Part 9 (1/2)

Peril had gone to be a sailor, and would come back very shortly as captain of a s.h.i.+p. Perhaps it would be a splendid, great steamer, such as she had seen lying at the Marquette ore docks. He had left his love for her; he would have something of the greatest importance to say the next time he saw her; and she was not to be turned out of her room again. What could he mean by that, and what a very strange thing it was for a young man to say? Since he had said it to her mother, though, it must have meant--Oh dear! how she wished she had not gone out that morning, and what an endless time a whole week seemed!

At length, anxious to escape from her mother's torrent of words, and to be alone with her own thoughts, the blus.h.i.+ng girl fled up-stairs on the pretence of putting Mr. Peril's room in order.

The very first thing she spied on entering the room, about which his belongings were scattered in every direction, was a letter lying on the floor, and almost hidden beneath the bed. Picking it up, she was surprised to find it sealed, and still more so to note that it was addressed to Mr. Richard _Peveril_. How could that be? Was their guest living among them under an a.s.sumed name? No, of course he wouldn't do such a thing; and this letter must have been handed to him by mistake.

That was the reason why he had not opened it. The names were very much alike in sound, though so differently spelled. Besides, this letter was addressed in a lady's handwriting, and evidently came from some foreign country. She knew Mr. Peril was an American, because he had said so. He had also told them that he was, so far as he knew, without a relative in the world, so there were no sisters or young lady cousins to write to him.

She did not think he could be engaged, because he had never mentioned the fact, while all the other young men of her acquaintance were in the habit of talking very freely about their ”best girls,” if they were so fortunate as to have such. Besides, had not Mr. Peril just left his love for _her_, and a message to the effect that he had something very important to tell _her_? She would keep this hateful letter, though, and confront him with it the moment she saw him again.

Then his manner would convey the information she wanted. How she did long to open it and just glance at its contents! The impulse to do this was so strong that only by thrusting the letter into her pocket could she resist it.

Now the innocent cause of her perplexity seemed to burn like a coal of fire until she again drew it forth. A dozen times that day did she do this, with the temptation to set her doubts at rest by tearing open the sealed envelope always a.s.sailing her with increased force.

Finally, to her great relief, an honorable way of escaping this temptation presented itself. She would return the horrid letter to the post-office. From there, if it were indeed for Mr. Peril, he would in due course of time receive it, as he had before; while, if it were intended for some one else, it would be delivered to its rightful owner. This plan was no sooner conceived than executed; and, as the troublesome missive disappeared through the narrow slit of the post-office letter-box, the girl heaved a sigh of relief.

When, the very next day, that identical letter was advertised on the post-office bulletin, and Nelly Trefethen saw the notice, she was a.s.sured that she had done the right thing. For ten days that advertis.e.m.e.nt stared her in the face whenever she visited the office, and then, to her great satisfaction, it disappeared. Rose Bonnifay's message from across the sea had gone to the place of ”dead” letters, but Nelly believed that it had at last found its rightful owner.

On the very evening of Peveril's departure Miss Nelly's old sweetheart, Mike Connell, joined her for a walk, and, after much preliminary conversation, finally plucked up courage to ask if Mr.

Peril had told her anything of importance before going away.

”What should he have to tell me?” asked the girl, evasively.

”He might have tould you that he liked you better than any other girl in the world,” was the diplomatic answer.

”You know he'd never say a thing like that, Mr. Connell,” cried Nelly, blus.h.i.+ng furiously.

”Well, then, he might have said he was already bespoke.”

”I don't believe it.”

”It's true, all the same.”

”What right have you to say so?” asked Nelly, whose face was now quite pale.

”The right of his own words, for he telled me so himself.”

”Who is she?”

”He didn't say.”

”Where does she live, then?”

”Divil a bit do I know.”

”I don't believe you know anything at all about it. You are just making up a story to tease me.”

”T'asing you is the last thing I'd be thinking of, Nelly darlin', except it was t'asing ye to marry me. No, alanna, it's the truth I'm telling you, and if you can't believe me just ax him. At the same time, I'm sore hurted that ye should be caring whether he's bespoke or no.”

”I will ask him,” answered the girl, ”and until I do I'll thank you, Mr. Connell, never to mention Mr. Peril's name again.”