CHAPTER LXV.

LOTTIE LEAVES A LETTER AND A BOOK.

The departure of Lottie added to our trouble. We had learned to love the girl very much, and this wild work, in a creature so utterly unused to the world, distressed us greatly. Unconsciously even to ourselves, we had begun to rely upon Lottie as a friend, and bright, if not safe counsellor. Her untiring spirit amused us when nothing else could. Indeed, she was like an April day in the house, half storm, half sunshine, but interesting in any phase of her erratic life. It seemed as if half the light had left our house, when the man came back from the railroad and told us that she was absolutely gone. Jessie went off to her own room with tears in her eyes. I would have given the world to know where that strange young creature was going, and half my life could I have followed her.

Sadness is sure to seek shelter in shadowy places. Mine carried me into the chamber of my lost friend. It was dim and orderly, like a church closed after service. The white bed on which she died, gleamed upon me through the dim light like an altar. The blinds were closed, the sashes down; a funereal stillness had settled on everything she once loved to look upon. I sunk down upon my knees by the bed, weeping bitterly. Would that woman ever dare to stand in Mrs. Lee's room, its mistress? Had she ever yet been able to wipe the blood-stain from her own lips gathered from the heart she had broken by a Judas kiss?

Upon my knees in that room, I felt and knew that a murder, so crafty that the criminal herself could torture it into accident to her own conscience, had been perpetrated there. The voice of my dead friend seemed calling on me to avenge her, and save the man she had loved better than her own soul, from a thraldom worse than death. In my anguish I cried out, "What can I do? what can I do?"

Nothing answered me. I was alone, doubly alone, since that girl had left us. Never before had my helplessness been so complete. Perhaps I had indulged in some wild hope connected with Lottie, and that had been cut from under my feet by her desertion. If so, I was unconscious of it; but no lame man ever felt the loss of his staff, as I felt the cruel ingratitude of this girl. Still I had a vague trust in her, a hope changing and fantastic as the wind, but still a hope that she might not prove the thoughtless creature her conduct seemed to bespeak her.

One end of the room was less gloomy than the rest, and a bar of light cutting across it disturbed me. It came through the partially opened door of Lottie's little chamber, in which a blind had been left unclosed. I went into the room, and there, directly beneath the window, saw the girl's writing-desk, on which lay a letter and a blank-book, which I remembered to have given Lottie one day, when she had pressed me earnestly for something of the kind. The letter was placed ostentatiously on its edge, and I saw that it was addressed to me. I opened it with some trepidation and read:--

MY DEAR, DEAR MISS HYDE:--Please do not think me a heathen and a viper of ingratitude, because I have done what I couldn't help, but remember me kindly, and make Miss Jessie do the same. It isn't in me to be really bad, or anything like it, though I sometimes do things out of the common, and make you angry, because you cannot understand why I do them; not knowing everything, how should you? There is one thing on my conscience, and I am going to own up to it. You remember when Babylon went away, I was going in a hurry into my room with something in my hand, when you wanted to know what it was. I bluffed you off and wouldn't tell, thinking to get the article back in good order before she went. But Babylon was in a terrible hurry, and I had no chance to do anything before her trunks were locked; so without meaning it at all, I was what some people might call a--well, I won't use the name, it looks dreadfully on paper, but her journal was left in my hand promiscuously, as one may say. Still I meant to return it to her, and mean to yet, if I ever get a good chance. I only thought at the time to get Mr. Lee to read it, but before I could do that, off he went, circumventing me in all respects, and making us wretched. For my part, with that book on hand--of no use too--I felt like a thief. If he had only waited till I could have seen him; but he didn't, and that has made me so unhappy that I cannot stay at home. I have copied off that she-Babylon's book, almost the whole of it, and I leave the copy for you--read it, and then say if Judas Iscariot wasn't a gentleman and philosopher, compared to this woman. I have got her book in my trunk. You wondered what I was writing so much about. Well, it was that. When she went out to ride days, Cora was sure to be down-stairs, and I knew where she kept her keys, so after awhile I had only to copy what Babylon wrote over-night, having got the rest copied by hard work. Well, at last everything was huddled up of a sudden, and I was behind-hand three or four days--so I made a dash for the book and hadn't time to put it back. I wonder if she's missed it? Mercy on us! what a time there will be when she does. I wouldn't be in that yellow girl's skin for something; but never mind, it will do her good--the black snake!

Read the book, and then you will find out what a rattlesnake we have had curled up in the bosom of our family.

Good-bye, Miss Hyde; don't think I'm crying because there is a drop just here. It's something else, I don't just know what, but crying is out of my--my--Oh, Miss Hyde! Miss Hyde! I do think my heart is breaking. I can't stand it. Don't expect me to say good-bye. Don't think hard of me for going. What else can I say. Oh, do, do think well of me; I am not a bad girl, nor ungrateful, believe that, and believe me your true LOTTIE till death.

I read the letter through more than once. Then I sat down and deliberated with my eyes on the book. Had I a right to read it, after all I had seen and heard of this woman; was I justified in searching out her secrets in that way?

But for the suspicions that still haunted me regarding Mrs. Lee's death, I should have decided against it, but I had learned too much for continued hesitation. Still, my very soul recoiled from the task of searching the life of this woman. When I reached forth my hand for the book, it seemed as if my fingers were poisoned with the touch. I would not take the volume to my own room, but sat down by the window and read it through before I arose from my seat. The pages frenzied me.

Lottie wrote a bold, plain hand, copying anything before her clearly enough. In places the writing gave evidence of hurry and nervousness, but it was in no part really difficult to read. The journal began at the marriage of Miss Wells with old Mr. Dennison, and seemed to have been detached from the other portion of her life about that time. If anything preceded it, Lottie had failed to take a copy.