_LOVE’S BITTEREST CUP_
                   A Sequel to “Her Mother’s Secret”

                                  _By_
                      MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

                               AUTHOR OF

   “The Lost Lady of Lone,” “The Trail of the Serpent,” “Nearest and
       Dearest,” “A Leap in the Dark,” “A Beautiful Fiend,” Etc.

[Illustration]

                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                       PUBLISHERS       NEW YORK

                             POPULAR BOOKS

                     By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

                       In Handsome Cloth Binding

                    Price per volume,       60 Cents

                  *       *       *       *       *

                 Beautiful Fiend, A
                 Brandon Coyle’s Wife
                   Sequel to A Skeleton in the Closet
                 Bride’s Fate, The
                   Sequel to The Changed Brides
                 Bride’s Ordeal, The
                 Capitola’s Peril
                   Sequel to the Hidden Hand
                 Changed Brides, The
                 Cruel as the Grave
                 David Lindsay
                   Sequel to Gloria
                 Deed Without a Name, A
                 Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret
                   Sequel to A Deed Without a Name
                 “Em”
                 Em’s Husband
                   Sequel to “Em”
                 Fair Play
                 For Whose Sake
                   Sequel to Why Did He Wed Her?
                 For Woman’s Love
                 Fulfilling Her Destiny
                   Sequel to When Love Commands
                 Gloria
                 Her Love or Her life
                   Sequel to The Bride’s Ordeal
                 Her Mother’s Secret
                 Hidden Hand, The
                 How He Won Her
                   Sequel to Fair Play
                 Ishmael
                 Leap in the Dark, A
                 Lilith
                   Sequel to the Unloved Wife
                 Little Nea’s Engagement
                   Sequel to Nearest and Dearest
                 Lost Heir, The
                 Lost Lady of Lone, The
                 Love’s Bitterest Cup
                   Sequel to Her Mother’s Secret
                 Mysterious Marriage, The
                   Sequel to A Leap in the Dark
                 Nearest and Dearest
                 Noble Lord, A
                   Sequel to The Lost Heir
                 Self-Raised
                   Sequel to Ishmael
                 Skeleton in the Closet, A
                 Struggle of a Soul, The
                   Sequel to The Lost Lady of Lone
                 Sweet Love’s Atonement
                 Test of Love, The
                   Sequel to A Tortured Heart
                 To His Fate
                   Sequel to Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret
                 Tortured Heart, A
                   Sequel to The Trail of the Serpent
                 Trail of the Serpent, The
                 Tried for Her life
                   Sequel to Cruel as the Grave
                 Unloved Wife, The
                 Unrequited Love, An
                   Sequel to For Woman’s Love
                 Victor’s Triumph
                   Sequel to A Beautiful Fiend
                 When Love Commands
                 When Shadows Die
                   Sequel to Love’s Bitterest Cup
                 Why Did He Wed Her?
                 Zenobia’s Suitors
                   Sequel to Sweet Love’s Atonement

                  *       *       *       *       *

   For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of
                                 price.
                     A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

                                                                New York

                         Copyright, 1882, 1889
                            By ROBERT BONNER

      Renewal granted to Mrs. Charlotte Southworth Lawrence, 1910

                         “LOVE’S BITTEREST CUP”

           Printed by special arrangement with STREET & SMITH




                          LOVE’S BITTEREST CUP




                               CHAPTER I
                    A WEDDING FROLIC AT FOREST REST


The good folk of our county always seized with gladness any fair excuse
for merry-making, especially in the dead of winter, when farm work was
slack.

Now the marriage of the popular young doctor with the well-liked young
teacher was one of the best of excuses for general outbreak into gayety.

True, the newly married pair wished to settle down at once in their
pretty cottage home, and be quiet.

But they were not to be permitted to do so.

Every family to whom the young doctor stood in the relation of attendant
physician gave either a dinner or a dancing party.

Judge Paul McCann, an old bachelor, who was one of his most valuable
patients—a chronic patient dying of good living, and taking a long, long
time to do it in—gave a heavy dinner party, to which he invited only
married or middle-aged people—such as the elder Forces, Grandieres,
Elks, and—Miss Bayard, who did not attend.

This dinner came off on the Monday after the marriage, and was a great
success.

Every one was pleased, except the young people who had nothing to do
with it.

“Selfish old rhinoceros! Wouldn’t give a dancing party because he’s got
the gout! And Natty so fond of dancing, too!” growled Wynnette, over her
disappointment on that occasion.

But the Grandieres consoled her and all the young people by giving a
dancing party at Oldfields on the following Wednesday, and inviting all
the members, young and old, of every family in the neighborhood.

This party was but a repetition, with improvements, on the New Year’s
Eve party, just four weeks previous; for again there was a full moon, a
deep, level snow, frozen over, and fine sleighing, and all circumstances
combined to make the entertainment a most enjoyable one.

This frolic was followed on Friday with a dancing party given by the
Elks at Grove Hill, to which the same people were invited, and where
they talked, laughed and danced as merrily as before.

And do you think that the descendant of the “Dook of England” was one to
neglect her social duties, or to be left behind in the competition of
hospitable attentions to the bride and groom because her house was small
and her means were even smaller?

Not at all! So she determined to give a dancing party on the next
Tuesday evening, and invite all the neighborhood with his wife and
children, and “his sisters, aunts and cousins.”

“But, great Jehosophat, Aunt Sibby, if you ask all these people, what
are you going to do with them? They can’t all get into the house, you
know!” exclaimed Roland Bayard, while his aunt and himself were forming
a committee of ways and means.

“That’s _their_ business! _My_ business is to invite them to a party,
and to open the door. _Their_ business is to get in the house—if they
can. Do your duty, sez I! Without fear or favor, sez I! Do the proper
thing, sez I! unregardless of consequences, sez I! _My_ duty is to give
a party to the bride and groom, and I’m a-going to do it! Take your own
share of the world’s play, sez I, as well as the world’s work, sez I! We
can’t live our lives over again, sez I!

            “‘Live while you live, the sacred preachers say,
            And seize the pleasures of the passing day.’”

“I think you have got that quotation wrong, auntie,” said Roland.

“’Tain’t quotation, you ignomanners! It’s verses out of the ‘English
Reader’ as I used to study when I went to school to young Luke Barriere,
when he was young Luke, and before he left off teaching and divested all
his yearnings into a grocery.”

“Well, you have got the lines wrong, anyway, Aunt Sibby.”

“I tell you I ain’t! What do you know about it? I’ve read more verse
books than ever you knew the names of! But that ain’t nothing to the
point! What I want you to do is to take the mule cart and drive round
the neighborhood, and invite all the company—everybody that we saw at
all the other parties! Every one of ’em—childun and all! When you do a
thing, sez I, do it well, sez I! What’s worth a-doing of at all, sez I,
is worth doing well, sez I!”

“I might as well start at once, as it will take me all day to go the
rounds. I’ll go harness up the mule now.”

“Yes, go; and wherever you happen to be at dinner time there you stop
and get your dinner. I shan’t expect you home till night, because after
you have given out all the invitations, you know, I want you to call at
old Luke Barriere’s grocery store and fetch me——Stop! have you got a
pencil in your pocket?”

“Yes, Aunt Sibby.”

“Well, then, put down—Lord! where shall I get a piece of writing paper?
Hindrances, the first thing! It’s always the way, sez I!”

“It need not be writing paper. This will do,” said Roland, tearing off a
scrap of brown wrapper from a parcel that lay on the table.

“Now, then, write,” said Miss Sibby.

And she gave him a list for sugar, spices, candies, “reesins” and
“ammuns,” “orringes” and “lemmuns.”

“Is this all?” inquired Roland.

“Yes, and tell Luke Barriere he must charge it to me, and tell him I’ll
pay him as soon as I get paid for that last hogshead of tobacco I
shipped to Barker’s.”

“All right, auntie.”

“And, mind, as I told you before, I shan’t expect you home to dinner.
You won’t have time to come. And I shan’t get no dinner, neither, ’cause
all the fireplace will be took up baking cakes. Soon’s ever you’re gone,
me and Mocka is a-going right at making of ’em. Thanks be to goodness as
we have got a-plenty of our own flour, and eggs, and milk, and butter!
And when you have got plenty of flour, and eggs, and milk, and butter,
sez I, you’ll get along, sez I!”

“Very well, Aunt Sibby.”

“And don’t you forget to invite Luke Barriere to the party, mind you!
You mustn’t forget old friends, sez I!”

“Oh! And must I invite Judge Paul McCann?” inquired the sailor, with a
twinkle in his eye, for you see

                   “They had been friends in youth.”

“No!” emphatically replied the old lady. “No! Them as has the least to
do with old Polly McCann, sez I, comes the best off, sez I! There! Now
go! You ain’t got a minute more to lose!”

The young man went out to the little stable behind the house, and put
the mule to the cart, and drove around to the front door, to come in and
get his overcoat and cap.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you, Roland! Hire the nigger fiddlers while you
are out,” said Miss Sibby.

“I’ll remember, aunt,” replied the young man, drawing on his “surtout,”
and, with cap and gloves in hand, hurrying out to the cart.

In another moment Miss Sibby heard the mule cart rattle away on its
rounds.

She then tied on a large apron, rolled up her sleeves, washed her hands,
and went into the kitchen to make cakes.

And all that day her two servants, Mocka and Gad, had a time of it!

Late in the evening Roland came back with a cargo of groceries, and the
report that all the neighborhood had been invited to her party, and had
accepted the invitation.

“And now, Aunt Sibby, it is getting awfully serious! If they all
come—and they will all come—where are you going to put them? Here are
only three rooms on this floor—the kitchen, the parlor and the parlor
bedroom,” said Roland, in real concern.

“Le’s see,” mused the old lady, looking around. “‘Where there’s a will
there’s a way,’ sez I! And, Lord knows, as I have got the will, I must
find the way! The party is given to the young bride and groom, and for
the sake of the dancers, and they must have the preference. Le’s see,
now: The bed must be took out’n the parlor bedroom and put upstairs. The
folks as don’t dance must sit in the parlor bedroom, with the door open,
so as they may see the dancing and hear the music. Then the dancers must
dance in this parlor, and the nigger fiddlers can play in the kitchen,
with the door open, so the music can be heard all over the house. The
two rooms upstairs can be used for the ladies’ and gentlemen’s dressing
rooms. Oh, there’s ample space! ample! And we shall have a grand time,
Roland!” said the old lady of sixty-one with the heart of sixteen.

And her words came true. Everything was propitious. To be sure, the
moonlight was gone; but the sky was clear and cold, and the stars
sparkling with the brilliancy that is only to be seen in just such
winter weather, and the snow was deep and frozen hard, and the sleighing
was “hevvingly,” as the lady from Wild Cats’ described it.

And when all the company were assembled in Miss Sibby’s little,
hospitable house, and divided into rooms according to her plan, there
was really no uncomfortable crowd at all.

Roland Bayard received all the guests at the door.

Gad showed the gentlemen upstairs into the little north bedroom, and
Mocka conducted the ladies up into the little south bedroom.

Both these small attic chambers had been neatly prepared as dressing
rooms.

As the guests came down, Miss Sibby, in her only black silk dress and
Irish gauze cap, received them at the foot of the stairs, and took them
in turn to their appointed places.

The negro fiddlers were seated in the kitchen near the door, which was
opened into the parlor.

The young people formed a double set on the parlor floor.

The elders sat on comfortable seats in the parlor bedroom, with the door
open, so that they could see the dancers and hear the music, while
gossiping with each other.

                    “The fun grew fast and furious”

as the witches’ dance at Kirk Alloway.

“Miss Sibby!” cried Wynnette, in one of the breathless pauses of the
whirling reel—“Miss Sibby, for downright roaring fun and jollification
your party does whip the shirt off the back of every party given this
winter.”

“I’m proud you like it; but, oh, my dear Miss Wynnette Force, do not put
it that there way! Wherever did you pick up sich expressions? It must a
been from them niggers,” said Miss Sibby, deprecatingly.

“I reckon it was from the niggers I ‘picked up sich expressions,’ Miss
Sibby, for the words and phrases they let fall are often very
expressive—and I take to them so naturally that I sometimes think I must
have been a nigger myself in some stage of pre-existence,” laughed
Wynnette.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, child; but I do know as you
sartainly ought to break yourself of that there habit of speaking.”

“I do try to, Miss Sibby! I correct myself almost every time,” said
Wynnette, and then craning her neck with dignity, she added—“What I
meant to say about your entertainment, Miss Bayard, was that it is far
the most enjoyable I have attended this season.”

“Thank y’, honey, that’s better! A young lady can’t be too particular,
sez I!” concluded Miss Sibby. But before she finished speaking the whirl
of the reel had carried Wynnette off to the other end of the room.

The dancing continued until ten o’clock.

The fiddlers rested from their labors and took their grog.

The dancers sat down to recover their breath and to partake of
refreshments in the form of every sort of cake, candy, nut and raisin,
to say nothing of apple toddy, lemon punch and eggnogg.

When all had been refreshed the music and dancing recommenced and
continued until midnight, when they wound up the ball with the giddy
Virginia reel.

The hot mulled port wine was handed round and drunk amid much laughing,
talking and jesting.

Then the company put on their wraps, took leave of their happy hostess,
re-entered their sleighs and started merrily for their homes.

The lady from the gold diggings had partaken so heartily of all the good
things provided by Miss Sibby, and had tested so conscientiously the
rival merits of apple toddy, lemon punch, eggnogg and mulled port, that
she went sound asleep in the sleigh and slept all the way to Mondreer
and on being roused up to enter the house she addressed the dignified
squire as Joe Mullins, and remarked that she thought the lead was
running out at Wild Cats’, and they had better vamose the gulch and go
prospecting some’eres else.

However, she slept off the effects of the party and was her own happy
and hearty self at breakfast the next morning.




                               CHAPTER II
                                ODALITE


Among all the merry-makers there was one sad face—Odalite’s—which no
effort of self-control could make otherwise than sad.

Odalite, for the sake of her young sisters, had joined every party, but
she took no pleasure in them.

Now that all the distracting excitement was over, and she could think
calmly of the circumstances, they all combined to distress, mortify and
humiliate her. The remembrance of that scene in the church, of which at
the time it transpired she was but half conscious, was to her so
shameful and degrading that she secretly shrank from the eyes of friends
and neighbors whom she was obliged to meet at the various gatherings in
the neighborhood.

Then the doubt of her real relations to the Satan who had entered her
Eden, the uncertainty of her true position, and the instability of her
circumstances, all gathered around her like heavy clouds and darkened,
saddened and oppressed her spirits.

That Anglesea had no moral claim on her she was perfectly well assured.
That her father would protect her against him she felt equally certain.
But that the man might have a legal claim upon her—supposing his
marriage with the Widow Wright to have been an irregular one—and that he
might give her dear mother and herself trouble through that claim, she
was sorely afraid.

And then there was Le—her dear, noble, generous Le—who had pardoned her
apparent defection and had sworn to be faithful to her and share her
fate to the end of life, even though that fate should oblige them to
live apart in celibacy forever. Her heart ached for Le. She had had but
one letter from him since he left the house, a month before. In it he
told her that he had reached his ship only six hours before she was to
sail, and that he had only time to write a few farewell lines on the eve
of departure. But these lines were, indeed, full of love, faith and
hope. He told her that he should keep a diary for her, and send it in
sections by every opportunity. And he renewed all his vows of fidelity
to her through life.

That was his first and last letter up to this time. But now she was
looking for another.

This daily expectation and the weekly visits to Greenbushes helped to
occupy her mind, and enabled her to endure life.

Old Molly, the housekeeper there, who did not understand, and could not
appreciate, the comfort and consolation that Odalite derived from these
weekly inspections, remonstrated on the subject, saying:

“’Deed, Miss Odalite, ’tain’t no use for you to take all dis yere
trouble for to come ober yere ebery week to see as de rooms is all
opened and aired and dried—’deed it ain’t. You can trust me—’deed you
can. Now did you eber come ober yere on a Wednesday morning, and not
find a fire kindled into ebery room in de house, and de windows all
opened, ef it was clear? And likewise, if you war to come at night,
you’d find the fires all out, and the windows all shut, and the rooms
all dry as a toast.”

“I know I can trust you thoroughly, Molly, but you see I like to come.
It seems to bring me nearer Le, you know,” Odalite replied, in her
gentle and confiding way.

“Yes, honey, so it do, indeed. Well, it was a awful set-down to us w’en
dat forriner come yere an’ cut Marse Le out, an’ him a married man, too,
Lord save us!”

“Hush, Molly. You must not speak of that person to me,” said Odalite,
sternly.

“Lord, honey, I ain’t a-blamin’ of you. Well I knows as you couldn’t
help it. Well I knows as he give you witch powders, or summut, to make
you like him whedder or no. W’ite people don’t believe nuffin ’bout dese
witch powders, but we dem colored people we knows, honey. But now he is
foun’ out an’ druv away, we dem all sees as you is a fo’gettin’ de
nonsense, honey, ’cause he can’t give you no mo’ witch powders. Lor’!
why, if it had been true love you feeled for him, you couldn’t a got
ober it as soon as you has, eben if yer had foun’ him out to be de gran’
vilyun as he is, ’cause it would a took time. But as it war not true
love, but only witch powders, you see you got ober it eber since he went
away. Lor’! I knows about witch powders.”

“Please, Mollie,” pleaded Odalite.

But the negro woman, having mounted her hobby, rocked on:

“Neber mind, honey. You and Marse Le is young ’nough to spare t’ree
years, an’ next time he come home, please de Lord, we’ll all ’joy a
merry marridge, an’ you an’ him to come to housekeeping ’long of us.”

Odalite took leave, and went home. That was the only way in which she
could escape the painful subject.

She found a letter from Le on her return. It was dated last from Rio de
Janeiro. It contained the daily record of the young midshipman’s life on
the man-of-war, and no end to the vows of love and constancy.

This letter came under cover to her mother. It cheered Odalite up for
days.

But again her spirits sank.

At length her health began to suffer, and then her parents took into
consideration a plan that had been discussed a month before. This was to
leave the plantation under the competent direction of their long-known
overseer and their family solicitor, and to take a furnished house in
Washington City for three years, during which time they could place
their two younger daughters at a good finishing school, and introduce
their eldest into society.

It was Mrs. Force who had first proposed the plan, and it was she who
now recurred to it.

“You know, dear Abel,” she said to her husband, while they were sitting
together one morning in her little parlor, “you know that two
considerations press on us now—the health of Odalite and the education
of Wynnette and Elva. I really fear for Odalite, and so does Dr. Ingle,
if she should be permitted to remain in this neighborhood, where
everything reminds her of the distress and mortification she has
suffered. Odalite must have a thorough change. And no better change can
be thought of for her than a winter in Washington. The gay season is
just commencing in that city, and with all that we could do for her
there Odalite would be sure to improve. Think what a contrast Washington
in its season—Washington with its splendid official receptions, its
operas and concerts, every day and night—would be to the secluded life
we all lead here. And especially what a contrast in the conception of
Odalite, who will see the city for the first time.”

“I appreciate all that; but, my love, your simple wish to go to the city
would be quite sufficient for me,” said the squire.

Mrs. Force turned away her head and breathed a sigh, as she often did at
any especial mark of love or trust from her good husband.

“I should not express the wish on my own account, dear Abel. I have
always been well content with our retired life and your society alone. I
spoke only for the children’s sake. I have told you why Odalite needs
the change, and now I wish to tell you how our residence in Washington
will benefit her younger sisters. Wynnette and Elva must go on with
their education. We would not like to engage a stranger to come and take
charge of them here, just after such a public event as that of the
broken marriage, even if we could get one to replace Natalie Meeke, or
suit us as well as she did, which I am sure we could not. Nor, on the
other hand, could we consent to send our children away from us. So I see
no better plan for them, as well as for all, than that we should all go
to Washington, where we can give our Odalite the social life that she so
much needs just now, and where we can enter Wynnette and Elva as day
pupils in a first-class school.”

“My dear, I see that you are right,” said Mr. Force. “You are quite
right in regard to the wisdom of going to Washington, so far as the
benefit of our children is concerned; nor do I see any hindrance to our
leaving this place without our care. Barnes is an invaluable farm
manager, and Copp is as capable an agent as any proprietor could desire.
We will leave the place in their care. We can go at once, or just as
soon as you can pack up. If we cannot secure a furnished house at once
we can go to a hotel and stay until we can get one.”

“But—what shall we do with Mrs. Anglesea?” demanded Mrs. Force, in
sudden dismay as the vision of the lady from Wild Cats’ arose in her
mind’s eye.

Abel Force gave a long, low whistle, and then answered:

“We must invite her to go with us to Washington.”

“To——Invite Mrs. Anglesea to join our party to Washington?” gasped the
lady.

“Yes. She will be charmed to accept, I am sure,” replied the gentleman,
with a twinkle of humor in his eye.

“But, good heavens, Abel! how could we introduce that woman into
Washington society?”

“Very well, indeed. Very much better than we could into any other
society on the face of the earth. The wives of the high officers of the
government are the leaders of society; the latter are under the dominion
of the sovereign people, who flock to the city in great numbers, and
from all parts of the country, and all ranks and grades of the social
scale; and you will find the drawing rooms of cabinet ministers and
foreign ambassadors filled with companies more mixed than you could find
elsewhere in the world. Our lady from the gold mines will find plenty to
keep her in countenance.”

“For all that,” said Mrs. Force, “I shall try to evade the necessity of
taking her with us.”

