Mrs. Laurence paused in her walk, and stood for a moment gazing dumbly on the sweet, pale face turned so anxiously upon her. Then she resumed action again, and paced back and forth, as before, muttering to herself. At last, she came up to the couch, and laying her hand on Ruth’s shoulder, bade her sit up a little, while she searched for something that must be found.
Ruth left the couch, and sank into a Boston rocking-chair, which Mr. Ross drew forward for her use.
Then Mrs. Laurence flung the cushions to the floor, and bringing a pair of scissors from a work-basket, began to rip the mattress, at one end, and thrusting her hand into the opening, she drew forth a sealed envelope.
“That is the name,” she said, reading the address over. “Herman Ross Baker. My husband did know you. When he wrote this I was told to give it into your hands, and no other, should you come back to this country, after he was dead, which I am sure he did not expect. Take it, sir; and remember he was kind to you and yours.”
Ross took the package, and looked wistfully at the writing. He was evidently taken by surprise, and his hand shook with the intense desire that possessed him to tear the envelope and seize upon its secret at once.
“Not here! Read it at home!” said Mrs. Laurence, who saw his hands tremble with eagerness. “It may be a thing to read alone, with fasting and prayer. Who knows? Take it away, and remember how true he was—how good. Ruth, you are growing pale; let me lift you back to the couch. No, sir; it is not needed—one is enough. There, now; don’t be troubled, child. No need of that! You see how weak she is, Mr. Ross; so have some compassion on us all. You will understand me, by-and-by.”
“If compassion could make you happy, there would be no sorrow under this roof,” answered Ross, with a ringing sweetness in his voice, that brought tears to the eyes of Ruth Laurence. “God knows, I will never bring trouble here.”
Ruth reached out her hand. “You have brought nothing but good to us,” she said, gently. “We all know that.”
Ross took the pale, little hand in his, dropped it softly to the couch again, and took his leave, with the feeling of a man who carries destiny in his hand.
A short walk brought Ross to his sister’s dwelling. He entered the front door, strode across the tesselated hall, and mounting the stairs, carpeted so thickly that his footsteps seemed smothered in wood-moss, entered a chamber in the topmost story, which had been fitted up as a studio. With a hand that still quivered with emotion, he bolted the door, and sat down, with the envelope in his hand, overcome with that strange dread which an unbroken seal often brings upon the possessor. Eager as his curiosity had been, he was literally afraid to break the seal. What did it lock in? Why should the man, so long dead, write to him? Was the vague, wild idea, which had haunted him for weeks, a reality?