Part 21 (2/2)

Dr. Thurston paused here; and the bride did not know just what to say.

She could not see why the minister should find it necessary to talk to her of the dead woman, who had been in her thoughts all the afternoon.

”Perhaps it may seem strange to you, Mrs. Blackstock,” he went on, after an awkward silence, ”that I should at this first visit and at this earliest opportunity of speech with you--that I should speak to you of the saintly woman who was John Blackstock's first wife. I trust that you will acquit me of any intention of offending you, and I beg that you will believe that I have mentioned her only because I have a solemn duty before me.”

With wide-open eyes the bride sat still before him. She could not understand what these words might mean. When her visitor paused for a moment, all she could say was, ”Certainly--certainly,” and she would have been greatly puzzled to explain just what it was she wished to convey by the word. A vague apprehension thrilled her, for which she could give no reason.

”I will be brief,” the doctor began again. ”Perhaps you are aware that the late Mrs. Blackstock died of heart failure?”

The bride nodded and answered, ”Yes, yes.” She wanted to say ”What of it? And what have I to do with her now? She is dead and gone; and I am alive. Why cannot she leave me alone?”

”But it may be you do not know,” Dr. Thurston continued, ”that she herself was aware of the nature of her disease? She learned the fatal truth two or three years before she died. She kept it a secret from her husband, and to him she was always cheerful and hopeful. But she made ready for death, not knowing when it might come, but feeling a.s.sured that it could not long delay its call. She was a brave woman and a devout Christian; and she could face the future fearlessly. Then, as ever, her first thought was for her husband, and she grieved at leaving him alone and lonely whom she had cared for so many years. If she were to die soon her husband would not be an old man, and perhaps he might take another wife. This suggestion was possibly repugnant to her at first; but in time she became reconciled to it.”

The bride was glad to hear this. Somehow this seemed a little to lighten the gloom which had been settling down upon her.

”Then it was that the late Mrs. Blackstock, dwelling upon her husband's second marriage, decided to write a letter to you,” and as the minister said this he took an envelope from his coat pocket.

”To me?” cried the young wife, springing to her feet, as though in self-defense. Her first fear was that she was about to learn some dread mystery.

”To you,” Dr. Thurston answered calmly--”at least to the woman, whoever she might be, whom John Blackstock should take to wife.”

”Why--” began the bride, with a little hysteric laugh, ”why, what could she possibly have to say to me?” And her heart was chilled within her.

”That I cannot tell you,” the minister answered; ”she did not read the letter to me. She brought it to me one dark day the winter before last; and she besought me to take it and to say nothing about it to her husband; and to hand it myself to John Blackstock's new wife whenever they should return from their wedding trip and settle down in this house.”

Then Dr. Thurston rose to his feet and tendered her the envelope.

”You want me to read that?” the bride asked, in a hard voice, fearful that the dead hand might be going to s.n.a.t.c.h at her young happiness.

”I have fulfilled my promise in delivering the letter to you,” the minister responded. ”But if you ask my advice, I should certainly recommend you to read it. The writer was a good woman, a saintly woman; and whatever the message she has sent you from beyond the grave, as it were, I think it would be well for you to read it.”

The young wife took the envelope. ”Very well,” she answered, ”since I must read it, I will.”

”I am conscious that this interview cannot but have been somewhat painful to you, Mrs. Blackstock,” said the minister, moving toward the door. ”Certainly the situation is strangely unconventional. But I trust you will forgive me for my share in the matter--”

”Forgive you?” she rejoined, finding phrases with difficulty. ”Oh yes--yes, I forgive you, of course.”

”Then I will bid you good afternoon,” he returned.

”Good afternoon,” she answered, automatically.

”I beg that you will give my regards to your husband.”

”To my husband?” she repeated. ”Of course, of course.”

When Dr. Thurston had gone at last, the bride stood still in the center of the drawing-room with the envelope gripped in her hand. Taking a long breath, she tore it open with a single motion and took out the half-dozen sheets that were folded within it. She turned it about and shook it suspiciously, but nothing fell from it. This relieved her dread a little, for she feared that there might be some inclosure--something that she would be sorry to have seen.

With the letter in her hand at last, she hesitated no longer; she unfolded it and began to read.

The ink was already faded a little, for the date was nearly two years old. The handwriting was firm but girlishly old-fas.h.i.+oned; it was perfectly legible, however. This is what the bride read:

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