“My dear, we cannot, in decency, turn our guest out of doors; so the
only alternative we have is to take her with us or stay at home.”

“I think—she is so simple, good-humored and unconventional—that I think
I may explain to her the necessity of our going to Washington for the
sake of the children, and then give her a choice to go with us or to
remain here.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Mr. Force. “And let us hope that she will elect
to remain.”

A little later in the day Mrs. Force had an explanation with her guest,
and put the alternative before her.

“You will understand, dear Mrs. Anglesea, the cruel necessity that
obliges us to leave our home at this juncture; and now I wish you to be
guided by your own impulses whether to go with us to Washington or to
remain here as long as it may suit you to do so,” said the lady, in
conclusion.

“You say you’re all a-gwine to a hotel?” inquired the visitor.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you don’t catch me leavin’ of a comfortable home like this,
where there’s plenty of turkeys, and canvas-back ducks, and game of all
sorts, as the niggers shoot and sell for a song, and feather beds, and
good roaring fires, and cupboards full of preserves and sweetmeats, to
go to any of your hotels to get pizened by their messes, or catch my
death in damp sheets. No, ma’am, no hotels for me, if you please. I got
enough of ’em at the Hidalgo. I know beans, I do; and I stays here.”

“Very well. I shall be glad to think of you here; and I shall leave Lucy
and Jacob in the house to take care of it, and they will wait on you,”
said the well-pleased lady of the manor.

“I’ll make myself comfortable, you bet, ole ’oman! and I’ll take good
care of the house while you’re gone—you may stake your pile on that!”

And so this matter was satisfactorily settled.

Preparations for departure immediately began, and soon the news got
abroad in the neighborhood that the Forces were going to leave Mondreer
and live in Washington.




                              CHAPTER III
                                ROSEMARY


“Rosemary, my dear, I wish you would not dance all the time with young
Roland Bayard when you happen to be at a party with him,” said the grave
and dignified Miss Susannah Grandiere to the fair little niece who sat
at her feet, both literally and figuratively.

The early tea was over at Grove Hill, and the aunt and niece sat before
the fire, with their maid Henny in attendance.

Miss Grandiere was knitting a fine white lamb’s wool stocking; Rosemary
was sewing together pieces for a patchwork quilt; and Henny, seated on a
three-legged stool in the chimney corner, was carding wool.

“Why not, Aunt Sukey?” inquired the child, pushing the fine, silky black
curls from her dainty forehead and looking up from her work.

“Because, my dear, though you are but a little girl, and he is almost a
young man, yet these intimate friendships, formed in early youth, may
become very embarrassing in later years,” gravely answered the lady,
drawing out her knitting needle from the last taken off stitch and
beginning another round.

“But how, Aunt Sukey?” questioned the little one.

“In this way. No one knows who Roland Bayard is! He was cast up from the
wreck of the _Carrier Pigeon_, the only life saved. He was adopted and
reared by Miss Sibby Bayard, and I think, but am not sure, he was
educated at the expense of Abel Force, who never lets his left hand know
what his right hand does in the way of charity. But Miss Sibby has
hinted as much to me.”

“Aunt Sukey, he may be the son of a lord, or a duke, or a prince,”
suggested romantic Rosemary.

“Or of a thief, or pirate, or convict,” added Miss Grandiere, severely.

“Oh, Aunt Sukey! Never! Never! Dear Roland! Aunt Sukey, I like Roland so
much! And I have good reason to like him, too, whatever he may be!”
exclaimed the child, with more than usual earnestness.

“Oh! oh! oh!” moaned Miss Grandiere, sadly, shaking her head.

“Aunt Sukey, no one ever has the kindness to ask a little girl like me
to dance except dear Roland. Other gentlemen ask young ladies; but dear
Roland always asks me, and he never lets me be neglected. And I shall
never forget him for it, but shall always like him.”

“Um, um, um!” softly moaned the stately lady to herself.

“And Roland told me he was named after a knight who was ‘without fear
and without reproach,’ and that he meant always to deserve his name, and
to be my knight—mine.”

“Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Miss Grandiere.

“What is the matter, Aunt Sukey?” inquired Rosemary, again pushing back
her silky, black curls, and lifting her large, light blue eyes to the
lady’s troubled face.

“Rosemary, my child,” began Miss Grandiere, with out replying to the
little girl’s question, “Rosemary, you know the Forces are going to
Washington next week?”

“Oh! yes; everybody knows that now.”

“And Wynnette and Elva are going to be put to school there?”

“Yes, everybody knows that, too, Aunt Sukey.”

“Well, how would you like to be put to the same school that they are
going to attend?”

“Oh, so much! So very much, Aunt Sukey! I never dreamed of such
happiness as that! I do so much want to get a good education!” exclaimed
the little girl, firing with enthusiasm.

“Well, my dear child, I think the opportunity of sending you to school
with Wynnette and Elva, and under the protection of Mr. and Mrs. Force,
is such an excellent one that it ought not to be lost. I will speak to
my sister Hedge about it, and if she will consent to your going I will
be at the cost of sending you,” said the lady, as she began to roll up
her knitting, for the last gleam of the winter twilight had faded out of
the sky and it was getting too dark even to knit.

For once in her life Rosemary had forgotten to call for the curtains to
be let down and the candle to be lit and the novel brought forth. For
once the interests of real life had banished the memory of romance.

But Henny knew what was expected of her, and so she put up her cards,
went and lighted the tallow candle, pulled down the window blinds,
replenished the fire, and reseated herself on her three-legged stool in
the chimney corner.

Rosemary, recalled to the interests of the evening, went and brought
forth the “treasured volume” from the upper bureau drawer and gave it to
her aunt to read. Then she settled herself in her low chair to listen.

It was still that long romance of “The Children of the Abbey” that was
the subject of their evening readings. And they had now reached a most
thrilling crisis, where the heroine was in the haunted castle; when
suddenly the sound of wheels was heard to grate on the gravel outside,
accompanied by girlish voices.

And soon there came a knock at the door.

“Who in the world can that be at this hour, after dark?” inquired Miss
Grandiere, as Henny arose and opened the door.

Odalite, Wynnette and Elva came in, in their poke bonnets and buttoned
coats.

“Oh, Miss Grandiere, excuse us, but yours was the only light we saw
gleaming around the edges of the blinds, and so we knocked at your
door,” said Wynnette, who always took the initiative in speaking, as in
other things.

“My dear child! how is it that you children are out, after dark?”
inquired the lady.

“We have been making the rounds to bid good-by to the neighbors. Mamma
and papa went out yesterday, and we to-day. We are going to Washington
next week, and we have come to bid you good-by now,” said Wynnette,
still speaking for all the others.

“But who is with you for protection? Who drove the carriage?”

“Jake drove and Joshua came as bodyguard; but we are so late that I am
afraid Mr. and Mrs. Elk and the girls are asleep.”

“They are, my dears; and it is so late that I do not think it right for
you three children to be driving through the country with no better
protection than Jake and the dog. You must send them home and stay all
night here. Then you will have an opportunity of bidding good-by to
William and Molly and the children to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, Miss Grandiere, how jolly! I have not spent a night from home for
ages and ages and ages!” exclaimed Wynnette.

“But what will mamma say?” doubtfully inquired Elva.

“I fear, Miss Grandiere, that we ought to return home to-night,”
suggested Odalite.

“Nonsense, my dear child! You must do nothing of the sort. I will write
a note to your mother and send it by Jake,” replied Miss Grandiere, who
immediately arose and went to get her portfolio.

“If it hadn’t been for Miss Sibby Bayard keeping us so long talking
about her ancestor the ‘Duke of England’—she means the Duke of Norfolk
all the time, but flouts us when we hint as much—we should have been
here two hours ago, and been home by this time,” said Wynnette.

Miss Grandiere finished her note, put a shawl over her head and went out
herself to speak to the coachman and send him home to Mondreer with her
written message.

“Now take off your hats and coats, and tell me if you have had tea,” she
said, when she came back into the room and closed the door.

“Oh, yes! we took tea with Miss Sibby while she told us how a certain
‘Duke of England’ lost his head for wanting to marry a certain Queen of
Scotland,” replied Wynnette.

That question settled, the girls drew chairs around the fire, and began
to make themselves comfortable.

Rosemary could not bear to give up her reading, just at that particular
crisis, too! So she thought she would entice her company into listening
to the story.

“We were reading—oh! such a beautiful book!” she said. “Just hear how
lovely it begins!”

And she took the book up, turned it to the first page and commenced
after this manner:

“‘Hail! sweet asylum of my infancy! Content and innocence abide beneath
your humble roof!—hail! ye venerable trees! My happiest hours of
childish gayety——’”

“What’s all that about?” demanded Wynnette, the vandal, ruthlessly
interrupting the reader.

“It is Amanda Fitzallan, coming back to the Welsh cottage where she was
nursed, and catching sight of it, you know, raises fluttering emotions
in her sensitive bosom,” Rosemary explained, with an injured air.

“Oh! it does, does it? But she wouldn’t hold forth in that way, you
know, even if she were badly stage struck or very crazy,” said Wynnette.

“Oh! I thought it was such elegant language!” pleaded Rosemary.

“But she wouldn’t use it! Look here! Do you suppose, when I come back
from school, years hence, and catch sight of Mondreer, I should hold
forth in that hifaluting style?”

“But what would you say?”

“Nothing, probably; or if I did, it would be: ‘There’s the blessed old
barn now, looking as dull and humdrum as it did when we used to go
blackberrying and get our ankles full of chego bites. Lord! how many
dull days we have passed in that dreary old jail, especially in rainy
weather!’ I think that would be about my talk.”

“Oh, Wynnette! you have no sentiment, no reverence, no——”

“Nonsense!” good-humoredly replied the girl, finishing Rosemary’s
halting sentence.

The little girl sighed, closed the book and laid it on the table.

“The style of that work is very elegant and refined; and it is better to
err on the side of elegance and refinement than on their opposites,”
said Miss Grandiere, with her grandest air.

“As I do every time I open my mouth. But I can’t help it, Miss Susannah.
‘I am as Heaven made me,’ as somebody or other said—or ought to have
said, if they didn’t,” retorted Wynnette.

As it was now bedtime it became necessary to attend to the sleeping
accommodations of these unexpected guests. But first it was in order to
offer them some refreshments. Henny was not required to draw a jug of
hard cider, or to make and bake hoe cakes in the bedroom that night.
Such “orgies” were only enacted by the aunt and niece in the seclusion
of their private life.

But the corner cupboard was unlocked, and a store of rich cake and pound
cake, with a cut-glass decanter of cherry bounce, all of which was kept
for company, was brought forth and served to the visitors.

Meanwhile, Henny went upstairs to kindle a fire in the large,
double-bedded spare room, just over Miss Sukey’s chamber.

“Miss Susannah,” said Odalite, while the group sat around the fire
nibbling their cake and sipping their bounce, “I have a favor to ask of
you.”

“Anything in the world that I can do for you, Odalite, shall be done
with the greatest pleasure,” earnestly replied the elder lady.

“I thank you very much, dear friend; and now I will explain: I promised
Le, before we went away, that I would go to Greenbushes once a week to
see that the rooms were regularly opened, aired and dried. I have kept
the promise up to the present; but now, you know, I have to go with the
family to Washington. I have no alternative, and for that reason I would
like you to be my proxy.”

“I will, with great pleasure, my dear.”

“I could not ask you to go every week, that would be too much; but if
you can go occasionally and see that all is right, and drop me a note to
that effect, it will—well, it will relieve my conscience,” concluded
Odalite, with a wan smile.

“I certainly will go every week, unless prevented by circumstances; and
I will write to you as often as I go, to let you know how all is getting
on there.”

“Oh, you are very kind, Miss Susannah; but I fear you will find it a tax
upon your time and patience.”

“Not at all. I shall have plenty of time, and little that is interesting
to fill it up with. For let me tell you a secret. I intend to avail
myself of the opportunity of your parents being in Washington to send my
little Rosemary to the same school that Wynnette and Elva will attend.”

“Oh, that will be jolly!” “Oh, that will be lovely!” exclaimed Wynnette
and Elva, in the same instant.

“That is, if Mr. and Mrs. Force will not consider the addition of
Rosemary to their party an intrusion.”

“Why, Miss Susannah! How dare you slander my father and mother right
before my two looking eyes?” exclaimed Wynnette. “They will be just set
up to have Rosemary! Besides, where’s the intrusion, I’d like to know?
The railroad and the hotel and the boarding school are just as free for
you as for me, I should think.”

“Rosemary would board at the school, of course,” continued Miss
Grandiere.

“So shall Elva and I. If papa could have got a furnished house we should
have lived at home, and entered the academy as day pupils; but, you see,
as papa could not get a house he and mamma and Odalite will live at one
of the West End hotels, and Elva and I at the academy.”

“And, oh! won’t it be lovely to have dear Rosemary with us? We should
not feel half so strange,” said little Elva.

“You will speak to your father and mother on the subject when you go
home, Odalite, my child; and I will call on them later. If they will
take charge of Rosemary on the journey, and enter her at the same school
with yourselves, I will be at all the charges, of course, and I shall
feel very much obliged,” said Miss Susannah.

“You may rest assured that papa and mamma will be very glad to take
charge of dear little Rosemary; not only for her sake and for your sake,
but for our sakes, so that we may have an old playmate from our own
neighborhood to be our schoolmate in the new home,” said Wynnette.

“There is something in that,” remarked Miss Grandiere.

As for Elva and Rosemary, they were sitting close together on one chair,
with their arms locked around each other’s waist, in fond anticipation
of their coming intimacy.

Henny now came in and said that the spare room was all ready for the
young ladies.

Miss Grandiere lighted a fresh candle, and conducted her visitors to the
upper chamber, saw that all their wants were supplied, and bade them
good-night.

Soon after, aunt and niece also retired to bed; but Rosemary could not
sleep for the happiness of thinking about going to boarding school in
the city along with Wynnette and Elva.

Early in the morning William and Molly Elk, their little girls, and in
fact the whole household, with the exception of Miss Sukey, her niece
and her maid, were astonished to hear that there were visitors in the
house who had arrived late on the night before.

They prepared a better breakfast than usual in their honor, and gave
them a warm welcome.

Soon after breakfast, Jake arrived with the family carriage to fetch the
young people home, and also with a message from Mr. and Mrs. Force,
thanking Miss Grandiere for having detained their imprudent children all
night.

“You and Rosemary go home with us, Miss Susannah. There’s plenty of room
inside the carriage for six people, and we would only be five. Do, now!
And let us have this matter of going to school settled at once,” urged
Wynnette.

Miss Grandiere hesitated, even though Elva joined in the invitation. But
when Odalite, the eldest and grown-up sister, added her entreaties to
those of the others, Miss Sukey yielded, because she wanted to yield.

The girls then took leave of all their friends at Grove Hill and entered
the capacious carriage, accompanied by Miss Grandiere and Rosemary—that
is, two of them did. One was missing.

“Where is Wynnette?” inquired Miss Grandiere, as she sank into the
cushions.

“She is on the box, driving, while Jacob is sitting with folded arms
beside her,” answered Odalite.

“It is highly improper.”

“You cannot do anything with Wynnette, Miss Susannah. She will drive as
often as she can. And Jacob’s presence beside her makes it safe, at
least. He is ready to seize the reins at any emergency.”

“Yes, but really—really—my dear Odalite——”

The sudden starting of the horses at a spanking pace jerked Miss
Grandiere’s words from her lips, and herself forward into little Elva’s
arms.

However, they arrived safely at Mondreer, where they were very cordially
welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. Force.

When Miss Grandiere proposed her plan of sending Rosemary with them, to
go to school with their own children, the lady and gentleman responded
promptly and cordially.

“We have not selected our school yet,” Mr. Force explained. “We wish to
get the circulars and personally inspect the schools before we make our
choice, but if you leave your niece in our hands, we shall do by her
exactly as by our own.”

“I am sure you will. And I thank you from my soul for the trouble you
take. I shall sign some blank checks, for you to fill out, for any funds
that may be required for Rosemary,” gratefully responded Miss Grandiere.

The aunt and niece, at the cordial invitation of the Forces, stayed to
dinner, and were afterward sent home in a wide buggy driven by Jacob.

One day later Miss Grandiere broached to Mrs. Hedge the subject of
sending Rosemary to school with Wynnette and Elva Force, at her own—Miss
Grandiere’s—expense.

This consultation with the mother was a mere form, Miss Susannah knowing
full well that it was the great ambition of Mistress Dolly’s heart to
send her daughter to a good boarding school, and that she would consider
the present opportunity most providential.

All the arrangements were most satisfactorily concluded, and by the end
of the following week, the Forces, with little Rosemary in their charge,
had left Mondreer.




                               CHAPTER IV
                         AFTER A LAPSE OF TIME


It was three years after the Forces left Mondreer, and they had never
returned to it.

The farm was managed by Jesse Barnes, the capable overseer, and the
sales were arranged by Mr. Copp, the family agent, who remitted the
revenues of the estate in quarterly installments to Mr. Force.

The lady from the gold mines remained in the house, taking such
excellent care of the rooms and the furniture that she had gradually
settled down as a permanent inmate, in the character of a salaried
housekeeper.

“I’m a-getting too old to be bouncing round prospecting with the boys,
and so I reckon I had better sit down in this comfortable sitiwation for
the rest of my life,” she confided to Miss Bayard, one February morning,
when that descendant of the great duke honored her by coming to spend
the day at Mondreer.

“That’s just what I sez myself. When you knows you’re well enough off,
sez I, you’d better let well enough alone, sez I. And not take after
them unsettled people as are allus changing about from place to place,
doing no good,” assented Miss Bayard.

“It’s a habit dey gibs deirselves. ’Deed it is, ole mist’ess. Nuffin’ ’t
all but a habit dey gibs deirselves,” remarked Luce, who had just come
in with a waiter, on which was a plate of caraway-seed cake and a
decanter of blackberry cordial to refresh the visitor.

“Just like my neffy, Roland. He was restless enough after Le went to
sea, but after the Forces left the neighborhood and took Rosemary Hedge
with ’em, ropes nor chains wouldn’t hold that feller, but he must go off
to Baltimore to get a berth, as he called it. Thanks be to goodness, he
got in ’long of Capt. Grandiere as first mate; but Lord knows when I’ll
ever see him ag’in, for he is gone to the East Indies,” sighed Miss
Sibby. And then she stopped to nibble her seed cake and sip her
blackberry cordial.

“It’s a habit he gibs hisself, ole mist’ess. ’Deed it is. Nuffin’ ’t all
but a habit he gibs hisself, and you ought to try to break him of it,”
said Luce, as she set the waiter down on the table and left the room.

“Do you expect Abel Force ever to come home to his own house again?”
inquired Miss Sibby, between her sips and nibbles.

“Oh, yes, I reckon so, when the gals have finished their edication, but
not till then. You see they have a lovely house in Washington, according
to what Miss Grandiere and little Rosemary Hedge tells us, and the
children are at a fine school, so they live there all the year until the
three months summer vacation comes round, and then when Miss Grandiere
goes to Washington to fetch her little niece home to spend the holidays
here, why, then Mr. and Mrs. Force takes their three daughters and go
traveling. And this next summer they do talk about going to Europe, but
I don’t know that they will do it.”

“What I sez is that they ought to spend their summers at Mondreer. When
a family is blessed with the blessing of a good, healthy country home,
sez I, they ought to stay in it, and be thankful for it, sez I.”

Even while the two cronies spoke the door opened, and Jacob came in,
with a letter in his hand.

“There! That’s from the ole ’oman now. I know her handwriting across the
room. And now we shall hear some news,” said Mrs. Anglesea, with her
mouth full of cake.

And she took the letter from the negro’s hands, and opened it without
ceremony, and began to read it to herself, without apology.

“Is it anything confidential?” demanded Miss Sibby, who was full of
curiosity.

“No. I will read it all to you as soon as ever I have spelled it out
myself. I never was good at reading writing, particularly fine hand,
and, if I must say it, the ole ’oman do write the scrimble-scramblest
fine hand as ever I see,” said Mrs. Anglesea, peering at the letter, and
turning it this way and that, and almost upside down.

Presently she began to read, making comments between the words and
phrases of the letter.

“Well, it’s ‘Washington City, P Street, N. W., and February 8th.’ Why,
it’s been four days coming. Here you, Jake! When did you get this letter
out’n the post office?” She paused to call the negro messenger, who
stood, hat in hand, at the door.

“W’y, dis mornin’, in course, ole mist’ess,” replied the man.

“Don’t ‘ole mist’ess’ me, you scalawag! Are you sartain you didn’t get
it Saturday, and forget all about it, and leave it in your pocket until
to-day?”

“Hi, ole—young—mist’ess, how I gwine to forget w’en you always ax me?
No, ’deed. I took it out’n de pos’ office dis blessed mornin’, ole—young
mist’ess.”

“How dare you call me young mist’ess, you——”

“What mus’ I call you, den?” inquired the puzzled negro.

“Ma’am. Call me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s better. Well, now the next time you go to the village, Jake, you
just tell that postmaster if he keeps back another letter of mine four
days, I’ll have him turned out. Do ye hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, now you may go about your business, and I will go on with my
letter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The man left the room, and the housekeeper resumed her reading:

  “‘MY DEAR MRS. ANGLESEA’: I wish she wouldn’t pile that name upon me
  so! If she knowed how I hated it she wouldn’t. ‘I write to ask you to
  have the house prepared for our reception on the eighth of June. You
  will know what is necessary to be done, and you may draw on Mr. Copp
  for the needful funds. He has instructions to honor your drafts.

