Chapter IX: The Package of Letters

“Sarah was up-stairs in her room, I was told. I went up the back way which leads to the upper chambers. Sarah’s room was open, but she was not there; so, hearing a noise in the garret above, I mounted another flight of stairs which landed me in the open garret, where the trunk belonging to the dead man had been stored away.

“It was a common travelling-trunk, strong, and of ordinary size; but the lock had been wrenched in the overthrow, and its hasp was twisted from its fastening, so that no key was necessary to open it.

“I saw this at a glance, and also saw my sister Sarah kneeling before the trunk, holding up the lid with one hand while she searched among the papers it contained with the other. She was trembling from head to foot, and her face was pale as death.

“I stopped on the upper stair astonished by what I saw. Sarah was so eager and agitated that she did not hear me, but continued her search. I heard letters rustle against each other under her hand for a minute longer; then, with a faint cry, she snatched at something and started up from the floor, dropping the trunk-lid, and holding two or three letters tied up by a ribbon in her shaking hand.

“A single movement brought her face to face with me. She gave a sharp scream, drew back and sat down on the trunk, shaking all over and the teeth fairly chattering between her lips.

“She saw me looking at the letters, and clutched them tightly between both hands.

“‘They are mine—my own letters,’ she said, so frightened that her words came out in gasps. ‘I have not touched a thing that was not my own.’

“‘Sarah, let me read those letters. I ought to know what they are about,’ I said, resolutely, reaching out my hand.

“She crushed the letters together and held them behind her.

“‘Never! How dare you? What right, I say? No, the letters are mine—mine—mine, I tell you.’

“She shook from head to foot. Her eyes grew fierce and black. I know that if I had strangled her, there and then, she would have clutched the parcel with her last gasp.

“‘Sarah, I am your brother, and the very best friend you have in the world,’ I said, for she was so frightened I pitied her from the bottom of my heart. ‘Tell me what all this means. What is there that you should be afraid to tell?’

“‘Afraid!’ she said, ‘yes, I am afraid. Let me go, then.’

“‘Are you ashamed as well as frightened?’ said I, almost sternly, for her terror seemed too great for that of an innocent person.

“‘Ashamed!’ she repeated my question over with her old scornful pride, ‘ashamed! brother; how dare you?’

“Her eyes fairly blazed; her cheeks were like ashes. Then, all at once, her face changed, and drooping downward as if my question that moment had reached her in full force, she said, in the most heart-broken voice I ever heard,

“‘Yes, brother, I am ashamed—God help us all!—and afraid too.’

“‘Sarah, tell me all.’

“‘Brother, I charge you, let me pass; do not make me more unhappy than I am,’ she cried, passionately. ‘Questions can do no good, for I will not answer them.’

“I seized her by both hands. She looked me steadily in the eyes, brave as a she-lion. I knew that it would be easier to rob a wild beast of its cubs than that girl of her secret. She stood still without a word. What right had I to use her in that rough way? She was my sister, and I was treating her like a thief. The letters were her own: I knew it by the address, part of which lay before my eyes. I dropped her hands.

“‘Sarah,’ I said, ‘Mr. Bentley, the young man below, has some suspicion of this, and he has questioned me.’

“‘And what did you tell him? What did you know?’

“‘Nothing, sister—nothing.’

“‘But he—he said something. You began to suspect me, and came prying up here. Brother! brother!’

“There was scorn and grief in her words that would have made me sink into the earth if I had really done the thing she charged me with. As it was, my temper rose.

“‘No, Sarah,’ I said, ashamed that my voice would shake so. ‘No, Sarah. Mr. Bentley, our visitor, said nothing that you have a right to be angry about.’

“‘But he said something. Tell me what it was.’

“‘He only asked what wedding it was that his poor cousin came to attend, Sarah.’

“‘What wedding!’ she cried, catching hold of my arm, and almost shaking me. ‘What wedding! Did he say that? Did he in solemn truth mention a wedding?’

“‘Yes, Sarah,’ I answered, looking hard at her; ‘and I thought, from his way of wording it, that he had an idea that the cousin himself was coming to be married to some one in these parts.’

“I stopped short, for the sight of her face fairly made me hold my breath. Her cheeks, which had been pale as death before, kindled up; her lips parted with an eager expression, as if some iron spring had unlocked in them; and her eyes—Sarah had handsome eyes when she was pleased or angry—shone like stars.

