But meanwhile another incident of importance was occurring. It may have been noticed that Elspeth Graeme had something white in her hand when she came out into the garden the second time. So she had, indeed—a folded note addressed to Robert Brand, and with a wilderness of printing scattered over the edges and half the face of the envelope; but she had quite forgotten the fact in the sudden knowledge of the death of her young master and the necessity of becoming an avenging Pythoness for the occasion. Now, Elsie's words called the attention of the old lawyer to that something in her hand, and he took it from her with a motion very much like a jerk, and the words:
"If you have a letter for me, why did you not give it to me instead of standing here raving like a bedlamite—you old fool?"
"It is na a letter; it's what they ca' a telegraph, I'm thinkin'!" muttered the old woman, a good deal taken down from her "high horse" by this reminder of her delinquency, and with some sort of impression that this must be a sufficient apology for not being in a hurry. "Somebody else dead, belike!—we're a' goin' to the deevil as fast as auld Clootie can drag us, I ken!"
It was a telegraphic despatch which the old woman had delivered with such signal celerity, and which Robert Brand tore open with celerity of a very different character. He read, then read again, then his face paled, and a strange, startled look came into his eyes, and he put one hand to his forehead with the exclamation:
"What is all this? Am I going mad?"
"What is it, father?" and little Elsie pressed up to his side and took the despatch from his unresisting fingers. And it was she who read it aloud to the other wonderers, herself the most startled wonderer of all:
Alexandria, Sept. 17th, 1863.
Robert Brand, West Philadelphia,
Care Messrs. ——, No. — Market St. Philadelphia.
Your son, Carlton Brand, dangerously wounded at Culpeper. Lying in hospital here. If well enough, wish you would come down and see him. He does not know of this.