  “‘The girls expect to grad—grat—gral—gual——’

“Lord ’a’ mercy! what is this word? Can you make it out, Miss Sibby?”
inquired the reader, holding the letter under the nose of the visitor.

Miss Bayard, who had resumed her knitting after moderately partaking of
cake and cordial, dropped her work, adjusted her spectacles and
inspected the word.

“It’s graduate, ma’am. That means finish their edication, honorable.
Young Le Force graduated offen the Naval ’Cademy before he ever went to
sea as a midshipman, and my scamp, Roland Bayard, graduated offen the
Charlotte Hall ’Cademy before he ran away and went to sea as a common
sailor. I s’pose these girls is a-going to graduate offen the ‘cademy
where they are getting their edication, and I hope they will do
theirselves credit. When your parents do the best they can for you, sez
I, you ought to try to do the best you can for yourself, sez I, which is
the best return you can make them, sez I.”

“To do the best you can for them, I should think would be the first
thing to think about, and, likewise, best return to make them. But now
I’ll go on with my letter:

  “‘The girls expect to graduate at the academic commencement, on the
  first of June’—graduate at the commencement! I thought pupils
  graduated at the end!—‘after which we expect to come down to Mondreer
  for the summer, previous to going to Europe. I have much news of
  importance to tell you, which concerns yourself as much as it affects
  us; but it is of such a nature that it had best be reserved for the
  present. Expecting to see you, I remain your friend,

                                                        ELFRIDA FORCE.’”

“So they are actually coming home at last,” said Miss Sibby.

“Yes, actially coming home at last,” assented the housekeeper. “But,
look here. What does she mean by that news as she has got to tell me
which concerns she and I both? I reckon it must be news of my rascal.
Lord! I wonder if it is? I wonder if he’s been hung or anything? I hope
to gracious he has! And then she wouldn’t mention it in a letter, but
wait until she could tell me all about it! It must be that, ole ’oman—my
rascal’s hung!”

“I reckon it is! When a man lives a bad life, sez I, he must expect to
die a bad death, sez I.”

“Well, I shan’t go in mourning for him, that’s certain, whether he’s
hung or drowned. But we shall hear all about it when the folks come
home. Lord! why, the place will be like another house, with all them
young gals in it!”

“I might ’a’ knowed somethin’ was up t’other Sunday, when I heard Miss
Grandiere tell Parson Peters, at All Faith Church, how she and Mrs.
Hedge were both going to Washington on the first of June. Of course, it
is to the commencement they’re going, to see Rosemary graduate along
with the others.”

“But to hear ’em call the end of a thing its commencement, takes me,”
said Mrs. Anglesea.

“So it do me. And if people don’t know what they’re a-talking about, sez
I, they’d better hold their tongues, sez I.”

“Young Mrs. Ingle will be mighty proud to have the old folks and the
gals back. Lord! how fond she was of them two little gals. To think of
her naming her two babies after them—the first Wynnette and the second
Elva. Let’s see; the first one must be two years old.”

“Wynnie is twenty-three months old, and Ellie is nine months; but they
are both sich smart, lively, sensible children that any one might think
as they was older than that. But I don’t hold with children being took
so much notice of, and stimmerlated in their intellects so much. Fair
an’ easy, sez I; slow and sure, sez I, goes a long way, sez I.”

So, talking about their neighbors, as usual, but not uncharitably, the
gossips passed the day. At sunset they had tea together; and then Gad
brought around the mule cart—the only equipage owned by the descendant
of the great duke—who put on her bonnet and shawl, bid good-by to her
crony, got into her seat and drove homeward.

“Well, the ole ’oman has give me long enough notice to get ready for
’em; but she knows there’s a good deal to be done, and country workmen
is slow, let alone the niggers, who is slowest of all,” ruminated Mrs.
Anglesea, who resolved to begin operations next day.




                               CHAPTER V
                        THE FORTUNES OF ODALITE


To explain the mysterious letter written by Elfrida Force to her
housekeeper, we must condense the family history of the last three
years, which had passed without any incident worth recording, and bring
it up to the time when events full of importance for good or evil
followed each other in rapid succession.

Mr. Force, on removing his family to Washington, in the month of
February three years before, took apartments in one of the best hotels
for himself, his wife, and their eldest daughter, while he placed his
two younger daughters and his little ward at a first-class boarding
school.

The Forces had some friends and acquaintances in the city, and to these
they sent cards, which were promptly honored by calls.

For the sake of Odalite, Mrs. Force chose to enter the gay society for
which she herself had little heart.

The trousseau prepared for the girl’s luckless, broken marriage came
well into use as an elegant outfit for the fashionable season in the gay
capital.

Mr. Force escorted his wife and daughter to all the receptions,
concerts, balls and dinners to which they were invited, and everywhere
he felt pride and pleasure in the general admiration bestowed upon his
beautiful wife and their lovely daughter.

But the instinct of caste was strong in the breast of Elfrida Force. She
and her daughter were recipients of many elegant entertainments, and she
wished to reciprocate, but could not do so while living at a hotel.

His wife’s wishes, joined to his own longing for the freedom of domestic
life, added zeal to Abel Force’s quest of a house.

But it was at the end of the session of Congress before his desire was
gratified. Then a United States senator, whose term of office had
expired, offered his handsome and elegantly furnished house for rent.

Mr. and Mrs. Force inspected the premises, and leased them for three
years.

They did not wish to go in at once, as the season was at an end, and the
summer at hand.

But as soon as the retiring statesman and his family had vacated the
house Mr. Force sent in a squad of housecleaners to prepare the place
for the new tenants.

When the schools closed for the long summer vacation he gave little
Rosemary Hedge into the hands of Miss Grandiere, who had come to
Washington to fetch her home, and with his wife and three daughters left
the city for an extensive summer tour.

After three months of varied travel the family returned to Washington in
September, and took possession of the beautiful town house, near the P
Street circle, in the northwest section of the city.

Then they replaced their daughters and their little ward at the same
school—not as boarders, however, but as day pupils, for Mr. and Mrs.
Force wished to have their girls as much as possible under their own
care, believing home education to be the most influential for good—or
for evil—of all possible training.

When Congress met, and the season began, Mrs. Force took the lead by
giving a magnificent ball, to which all the beauty, fashion, wealth and
celebrity of the national capital were invited, to which they nearly all
came.

The ball was a splendid success.

The beautiful Elfrida Force became an acknowledged queen of society, and
her lovely young daughter was the belle of the season.

Had no one in the city then heard of her disastrous wedding broken up at
the altar?

Not a soul had heard of it. Not one of those friends and acquaintances
of Mrs. Force whom she had met in Washington, for, be it remembered, she
had written to no one of her daughter’s approaching marriage, and had
bid to the wedding only the nearest neighbors and oldest friends of her
family.

Odalite was saved this unmerited humiliation, at least—though many who
admired the beautiful girl wondered that the lovely, dark eyes never
sparkled, the sweet lips never smiled.

In this season she had several “eligible” offers of marriage—one from a
young officer in the army; another from a middle-aged banker; another
from an aged cabinet minister; a fourth from a foreign secretary of
legation; a fifth from a distinguished lawyer; a sixth from a brilliant
congressman; a seventh from a fashionable preacher; and so on and so on.

All these were declined with courtesy.

Odalite took very little pleasure in the gay life of Washington, and
very little pride in her conquests.

Her sole delight was in Le’s letters, which came to her under cover to
her mother; but were read and enjoyed by the whole family.

Le certainly was a faithful servant of the great republic, and never
neglected his duty; but yet his “most chiefest occupation” must have
been writing to Odalite, for his letters came by every possible
opportunity, and they were not only letters, but huge parcels of
manuscript, containing the journal of his thoughts, feelings, hopes and
purposes from day to day. And all these might have been summed in one
word—“Odalite.”

She also sent letters as bulky and as frequently; and all that she wrote
might have been condensed into a monosyllable—“Le.”

These parcels were always directed in the hand of her mother.

Ah! mother and daughter ever felt that the eyes of an implacable enemy
were secretly watching them, so that they must be on their guard against
surprise and treachery.

They suffered this fear, although they never heard one word from, or of,
Angus Anglesea. He might be dead, living, or imprisoned, for aught they
knew of his state, condition, or whereabouts.

In the distractions of society, however, they forgot their secret fears,
for indeed they had no time for reflection. This was one of the gayest
seasons ever known in the gay capital; reception, ball and concert
followed ball, concert and reception in a dizzy round; and the Forces
were seen at all! If they had purposely intended to make up for all the
long years of seclusion at Mondreer they certainly and completely
succeeded.

At the end of the season they took a rest; but they did not leave
Washington until June, when the schools closed, and then they placed
little Rosemary Hedge in the hands of Miss Grandiere, who came to the
city to receive her, and they went to Canada for the summer.

As this first year passed, so passed the second and nearly the whole of
the third.

It was in September of the third year that the monotony of winter
society and summer travel was broken by something of vital interest to
all their lives.

They had just returned to Washington; replaced their youngest daughters
and their ward at school, and settled themselves, with their eldest
daughter, in their town house, which had been renovated during their
absence.

It was a season of repose coming between the summer travel and the
winter’s dissipations. They were receiving no calls, making no visits,
but just resting.

One morning the father, mother and daughter were seated in the back
piazza which faced the west, and was therefore, on this warm morning in
September, cool and shady. The piazza looked down upon a little back
yard, such as city lots can afford. But every inch of the ground had
been utilized, for a walk covered with an arbor of latticework and
grapevines led down to a back gate and to the stables in the rear. On
the right hand of this walk was a green plot, with a pear tree and a
plum tree growing in the midst, and a border of gorgeous autumn flowers
blooming all around. On the other side of the walk was another plot with
a peach tree and an apple tree growing in the midst, and a border of
roses all around. And the grapevine and the fruit trees were all in full
fruition now, and supplied the dessert every day.

Mr., Mrs. and Miss Force were all seated in the pleasant Quaker
rocking-chairs with which this back piazza was furnished.

Mr. Force had the morning paper in his hands and he was reading aloud to
the two ladies, who were both engaged in crochet work, when the back
door opened and a manservant came out and handed an enveloped newspaper
to his master, saying:

“The postmaster has just left it, sir.”

“And nothing else?” inquired the gentleman.

“Nothing else, sir—only that.”

“Only a newspaper,” said Mr. Force, laying it down carelessly, without
examination, as he resumed the _Union_ and the article he had been
engaged in reading.

No one felt the slightest interest in the paper that lay neglected on
the little stand beside Mr. Force’s chair. Many newspapers came by mail,
and but few of them were opened. Mr. Force went on with his reading, and
Mrs. and Miss Force with their embroidery. And the neglected newspaper,
with its tremendous news, lay there unnoticed and forgotten with the
prospect of being thrown, unopened, into the dust barrel; which must
certainly have been its fate, had not Odalite chanced to cast her eye
upon it and to observe something unfamiliar in its style and character.
In idle curiosity she took it up, looked at it, and gave a cry.




                               CHAPTER VI
                        NEWS FROM COL. ANGLESEA


“What is it, my dear?” inquired her father, as Odalite, with trembling
fingers, tore off the envelope and opened the paper.

“It—it is—it is postmarked Angleton,” she faltered.

“Angleton! Give it to me!” peremptorily exclaimed Abel Force, reaching
his hand and taking the sheet from his daughter, who yielded it up and
then covered her eyes with her hands, while her father examined the
paper and her mother looked on with breathless interest.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Abel Force, as his eyes were riveted on a
paragraph he had found there.

“What—what is it?” demanded Elfrida Force, in extreme anxiety, while
Odalite uncovered her eyes, and gazed with eager look and lips apart.

“A scoundrel has gone to his account! The earth is rid of an incubus!
Listen! This is the Angleton _Advertiser_ of August 20th, and it
contains a notice of the death of Angus Anglesea.”

“Anglesea—dead!” exclaimed mother and daughter, in a breath, and in
tones that expressed almost every other emotion under the sun, except
sorrow.

“Yes, dead and gone to—his desserts!” exclaimed Abel Force,
triumphantly; but catching himself up short, before he ended in a word
that must never be mentioned, under any circumstances. “Here is a notice
of his death.”

“Read it,” said Mrs. Force, while Odalite looked the eager interest,
which she did not express in words.

Abel Force read this paragraph at the head of the death list:

  “DIED.—On Monday, August 10th, at Anglewood Manor, in the forty-fourth
  year of his age, after a long and painful illness, which he bore with
  heroic patience and fortitude, Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea.”

“Dead!” muttered Elfrida Force, thoughtfully.

“Dead!” echoed Odalite, gravely.

“Yes! dead and—doomed!” exclaimed Abel Force, catching himself up before
he had used an inadmissible word.

“Then, thank Heaven, I am free! Oh! I hope it was no sin to say that!”
exclaimed Odalite.

Her father stared at her for a moment, and then said:

“My dear, you were always free!”

“I could not feel so while that man lived,” she said.

“Why, what claim could the husband of another woman set up on you?”
demanded Mr. Force, in surprise.

“None whatever,” replied Elfrida Force, answering for her daughter; “but
after all that she has gone through, it is perfectly natural that a
delicate and sensitive girl, like Odalite, should have felt ill at ease
so long as her artful and unscrupulous enemy lived, and should feel a
sense of relief at his departure.”

“I suppose so,” said Abel Force, who was scanning the first page of the
Angleton paper. “And I suppose, also, that none of us exactly share ‘the
profound gloom’ which, according to this sheet, ‘has spread like an
eclipse over all the land, on the death of her illustrious son.’ The
leading article here is on the death of Anglesea, with a brief sketch of
his life and career, and such a high eulogium as should only have been
pronounced upon the memory of some illustrious hero, martyr, Christian,
or philanthropist. But, then, this Angleton paper was, of course, his
own organ, and in his own interests, and in those of his family, or it
would never have committed itself to such fulsome flatteries, even of
the dead, whom it seems lawful to praise and justifiable to overpraise.”

“Read it, Abel,” said Mrs. Force.

“Yes, do, papa, dear,” added Odalite.

Mr. Force read:

  “THE GREAT SOLDIER OF INDIA IS NO MORE

  “A profound gloom, a vast pall of darkness, like some ‘huge eclipse of
  sun and moon,’ has fallen upon the land at the death of her
  illustrious son. Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea died yesterday at his
  manor of Anglewood.

  “The Hon. Angus Anglesea was born at Anglewood Manor, on November 21,
  181—. He entered Eton at the early age of twelve years and Oxford at
  seventeen. He graduated with the highest honors, at the age of
  twenty-two. He succeeded his father on December 23, 182—. His tastes
  led him to a military career, and he entered the army as cornet in the
  Honorable East India Company’s service, in his twenty-fifth year. His
  distinguished military talents, his heroism and gallantry, his
  invaluable services during the Indian campaign, are matters that have
  passed into national history; and become so familiar to all that it
  would be impertinent to attempt to recapitulate them here.

  “Col. Anglesea married, firstly, on October 13, 184—, Lady Mary
  Merland, eldest daughter of the sixth Earl of Middlemoor; by whom he
  has one son, Alexander, born September 1, 184—, now at Eton. Her
  ladyship died August 31, 185—. Col. Anglesea married, secondly,
  December 20, 185—, Odalite, eldest daughter of Abel Force, Esq., of
  Mondreer, Maryland, United States, by Lady Elfrida Glennon, eldest
  daughter of the late Earl of Enderby, who survives him. There is no
  issue by the second marriage.”

Abel Force finished reading, dropped the paper and stared at his wife
and daughter, who were also staring at him. All three seemed struck dumb
with astonishment at the audacity of the last paragraph.

“Who is responsible for that?” demanded Mrs. Force, who was the first to
find her voice.

“The reckless braggart who has gone to the devil, I suppose! No one else
could be,” said Abel Force, indignantly.

“You are right. No one but Anglesea could have been the originator of
such a falsehood.”

“And here is no mention made at all of the real second marriage and of
the real widow; whom, by the way, he must have married within a few
weeks after the death of his wife. Yet! let us see! Great Heaven! unless
there is a misprint, there has been an infamous crime committed, and a
heinous wrong done to that Californian widow, whose marriage with Col.
Anglesea was registered to have taken place on August 1, 185—, full six
weeks before the death of Anglesea’s wife, which took place on August
25th! And in that case—yes, in that case the diabolical villain had the
legal right, if not the moral right, to marry our daughter! Great
Heaven! how imperfect are the laws of our highest civilization, when men
have the legal right to do that which is morally wrong!”

“Oh! oh! I will never acknowledge the validity of that marriage
ceremony! I will never call myself that man’s widow, or wear a thread of
mourning for him!” exclaimed Odalite, who could be very brave now that
her mother’s great enemy was dead, and her mother forever safe from his
malignity.

“You need not, my dear. Nor need the poor Californian woman ever suspect
that any darker wrong than the robbery of her money has been done her.
Why, either, should we be so excited over this discovery? It is no new
villainy that has come to light. It is simply that he really wronged the
Californian widow instead of you. The man is dead. Let us not harbor
malice against the dead. He can harm us no more,” said Abel, in his wish
to soothe the excited feelings of his wife and daughter. But ah! he knew
nothing of the greater cause those two unhappy ladies had had for their
detestation of their deadly enemy.

But now he was gone forever, and they were delivered from his
deviltries. It was

                  “The thrill of a great deliverance”

that so deeply moved them both. All felt it, even Mr. Force, who soon
arose and went out for a walk to reflect coolly over the news of the
morning.

Elfrida and Odalite went into the house and tried to occupy themselves
with the question of luncheon and other household matters, but they
could not interest themselves in any work; they could think of nothing
but of the blessed truth that a great burden had been lifted from their
hearts, a great darkness had passed away from their minds.

Late in the afternoon Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary came in from school.

Odalite told them that Col. Anglesea was dead, and showed them the paper
containing the notice of his death and the sketch of his life.

At first the children received the news in silent incredulity, to be
succeeded by the reverential awe with which the young and happy hear of
death and the grave.

Wynnette was the first to recover herself.

“Oh! Odalite, I am glad, for your sake, that you are freed from the
incubus of that man’s life. I hope it is no sin to say this, for I
cannot help feeling so,” she said.

“I hope the poor sinner truly repented of his iniquity and found grace
even at the eleventh hour,” breathed the pitiful little Elva.

“I don’t know,” sighed quaint little Rosemary, folding her mites of
hands with sad solemnity. “I don’t know. It is an awful risk for any
one, more particularly for a man like Col. Anglesea.”

“‘The vilest sinner may return,’ you know,” pleaded Elva.

“Yes, he may, but he don’t often do it,” said Wynnette, putting in her
word.

“Let me read the notice of his death and the sketch of his life,”
suggested Odalite, for she had only shown them the paper containing
these articles.

“Yes, do, Odalite,” said Wynnette.

Odalite read the brief notice, and then she turned to the sketch and
said:

“This is longer, and I need not read the whole of it, you know.”

“No. Just pick out the plums from the pudding. I never read the whole of
anything. Life is too short,” said Wynnette.

The other two girls seemed to agree with her, and so Odalite began and
read the highly inflated eulogium on Col. Anglesea’s character and
career.

The three younger ones listened with eyes and mouths open with
astonishment.

“Why, they seem to think he was a good, wise, brave man!” gasped little
Elva.

“That’s because they knew nothing about him,” exclaimed Wynnette.

“Isn’t there something in the Bible about a man being a good man among
his own people, but turning into a very bad man when he gets into a
strange city where the people don’t know who he is?” inquired Rosemary,
very gravely.

“I believe there is, in the Old Testament somewhere, but I don’t know
where,” answered Elva.

“That was the way with Anglesea, I suspect. He was a hypocrite in his
own country; but as soon as he came abroad he cut loose and kicked up
his heels—I mean he threw off all the restraints of honor and
conscience,” explained Wynnette.

Odalite resumed her task, and read of Anglesea’s birth, his entrance
into Eton, and afterward at Oxford, his succession to his estates, his
entrance into the army, his marriage to Lady Mary Merland, the birth of
his son, and the death of his wife.

There she stopped. She did not see fit to read the paragraph relating to
herself; and to prevent her sisters from seeing it, she rolled up the
paper and put it into her pocket.

They did not suspect that there had been any mention made of his
attempted marriage to Odalite, far less that it had been recorded there
as an accomplished fact; but they wondered why his marriage to the lady
of ‘Wild Cats’ had not been mentioned.

“And is there not a word said about his Californian nuptials?” demanded
Wynnette.

“No, not a word,” replied Odalite.

“Ah! you see, he wasn’t proud of that second wife! She wasn’t an earl’s
daughter!”

“I wonder how Mrs. Anglesea will take the news of her husband’s death,
when she hears of it,” mused Elva.

“Ah!” breathed Wynnette.

Their talk was interrupted by the entrance of their father, who had just
come in from his long walk.

“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Wynnette, “we have just heard the news! Oh! won’t
Le be glad when he hears it?”

“My dear children,” said Mr. Force, very solemnly and also a little
inconsistently, “we should never rejoice at any good that may come to us
through the death or misfortune of a fellow creature.”

“But, oh, papa! in this case we can’t help it.”

“There’s the dinner bell,” said Abel Force, irrelevantly.




                              CHAPTER VII
                          THE EARL OF ENDERBY


Washington City in the month of September is very quiet and sleepy. The
torrid heat of the summer is passing away, but has not passed.