“‘And you believed this? You thought, perhaps, that it was—was——’

“She stopped short, and the anxious paleness began to creep over her again.

“I understood her, and answered as if she had spoken out.

“‘Yes, I did think that, Sarah. These letters, your strange ways, all came back to my mind; and why not? He was a smart young fellow, handsome and rich. The neighbors might have said it was a good match for you; but I think you were the mate for his betters any day—for the king on his throne, if such things could grow in a free country like ours, Sarah; so, if it was the truth, out with it. The fellow down-stairs seems mighty anxious to know all about his cousin’s affairs. He spoke about searching the papers in that trunk.’

“Sarah clutched the letters in her hand, and laughed.

“‘Well, let him search,’ she said. ‘It is an easy matter; the lock is torn open, and he will find but few papers.’

“‘But those in your hand, Sarah!’

“She took my hand in hers, and with one of the winning gestures which no one could resist, lifted it to her lips, hard and brown as it was.

“‘Don’t, please don’t ask me any more questions!’ she said. ‘It can do no earthly good, when a thing is over. Why give me so much pain? Can’t you see how I suffer?’

“I took her close to my bosom, and kissed her cheek, ready to cry; for she could make a child of me any time. She kissed me back two or three times; then, leaning her head on my shoulder, began to sob.

“‘Did you love him so much, darling?’ I whispered, folding her close again.

“‘Don’t ask; but this other man—do not let him question you more; and, above all, keep my secret about the letters.’

“I started, and put her away from my bosom. This persistence in keeping a secret which was really no discredit offended me.

“‘Sarah,’ I said, ‘this is worse than I would have believed of you. Why are you ashamed of this engagement?’

“‘Think no ill of me, I charge you,’ she said, starting back with a haughty throw of the head. ‘I have done right—will do right, but must be left alone!’

“‘Very well,’ I said, hurt by her want of confidence, ‘you throw away my advice, and do not want my help. Good morning, Sarah. You have given me the heart-ache, that’s all!’”

“‘No, no!’ she said, drawing close to me again. ‘I want your help just now. Only give it frankly, and without these terrible questions. I am not well. You can see that watching and crying has made me nervous and half sick. I was about to ask you about some way of strengthening myself up a little. Hetty, too, is worn out. In short, we want to get away from home: you know father promised us music-lessons in the city. I am sure the sea-air will be good for us both. What do you think of it, Dan?’

“She spoke rapidly and half out of breath, darting quick glances at me from under her eyelashes, as if afraid that I would oppose her. In fact, I did feel like it at first; and was about to say so, but she caught the words from my lips, and broke out in a wild, pleading way that changed my feelings at once.

“‘Don’t, oh! don’t say that, Dan! I am sick—suffering. If you won’t send me away I shall go into a decline and die on your hands. Can’t you see how I pine—how thin I grow?’

“She pulled up her sleeve and showed me her arm, which was slender enough to frighten one with the idea that she was really falling into a consumption. So I asked where she wished to go, and how long she wanted to be away.

“She thought that the best music-teachers could be found in New York, and she and Hetty could either put up with our aunt, or find some nice, quiet place for boarding in a private family, if their stay proved too long for a visit.

“She had thought the matter over very thoroughly, I could see that, and seemed to have set her heart on it. So I undertook to persuade the old people into letting her go, and promised that my wife, so far as possible, should come over and supply the gals’ place while they were away.

“Sarah was full of gratitude. She kissed me again and again, and called me her kind, reasonable brother, and we parted excellent friends; but, so far as any information was concerned, just where we had met. But so it always was with your mother. She was sure to end in having her own way, and in making everybody think it was best too.

“After this conversation, Sarah grew shy of young Mr. Bentley, and left him so much alone that he seemed to grow homesick, and began to talk about returning to the city. But the doctor, who did not get a patient of that stamp every day, would not hear of it, and so he stayed till the girls were ready for their trip to the sea-shore. I saw them when they set out—in fact I drove them down to the river, with my own team—and, of course, sat waiting while they took leave of Mr. Bentley in the front stoop. He was a good deal flurried and nervous. Sarah took her leave with a quiet, proud air, that seemed to chill him, for he went into the house and did not wait to see us drive off. But the old people stood there so long as we were in sight, following us with old-fashioned blessings—such blessings, Gillian, as no one has time to give in these fast days.”