The tête-à-tête dinner was greatly enjoyed by these gossips. They lingered over it as long as it was possible to do so.
“Talkin’ o’ walentines,” said Miss Sibby, apropos of nothing, “when I was young there wa’n’t no walentines made to sell. They was only made by ladies with fine taste for the work. They were cut out of fine paper, heart-shaped when folded, and scalloped circle when open, and finified off with ‘lilies and roses and other fine posies,’ and with written verses. Ah! I have known old Mrs. Grandiere—Miss Susannah’s mother—spend days and days cutting out and decorating walentines for the young people to send to their sweethearts. And they was all complimentary, and never impident. No sich thing as buying of a walentine ever heard of. And now they’ve got ’em in every shop window. But times changes, sez I, and them as lives the longest, sez I, sees the most, sez I.”
“I don’t think as your valentine or mine came out of the shops, Miss Sibby. I never seen any like them in shops. I think they was handmade by some young vilyun or other.”
“That is so. And the same scamp as made yourn, sez I, likewise made mine, sez I. And now as we’ve got done our dinner, hadn’t we might as well go and see them new-fashioned rugs and things in the box? If you have got anything to do, sez I, why, go and do it at once, sez I. Ain’t that so?”
“Yes, and we will go and open the box. Jake, bring a chisel and a clawhammer here, and life that big box out o’ the hall into the little parlor,” said the widow, calling to the one manservant, and then leading the way back to the sitting room.
Jake soon appeared with the box—a heavy deal case, four feet square—on his shoulder, and carefully lowered it to the floor.
“Now rip off the lid,” said the widow.
Jake, with considerable labor, opened the box.
“And now we shall see them new-fashioned rugs. And if I like ’em, I’ll send to Baltimore by Mark Truman’s schooner, and buy one to lay before my fireplace, soon’s ever I get paid for that last hogshead of tobacco,” said Miss Sibby, as the lid of the box flew up under Jake’s vigorous applications of the clawhammer.
The two women stooped over the open case.
First came a roll of coarse brown paper; then a layer of finer paper; then a large, folded parcel of bombazine and crape, which, on being unwrapped, turned out to be a made-up, deep mourning dress.
“Oh, this must be a mistake!” said Mrs. Anglesea. “This box must have been intended for somebody else.”
And she turned up the lid and read the direction again.
“No! It is directed to me, sure enough, but it must be a mistake, all the same. And I reckon the mistake was made at the store where all the things was bought, and they misdirected the box, and sent me these things, and sent them rugs to the party these was intended for. Lord! how careless people is, to be sure! But now let us see for curiosity what is in the box.”
And while Miss Sibby looked on with the greatest curiosity, Mrs. Anglesea unpacked the case.
More tissue paper; then a folded mantle of bombazine, trimmed with crape; then a black merino shawl; then half a dozen pair of black kid gloves; then another dress of black cashmere; then half a dozen pairs of black hose; then an inner wooden box, which, being lifted out and opened, was found to contain two compartments. In one was a widow’s black crape bonnet, with long, heavy black crape veil; and in the other a widow’s cap of crêpe lisse, and another of fine, white organdie.
When all these were laid out on the table the two women stood on either side of it, looking at each other and at the articles before them.
“Well, I reckon I’d better put ’em all back again, and wait till I hear from the owner,” said Mrs. Anglesea.
“I reckon maybe you better read this letter first. I think it must have been flung out accidental when the paper was took off the top of the things in the box,” said Miss Sibby, as she stooped and picked up a white envelope from among the waste paper under the table, and which had just caught her eye.
“To be sure! This is directed to me, too, and in the handwriting of the ole ’oman, too. Now I wonder I didn’t see this before. I do reckon now she has sent these here things down to me to give to some one who is going in mourning.”
So saying, Mrs. Anglesea opened the letter, and being a frank soul, spelled it out aloud:
“WASHINGTON, February 12, 1882.
“MY DEAR MRS. ANGLESEA: I received your letter, and hasten to reply. I should have preferred to give you my serious news in person, but since you insist on it, I give it you now in writing. Under all the circumstances, I need not fear even to give you a shock, when I tell you that Col. Angus Anglesea died at——”
“Good Lord! then the man is dead, sure enough!” exclaimed the widow, breaking off from her readings and looking up at her companion.
“Lord ’a’ mercy! So he is! But read on! Don’t stop! Let’s hear all about it!” exclaimed Miss Sibby.
“Oh, I can’t! I can’t! It seems so strange! He was so strong and healthy I thought he’d live forever almost! I thought he’d outlive me, anyways. And now he’s dead! It don’t seem possible, you know,” said the widow, with a total change of manner.
“Why, Lord! I thought you suspicioned as it was your husband’s death as Mrs. Force was a-keeping from you.”
“No, I didn’t. It was all my nonsense. I hadn’t a notion as he could die, and he the perfect pictor of life and health. And to be cut off in his prime!”
“Why, woman, you seem like you was sorry for the man as robbed and deserted you!”
“Don’t speak of that now, Miss Sibby. It’s mean to speak ill of the dead, who can’t answer you back again!” said the widow.
“And now I know you are sorry for him. And yet you ’lowed if he was dead you would not go into mourning for him!”
“Yes, but I didn’t think he was dead then, or that he would ever die in my lifetime. I—I didn’t know,” said the widow, in a breaking voice that she tried hard to steady.
“Well! them as would understand a widdy, sez I, need to have a long head, sez I! I knowed as you was awful tender-hearted and pitiful, Mrs. Anglesea. But I ralely didn’t think as you’d take on about him.”
“I’m not taken on about nobody. But a woman needn’t be a wild Indian, or a heathen, or cannibal, I reckon. A Christian’s ’lowed to have some sort o’ feelin’s. Now let me read the rest of my letter.”
And she resumed the perusal of her epistle, but in silence. She read all the particulars of Anglesea’s death as they were given by Mrs. Force in her own writing, and also in the slips cut from the Angleton Advertiser and inclosed in the letter. All except the concluding paragraph of the eulogy, giving the statement of his two marriages. These were cut off, in kindness to her, who thought herself his lawful wife.
When she had finished she gave all into Miss Sibby’s hands, and sat and watched in moody silence while the old lady adjusted her spectacles and slowly read them through.
“They speak very highly of the poor man in that there newspaper. He must have repented of his sins and made a good end, after all,” said Miss Sibby, very solemnly, as she returned letters and papers into Mrs. Anglesea’s hands.
“It was very thoughtful of Mrs. Force to send me down this box of mourning—very thoughtful. And I am very thankful to her for it,” murmured the widow, as if speaking to herself.
“Then you will go in mourning for him?” said Miss Sibby.
“Of course I shall.”
No more was said just then.
Miss Bayard stayed to tea. And then, seeing that her friend was very much depressed in spirits, she volunteered to stay with her all night; a favor for which the widow was really very grateful.
The next morning, however, the elastic spirits of the lady from the mines had risen to their normal elevation, and Miss Sibby, with relieved feelings, left Mondreer to spread the news of Angus Anglesea’s death far and wide through the neighborhood.
And it is perfectly safe to say that the woman whom he had so deeply wronged was the only individual in the whole community who felt the least pity for his premature departure.