It returns in hot waves when the incense of its burning seems to rise to
heaven.

No one goes out in the sun who is not obliged to go, or does anything
else he or she is not obliged to do.

The Forces lived quietly in their city home during this month, neither
making nor receiving calls.

The subject of Col. Anglesea’s death and of Le’s return very naturally
occupied much of their thought.

Le was expected home at the end of the three years voyage—then, or
thereabouts, no one knew exactly the day, or even the week.

Letters notifying him of the death of Angus Anglesea were promptly
written to him by every member of the family, so eager were they all to
convey the news and express themselves on the subject.

Even little Elva wrote, and her letter contained a characteristic
paragraph:

  “I am almost afraid it is a sin to be so very glad, as I am that
  Odalite is now entirely free from the fear that has haunted her and
  oppressed her spirits and darkened her mind for nearly three years. I
  cannot help feeling glad when I see Odalite looking so bright, happy
  and hopeful, just as she used to look before that man bewitched her.
  But I know I ought to be sorry for him, and indeed I am, just a
  little. Maybe he couldn’t help being bad—maybe he didn’t have
  Christian parents. I do hope he repented and found grace before he
  died. But Rosemary shakes her head and sighs over him. But, then, you
  know, Rosemary is such a solemn little thing over anything
  serious—though she can be funny enough at times. Oh, how I wish it was
  lawful to pray for the dead! Then I would pray for that man every hour
  in the day. And now I will tell you a secret, or—make you a
  confession: I do pray for him every night, and then I pray to the Lord
  that if it is a sin for me to pray for the dead He will forgive me for
  praying for that man. Oh, Le! how we that call ourselves Christians
  should try to save sinners while they live!”

It was on a Saturday, near the middle of October, when answering letters
came from Le—a large packet—directed to Mr. Force, but containing
letters for each one. They were jubilant letters, filled full of life,
and love, and hope. Not one regret for the dead man! not one hope that
he had repented and found grace, as little Elva expressed it. Clearly,
Le was one of those Christians who can rejoice in the just perdition of
the lost.

His ship was at Rio Janeiro, on her return voyage, he wrote, and he
expected to be home to eat his Christmas dinner with the uncle, aunt and
cousins who were soon to be his father, mother, wife and sisters. The
New Year’s wedding that was to have come off three years ago should be
celebrated on the coming New Year with more éclat than had ever attended
a wedding before. Now he would resign from the navy, and settle down
with his dear Odalite at Greenbushes, where it would be in no man’s
power to disturb their peace.

Le wrote in very much the same vein to every member of the family, for,
as has been seen in the first part of this story, there never was such a
frank, simple and confiding pair of lovers as these two who had been
brought up together, and whose letters were read by father, mother and
sisters, aunt, uncle and cousins.

To Elva, in addition to other things, he wrote: “Don’t trouble your
gentle heart about the fate of Anglesea. Leave him to the Lord. No man
is ever removed from this earth until it is best for him and everybody
else that he should go. Then he goes and he cannot go before.”

“That is all very well to say,” murmured poor Elva; “but, all the same,
when I remember how much I wished—something would happen to him—for
Odalite’s sake, I cannot help feeling as if I had somehow helped to kill
him.”

“Well, perhaps you did,” said Wynnette. “I believe the most gentle and
tender angels are all unconsciously the most terrible destroyers of the
evil. I have read somewhere or other that the most malignant and furious
demon from the deepest pit will turn tail and—no, I mean will fly,
howling in pain, wrath and terror, from before the face of a naked
infant! Ah! there are wonderful influences in the invisible world around
us. You may have been his Uriel.”

“But I didn’t want to be—I didn’t want to be!” said Elva, almost in
tears.

“No, you didn’t want to be while you were awake and in your natural
state; but how do you know, now, what you wanted to be when you were
asleep and in your spiritual condition?”

Elva opened her large, blue eyes with such amazement that Wynnette burst
out laughing.

And nothing more was said on the subject at that time, because Mr.
Force, who had left a pile of other unopened letters on the table while
they read and discussed Le’s, now took up one from the pile, looked at
it, and exclaimed:

“Why, Elfrida, my dear, here is a letter from England for you. It is
sealed with the Enderby crest. From your brother, no doubt.”

“The first I have had for years,” said the lady, as she took the letter
from her husband’s hands.

It was directed in the style that would have been used had the earl’s
sister lived in England:

                                     “LADY ELFRIDA FORCE,
                                             “Mondreer, Maryland, U. S.”

It had been forwarded from the country post office to the city:

Elfrida opened it and read:

                                        “ENDERBY CASTLE, October 1, 186—

  “MY DEAR AND ONLY SISTER: I have no apology to offer you for my long
  neglect of your regular letters, except that of the sad _vis inertia_
  of the confirmed invalid. That I know you will accept with charity and
  sympathy.

  “I am lower in health, strength and spirits than ever before. I employ
  an amanuensis to write all my letters, except those to you.

  “I shrink from having a stranger intermeddling with a correspondence
  between an only brother and sister, and so, because I was not able to
  write with my own hand, your letters have been unanswered.

  “In none of them, however, have you mentioned any present or
  prospective establishment of any of your girls, except that, years
  ago, you spoke of an early, very early betrothal of your eldest
  daughter to a young naval officer. You have not alluded to that
  arrangement lately. Has that come to nothing? It was scarcely a match
  befitting one who will some day, should she live, be my successor
  here.

  “Your girls must have grown up in all these years. Let us see. Odalite
  must be nineteen, Wynnette seventeen, and little Elva fifteen. Two of
  them, therefore, must be marriageable, according to Maryland notions.
  Write and tell me all about them. And tell me whether you will come
  into my views that I am about to open to you.

  “I am lonely, very lonely, not having a near relative in the world,
  except yourself and your family. I want you all to come over and make
  me a long visit, and then try to make up your minds to the magnanimity
  of leaving one of your girls with me for so long as I may have to
  live; or, if one girl would feel lonesome, leave two, to keep each
  other company. You and your husband might be quite happy with one
  daughter at home.

  “So I think. What do you?

  “My plan may be only the selfish wish of a chronic sufferer, who is
  nearly always sure to be an egotist. Consult your husband, and write
  to me.

  “Give my love to my nieces, and kindest regards to Mr. Force, and
  believe me, ever, dear Elfrida,

                                      “Your affectionate brother,
                                                              “ENDERBY.”

Mrs. Force having read the letter to herself, passed it over without a
word of comment to her husband.

Mr. Force also read it in silence, and then returned it to his wife,
saying:

“This matter requires mature deliberation. We will think over it
to-night, and decide to-morrow.”

“Or, as to-morrow is the Sabbath, we will write and give my brother our
answer on Monday,” amended the lady.

“Yes, that will be better. It will give us more time to mature our
plans,” assented Mr. Force.

“What is it?” inquired Wynnette, drawing near her parents, while Elva
and Rosemary looked the interest that they did not put into words.

“A letter from your Uncle Enderby, my dears, inviting us all to come
over and make him a long visit.”

“Oh! that would be delightful, mamma. Can we not go?” eagerly inquired
Wynnette.

“Perhaps. You will all graduate at the end of this current term, and
then, perhaps, we can go with advantage, but not before.”

“Oh, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful!” sang Wynnette, in the words
of a revival hymn.

“But what will Le and Odalite do?” inquired little Elva, who always
thought of everybody.

“Why, if Le and Odalite are to be married in January they can go over
there for the bridal trip, you know,” said Wynnette. “They will have to
go somewhere on a wedding tour—all brides and grooms have to—and the
reason why is because for the first few weeks after marriage they are
such insupportable idiots that no human beings can possibly endure their
presence. My private opinion is that they ought to be sent to a lunatic
asylum to spend the honeymoon; but as that cannot be done, we can send
our poor idiots over to Uncle Enderby. Maybe by the time they have
crossed the ocean seasickness may have brought them to their senses.”

“Thank you, for myself and Le,” said Odalite, laughing.

“Without joking, I really think your plan is a good one,” said Mrs.
Force. “Whether we all follow in June or not, it will be an acceptable
attention to my brother to send our son and daughter over to spend their
honeymoon at Enderby Castle.”

There was more conversation, that need not be reported here, except to
say that all agreed to the plan of the wedding trip.

On the following Monday, Mr. and Mrs. Force, having come to a decision,
wrote a joint letter to the Earl of Enderby, cordially thanking him for
his invitation, gladly accepting it, and explaining that the marriage of
their daughter, Odalite, with Mr. Leonidas Force, would probably come
off in January, after which the young pair would sail for England on a
visit to Enderby Castle. That if all should go well, after the two
younger girls should have graduated from their academy, the whole family
would follow in June, and join at the castle.

It would be curious, at the moment we close a letter to some distant
friend, could we look in and see what, at that moment, the friend might
be doing.

At the instant that Mr. Force sealed the envelope to the Earl of
Enderby, could he have been clairvoyant, he might have looked in upon
the library of Enderby Castle and seen the sunset light streaming
through a richly stained oriel window upon the thin, pale, patrician
face and form of a man of middle age, who sat wrapped in an Indian silk
dressing gown, reclining in a deeply cushioned easy-chair, and reading a
newspaper—the London _Evening Telegram_.

And this is what the Earl of Enderby read:

  “We take pleasure in announcing that Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea has
  been appointed deputy lieutenant governor of the county.”




                              CHAPTER VIII
                             ANTICIPATIONS


With the assembling of Congress, in the first week of December, the
usual crowd of officials, pleasure-seekers, fortune hunters, adventurers
and adventuresses poured into Washington. Hotels, boarding houses and
private dwellings were full.

The serious business of fashion and the light recreation of legislation
began.

Mr. Force went down to the capitol every day to listen to the disputes
in the House or in the Senate.

Mrs. Force and Odalite drove out to call on such of their friends and
acquaintances as had arrived in the city, and to leave cards for the
elder lady’s “day”—the Wednesday of each week during the season.

Letters came from Le. His ship was still delayed for an indefinite time
at Rio de Janeiro, waiting sailing orders, which seemed to be slow in
coming.

Le’s letters betrayed the fact that he was fretting and fuming over the
delay.

  “Don’t know what the navy department means,” he wrote, “keeping us
  here for no conceivable purpose under the sun. But I know what I mean.
  I mean to resign as soon as ever I get home.

  “If there should come a war I will serve my country, of course; but in
  these ‘piping times of peace’ I will not stay in the service to be
  anybody’s nigger, even Uncle Sam’s!”

Odalite, Wynnette and Elva cheered him up with frequent letters.

Christmas is rather a quiet interlude in the gay life of Washington.

Congress adjourns until after New Year.

Most of the government officials—members of the administration and of
both houses of Congress, and many of the civil service brigade, leave
the city to spend their holidays in their distant homesteads.

In fact, there is an exodus until after New Year.

The gay season in Washington does not really begin until after the first
of January.

The public receptions by the President and by the members of the cabinet
take the initiative.

Then follow receptions by members of the diplomatic corps, by prominent
senators and representatives, and by wealthy or distinguished private
citizens.

Mr., Mrs. and Miss Force went everywhere, and received everybody—within
the limits of their social circle.

Odalite, for the first time in her short life, enjoyed society with a
real youthful zest.

There was no drawback now. Her mother’s deadly enemy had passed to his
account, and could trouble her no more, she thought. Le was coming home,
and they were to be married soon, and go to Europe and see all the
beauties and splendors and glories of the Old World, which she so longed
to view. They were to sojourn in the old, ancestral English home which
had been the scene of her mother’s childhood—ah! and the scene of so
many exploits of her ancestors—sieges, defenses, captures, recoveries,
confiscations by this ruler, restorations by that—events which had
passed into history and helped to make it. She would see
London—wonderful, mighty London!—St. Paul’s, the Tower. Oh! and Paris,
and the old Louvre!—Rome! St. Peter’s! the Coliseum! the
Catacombs!—places which the facilities of modern travel have made as
common as a market house to most of the educated world, but which, to
this imaginative, country girl, were holy ground, sacred monuments,
wonderful, most wonderful relics of a long since dead and gone world.

And Le would be her companion in all these profound enjoyments! And,
after all, they should return home and settle down at Greenbushes, never
to part again, but to be near neighbors to father, mother, sisters and
friends; to give and receive all manner of neighborly kindnesses,
courtesies, hospitalities.

Odalite’s heart was as full of happy thoughts as is a hive of honey
bees. Her happiness beamed from her face, shining on all who approached
her.

If Odalite had been admired during the two past seasons when she was
pale, quiet and depressed, how much more was she admired now in her
fair, blooming beauty, that seemed to bring sunshine, life and light
into every room she entered.

Mrs. Force felt all a mother’s pride in the social success of her
daughter.

But to Odalite herself the proudest and happiest day of the whole season
was that on which she received a letter from Le, announcing his
immediate return home.

  “This letter,” he wrote, “will go by the steamer that leaves this port
  on the thirteenth of January. We have our sailing orders for the first
  of February. On that day we leave this blessed port homeward bound.
  Winds and waves propitious, we shall arrive early in March, and
  then—and then, Odalite——”

And then the faithful lover and prospective bridegroom went off into the
extravagances that were to be expected, even of him.

Odalite received this letter on the first of February, and knew that on
that day Le had sailed, homeward bound.

“He will be here some time in the first week of March,” said Mrs. Force,
in talking over the letter with her daughter. “Congress will have
adjourned by the fourth. All strangers will have left. The city will be
quiet. It will be in the midst of Lent also. I think, Odalite, that,
under all the circumstances, we had better have a very private wedding,
here in our city home, with none but our family and most intimate
friends present. Then you and Le will sail for Europe, make the grand
tour, and after that shall be finished, go to my brother at Enderby
Castle, where we—your father, and sisters, and myself—will join you in
the autumn. What do you think?”

“I think as you do, mamma, and would much prefer the marriage to be as
quiet as possible,” Odalite assented.

“After you and Le leave us we shall still remain in the city until the
girls shall have graduated. Then we will go down to the dear old home
for a few weeks, and then sail for Liverpool, to join you at Enderby
Castle.”

“That is an enchanting program, mamma! Oh! I hope we may be able to
carry it through!” exclaimed Odalite.

“There is no reason in the world why we should not, my dear,” replied
the lady.

Odalite sighed, with a presentiment of evil which she could neither
comprehend nor banish.

“And now,” said her mother, “I must sit down and write to Mrs. Anglesea
and to Mr. Copp. The house at Mondreer will need to be prepared for us.
It wanted repairs badly enough when we left it. It must be in a worse
condition now; so I must write at once to give them time enough to have
the work done well.”

And she retired to her own room to go about her task.

When Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary came home in the afternoon, and heard
that Le had sailed from Rio de Janeiro, and would certainly be home
early in March, they were wild with delight.

When, upon much cross-examination of Odalite, they found out that the
marriage of the young lovers was to be quietly performed in the parlor
of their father’s house, and that the newly married pair would
immediately sail for Europe in advance of the family, who were to join
them at Enderby Castle later on, their ecstasies took forms strongly
suggestive of Darwin’s theory concerning the origin of the species. In
other words, they danced and capered all over the drawing room.

“We want Rosemary to go with us, papa, dear,” said Elva.

“We must have Rosemary to go with us, you know, mamma,” added Wynnette.

“That is not for us to say,” replied Mr. Force.

“It is a question for her mother and her aunt,” added Mrs. Force.

But the little girls did not yield the point. Rosemary’s three years’
association with them had made her as dear to Wynnette and Elva as a
little sister. And when they found out that Rosemary was heartbroken at
the prospect of parting from them, and “wild” to accompany them, they
stuck to their point with the pertinacity of little terriers.

Now what could Abel Force—the kindest-hearted man on the face of the
earth, perhaps—do but yield to the children’s innocent desire?

He wrote to Mrs. Hedge and to Miss Grandiere, proposing to those ladies
to take Rosemary with his daughters to Europe, to give her the
educational advantage of the tour.

In due time came the answer of the sisters, full of surprise and
gratitude for the generous offer, which they accepted in the simple
spirit in which it was made.

And when Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary were informed of the decision there
were not three happier girls in the whole world than themselves.

The same mail brought a letter from the housekeeper at Mondreer, who was
ever a very punctual correspondent.

She informed Mrs. Force that such internal improvements as might be made
in bad weather were already progressing at Mondreer—that all the
bedsteads were down, and all the carpets up, the floors had been
scrubbed, and the windows and painting washed, and the kalsominers were
at work.

But she wanted to know immediately, if Mrs. Force pleased, what that
news was that she was saving for a personal interview. If it concerned
her own “beat,” she would like to know it at once.

“Why, I thought you had told her, mamma,” said Odalite, when she had
read this letter.

“No, my dear. I did not wish to excite any new talk of Angus Anglesea
until you and Le should be married and off to Europe. I shrink from the
subject, Odalite. I am sorry now that I hinted to the woman having
anything to tell her.”

“But, mamma, ought she not be told that he is dead?”

“He has been dead to her since he left her. In good time she shall know
that he is dead to us also. And, my dear, remember that he was not her
husband, after all, but——”

“Oh! don’t finish the sentence, mamma! What will Le say?” sighed
Odalite.

“Nothing. This will make no difference to you or to Le. That ceremony
performed at All Faith, three years ago, whether legal or illegal, was
certainly incomplete—the marriage rites arrested before the registry was
made. You have never seen or spoken to the would-be bridegroom since
that hour; and now the man is dead, and you are free, even if you were
ever bound. Let us hear no more on that subject, my dear. Now I shall
have to answer this letter, and—as I have been so unlucky as to have
raised the woman’s suspicions and set her to talking—I must tell her the
facts, I suppose. And—as for her sake as well as for our own, I choose
to consider her the widow of Angus Anglesea—I shall send with the letter
a widow’s outfit,” concluded the lady, as she left the room.

The whole remainder of that day was spent by Mrs. Force in driving along
Pennsylvania Avenue and up Seventh Street, selecting from the best
stores an appropriate outfit in mourning goods for the colonel’s widow.

These were all sent home in the evening, carefully packed in a large
deal box, which, with a letter at its bottom, was dispatched by express
to Mrs. Angus Anglesea, Charlotte Hall, Maryland.




                               CHAPTER IX
                         VALENTINES AT MONDREER


It was the fourteenth of February, St. Valentine’s Feast and All Birds’
Wedding Day!

It was a bright morning, with a sunny blue sky, and a soft breeze giving
a foretaste of early spring.

Miss Sibby Bayard had come by special invitation to dine, and take tea
with the housekeeper at Mondreer.

The two ladies were seated in Mrs. Force’s favorite sitting room, whose
front window looked east upon the bay, and whose side window looked
north into the woods.

A bright, open wood fire was burning in the wide fireplace, at which
they sat in two rocking-chairs with their feet upon the brass fender.

Mrs. Anglesea had the edge of her skirt drawn up as usual, for, as she
often declared, she would rather toast her shins before the fire than
eat when she was hungry, or sleep when she was sleepy.

Miss Sibby was knitting one of a pair of white lamb’s-wool socks for her
dear Roland.

Mrs. Anglesea was letting out the side seams of her Sunday basque.

“It is the most aggravating thing in this world that I seem to be always
a-letting out of seams, and yet always a-having my gown bodies split
somewhere or other when I put them on!” said the widow, apropos of her
work, as she laid the open seam over her knee and began smoothing it out
with her chubby fingers.

“You’re gettin’ too fat, that’s where it is. You’re gettin’ a great deal
too fat,” remarked plain-spoken Miss Sibby.

“Well! That’s just what I’m complaining of! I’m getting so fat that the
people make fun of me behind my back; they’d better not try it on before
my face, I can tell them that!”

“How do you know they make fun of you at all?”

“By instick! I know it. And besides, this very morning, when Jake came
from the post office, what did he fetch me? Not the letter from the old
’oman, as I was a-hoping and a-praying for! No! but a big onwelope with
a impident walentine in it!”

“A walentine!”

“Yes, ma’am! A most impident one! A woman—no—a haystack dressed up like
me, with impident verses under it! I wish I knowed who sent it! I’d give
’em walentines and haystacks, too, for their impidence.”

“Oh, don’t yer mind that! It was some boys or other! Boys is the devil,
sez I, and you need never to expect nothing better from them, sez I! You
can’t get blood out’n a turnip, sez I! nor likewise make a silk purse
out’n a sow’s ear, sez I, and no more can’t you expect nothing out’n
boys but the devil. Why, la! I got a wuss walentine than yourn! Found it
tucked underneath of the front door this morning. Jest look at it!” said
Miss Sibby, drawing a folded paper out of her pocket, opening and
displaying it to her companion.

“See here,” she continued, pointing out its features as she spread it on
her knee. “Here a tower, with a man on the top of it and a crown on the
head of him, and his arms stretched out just as he has chucked an old
’oman over the wall! And here’s the old ’oman halfway down to the ground
with her hands and feet flying. And onderneath of it all is wrote,
‘Descended from a duke.’ That’s meant for me, you know! It’s a harpoon
on me and the Duke of England! But I don’t mind it! Not I! It’s nothing
but their envy, sez I. The birds will pick at the highest fruit, sez I!”

“I think they ought to be well thrashed! Wish I had hold of ’em!”

“Lemme see yourn!” said Miss Sibby.

Mrs. Anglesea stood up and took a folded paper from under one of the
silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece and handed it to her visitor.

A haystack, dressed in Mrs. Anglesea’s style and crowned with her head,
and not a very violent caricature of her face. Evidently, like Miss
Sibby’s valentine, the work of some waggish amateur.

