Her letter closed in one deep, fervent, heartfelt aspiration for Britomarte’s happiness.
Britomarte’s tears fell fast over this letter. This man-hater would like to have persuaded herself that she wept over the thought of the lifelong separation from her bosom friend, or over the frailties of Alberta, or over the troubles of Elfie, or over anything or anybody rather than over the memory of Justin Rosenthal. Erminie had written freely of Alberta and Elfrida and their lovers; but she had mentioned her brother only to say that he had been ordained and was going away. And Britomarte could scarcely forgive her friend for such negligence. The name that was written in the letter, “Justin,” she pressed again and again to her lips, while her tears dropped slowly and heavily upon the paper. Suddenly, with a start, she recollected herself, and to punish herself for a moment’s weakness, she deliberately tore up the letter and threw it away.
In the omnibus that was to take her to her steamer she was introduced in form to Mr. Ely and Mr. Breton and their wives. These, with herself, were the five missionaries that were to go out to Farther India.
The two young women were crying behind their veils. They were strangers to each other, and all but strangers to their husbands. One had come from the West, and one from the South, to marry these young men, and go out with them to India. They had now been married but a few hours, after an acquaintance with their intended husbands of but a few days. In a fever of enthusiasm they had left all the familiar scenes and all the dear friends of their childhood and youth, to join their hands with strangers, and go out to a foreign land, to live and labor among heathen. No wonder they wept bitterly behind their veils as the omnibus rattled over the stony street and under the drizzling sky.
On the pier was a crowd of the church members, consisting of men, women and children, in omnibuses, in cabs, and on foot, the latter having large umbrellas hoisted, all waiting to see the missionaries off.
Beside the pier was chained a large boat, waiting to take the voyagers to that magnificent three-decker East Indiaman that rode at anchor about half a mile out in the harbor.
In less than fifteen minutes they were alongside of the great behemoth of a ship that lay upon the waters like some stupendous monster of the deep.
An officer stood upon the deck as if waiting to welcome them, and some sailors were letting down a rope ladder from the lofty deck to the boat. But to attempt to climb up the side of that ship by that means seemed like trying to crawl up the front of a three-story house by the rainpipe. The two brides were frightened nearly out of their senses at the bare thought.
But Britomarte volunteered to go first, and she set her foot on the lowest, slack rung of the ladder, and took hold of the side ropes and began to climb; Mr. Breton followed close behind her, to keep her from falling, and also to keep her skirts in order, and Captain McKenzie bending from the deck and holding down his hand to help her up on board.
So Miss Conyers safely boarded the ship and soon the whole party stood on deck and waved a last adieu.