from Marion being the only interruption. In less than two hours every paper had been handled and thrown back.

"Are you sure, James, that you have brought all?" The tone was sharp and decided.

"Yes, miss. Mrs. Mitchell came to the attic and told me which to take, and she says there are no more in the house."

"Take them all away, again."

She sank back and covered her face with her hands, but starting presently, she said,—

"I am not keeping my promise to the doctor, Annie. I must take one of those horrid pills, and go to bed. I want to sleep and forget everything."

The next day was so pleasant that Mrs. Mitchell proposed she should take a drive; but Marion had no heart for anything, unless, indeed, "I could go to the Home for the Sick and see Mary Falkner,—and I don't believe the doctor would let me do that. I could ask Dr. B— to examine the record too. If Stella's name was Angus, I—" she stopped suddenly on hearing the doctor's step.

He came in while they were discussing the subject, and ended it by saying she was to go and drive around the park for an hour.

He contrived to send every one from the room, and then asked,—

"What success?"

"None at all. I have no hope, now, and have made up my mind to be as patient as I can till I am well enough to see the one to whom I referred, and tell him what I know. I think he will forgive me, but I can never forgive myself."

After this, she went out every pleasant day for a week, and gained strength rapidly, notwithstanding her abiding regret in regard to the lost packet. Then came a few days of wet weather, when she was obliged to keep in-doors. She sent for her pupils, gave them lessons, and heard them sing and play. She sent for new music for Annie, and tried to interest herself in it. She purchased flowers and sent them to Mrs. Douglass, who, under the care of an experienced physician, was gaining strength daily. The first pleasant day she resolved to go to Grantbury, taking James with her. Annie Leman had returned to her aunt, and was giving lessons to her first pupils.

One morning she stood watching the cloud, which seemed to be blowing over, and said to herself, "To-morrow, if it clears up, I shall be off. What a relief it will be to tell him, and be forgiven for my neglect of so sacred a trust!"

She heard the bell ring, and then James's voice asking whether she would see Mr. Belknap.

"Certainly; ask him up at once." She advanced eagerly to the door to meet her father's aged friend, and her own legal adviser.

Marion's manner was always charming in its heartiness, but towards her aged friends there was almost a filial warmth, which made them feel that they were special favorites. She seated the white-haired old man in her most comfortable chair, putting an ottoman near him, where she could sit and look in his face.

"You have been near death, I hear," he said tenderly.

"Yes, sir; but all that time was lost to me. I was not conscious of danger."

"God has been good to you, my child. He has raised you up to new duties. You must be thankful for all His mercies."

"I must, indeed. I want to be better for this sickness, more helpful of others not so favored as I am, more humble and charitable."

"That's right, dear child. Ask for grace to improve each day's joys and sorrows, and you will get it."

He then talked to Marion of business, saying, "There are some papers which it will be necessary for you to sign."

He had made a long call, when the doctor came in, and, seeing Mr. Belknap, telegraphed to Marion to speak to him in the hall. When there he only said,—

"Tell your story to him: he's a good friend to you."

And she did tell him, relating the death scene in the hospital more in detail than she had done before. She told him also that she had accidentally met a person who was burdened with a heavy grief, whose name, as nearly as she could recollect, was the same. She had always called her friend by her first name, and the belief grew stronger and stronger in her mind that he was the one to whom her dying friend referred. An expression on the gentleman's face had first startled her and carried her back in mind to her friend, and the recollection of the letters left in her care.

He listened attentively, not saying a word till she had finished the recital.

"You say she died in the Home, in the year 18—."

"Yes, sir."

"And that he also was in the same Home for months,—that he told the chaplain his story, as she had told hers, probably."

"Yes, sir; but I didn't think"—she stopped abruptly, staring in his face, and then exclaimed, "Oh, if I could find that packet of letters! I begin to think he cannot be the one after all. Perhaps her friend has long been dead."

"Where did you keep the packet?"

"I must have put it where I considered it safe at the time; but her story was so vague,—and she never mentioned the relation in which this person stood to her. I fancied he might have been her lover. I was young, and thought I was to keep it till called for. I remember thinking as she was a foreigner it was not likely it would ever be delivered to any one. When I left Uncle Williamson's, I kept some papers here and sent the rest to Grantbury."

"Except the green box of deeds, etc., etc., we keep in our safe."

Marion started to her feet, exclaiming, "It is there! It is there! Let us go and get it."

She rang the bell, told James to have the carriage round as quickly as possible, hurried on her hat and sacque, looking so eager and hopeful that her old friend said, cautiously,—

"Don't be too sure, my child."

She turned to him, her whole face dimpled with smiles.

"I'm almost as sure," she said, "as though I had it in my hand."

In a few minutes she stood at the lawyer's table, while a clerk was sent for the green box. One minute more, papers tied with red tape, worth thousands of dollars, and nicely filed receipts were scattered over the table. Near the bottom lay the missing packet, which, with a scream of joy,—"That's it,"—she caught and held to her breast.

"I can't sign anything to-day," she answered, as the younger partner requested her to wait a few minutes. "If you will send the papers round, I'll do it: I'm too excited now."

She ran down the stairs, whispering over and over,—

"God has been very good to me"; then to the coachman,—

"Home as quickly as possible."

Once in her own chamber, she locked the door and, not waiting to remove her hat, tore off the envelope; and there, written in a feeble hand, was the address,—"Harold Angus, formerly of Doncaster, Yorkshire, England."

She fell on her knees, and thanked God. A strange calm stole over her, as she began to realize that it was her privilege to lift the heavy burden from one whom she so greatly respected, so admired for his many noble qualities.

She summoned James, and sent him off to the telegraph office with this message:—

REV. HAROLD ANGUS, Grantbury, Conn.

Please take the afternoon train, 2:50, for this city. A carriage will meet you at the station.

MARION HOWARD.