“It’s the truth of the thing that gets me. I am getting to be a
haystack,” said Mrs. Anglesea.

“Well, what do you do it for?” inquired Miss Sibby.

“How can I help it?” demanded her companion.

“Reggerlate your habits. Do by yourself as you do by the animyles, sez
I!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Well, I’ll try to ’splain. When we want to fatten fowl, we shut ’em up
in coops so they can’t move round much; and we feed ’em full, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And when we want to fatten pigs, we shut ’em up in pens so they can’t
run round much, and we feed ’em full, don’t we?”

“Yes! But what of that?”

“Well, them innicent fowls and quadruples are our kinfolks in the flesh,
if they ain’t in the spirit anyways, and what’s law to them is law to
us.”

“You’re too deep for me, ole ’oman!”

“Well, then, to come to the p’int——”

“Yes, down to hard pan.”

“If you want to get fatter and fatter, till you can’t pass through ne’er
a door in this house, you keep eating as much as you can, and sitting
into rocking-chairs as long as possible!”

“Oh, Lord!”

“And you’ll keep on a-getting fatter and fatter, until—until you’d do to
go round the country in a show.”

“Oh, Lord! Next time I see young Dr. Ingle I’ll ask him wot sort o’
vittels produces fat and wot’ll make only skin and bone and muscle,”
said the widow, in dismay.

“Yes, I reckon you’d better do that! It’s getting dangerous in your
case, you know! As for me, I am fat enough; but never too fat. I always
wariate betwixt a hund’ed and twenty-five to a hund’ed and thirty. But I
never go beyond a hund’ed and thirty. Moderation is a jewel, sez I!
Lord! here’s somebody a-coming! Who is it, I wonder?” exclaimed Miss
Sibby, breaking off in her discourse and going to the front window.
“Why, it’s Tommy Grandiere! And he and Jake a-bringin’ in of a big box!”
she continued, as the “carryall” stopped before the door, and the farmer
and the servant lifted down a box.

“It’s new curtains, or rugs, or something for the house. They’re alluss
a-coming,” observed Mrs. Anglesea.

As she spoke the door opened, and Jake’s head appeared, while Jake’s
voice said:

“’Ere’s Marse Tom Grander, mum.”

Mr. Grandiere entered the room.

“Good-day, Mrs. Anglesea! Miss Sibby, glad to see you! I was up at
Charlotte’s Hall this morning, and saw a box at the express office for
you. As I was coming down this way, and thought maybe it would be a
convenience to you for me to fetch it along, I just gave a receipt for
it and fetched it. So here it is in the hall.”

“I thank you, sir, which it is a convenience! Not knowing as there was a
box there for me, I might have left it for a week. Thanky’, sir! Won’t
you sit down?” inquired Mrs. Anglesea, placing a chair for the newcomer.

“No, I thank you, ma’am. I have to go. But I would like to ask: Have you
heard from Mr. and Mrs. Force lately?”

“Not for ’most a fortnight. But they are coming down in June.”

“In June? Yes, so I heard. Good-morning, Mrs. Anglesea. Good-morning,
Miss Sibby.”

And the visitor hurried away.

“What’s in that box, do you think?” inquired Miss Sibby.

“Oh, curtains, or stair carpet, or rugs, or something for the house!
They are allus a-coming! Only I ’most in general get a letter first to
tell me where to send for them,” said Mrs. Anglesea.

“I would like to see the pattern o’ them rugs and curtains and things!
Fashions do change so much, I would ralely like to see what the present
fashion is! Ef you don’t keep up with the times, sez I, the times will
leave you behind, sez I!”

“Well, we’ll open the box after dinner, Miss Sibby, but we can’t before.
Dinner is ready to go on the table now, and it mustn’t be spoiled by
keeping. It’s spring lamb and spinach, raised under glass——”

“Spring lamb and spinach the fourteenth of February! Never!” exclaimed
the descendant of the Howards.

“Yes, but it is. Having the conveniences to do it with, I don’t see why
we shouldn’t have the luxuries. Having the hotbeds, why not the spinach?
That’s what I say to Jake and to Luce. And let me tell you them niggers
live just as well as I do.”

“Lamb and spinach!” gasped Miss Sibby.

“And that ain’t all. Fresh fish, caught in the bay this morning, to
begin with. And meringo pudding to finish off with. And a good bottle of
wine to go all the way through with it. It isn’t often as I meddle with
the wine cellar, though the ole man and ’oman did tell me to help
myself—give me _carte wheel_, as they called it, to do as I please with
what’s left in the vault. Most of it, to be sure, was took to
Washington. Still I never makes free with the wine, ‘cept on high days
and holidays. And there’s the bell, so now we’ll go in to dinner.”




                               CHAPTER X
                                THE BOX


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.




                               CHAPTER XI
                       “MERRY AS A MARRIAGE BELL”


Congress adjourned on the fourth of March, and within a week from that
time the crowd that always follows in their wake left Washington, and
the city dropped into comparative repose; for not only were all the
receptions over, the multitude departed, but the season of Lent was on.

The Forces enjoyed this time of rest from the world. They attended old
St. John’s Church three times a week, and lived quietly between whiles,
looking forward with pleasant anticipations to the arrival of Le, and to
all the delights that were expected to follow that event.

Le arrived on Easter Sunday morning. His ship had reached New York on
the day before. He had obtained leave of absence, and he had only time
to catch the latest train to Washington, “on the run,” leaving all his
luggage behind him and having not a moment to telegraph his friends of
his approach.

He reached the city at twelve o’clock midnight, and not wishing to wake
the family up at that hour, he took a room at a hotel.

But by sunrise the next morning he was up and dressed, had paid his
bill, taken a hack from the sidewalk, and was on his way to P Street
Circle, to look up his uncle’s city house.

That Easter Sunday the family were assembled around the table in the
pleasant breakfast room of their house, which looked out upon the
circle, where already the parterres were brilliant and fragrant with the
earliest spring flowers—hyacinths, pink, blue and white; daffodils
golden; tulips flame and fire color; jonquils, like golden cups in
silver saucers; bridal wreath; yellow currant burning bush—all budding,
but not yet blooming. All the grass of a tender emerald green. All the
trees just bursting into leaf. Birds singing only as they sing on a
spring morning.

“What a beautiful Easter Sunday is this! Not a cloud in all the sky!”
said Odalite, as she turned from the window to take her seat at the
table.

Mr. Force stood up to ask a blessing, but the doorbell rang sharply and
he sat down again.

And before any one could put a question the door flew open and Le rushed
in like the wind.

Every one jumped so suddenly from the table that chairs were overturned
in their haste to welcome the wanderer.

There followed much handshaking, hugging and kissing, rather mixed and
confused, until Le found Odalite in his arms. Then he came to a stop and
held her there while he answered questions.

“Hadn’t an idea your ship was near port. When did you get in?” inquired
Mr. Force.

“Anchored yesterday at half-past two, got leave, and caught the three
train. Hadn’t time to telegraph, or even to pack a portmanteau. Can any
one lend me the loan of a clean change of linen?” inquired Le, with a
look of distress.

“Of course! You shall go to my room and help yourself. But you don’t
look much in want,” replied his uncle.

“Now sit down, Le. We were just about to begin breakfast when you came
in,” said Mrs. Force, as the manservant in attendance placed another
chair at the table for the newcomer.

There was silence for a few moments while Mr. Force said the grace.

Then the confusion of Babel began again. All asked questions, and
without waiting for them to be answered, asked others. Wynnette and
Elva, who were home for the Easter holidays, seemed to run a race with
their tongues as to which could talk fastest and most. Mr. and Mrs.
Force had much to ask and to tell. Odalite, and even quaint, little
Rosemary, put in a word when they could get a chance.

It is always so when a sailor returns from a long voyage to his family
circle.

There was but little breakfast eaten that morning, though they lingered
long at the table—so long that, at length, Mrs. Force felt obliged to
ask the question:

“Are you going to church with us this morning, Le?”

“Of course I am, auntie. I should be worse than a heathen not to go, if
it were only to give thanks for my safe and joyful arrival at home,”
replied the young man.

“That is right, my boy. I like to see you hold fast to the faith and
practice of your forefathers in this untoward generation,” said Mr.
Force.

“Well, then, since you are going with us, Le, dear, you had better get
ready. We have but little time,” advised the lady.

“Come with me to my room, Le. My underclothing will fit you well enough,
I am sure. Bless you, my boy! you have caught up to me in size,” said
Mr. Force, as he arose from the table to conduct the midshipman.

The ladies of the circle also went to their chambers to get ready for
church.

And this was Le’s welcome home.

Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary had a week’s holiday with which they were
all the more delighted because of their dear Le’s presence.

Although, as in love and duty bound, he devoted himself almost
exclusively to Odalite, yet he found time to take a little notice of his
younger friends—to tell them how much they had grown, how greatly they
had improved, how womanly they had become since he saw them three years
before, and so on and so on.

During this week the preparations for Leonidas and Odalite’s marriage
were discussed.

It was decided that the wedding should take place on the first of April.

“All Fools’ Day! What a commentary!” exclaimed Wynnette, when she
learned the decision.

No one had thought of its being All Fools’ Day when the date was fixed;
and now that it was so fixed, the circumstance was somewhat too trivial
to warrant any change in the time. So on the first of April the happy
event was appointed to come off.

“I should like to ask Roland Bayard to come up to be my groomsman,” said
Le, to no one in particular, since he spoke in full family council.

“Why, I thought he was at sea!” said Mr. Force.

“No, uncle, he has just got home. I had a letter from him this morning.
He had seen the arrival of my ship in the papers and naturally addressed
his letters here. I suppose his aunt gave him your address.”

“Quite likely. She knew it.”

“Queer, isn’t it?” ruminated Le. “Roland and I do happen to make our
voyages and returns simultaneously, or nearly so, and without any
possibility of intended concert of action.”

“Well, if you happen to start about the same time for a voyage of the
same length, you will be apt to return about the same time, I suppose!”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And now, Le, my boy, in regard to inviting young Bayard here, do so, by
all means. Ask any of your particular friends. And ask them to come a
day or so beforehand, so as to be ready for the occasion.”

“Thank you, Uncle Abel; but I think Roland is the only one whom I care
to invite.”

“Does the liberty you have given Le include us all, papa, dear?”
inquired Wynnette.

“In what respect, my dear? I don’t understand you.”

“May each of us invite one or more very particular friends?” Wynnette
inquired.

“You must consult your mother and Odalite about that,” replied Mr.
Force, good-humoredly.

“Whom do you wish to ask, Wynnette?” inquired her mother.

“Why, only the Grandieres and the Elks.”

“You mean the young people, of course?”

“Yes, mamma, dear.”

“Let me see. There are about eight of them, all counted—six girls and
two boys. Well, my dear, you know this wedding is to be a private one,
in our own parlor, and no company is to be specially invited to the
wedding. But you may write and ask your young friends to come and make
us a visit for a week or two, so that they may be in the house about
that time.”

“Oh, thank you, mamma, dear! that will be best of all!” exclaimed
Wynnette, in delight.

And that same day she wrote to Oldfield and to Hill Grove to ask the
young Grandieres and Elks to come up to Washington about the last of
March to make a visit, mentioning that Leonidas had got home from sea,
and that he and Odalite were to be married on the first of April, and
hoping that they would come in time to witness the wedding, which was to
be a very quiet one in their own parlor.

Wynnette knew that such letters as these would insure a visit from those
to whom they were written. And she was right. In a very few days came
answers from Oldfield and Grove Hill. All the invited accepted the
invitations, and would report in Washington on the thirtieth of March,
two days before the wedding.

“Let us see,” again reflected Mrs. Force. “There are nine guests coming
in all—counting six Grandieres, two Elks and young Bayard. Of them six
are young girls, and three are young men. How shall we dispose of them?”

“Oh, mamma, dear, we must pack, like we used to do in the country. Elva
and Rosemary and myself can sleep in one room. The four Grandiere girls
can sleep in the large double-bedded room. The two little Elks can have
the little hall chamber and sleep together. And Roland Bayard and the
Grandiere boys and Le can have the large attic room, and sleep on cots.
Never mind where you put young men and boys, you know!” said this little
household strategist.

“Well, we must do the best we can for them,” replied the lady, and she
turned her attention to other matters—to the details of Odalite’s simple
trousseau, which was only to consist now in a white silk wedding dress,
a gray poplin traveling dress, a navy-blue cloth suit for the voyage
across the ocean, and a few plain, home dresses and wrappers, with
plenty of underclothing.

All the preparations were completed on the morning of the thirtieth.
Even Odalite’s trunk was packed, nothing being left out but her bridal
dress and traveling suits.

Just before tea on the afternoon of the thirtieth, there was the
expected inroad of the Goths and Vandals, in the forms of the young
people from Oldfield, Grove Hill and Forest Rest.

They all traveled by the same train and arrived at the same hour—a
laughing, talking, hilarious, uproarious troupe.

They were met with a joyous and affectionate welcome.

“And where is my little Rosemary? Where is my quaint, small, young
woman?” inquired Roland, when he had shaken hands with all the rest.

“Why, here she is! Here she has been all the while!” exclaimed Wynnette,
dragging the shy girl forward.

“What! not that tall young lady? Miss Hedge, I beg ten thousand pardons.
I was looking for a little girl I used to ride on my shoulder!”
exclaimed Roland, in affected dismay, as he took her tiny hand and
raised it to his lips.

Now, Rosemary was not tall, except in comparison to what she had once
been. Rosemary was still small and slight—“a mere slip of a girl,” as
every one called her. She colored and cast down her eyes when her old
friend pretended to treat her as a young lady.

He saw her slight distress and vexation, and immediately changed his
tune.

“Why!—yes!—sure enough! This is my little Rosemary, after all!” he
exclaimed.

And then she looked up shyly and smiled.

“Come! Let me show you your rooms, girls. And you, Leonidas, convey
these young men heavenward. You young Shanghais will have to roost in
the loft at the top of the house. Beg pardon. I mean you young gentlemen
will be required to repose in the attic chambers of the mansion. Indeed,
we shall all have to be packed like herrings in a barrel. Beg pardon,
again. I mean like guests at a hotel on Inauguration Day. But the more
the merrier, my dears,” sang Wynnette, as she danced upstairs in advance
of her party.

Have you ever been in the aviary at the zoo, when all the birds have
been singing, chattering and screaming at once?

If you have, you will have some idea of the condition of Mrs. Force’s
house on this first evening of their young guests’ arrival.

They chattered in their rooms, they chattered all the way down the
stairs, and they chattered around the tea table.

The extension table in the dining room had been drawn out to its full
length to accommodate the party of sixteen that sat down to tea.

All these young people sitting opposite each other at the long board,
and under the full blaze of the chandeliers, showed how much they had
grown, changed and improved during the three years which had elapsed
since their last meeting and parting in the country.

Odalite was the most beautiful of the group. She was now nineteen years
of age; her elegant form was rather more rounded, her pure complexion
brighter, her eyes darker, and her hair richer; her voice was deeper and
sweeter; and all her motions more graceful than before.

Wynnette was seventeen; tall, thin and dark; with the same mischievous
eyes, snub nose, full, ripe lips, and short, curly, black hair.

Elva was fifteen, tall for her age, thin, fair, with soft, blue eyes,
and light, flaxen hair.

Rosemary Hedge was also fifteen years old, but very tiny for her age,
with slender limbs and little mites of hands and feet, a small head
covered with fine, silky black hair, a fair, clear, bright complexion,
and large, soft, tender blue eyes.

The four Grandiere girls—Sophy, Nanny, Polly and Peggy—whose ages ranged
from fourteen to twenty, were all of the same type, with well-grown and
well-rounded forms, fair complexions, red cheeks and lips, blue eyes,
and brown hair; except for difference in age and size, never were four
sisters more alike.

The two Grandiere boys, whose ages were nineteen and twenty-two, were
like the girls, with the same well-knit forms, blooming complexions,
blue eyes and brown hair—only their features were on a larger and
coarser scale, and their faces were freckled and sunburned.

The two Elk girls, Melina and Erina, were respectively thirteen and
sixteen years old, and both bore a certain family likeness to Rosemary
Hedge, except that they were not so tiny in form or dainty and delicate
in features and complexion. They had the large blue eyes and the fine
black hair, but their faces were thin and their complexions sallow.

Perhaps the most improved of all these young people during the preceding
three years were the two gallant young sailors, Leonidas Force and
Roland Bayard, with their tall forms, broad shoulders, deep chests, fine
heads, handsome faces and full beards—only with a difference; for Le’s
hair and beard were of a rich, silky brown, while Roland’s, alas! were
of a rough, fierce red.

Upon the whole, the group of young folk around the table was very fair.




                              CHAPTER XII
                           THE MARRIAGE MORN


            Up, up, fair bride, and call
            Thy stars from out their several spheres—take
            Thy rubies, pearls and diamonds forth, and make
            Thyself a constellation of them all.—DONNE.

The first of April was a perfect day. The sky was a canopy of deepest,
clearest blue. The sun shone in cloudless splendor. The trees in all the
parks were in full leaf or blossom. The grass was of that fresh and
tender green only to be seen at this season. The spring flowers were all
in bloom, with radiance of color and richness of fragrance. Birds were
singing rapturously from every bush and branch.

“A lovely day! Just the day for a wedding!” said Nanny Grandiere, as she
threw open the shutters of her bedroom window, that looked out upon one
of the most beautiful parks of the city.

Her three sisters, who occupied the same double-bedded room with
herself, sleeping two in a bed, jumped up and ran across the room to
join her.

“Yes, a beautiful day! ‘Blessed is the bride that the sun shines on,’
you know. Oh! I am so glad we all came here!” said Polly.

“And I am glad it is going to be a quiet wedding, with only ourselves.
Oh, girls! I should not have wanted to come if they had been going to
have a grand wedding, after the manner of these fashionable city people.
I should have been scared to death among so many fine strangers. But now
it will be real jolly!” said Peggy.

“And Mr. Force says that as there are enough of us we may have a dance,
after the bride and groom have gone,” chimed in Sophy.

“‘After the bride and groom have gone!’” echoed Nanny. “That will be
‘Hamlet’ without the _Prince of Denmark_.”

“Well, it can’t be helped. We must have the dance without them or not at
all. You know the ceremony is to be performed at half-past seven, the
refreshments served at eight o’clock, and the bride and groom will leave
the house at nine to catch the nine-thirty train to Baltimore, where
they will stop. To-morrow morning they go on to New York, and the day
after that they sail for Liverpool,” exclaimed Sophy.

“Yes, I know; but I don’t know why it should be so. I think they might
just as well stay here and dance all night with us, and take an early
train straight through to New York, as to start from here this evening
and stop all night in Baltimore. I think it would be kinder in them,
considering how far they are going, and how long they will be away.”

“But it would be so fatiguing to Odalite. At least, Mrs. Force said so.
This is her plan,” Polly explained.

“Well, we had better hurry and dress. It is very warm in this room.
Think of feeling summer heat on the first of April in a room where there
is no visible fire! Oh! this heating by steam and lighting by gas is
just wonderful!” exclaimed Sophy.

“I like open wood fires and astral lamps best,” said Nanny.

“Oh! but the modern improvements are so clean and tidy!” put in Peggy.

“I wonder what our colored servants would say to them,” mused Polly,
aloud.

“And even others—Miss Sibby, for instance. What would Miss Sibby say to
gas and steam?” suggested Sophy.

“Oh! I can tell you what she would say,” exclaimed Wynnette, who
suddenly entered the room, and mimicked the old lady. “She would say:
‘Them as has the least to do with gas and steam, sez I, comes the best
off, sez I.’ That would be her _ipse dixit_, for she don’t believe in
newfangled notions, as she calls our boasted modern improvements.”

“Oh, Wynnette! Already dressed! and we not half ready! We shall be late,
I fear,” exclaimed Sophy.

“You will that, if you don’t stir your stumps—I mean accelerate your
action,” replied frank Wynnette.

“Well, don’t wait for us. You go down to breakfast, and don’t let them
wait. I always lose my senses when I try to dress in a hurry,” said
Nanny, sitting down on a hassock to put on her gaiters. “There! I said
so! I have gone and put my right foot on my left boot!—I mean, my left
foot on my right boot!—I mean——I don’t know what I mean! Please go down,
and don’t bother!”

“Don’t go crazy; there’s time enough. Breakfast won’t be ready for half
an hour yet,” laughed Wynnette, as she danced out of the room.

The flurried girls composed themselves as well as they could, and
completed their toilets. Then they went downstairs to the parlor.

They found all the family and guests assembled.

“I hope we did not keep you waiting,” said Sophy, the eldest sister,
after the morning greeting had been exchanged.

“Now, papa, don’t flunk. Beg pardon. I mean, don’t sacrifice truth to
politeness. Let me reply. Yes, Miss Grandiere, you did keep us waiting
just one minute and a half,” said Wynnette, pointing to the clock on the
mantelpiece.

But Mr. Force had already given his arm to Miss Grandiere, and was
leading the way to the breakfast room.

The others followed.

It was a merry breakfast. Yet the two happiest ones at the table were
the most silent. Leonidas and Odalite neither originated a joke nor
laughed at the joke of any other.

“Such is selfishness of love and joy,” whispered Wynnette to Rosemary,
who was her next neighbor at the breakfast table.

When the meal was over, the young people—with the exception of the
betrothed pair, who were away somewhere mooning by themselves—returned
to the parlor, to discuss the duties and pleasures of the day.

“We must decorate the drawing room,” said Wynnette. “No, Messrs.
Grandiere and Bayard, you are not to go to the capitol, or the
departments, or to the White House, or to the patent office, or to the
Smithsonian, or to the arsenal, or to the Navy Yard, or to the United
States jail, or to the National Insane Asylum—that, I think, includes
‘the whole unbounded continent’—nor to any other public institution; no,
nor on any other sightseeing expedition. You are just to get a
Washington directory for your guide, and you are to make the round of
all the conservatories in the city, and you are to bring us loads and
loads and loads of the very best flowers to be had, and you are to order
a marriage bell in orange flowers, with ropes of orange flowers, and you
are to order——Take out your tablets, if you have any; if not, tear the
margin off the morning paper, and make a memorandum, for I know the
weakness of your minds and memories. Now, then you are to order the most
æsthetic bouquet in the world for the bride, and you are to order nine
of the next most utterly utter for the bridesmaids—for the Lord forbid
that the bridesmaids’ bouquets should be equal to that of the bride!”

“Ten bouquets! Nine bridesmaids, you say! Why, I thought—I thought—this
was to be a private wedding,” said Roland Bayard, driving his fingers
through his red hair.

“And so it is, my dear. We are a very small company of family friends,
and that is the very reason why every man-jack and woman-jenny in the
company must be an officer. Like the village militia, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see, and I don’t understand.”

“Well, then, to come down to the level of your poor little wits, here
are ten of us girls—Odalite, Wynnette, Elva, Rosemary, Melina, Erina,
Sophy, Nanny, Polly and Peggy. Only one of us—Odalite, to wit—can be the
bride, or the captain, say, but all the rest of us mean to be
bridesmaids or officers, say!”

“Ah! And where are your rank and file?”

“Oh, the outside world, who are not invited to this entertainment. The
officers must not be too familiar with the privates. And we are going to
have an exclusive jollification. And now I hope you understand. And you
had better be off at once, because we want all the flowers delivered by
noon. And don’t attempt to go anywhere or do anything until you have
executed this order,” said Wynnette, in conclusion.

Roland Bayard and the two Grandieres walked off.

Then little Elva whispered to her sister:

“Oh, Wynnette, those flowers will cost from thirty to fifty dollars. You
know what awful prices mamma had to pay for decorating her rooms every
time she had a party.”

“Well, what then?” inquired the thoughtless one.

“Why, those poor fellows will have to pay for them, and I don’t believe
they have five dollars apiece.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Wynnette. “What a scatter-brain I am!”

And she ran out without bonnet or shawl, and was so fortunate as to
catch the three young men, who had stopped at the gate to buy a paper
from a newsboy.

“Say!” called Wynnette. “Come here, you Roland!”

And he came.

“I forgot to tell you. Have those flowers charged to my father. Mr. Abel
Force, you know. They will understand. They have all supplied mamma for
all her parties. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand. All right,” said Roland.

And Wynnette ran into the house, and Roland walked on and joined his
companions.

But the deceitful, double-dealing young spendthrift never had bud or
blossom charged to his host, but paid cash for all the flowers, thus
making a deep hole in his savings of three years.

The day was spent in making the small final preparations for the
wedding.

At noon the flowers came, fresh and blooming and fragrant, because just
taken from their stalks. Besides the bouquets, there were—according to
orders—“loads and loads and loads” of flowers to decorate the drawing
room and the supper table.

The girls carefully laid away the bouquets, and went to work to decorate
the rooms.

In the sliding doors between the front and rear drawing rooms they made
an arch with festoons of orange blossoms, and from the middle of the
arch hung a beautiful wedding bell of orange flowers. Under this they
meant that the marriage ceremony should be performed. They meant to have
everything their own way, or, to tell the literal truth, Wynnette meant
to have everything her way, and to have every girl back her in that
determination.

The arch finished, they decorated every available part of the room with
flowers, until the place looked less like an apartment in a dwelling
house than a bower in fairyland.

When their labor of love was completed the girls joined the family at an
early dinner.

And when this was over they flew away to dress for the evening.

Still Wynnette had everything her own way. It was she who had decided
that the six girls from the country should be enlisted as extra
bridesmaids, “because,” she said, “it will please them, and give them
something pleasant to talk about for a long time to come.”

She had said to her mother:

“They are going to be Odalite’s bridesmaids.”

And Mrs. Force had not objected. It was a matter of such little import.

She had said to Odalite:

“These girls have all brought their white organdie dresses, white roses,
white gloves, and the rest, to wear to the wedding! And they want to
stand up with you and smile every time you smile, and sigh every time
you sigh, and howl every time you cry! You know! they want to back you
in this game! I mean they wish to be and—they are to be your
supernumerary bridesmaids!” said Wynnette, emphasizing the last clause,
so there might be no possible misunderstanding.

Odalite was so happy that in answer to this she only quoted from Edmund
Lear’s delicious “Book of Nonsense”:

                                  “I don’t care,
                  All the birds in the air
                  Are welcome to roost in my bonnet.”

And so it was settled that there were to be one groomsman and nine
bridesmaids. A most unheard-of arrangement; but as Wynnette emphatically
declared—there was no law against it.

And now the girls were off to their rooms to dress for the occasion.




                              CHAPTER XIII
                           “A QUIET WEDDING”


At seven o’clock they were all assembled in Mrs. Force’s room, waiting
for the summons to go down.

They were all dressed with the simple elegance that became the occasion.

Odalite wore a white silk-trained dress, with a lace overdress looped
with lilies of the valley, and a lace veil fastened to her hair by a
spray of the same delicate flower. She wore no jewelry. It was a whim of
the bride to wear nothing on this occasion that she had worn on that of
her first broken bridal—not even the same sort of materials for her
dress, or the same sort of flowers for ornaments. Her bridal was very
plain and inexpensive. But no flowers could have bloomed more
beautifully than her cheeks and lips, and no diamonds shone more
brilliantly than her eyes. The light of happiness irradiated her face
and form—her whole presence and atmosphere.

The nine bridesmaids were all dressed very nearly alike.

Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary had white tulle dresses trimmed with
rose-colored ribbon.

Sophy, Nanny, Polly and Peggy Grandiere wore white organdie dresses
trimmed with light blue ribbon; and Erny and Milly Elk, white swiss
muslin suits trimmed with bright yellow ribbon.

Mrs. Force wore a pale mauve damasse silk.

No one except the young bride wore any headdress but their own
tastefully arranged hair.

It was to be a quiet wedding, you know—a very quiet wedding, with none
but the family friends.

There came a rap at the door.

Wynnette, who was nearest at hand, opened it.

“Tell your mother, my dear, that the Rev. Dr. Priestly has come,” said
Mr. Force, who stood without.

But Mrs. Force had heard the voice, and answered for herself:

“We are ready and waiting. Come in.”

He entered, smiling on the bevy of beauties that met his eyes.

He singled out his daughter, kissed her on the forehead, and drew her
arm in his to take her downstairs, mentally applying to her the pretty
line of Tennyson:

              “Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.”

He led her down and the others followed in pairs.

He led her into the parlor, where stood the portly form of the Rev. Dr.
Priestly, in full canonicals, and surrounded by a small group of four
young men—to wit: Leonidas Force, the bridegroom; Roland Bayard, his
best man; and Messrs. Ned and Sam Grandiere, nothing in particular.

The bridegroom advanced, bowed and received the bride from her father’s
hand and led her up before the minister, who now stood under the floral
arch between the front and rear drawing rooms, and from which the floral
wedding bell hung.

The bridegroom and the bride stood before the minister—Roland Bayard,
best man, stood on his right; Wynnette, first bridesmaid, stood on her
left; behind them the eight white-robed girls formed a semicircle. Mr.
Force stood on their right, with Mrs. Force on his arm. She was pale and
trembling. He perceived her state, and whispered:

“I suppose every mother suffers something in seeing her daughter
married, even under the most auspicious circumstances! But look at
Odalite and Le! See how happy those children are, and recover your
spirits.”

She glanced up in her husband’s kind face and smiled.

The doorbell rang sharply. Perhaps it was the utter stillness of the
house—in the solemn pause of expectancy, as the minister opened his
book—which made that sound reverberate through the air like a sudden and
peremptory summons.

Mrs. Force looked up anxiously.

“It is of no consequence, my dear. Some chance caller, who does not know
what is going on here. But I prepared for such an event by giving orders
to the hall boy not to admit any one, but to tell all and sundry who
might come that we are engaged,” whispered Mr. Force.

“Hush!” she murmured, but she looked relieved. “Hush! Dr. Priestly is
about to begin.”

The minister, in fact, began, in a very impressive manner, to read the
opening exhortation, and every eye was fixed upon him and every ear bent
to hear him.

There was some movement in the hall outside. Mrs. Force started and
turned her head. Her husband stooped and murmured low:

“Don’t tremble so, my dear! It is only the servants pressing close to
the door to steal a look at the wedding. They would not let any visitors
in. And even if they should make such a mistake, it would be no great
matter!”

“Hush!” she answered, in the lowest murmur. “Do not talk! Attend to the
ceremony.”

Uninterrupted by the inaudible whisper between husband and wife, the
ceremony was proceeding. And no one moved or spoke, until the minister,
lifting his eyes from the book in his hands, inquired gravely:

“‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’”

“‘I do,’” answered Abel Force, stepping forward, taking his daughter’s
hand with tender solemnity and placing it in that of Leonidas, who bowed
with deep reverence as he received it.

Then Abel Force retreated to the side of his pale and agitated wife,
whispered with a smile:

“Just what your father did for me, my love! Just what Leonidas may have
to do for Odalite’s daughters some twenty years hence! The order of
nature, dear wife! And we must smile and not cry over it.”

But Elfrida Force was not grieving over the marriage of her daughter.
There was nothing in that marriage to give her pain; everything to give
her satisfaction. Odalite was marrying no stranger, but Leonidas, who
had been brought up in her home, who loved her, and was beloved by her
as an only son. And Odalite was not to be taken away from her, but was
to live on the adjoining plantation to their own, where, if they
pleased, mother and daughter might meet every day. Altogether a most
perfectly satisfactory marriage, in which her soul would have delighted
but for a nameless dread of approaching evil—a dread which she could
neither comprehend nor conquer—a dread of impeding ill which was fast
growing into terror of an immediate death blow.

“Oh!” she breathed. “When it is entirely over—‘finished, done and
sealed’—and they are off at sea, then, and then only, shall I be able to
breathe freely.”

Meanwhile the solemn rites went on to the conclusion, and once more
Odalite, with her hand safely clasped in that of her bridegroom, heard
spoken over them the awful warning: “Those whom God hath joined
together, let not man put asunder.”

There was a pause, but no interruption on this occasion—a short pause,
and then the solemn, pathetic, beautiful benediction was pronounced upon
the newly married and indeed happy pair.

And then Leonidas took his bride by her hand, to give her the sacred,
sealing kiss, when—before his lips could meet hers—he was suddenly
seized from behind and violently hurled to the other end of the room.




                              CHAPTER XIV
                           A MEAN RETALIATION


            Revenge is now my joy. She’s not for me,
            And I’ll make sure, she ne’er shall be for thee.
                                                  —DRYDEN.

The intruder was Col. Angus Anglesea, who caught Odalite to his breast,
and with his arm firmly clasping her waist, stood, haughty, insolent and
defiant, in the midst of the thunderstruck group.

A scene of indescribable confusion followed. The bride fainted, the
bridesmaids shrieked, the old minister dropped his book, and fell back
in the nearest chair, in a state bordering on apoplexy.

The men, panic-stricken by amazement for a moment, now pressed forward.

Anglesea glared at them.

“This woman is my wife!” he said.

Le instantly recovered himself, and dashed madly forward.

Heaven only knows what he might have done, but he was intercepted, and
held as in a vise by Mr. Force, who sternly said:

“Le, there must be no violence here. This madman must be dealt with by
law, not by violence.”

“‘This madman!’” shouted the infuriated youth, struggling desperately to
free himself. “‘This madman,’ is it? This scoundrel, steeped to the lips
in vice and crime! This——”

“Le, be quiet! Would you murder, or be murdered?” demanded Mr. Force,
holding the young maniac firmly. Then turning to the intruder, he said,
in a calm, commanding tone: “Col. Anglesea, leave the house.”

“When I have accomplished that for which I came here,” answered the
intruder, smiling superior.

Young Bayard made a dash at him.

“Roland!” exclaimed Mr. Force, in a peremptory tone that arrested the
steps of the young man. “Stop! I will have no struggle in my house. If
the man does not leave quietly, he shall be taken off by a policeman.”

But now all Abel Force’s attention and energy were required to control
the young lion whom he held.

“Let me get at him! The thief, who married a rich widow only to rob and
desert her! The bigamist, who, having a living wife, tried to deceive
and marry a wealthy, betrothed maiden, only to rob and ruin her! The
forger, who invented and published a false account of his own death that
he might entrap his victim into another marriage, and take a mean
revenge by coming here with pretended claims to stop it! Oh! but he
shall die for this!” roared the youth, foaming with rage and struggling
fiercely to free himself.

“Le! Le! be quiet, I say! You are stark, staring mad!” exclaimed Abel
Force, holding the young man fast, though it took all his strength to do
it.

He might as well have talked to a cyclone.

“This felon!” thundered the youth—“this felon, who has broken every law
of God and man! This felon, I say, who should have been in the State
prison twenty years ago, serving out a life term! And you see him with
my wife in his arms, and you will not let me go! Oh!”

Here Mrs. Force, commanding herself by a great effort, went up to where
Col. Anglesea stood holding Odalite to his bosom, and clasped her hands,
raised her eyes to him, and pleaded:

“Oh! for dear mercy’s sake, give me my poor child! Don’t you see that
she is fainting, dying?”

Somewhat to her surprise, Anglesea placed Odalite in her arms, saying,
lightly:

“So that you do not take her out of the room! You know that she is my
wife! And——”

“Edward Grandiere! Be kind enough to step and bring in a policeman—two
of them, if possible,” said Mr. Force, who had all he could do to hold
Leonidas.

“Uncle! uncle! I don’t want to hurt you, but, by my soul, if you don’t
let me go, I shall be compelled to hurt you!” exclaimed the maddened and
writhing youth.

But the strong, mature man held him in arms that were like iron cable
chains.

“I tell you I shall hurt you, uncle!”

“Very well, Le! Hurt me! But I shall hold you all the same.”

“Why won’t you let me kill him?” yelled Le.

“Because, though he deserves death, you would commit a crime.”

“Oh, Heaven! must I bear this?”

“Be patient, Le! Let the law deal with this man! Edward Grandiere, I
asked you to go for a policeman!”

“Yes, sir! I only stopped to ask Roland where I should find one,” said
the young countryman, apologetically, as he hurried away.

At this point Mrs. Force had led Odalite to an easy-chair, where she
recovered from her fainting fit only to fall into a paroxysm of
hysterical sobs and tears. Her heartbroken mother sat by her side. Her
bridesmaids stood all around her, too much frightened to offer the least
comfort or assistance.

Col. Anglesea approached this group.

Odalite, who was sobbing convulsively, shuddered, and covered her eyes
with her hands.

The bridesmaids, who all knew him, for he had dined often at the tables
of their parents, regarded him in fear and horror, and cast down their
eyes to avoid looking at him.

But Angus Anglesea ignored them all, passed them, and, addressing Mrs.
Force, said, almost apologetically:

“I did not wish or intend to make a scene. But it was more than even my
self-possession could endure to see my wife in the arms of another man,
who was about to kiss her. I only want my just and lawful rights. You,
madam, know that your eldest daughter is my lawful wife. Knowing this, I
would ask you why you permitted your daughter to commit a felony that
exposes her to the penalty of the laws for such cases made and
provided?”

“We thought that Odalite was free to marry. We thought that you were
dead,” said Elfrida Force, who had suddenly grown superstitiously afraid
of this man, who seemed to be a Satan in strength, subtlety and
unscrupulous wickedness.

“You thought I was dead! Upon what ground? I am in the prime of life,
and in the height of health.”

“We saw the notice of your death in a paper sent to us.”

“Really? Well, that is rather startling. I should like to see that
paper.”

At this moment Dr. Priestly came up, and said:

“This is all very terrible. I—I do not understand it in the least.”

“It is easily explained, sir. A false report of my death reached my wife
there. She, believing herself to be a widow, contracted marriage with
that young gentleman yonder, who seems to be executing a war dance in
the arms of my father-in-law!” replied Col. Anglesea.

“Oh, Dr. Priestly! will you be so kind as to go and assist Mr. Force in
bringing Leonidas to reason?” pleaded the lady.

“Ye-yes! Of course! Oh, this is terrible, terrible! In the whole course
of my ministry I never met anything so terrible. But, sir,” he said,
suddenly breaking off in his discourse and turning to Col. Anglesea,
“you said that this young lady believed herself to be a widow when she
contracted marriage with Mr. Force. But she was never known here as wife
or widow. I have known her for more than three years as Miss Force.”

“That certainly requires explanation, as our marriage was not a secret
one, but was solemnized in the face of day and before a large
congregation——”

“And then knocked as high as the sky by the dropping down upon you of
your Californian wife! Oh, you hoofed and horned devil!” said Wynnette,
suddenly joining the group and unable longer to restrain herself.

The Rev. Dr. Priestly stared.

“Oh! what am I saying? I mean, reverend sir”—Wynnette began,
apologetically—“I mean that this gentleman’s attempted marriage with my
elder sister was arrested at the very altar by the appearance of a lady
from St. Sebastian, who claimed to be, and proved herself to be, his
lawful wife.”

The old minister looked perplexed and helplessly from the earnest girl
to the scornful man.

“After that my sister went from the church to my father’s house, and
lived under our parents’ protection. Of course, she was still Miss
Force. The unfinished ceremony could not have changed her name or
condition, even if the Californian had been an impostor, which she was
not. This cowardly dead beat and mean skala——Oh! I beg pardon, I am
sure, Dr. Priestly. I should have said: Col. Anglesea, here present,
knows that she was not an impostor, and he knows that he has no claim on
Odalite. He only comes here to make a scene. His marriage was broken off
at the altar by the appearance of his wife, and he is determined that
Odalite’s shall be broken off, for the day at least, by the appearance
of himself, with the claim that he is her husband. It is ‘tit for tat,’
you know. ‘What’s good for the gander is good for the goose,’ you see.
Oh, dear! Excuse me! I mean it is his revenge, reprisal, commending back
of the poisoned chalice, don’t you know?”

“Madam, is this true?” inquired the bewildered minister.

Mrs. Force did not reply. She dared not. She was so utterly subdued by
the appearance of her archenemy, under such inexplicable circumstances,
she could only ignore his question and repeat her request:

“Oh! Dr. Priestly, you are a man of peace. Pray go and help my husband
to bring our young relative to reason.”

The old minister unwillingly trotted off and arrived on the scene of
action in good time, for Mr. Force’s strength was beginning to give way
under the struggles of his prisoner to escape without hurting his
captor.

“You see that man standing among the ladies, whom his presence insults
and contaminates, and you will not let me get at him!” cried Le.

“My dear boy, I will not have a fight in my parlor, and in the presence
of women and children, do you understand? Wait for the police. We will
have him peaceably arrested and taken off. Then our interruption will be
over. The marriage ceremony was concluded, you know. As soon as we get
rid of this madman—for of course he is a madman—you can get ready and
take the train for Baltimore, just as if nothing unpleasant had
happened.”

Mr. Force spoke in a clear and ringing voice, and was heard by Col.
Anglesea, who laughed out aloud and derisively.

At that moment Roland Bayard and Grandiere came in, convoying two
policemen.

So rapidly had the events occurred which take so long to report, that
ten minutes had not elapsed since the first appearance of Col. Anglesea
on the scene, nor three since the departure of the young men in search
of the policemen.

“Ah! here you are!” exclaimed Abel Force, in a tone of relief.

“Yes, sir!” said Roland Bayard. “We were so fortunate as to meet the two
officers at the corner of the street!”

“And strangely enough, they were on their way to the house,” added Ned
Grandiere.

“Some of the servants must have had the discretion to go for them. Well,
officers, I am glad that you are here, and I hope you will be able to do
your unpleasant duty quietly,” said Mr. Force. And pointing directly to
the intruder, he added: “I give that man, there, Angus Anglesea, in
charge for a violent breach of the peace. Take him away at once.”

The policemen stared at the speaker, and then at Col. Anglesea, in a
very unofficial sort of way, and finally walked up to the colonel, and
one of them said:

“I don’t understand it, sir! What does it mean?”

“He’s drunk, I guess! But that need not hinder your duty. Go and serve
the papers on him at once.”

The policeman came back to Mr. Force and offered him a folded document.

“What is this? What nonsense is this?” inquired Mr. Force, without
taking the paper, because both his hands were still engaged in holding
Le.

“Take it and read it, sir, if you please,” said the officer who had
served it. “It is addressed to yourself.”

“Roland,” said Mr. Force, addressing young Bayard, “I don’t want to get
you into a fight with your brother-in-arms, by asking you to hold Le;
but will you please open that paper and hold it up before my eyes that I
may read it?”

Roland bowed in silence, took the paper, opened it and stared at it for
a moment, before he held it up to his host to be read.




                               CHAPTER XV
                       THE WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS


Abel Force began to peruse the document and frowned as he went on. And
well he might!

For it was no less than a writ of _habeas corpus_, issued by a judge of
the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia, ordering Abel Force to
produce the body of Odalite Anglesea, otherwise Odalite Force, before
him the next morning, April 2, at 10 o’clock.

Abel Force, as has been seen, was a law-abiding man. On this trying
occasion, under this galling insult, he commanded himself with wonderful
power.

“Very well,” he said. “You have done your duty. I will obey the order.
Take that man away with you. He has committed a gross breach of the
peace; but let that pass for the present.”

At this moment Col. Anglesea came up and said:

“I will meet you before the judge to-morrow morning. For the present,
having seen the writ of _habeas corpus_ served upon you, I withdraw.
Good-evening, sir. Ladies, good-evening.”

And with as courtly a bow as if he were leaving the drawing room of a
duchess, Col. Anglesea went out, followed by the policemen.

“Now be still, Le! This shall be settled equitably to-morrow. For the
present nothing more can be done,” said Mr. Force, as with a long breath
of relief he at length released his prisoner.

But Le was no sooner free than he dashed out of the room and out of the
house in pursuit of his enemy.

“Let him go!” said Abel Force, in desperation. “Let him go. But I do not
think he will catch Anglesea. He has probably taken a carriage, for I
heard wheels roll away from the door before I released Le.”

“Sir, can I be of any further service here?” inquired the aged minister,
coming forward.

“No, reverend sir, you cannot; but you will perhaps take some
refreshments before you leave,” replied Mr. Force.

“Not any, I thank you. This has been a most agitating evening. If I can
serve you in any manner, at this trying crisis, pray command me.”

“We thank you very much.”

“If my presence to-morrow can avail in any way——”

“I do not think it can, yet I should be glad to have you come.”

“I will meet you,” said the rector. And after shaking hands all around
he left the room.

Mr. Force stepped quickly over to where his wife sat by his daughter’s
easy-chair, holding her hand.

Odalite’s violent paroxysm of distress was over, but she still sobbed
with a low, gasping breath as she lay back in a state of exhaustion.

He looked at the girl and sighed. He would have spoken to her, but his
wife raised her hand in warning and said, in a low tone:

“Leave her alone for a little while. She is very much prostrated, but
will rally presently.”

“Elfrida,” he said then, bending over the lady’s chair, “Elfrida! can
there be any truth in that man’s pretended claim to our child? Not that
it will make any difference in the end, for I swear by all that is
sacred, he shall never possess her! But you remember when we read that
sketch of his life in the Angleton _Advertiser_, we noticed that the
date of the death of his first wife, as given there, was some weeks
later than the date of his marriage with the California widow.”

“I remember,” said the lady, faintly, for her heart, her mother heart,
seemed dying within her.

“And such being the case, we should be thankful that Odalite’s marriage
with Le was stopped just where it was. It would have been most
disastrous if the man had reappeared and set up his claim to Odalite
weeks or months after the marriage had been consummated.”

“Indeed it would!” replied the lady. “And yet, Abel, it may all be a
fraud. He may have no claim on her whatever. If he could contrive to
have published a false obituary of himself, could he not even more
easily have inserted in the sketch of his life attached to it a false
date of the death of his wife?”

“Indeed he could. The whole question of his right to Odalite hangs upon
the true date of Lady Mary Anglesea’s demise. If she died before his
Californian marriage, then is the Californian woman his lawful wife, and
Odalite is free. If, on the contrary, as is made to appear in that
fraudulent obituary notice, Lady Mary Anglesea died since the marriage
with the Californian, then was that second marriage a felony, laying him
liable to prosecution for bigamy, and to imprisonment at hard labor in
the State’s prison, and his third incomplete marriage ceremony with our
daughter only an awkward entanglement, which affords him a false excuse
to lay claim to her, and which it may require the wisdom of the law
courts to unravel. I have no doubt as to the final issue. We must be
prepared to meet the villain in court to-morrow. We must prove the
arrest of the marriage ceremony at All Faith Church, three years ago, by
the appearance of the would-be bridegroom’s wife. Fortunately we have ‘a
cloud of witnesses’ to that fact. Besides ourselves, all the young
people who are our guests were present at the church on that occasion.
Cheer up, my love!” he said, going over to the other side of Odalite’s
chair, and bending over her. “Your perfect freedom and happiness is but
a question of time. And meanwhile you will remain under my protection.”

“Dear papa! I cause you much trouble, do I not?” she inquired, tenderly,
putting her hand in his.

“No, dearest! You never caused me any trouble in all your life! A
scoundrel has given us both trouble; but it cannot last long. If the
hearing should not be decisive to-morrow, I must ask for time and get
the California lady up here. Also, later, that will take more time, I
must send a trusty messenger over to England to ascertain from parish
registers and tombstones the exact date of the death of Lady Mary
Anglesea. But through all, as you are a minor, you must and shall remain
under my protection. Take courage, love!”

“There is Le!” exclaimed Mrs. Force, as the hall doorbell rang, and the
door opened, and a hurried step was heard approaching the drawing room.

Mr. Force started up, and went to meet the midshipman.

“I could not find the poltroon! He has run away, as he did on that first
occasion, when I sent Roland to him!” exclaimed the youth. “But yet he
shall not escape me!”

“Come here, Le,” said Odalite, in a gentle voice.

And the boy crossed the room and knelt before her, placing both his
hands in hers.

It was the old, instinctive, knightly gesture of allegiance and loyalty.

“What is it, Odalite?” he inquired.

She bent and kissed his forehead, and then she said:

“My lover and husband, you would do anything for me to-night? Would you
not?”

“Anything, Odalite! my love and queen! anything! I would live or die for
you! I would forego the dearest wish of my heart for you!” he exclaimed,
lifting her hands and pressing them to his lips, and then placing them
on his head—another old knightly gesture of allegiance and loyalty.

“Kiss me, Le! Kiss me with the kiss that seals our marriage vows,” she
said.

He started up, and caught her to his bosom, and kissed her fondly,
fervently, reverentially.

“Now, Le, I wish you to promise me to forego vengeance on your ‘dearest
foe.’ To use no violence toward the wicked man who has caused all our
trouble; because, dearest dear, there can be no violence without
lawbreaking, and no lawbreaking without such consequences as would
inflict the deepest sorrow, the fiercest anguish on me. And I have
already suffered so much, you would not have me suffer more. You will
promise me, Le?”

“Yes, my best beloved! Yes, my sovereign lady! I will promise all you
ask—even to the renouncing of my just vengeance and the leaving of that
incarnate fiend to the law. I wish it could hang him! I hope, at the
least, it will send him to the State prison! I will do all that my
queen——”

“Your wife, Le.”

“My angel wife requires me to do. And I will endure all that she
requires me to endure.”

“Meantime—although we must have patience until this case is decided, as
it must be decided, in our favor—we are husband and wife. Never dream
that I can consider myself in any other light than as your wife, or that
I could think of you in any other way than as my husband. We shall not
be separated, but remain, as lately, members of the same family, inmates
of the same house; living as a betrothed couple, or as brother and
sister, until this cloud from the depths of Tartarus has been cleared
away from between us. Do you promise, Le?”

“Everything! Everything you wish, Odalite.”

“That is my dear, brave, loyal Le!”

There was something in this interview—that had been held in the sight
and hearing of all the little company—that so touched all hearts that
the boys and girls gathered around the young couple with looks of
heartfelt sympathy. The girls kissed Odalite and pressed the hands of
Le. The boys shook hands with Le, and looked “unutterable things” at
Odalite.

“My dear,” said Mr. Force to his wife, “I think you had better take our
daughter off to your own apartment. It grows late, and she is tired. And
we have a trying day before us to-morrow.”

This was the signal for the dispersion of the little group. And they all
bade good-night and retired.

So ended Odalite’s second wedding day.




                              CHAPTER XVI
                            THE NEXT MORNING


It was a drizzling, chilly, cheerless day—one of those relapses into
winter into which early spring sometimes falls.

Not one of the family had been able to sleep well after such a harassing
evening as they had passed.

They assembled around the breakfast table with pale faces and careworn
looks.

The table was full, and even crowded, with family and guests—sixteen in
all.

Odalite was the last to come in. Her face was deathly white, and showed
signs of an anxious and sleepless night. Yet she greeted the whole party
with a wan smile and a slight bow as she took her seat.

Not one word was said of the ordeal soon to be passed through. Neither
Mr. nor Mrs. Force would allude to it, and no one else durst.

The conversation went on, or, rather, failed to go on, in abortive jets.

Subjects were started, but fell.

Some one said it was a horrid day, so different from yesterday, and more
like November than April.

And several others said yes, or some word to the same effect, and that
subject dropped dead.

Some one mentioned that the “English Opera Troupe” would perform the
“Bride of Lammermoor” that evening.

No one answered that venture except Mr. Force, who, as a mere matter of
form and politeness, said he believed so.

Ned Grandiere said it was good growing weather for the crops.

But no one complimented him by a reply.

And at length the dull repast was over, and all arose from the table.

It was now nine o’clock, and raining hard. At ten Mr. Force and Odalite
were required to arrive before the judge.

As the party left the breakfast room, the guests dispersed to parlor,
library, or chambers, as their inclinations led them.

Mrs. Force called Odalite, and went upstairs, followed by all her
daughters, to prepare for her drive to the courthouse.

Le followed his uncle into a little smoking room at the back of the
hall. Neither of the men went there to smoke. Mr. Force went there to be
alone while he waited for his wife and daughter, and Le to speak to his
uncle.

“Uncle Abel, can I have a word with you?”

“As many as you please, or as time will permit, my boy. Come in.”

They entered the room, and took seats at the little round table, on
which stood pipes of every description, cigar cases, tobacco pots,
tapers, ash saucers and all the paraphernalia of smoking.

“Uncle Abel,” inquired Le, as soon as they were seated, “have you
secured counsel?”

“No, Le, nor shall I do so. To engage counsel would be to give the case
more importance than I choose to give it. It is a simple _habeas
corpus_. A very informal matter, and, in this instance, a very
impertinent one—an abuse of the privilege of _habeas corpus_. I do not
need counsel, and shall not have any. I shall tell my story to the
judge. I do not even know that I shall call a witness. That is all that
will be necessary. I have no fears of the result.”

“Uncle Abel, I must go with you before the judge this morning.”

“No, Le!” emphatically objected Mr. Force. “No, Le! I cannot have my
daughter, my young and innocent child, exposed to the ignominy of
standing between two men, each of whom claims her as his wife.”

The young man was shocked at the presentation of the case from a point
of view he had never contemplated before, and too greatly confused for a
moment to make any reply. At length he said:

“But, Uncle Abel, we know who has the right to her! We know that she is
my wife!”

“No, Le, we do not know that. We only think we know it. We thought we
knew that Angus Anglesea was dead and in Hades. But you see he is alive,
and in Washington.”

“That is a nuisance; but his being here gives him no claim on Odalite.”

“None as you and I think. But we do not know what the law may decide,
Le. It is of no use going over the whole situation again. You know it,
as well as I do. Angus Anglesea married Ann Maria Wright, August 1, 18—.
Of that transaction we have abundant proof. If Anglesea were then free
to contract that marriage, then is he the lawful husband of Ann Maria
Anglesea, his second wife. But, on the other hand, if his first wife,
Lady Mary Anglesea, did not die until the twenty-fifth of that same
August, then his marriage with Ann Maria Wright, on the first of the
said month, is null and void, and he was free to contract marriage at
the time that he married my daughter, and Odalite Force is his legal
second wife.”

“Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! What shall I do?” exclaimed the
youth, starting up in a frenzy.

“‘We must be wise as serpents and harmless as doves,’” said Mr. Force;
“for, Le, we have to deal with one who has the malice and subtlety of a
demon from the deepest abyss. He is absolutely unscrupulous. I do not
know, mind you, but I firmly believe he has falsified dates to suit his
own base purposes. I believe also that he designedly laid a trap for us
by which he could satiate his vengeance.”

“I—I shall kill him, and hang for it!” burst forth the boy.

“No, you won’t, Le. You came of Christian parents, and have had a
Christian training. You will do nothing unworthy of your race and
education,” calmly replied Mr. Force.

“Uncle!” exclaimed the youth, “how came that false publication of his
death, with time, place and circumstances all complete, in the newspaper
of his own village? It is amazing. It is incredible that such a fraud
could have been perpetrated.”

“Yes, it is amazing and incredible. And yet we know that it is a fraud,
since the man is alive and well. How it was done I do not know. Why it
was done I can well understand. It was done as a trap to catch us, and
place us in a false and humiliating position. I have no doubt that, from
the hour of his ejection from our house and his ignominious retreat from
the neighborhood, he meditated vengeance. I have no doubt he lay in
wait, watching us for these three years past, giving no sign of his
existence, leaving us to suppose that we were finally rid of him, but
all the while watching and waiting for your return, Le, to see what
would come of it. I believe that he knew the course of your ship as well
as you did yourself—knew where she went and when she was ordered home.
Then he manufactured this false evidence of his death, with time, place
and circumstances all complete, as you said, with obituary eulogy,
sketch of his life and career, and including his marriage with Lady Mary
Merland, the date of her death, August 25, 18—, and his second marriage
with Odalite Force——”

“I—I—uncle, I am quite anxious to hang for that man!” panted the youth.

“But we are not willing to let you, Le. Your execution would be of no
sort of comfort to Odalite, or any of us. Now let me go on. All these
concocted and published falsehoods had but one end—to entrap us all into
a false sense of security, and to allow you and Odalite to contract
marriage on your return from sea. I have no doubt that within ten days
after your ship sailed from Rio de Janeiro, homeward bound, he sailed
from Liverpool to New York, under an assumed name, and that he has been
in the country ever since, and lately in the city, watching for your
wedding day, so that he might turn the tables, and snatch your bride
from your possession at the very altar, as it were, and so humiliate us
all in retaliation for his exposure at All Faith Church.”

“Oh, the demon! the demon! Any fate would be cheaply bought at the cost
of sending him to——”

“Le! Le! control yourself! Remember your Christian parentage and
training, and do not speak and act like any border ruffian. Remember
also that we do not know the man has falsified the date of his wife’s
death. We only think so.”

“Uncle, suppose the judge to-day should decide against us—should adjudge
Odalite to be the wife of that devil, and give her to him—what then?”

“I do not for a moment anticipate any such decision,” said Mr. Force.

“Yet, it is possible,” muttered Le.

“But most improbable. The case, I think, from every point of view, is
too clearly in our favor.”

“You think, but you do not know. Our thoughts have misled us up to this
moment, and may be misleading us now. But admitting the possibility that
the decision may be against us—that Odalite may be given into the
custody of Anglesea——”

The father’s face darkened and flushed.

“I would not give my child up to the scoundrel!”

“But suppose the court were to order you to do so?”

“I would resist, and take the consequences. I would never give my child
to that devil! I would sooner—Heaven knows that I would sooner throw her
alive into that lion’s cage in the circus at the Smithsonian Park over
there!”

“But, uncle, suppose, in case of your resistance, the officers were
ordered to do their duty and take the woman from you by force, to give
her to the man. You know such might be the effect of your resistance.
What then?”

The father’s face darkened like a thundercloud. His eyes, under their
black brows, flashed like lightning.

“Le,” he said, “why do you torture me by such improbable suppositions?
In such a case I should—I could be another Virginius, and give my child
instant death to save her.”

“No, uncle, you would not. You came of Christian parents, and you have
had a Christian training. You would do nothing unworthy of your race and
your education. Uncle, remember your Christian parentage and training,
and do not speak and act like a heathen Roman,” said Le, solemnly.

The two men looked at each other in comic embarrassment almost
approaching laughter, had not the matter been so serious.

“We have been letting imagination run away with us, Le. You and I have
been getting ourselves into unnecessary heroics. There will be nothing
to justify it. It is true that we have the most infernal villain to deal
with that ever disgraced the human form, but he must be dealt with by
law, and not by violence. All will be well,” said the elder man.

“Uncle, it was I who got into heroics first, and then stung you into the
same state. But really now, I do not think that I shall have any
occasion to murder Anglesea and swing for it, or that you will have any
cause to enact the Roman father and slay your daughter to save her. Wait
for my _coup_.”

“If I had been that same Roman father, it would not have been my own kid
I’d have killed, you bet. It would have been t’other I’d have gone for.
I mean, I never could see the sense of Virginius slaying his own
daughter, and running amuck through the streets of Rome, instead of
doing execution on the minion of Appius Claudius in the first place. It
was wrong end foremost, like most of the heroic dodges.”

Of course it was Wynnette who spoke. She was standing within the open
door.

“What do you want, my dear?” inquired her father.

“Mamma sent me to look for you, and tell you that it is half-past nine.
She and Odalite are ready, and the carriage is at the door.”

“Thank you, dear. Tell mamma that I will be with her in a moment,” said
Mr. Force, as he arose from his seat.

Wynnette ran off with her message.

“So, uncle, you will not allow me to go with you to the examination?”
inquired Le.

“By no means! On no account, dear boy! You yourself should not wish it
under the circumstances.”

“All right. Who is going with Odalite besides yourself?”

“Her mother, her two sisters, Rosemary Hedge, and the four Misses
Grandiere.”

“They can’t all go in one carriage.”

“No; no one but Odalite, her mother and the eldest Miss Grandiere will
go in our carriage; the others will go by the street cars, under the
escort of Roland Bayard. I take a crowd of ladies with me not only as
witnesses to the broken marriage at All Faith Church—for the young men
could have answered that purpose—but as the most fitting, proper and
delicate support to my daughter. I take only one man, Roland Bayard, not
only as the most important witness, who brought Anglesea’s Californian
wife from San Francisco to St. Mary’s, but also as a proper escort for
the young ladies in the street car. But you, Le, should, in delicacy,
absent yourself.”

“At least, I will not press my company on you, uncle. But perhaps I may
be there later. Don’t let anything discourage you, no matter how the
case seems to be going. Wait for my _coup_,” said Le.

Mr. Force was drawing on his light overcoat in the hall, to which they
had walked during this conversation, and he scarcely heard or heeded the
youth’s last words, which seemed to be so significant.

They met Mrs. Force and Odalite at the front door.

“The girls have gone on in the cars before. Roland is with them. I told
them to wait in the vestibule of the City Hall until we should join
them,” said the elder lady.

Odalite said nothing. She was white and still, as she had been at the
breakfast table.

It was pouring rain.

When the front door was opened Mr. Force and Leonidas both took large
umbrellas from the hall rack and held them over the heads of the two
ladies as they passed from the house to the carriage.

When the two latter had entered and taken their seats, Mr. Force
followed them, and Le closed the door.

“I shall bring her back with me,” said the elder man.

“I am sure that you will,” replied the younger.

The carriage drove off, and Le re-entered the house, muttering to
himself:

“Let them wait for my _coup_!”




                              CHAPTER XVII
                            BEFORE THE JUDGE


Mr. Force with his party drove directly to the City Hall.

It was still raining hard, when they arrived—so hard that when the
carriage drew up before the broad flight of steps leading up to the main
entrance of the building, Mr. Force, upon alighting upon the pavement,
had to take out one lady at a time, and lead her under the shelter of a
large umbrella up into the hall.

They found Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary, with the three younger Grandiere
girls, all under the escort of Roland Bayard, waiting for them in the
vestibule.

When all the party were assembled, they mustered quite a formidable
company—eleven in number.

“I never was in a courthouse in all my life before! I feel just as if I
was going to be tried for murder or larceny, or something, myself! I
know I shall never be able to hold up my head again!” whispered Elva, in
a frightened voice, to Wynnette.

“And I reckon I shall be tried for murder, if ever I get a good chance
to let daylight through that foreign beat!” replied Wynnette, too mad to
mend her phrases as she usually did.

“Don’t be distressed, Elva, dear! We are not going into court. This is a
case to be heard in chambers,” Roland explained.

“Chambers!” echoed, in a breath, all the girls, whose only idea of
chambers was bedrooms.

Before Roland could explain further, Mr. Force had come in with Odalite
on his arm, and hurried the whole party up another flight of stairs and
along another passage, until they reached a door at which a bailiff
stood.

The latter opened the door, in silence.

The whole party entered a large and well-furnished room, where, on this
cold and rainy second of April, a bright coal fire was burning in the
grate. The floor was covered with a dark red carpet, the windows shaded
with buff blinds, now drawn three-quarters up, because the day was dark,
and the walls were lined with tall bookcases, filled with well-worn
volumes, mostly bound in calf. Several library tables, loaded with
folios and stationery, occupied the middle of the spacious apartment.

In a large leathern chair, at one of these tables, sat a venerable man,
with white hair and a benign countenance, a judge of the Supreme Court
of the District of Columbia, whom, for convenience, we will call Judge
Blank.

There was a grave young man standing near him, who might have been clerk
or private secretary.

And seated in another armchair, at some little distance, was Col.
Anglesea, looking as careless as if he were making a morning call.

He, too, seemed to be without counsel or witnesses.

Mr. Force came forward with his party, bowed to the dignitary, whom he
frequently met in social life and knew very well, and saluted him with
a—

“Good-morning, judge,” as if he, too, had just dropped in to make a
morning call.

“Good-morning, Mr. Force,” replied his honor, rising and looking about
him.

Seeing the large party who had entered the room, he turned to the young
man in attendance, and said:

“O’Brien, find seats for these ladies.”

When they were all seated, Mr. Force remained standing before the judge,
with only the table between them.

Col. Anglesea sat back at ease in his chair, with his chin a little
elevated, playing carelessly with the charms attached to his watch
chain.

There was a short pause, and then Mr. Force, laying a document on the
table, said:

“Your honor, I return the writ with which I have been served. My
daughter, Odalite Force, is present.”

“Take a seat, Mr. Force,” said the judge, and then, turning to the young
man whom he had called O’Brien, he took from his hand a paper and began
to read it to himself.

There was silence in the quiet room.

“This is not a bit like I thought it was going to be. I don’t feel at
all scared now! Why, I know Judge Blank! He used to pat me on the head
every time he saw me!” whispered Elva to Wynnette.

“Hush, hush! you mustn’t talk here. Yes, it is quiet enough here, for
that matter! Executions are quiet nearly always. We read, ‘The execution
was conducted in a quiet and orderly manner,’ and yet a man has been
hung and choked to death, or perhaps a woman,” whispered Wynnette, most
inconsistently talking more than the sister whom she had rebuked for
breaking silence.

“Oh, Wynnette! why will you talk of such horrid, horrid things?”
demanded Elva, in a frightened tone.

“Because I am thinking of the price. I am counting the cost of sending
that earthworm to Hades——Hush!”

The judge had finished reading the document in his hand, and turning
slowly to the respondent, said:

“Mr. Force, you are charged herein, under oath, by Col. Angus Anglesea,
of Anglewood Manor, England, with having, on the twentieth of December,
18—, forcibly abducted, and for three years past and up to this present,
illegally detained the person of his wife, Odalite Anglesea—otherwise
Odalite Force. What have you to say to this charge?”

“I say that it is absolutely false and malicious from beginning to end!
The young lady here present, to whom he so insolently refers, is my
daughter, Odalite Force, a maiden and a minor, under my own immediate
protection,” replied Abel Force.

“Col. Angus Anglesea will step forward,” said the venerable judge.

The colonel arose, bowed and came up to the table.

O’Brien handed him the New Testament.

He bowed again with hypocritical devotion and took the formal oath to
speak “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Col. Anglesea, will you now state the grounds upon which you claim this
lady here present, Odalite Force, or Anglesea, as your wife, and charge
Abel Force, her father, with forcibly abducting and illegally detaining
her?” said the judge.

“I will,” replied the colonel. And he began his statement:

“Three years and four months ago, on the twentieth of December, 18—, in
the Church of All Faith, in the Parish of All Faith, in the State of
Maryland, I married Odalite Force, here present, daughter of Abel Force,
also here present. The Rev. Dr. Peters, rector of All Faith, performed
the marriage. Mr. Abel Force gave away the bride. At the end of the
ceremony a madwoman burst into the church, forced her way to the altar
and created a disgraceful disturbance, into the details of which I need
not go. Mr. Force, with the help of some of his neighbors, seized his
daughter, tore her from my arms and conveyed her to his home, where he
has forcibly and illegally detained her ever since. I see one man and
several young women who were witnesses of the whole transaction, and may
be put upon the stand to corroborate my testimony,” concluded the
colonel.

“Oh, Lord!” muttered one and all of the girls, aghast at the
proposition.

“Col. Anglesea,” questioned the judge, “you say that this happened more
than three years ago. Why has not this complaint been made sooner?”

“Imperative business summoned me immediately to England and detained me
there. I wrote many letters to my wife, imploring her to come over to
me—letters which perhaps never reached her, for she never replied to
them. I then sent a messenger, the Rev. Dr. Pratt, to see her in person,
and try to induce her to come over to England under his escort and join
me at Anglewood, where I impatiently awaited her. But my reverend
courier failed to find her where I had left her, at her father’s country
seat, Mondreer, and heard that she was with her family in Washington. He
came here in search of my wife, but again failed to meet her. He was
told that she was traveling with her family in Canada. In short, my
agent failed to find her, and returned to England from his fruitless
errand.”

“Lord! how that man can lie!—I mean, what reckless assertions he can
make!” said Wynnette, in a low tone, to Roland.

“I like your first way of putting it best,” muttered young Bayard.

Col. Anglesea was going on with his statement:

“I was bound to England by business, which was at the same time a most
sacred duty. It is needless to go into the description of that business
and duty. It has nothing to do with this case further than it held me
fast from coming to this country in search of my wife; from whom I had
never heard directly since our violent parting in the church. Nor did I
hear any news of her until last March, when a rumor reached me that she
was on the eve of marriage with a cousin of hers, a Mr. Leonidas Force,
a midshipman in the United States Navy. I took measures to find out the
truth about this report, and having satisfied myself of it, I set sail
for New York, where I arrived only three days since. I took the first
train to Washington, and reached the city yesterday morning. I inquired
the address of Mr. Abel Force and went directly to his house. I was
refused admittance. I asked to see my wife, but was refused the
privilege.”

“Oh, Lord! how that man can lie! I mean, how he can falsify the sacred
truth!” panted Wynnette.

“Stick to the first form, my dear! The terse Saxon is the strongest,”
muttered Roland.

Col. Anglesea continued:

“Knowing the desperate character of the man I had to deal with——”

“Oh! just hear him talking about our gentle, lovely papa!” whispered
Elva.

“Never mind! I’m putting it all down! He’s only piling up ‘wrath against
a day of wrath.’ Spinning out rope enough to hang himself. I’ll give it
to him! He’ll catch it!” panted Wynnette.

“Knowing, I say, the character of the man I had to deal with,” concluded
Anglesea; “knowing from bitter experience that not even the holy ground
of the house of God was sacred from his murderous violence——”

“Rosemary Hedge! make Roland Bayard kick that man out of the courthouse
and horsewhip him in the public streets!” fiercely whispered Wynnette.

“Hush, hush, dear child! We are in the presence of the judge. Wait. I
will deal with him later,” murmured young Bayard.

“Rosemary Hedge! tell Roland Bayard if he don’t kick that man out and
lash him, you will never marry him!” hissed Wynnette, through her
clenched teeth.

“He never asked me to,” replied Rosemary, in her tiny voice.

“Silence,” said the judge, noticing for the first time the excited
whispering in the corner.

“There! I told you so! Next thing we’ll be kicked out,” muttered
Wynnette, most unreasonably, since she herself had caused all the
disturbance.

A dead silence fell among the group of girls while Anglesea went on with
his statement:

“I applied for, and obtained, the writ of _habeas corpus_ from your
honor, ordering the abductor of my wife to bring her before you. So
armed with the power of the law, I went to the house of Abel Force last
night and entered it, and not a moment too soon. I found my wife
standing with a young man whom I at once recognized as Mr. Midshipman
Force, before a minister of the Gospel who had just pronounced the
marriage benediction. I saw the writ served, and then left the house. I
have no more to say but this, that I might have brought a criminal
charge against her!”




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                             THE OTHER SIDE


The venerable judge now turned his face, impassive as that of the
Sphinx, toward Abel Force, who throughout the trying ordeal of
Anglesea’s false testimony and insulting demeanor had maintained his
self-possession and commanded his temper.

He now arose and came forward, took the prescribed oath, and began his
statement:

“My daughter, Odalite Force, was never married to Angus Anglesea. On the
twentieth of December, 18—, at All Faith Church, in Maryland, she went
through a portion of the marriage ritual with him; but that ceremony was
never completed. Before the final declaration was delivered, before the
benediction was pronounced, the further proceedings were interrupted by
the entrance of a lady who claimed to be the wife of Angus Anglesea, the
would-be bridegroom——”

“An impostor! An adventuress!” exclaimed Col. Anglesea.

“And who proved herself to be the wife of Angus Anglesea, to the
satisfaction of all present, by producing her marriage certificate.”

“Forgery! forgery!” exclaimed the colonel.

“I took charge of the certificate at the time and have it with me. Will
your honor examine it?”

And Abel Force drew from his breast pocket a folded paper which he
handed to the judge.

“A clever forgery, your honor!” said Anglesea, while the judge unfolded
and read the document.

“This,” said the judge, slowly reading the paper, “appears to be the
certificate of the marriage of Angus Anglesea, of Anglewood, Lancashire,
England, colonel in the Honorable East India Service, with Ann Maria
Wright, widow, of Wild Cats’ Gulch, California. It is signed by Paul
Minitree as officiating clergyman, and by several other persons as
witnesses. What is the meaning of this, Col. Anglesea?”

“It is a forgery, your honor!” impudently replied the colonel.

The judge turned and looked at Abel Force.

“So he said when it was first produced by his wife in church,” replied
the latter; “but we telegraphed to St. Sebastian and got the record of
the marriage from the parish register of St. Sebastian telegraphed back
to us, word for word. I have preserved that telegram. Will your honor
examine it?”

And Mr. Force drew from his pocket a roll of what seemed measuring tape,
which he handed to the judge, who patiently unwound and carefully read
the long dispatch.

“This appears to be a full corroboration. What have you to say about it,
Col. Anglesea?”

“I say that it is a forgery! I say that there is a conspiracy between
the woman and the priest. I deny in toto the authenticity of the
marriage certificate and of the telegram that seems to support it. They
are both the work of the same hands. Any one who can write may fill in
the printed form of a marriage certificate. Any one may send a telegram
to any effect they please. I repeat that I deny in toto the truth of the
certificate and of the telegram. They may be easily proven to be false.
Let an accredited agent be sent to St. Sebastian to examine the
register. It will take time, but I am willing to wait for justice,” said
the colonel, with an appearance of candor and moderation calculated to
deceive any one who did not know him.

The judge turned again and looked at Mr. Force.

“Certainly. I am perfectly willing, nay, extremely anxious, that this
matter should be sifted to the very bottom. I have no doubt or fear of
the result,” said Abel Force.

“In the meantime,” said Anglesea, “I shall pray your honor that my wife
will be taken from the custody of her father and delivered into my
keeping.”

“That cannot be done while this question is in doubt,” said the judge,
with the same impassive face.

“Then I will pray that my wife be taken from the custody of her father,
whom I cannot trust, and placed in that of the sheriff, or of some third
party, with whom my rights will be safe,” persisted the man.

“We will consider.”

“If your honor will adjourn the case for twenty-four hours I will
undertake to bring this man’s wife into court. She is at present living
at my country seat, Mondreer, in the capacity of housekeeper.”

An insolent, insulting laugh from Anglesea interrupted the speaker for a
moment.

“She is in the service of Mrs. Force, and in charge of our country home
during our absence,” continued Abel Force, controlling his temper, and
speaking quietly.

“You may adjourn the case, your honor, for the sake of producing this
woman; but when she shall be produced she will be nothing more than an
impostor—an adventuress. The only true test of this question will be to
send an accredited agent to California to search the parish register of
Sebastian. Two agents may be sent, for that matter; one on my part, one
on the part of Mr. Force. That will secure fair play; but they will find
no record of any marriage between me and any woman whatever. How should
they? Why, your honor, I was, in that August, 18—, not in California,
nor in any part of America; not on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, but
on the other side, in England, at Anglewood Manor, attending on my
invalid first wife, Lady Mary Anglesea, who died suddenly on the
twenty-fifth of that same August. How, then, could I have been in
California, and married to this adventuress who has been brought forward
as my wife? Here is the notice of my first wife’s death. You will see
that it occurred on the twenty-fifth of August, just twenty-four days
after I am stated to have married this California widow. Will your honor
be pleased to examine it?”

And Anglesea drew the little printed slip from his pocketbook, and
passed it to the judge.

That venerable dignitary read it, and looked somewhat puzzled. In fact,
the case was growing more involved at every turn.

“Your honor must perceive that if I were in attendance on my invalid
first wife, who died on the twenty-fifth of August, at Anglewood Manor,
England, I could not well have been in St Sebastian, California,
courting and marrying that impostor who claimed me.”

The judge looked exceedingly perplexed.

“Or if I could by any possibility have married this Californian woman on
the first of August, as the false certificate states, that marriage
would not have been legal because my first wife was then living, and
lived until the twenty-fifth, when she died. And, consequently, in
either case, I am the husband of this young lady, Odalite Anglesea, here
present.”




                              CHAPTER XIX
                              LE’S “COUP”


At this moment there was a slight movement at the door, and Leonidas
Force entered the room, advanced and bowed to the judge, and then handed
a written paper to the father of Odalite.

Mr. Force took the paper, read it, started, and passed it on to the
judge.

His honor took it, read it slowly, and laid it on the table before him.

Mr. Force had resumed his seat.

Col. Anglesea remained standing immediately in front of the judge.

Le stood a little to the right, near the end of the table.

There was silence for a few moments.

Col. Anglesea was the first to speak again.

“In view of the evidence that I have offered to prove that I am the
legal husband of Odalite Anglesea, here present, I pray your honor that
my wife be delivered into my custody, or if such may not be, then into
that of the sheriff, or of some other person whom I can trust.”

“Col. Anglesea,” began the judge, speaking very slowly and deliberately,
“what did you say was the date of your first wife’s death?”

“The twenty-fifth of August, as you may see by the obituary notice in
your possession.”

“Ah! but in what year?”

The colonel’s well-guarded face changed. He seemed disturbed, but
quickly recovered himself, and answered:

“Oh! why, in the year 18—, the same year, of course, as well as the same
month, in which I have been accused of having married the California
widow—which, as I am not endowed with ubiquity, is impossible.”

“You say, then, that your first wife died on August 25, 18—?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“On what date was this notice inserted, and in what paper?”

“In the London _Times_ of the twenty-sixth. It is usual, I believe, to
publish the obituary notice on the day after the death,” said the
colonel, with great dignity, as if he considered this cross-examination
rather irrelevant, if not even impertinent.

“London _Times_ of the twenty-sixth of August, 18—?”

“Of course. Yes, your honor,” replied the colonel, scarcely able to
control his annoyance.

At that moment Le drew from his breast pocket a folded newspaper, which
he passed to Mr. Force, who, in turn, submitted it to the judge, saying
respectfully:

“Here, your honor, is a copy of the London _Times_ to which reference
has been made. If your honor will examine the obituary column, you will
see that the notice of Lady Mary Anglesea’s death is ‘conspicuous by its
absence.’”

Col. Anglesea flushed and paled visibly while the judge turned over the
paper and examined it.

“I hold here a copy of the London _Times_ of August 25, 18—, the date
you mentioned as containing the obituary notice of your wife’s death;
but I fail to find it in the list of such notices,” said the judge.

“Will your honor allow me to look at that paper?” inquired Anglesea,
struggling, and partly succeeding, in recovering his self-control.

“Certainly,” replied the judge, and he handed it over.

“Where did this paper come from?” frowningly inquired Anglesea of Mr.
Force.

The latter gentleman replied by a wave of his hand toward Leonidas
Force, who still stood near the right-hand end of the table before the
judge.

“I procured it from Mr. Henry Herbert, an English gentleman, whose
acquaintance I made since my return from sea, and who, as I casually
found out, takes the London _Times_, and keeps a file of it.”

“Ah!” said Col. Anglesea. “I was certainly under the strong impression
that the notice of my wife’s death was inserted in the _Times_ of the
day after the occurrence; but, as I really had nothing to do with the
matter myself—such matters are usually attended to by the family
solicitor, minister, or some other than the chief mourner—I could not
have been certain, and should not have undertaken to give the precise
date, as to which I must have been mistaken. And now that I reflect upon
the matter, I remember that Lady Mary Anglesea died at Anglewood Manor
at precisely 11:53 P.M., on the twenty-fifth, and, of course, the notice
could not have reached London in time for insertion in the issue of the
_Times_ of the twenty-sixth. It may have first appeared in the issue of
the twenty-seventh, or even of the twenty-eighth, and it may have never
appeared in the _Times_ at all, but in some other paper. I do not know.
I fear I took the matter so for granted that the notice appeared in the
_Times_ on the day after the death, that I spoke hastily and
unadvisedly,” concluded the colonel, with that air of candor he could so
well assume.

“But you must remember from what paper you cut the notice that you have
so carefully preserved,” suggested the judge.

“I did not cut it from any. There, again, is another reason why I cannot
be sure of the date, or even of the name of the paper in which it was
inserted. A thoughtful friend of the family—I do not remember who,
whether it was our rector or some other—cut it out and gave it to me as
a memento some days after the funeral. But, your honor, it seems to me
that the date of the publication of the notice of the death is of very
little consequence, as the fact remains that the event occurred on the
twenty-fifth of August, 18—, while the marriage with which I am charged
is said to have taken place on the first of the same month, which, if it
did, was clearly illegal and of no effect, and constitutes no barrier to
the marriage with Odalite, my present wife, which was solemnized at All
Faith in the December following. But I say, on the contrary, that the
marriage which I myself witnessed and arrested in the house of Mr. Abel
Force, yesterday, April 1st, between Odalite Anglesea and Leonidas
Force, was illegal, criminal and felonious; and I might now bring my
wife before the criminal court on the charge of bigamy.”

“Col. Anglesea, you will do well to remember that this is not a criminal
court, nor are we investigating a criminal charge. And govern yourself
accordingly,” said the judge, speaking for the first time with great
severity in tone and look.

Angus Anglesea bowed and was silent.

“As this question of my daughter’s freedom to contract marriage has been
raised, your honor, I will crave your indulgence while I call your
attention to this paper which I hold in my hand. It is a copy of the
Angleton _Advertiser_, of August 20th, and contains an obituary notice
to the ‘late Angus Anglesea, of Anglewood, colonel,’ etc., etc., with a
sketch of his life and career, and a high eulogium of his character.
This paper appears to be the organ of his family, published in his own
town of Angleton, and on his manor of Anglewood, and should be some
authority in their affairs. And yet it publishes the death of the master
of the manor, who stands living before us. Even if my daughter had been,
as she certainly never was, the wife of Angus Anglesea, such evidence as
this—appearing to be true, though it was false—of the death of the man
whom she had not seen for more than three years, or since her incomplete
marriage with him was broken off at the altar by the appearance of his
wife, would have seemed to leave her free to contract marriage without a
shade of reproach. This paper was sent to me through the English mails,
in duplicates, the first of which reached me in September, and was soon
after forwarded to his wife, Mrs. Ann Maria Anglesea, at Mondreer. The
second came three days later. Will your honor look at it?”

The judge took it, slowly examined the obituary notice and glowing
eulogium of the late Col. Angus Anglesea, of Anglewood Manor, etc.,
etc., looked in amazement from the death notice to the living subject,
and then laying down the sheet, with a frown, said:

“Mr. Force, this extraordinary publication has nothing whatever to do
with the case in hand.”

Abel Force bowed in submission and sat down. His point, however, was
gained. The judge had seen the paper, and could not help drawing his own
conclusions.

Judge Blank then arose to give his decision, and said:

“Col. Angus Anglesea, it is not necessary to enter very deeply into the
merits of this case. You have failed to prove any marital rights over
the person of Odalite Anglesea, otherwise Odalite Force. I, therefore,
remand her, as a minor, into the custody of her father, and I dismiss
the case. Mr. Force, you can take your daughter away.”

Abel Force bowed deeply to the judge, and walked toward the group of
ladies who were anxiously awaiting him.

Col. Anglesea stepped aside to let him pass, but hissed in his ear:

“There are other tribunals. And yet I will have my wife!”

Abel Force disdained reply, but gave his arm to Odalite, and told Le to
give his to Mrs. Force.

And so they left the presence of the judge.




                               CHAPTER XX
                            AFTER THE ORDEAL


The capricious April weather had changed for the better. The rain had
ceased. The sky was clear. The sun was shining.

As our party stood on the steps of the City Hall, waiting for their
carriage to come up, Le spoke aside to the father of Odalite:

“Uncle, it is but two o’clock. Can we not drive immediately to St.
John’s rectory, and have the interrupted marriage of yesterday
completed? I suppose we would have to begin again at the beginning and
have it all over again. Still that would give ample time to catch the
New York express train, and reach the city in time to secure the _Russ
a_ for Liverpool.”

While Le spoke Mr. Force regarded him with amazement. When Le ceased Mr.
Force replied:

“No, certainly not, my dear boy. No such plan can be entertained for a
single moment. We do not know, since that scoundrel’s return, whether
Odalite is free to marry. Nor shall we ever know until the date of Lady
Mary Anglesea’s death is definitely ascertained. If she did not die
until the twenty-fifth of August, 18—, as the fellow insists that she
did not, then was the ceremony he went through with the Widow Wright no
marriage at all, and the rites performed at All Faith between himself
and Odalite legal and binding. You know that as well as I do, Le.”

The young man’s face grew dark with despair.

“In any case you will never give her up to him!” he cried.

“Never, so help me Heaven! Nor can I give her to you, Le, until she
shall be proved to be free.”

“I thought, when the judge remanded her to your custody and dismissed
the case, it was—his action was equivalent to declaring her free.”

“He had no power to do that. But in a doubtful case, when the
self-styled ‘husband’ cannot prove his right to the woman in question,
who is claimed by her father as his unmarried daughter and a minor, it
is clearly the proper course to deliver her into the keeping of her
father, always providing the father be a proper man to take the charge.
No, Le, the judge has simply left the case where he found it. You might
have noticed, too, that he referred to my daughter as Odalite Anglesea,
otherwise Odalite Force.’”

“I thought he quoted that from the writ.”

“He did, yet his doing so was significant.”

“Oh, Uncle Abel, is there no way out of all this misery? Uncle Abel, it
is worse than death! Is there no help for us under the sun?” demanded
the youth, with a gesture of despair.

“Yes, Le. Be patient.”

“I have been patient for three long years, only to be grievously
disappointed at the end!” bitterly exclaimed the boy.

“Come, Le, listen to my plan. You know that we are all invited over to
England to pay a long-promised visit to my brother-in-law, the Earl of
Enderby. You know that you and Odalite were to have gone there after
your marriage tour to join us at Castle Enderby.”

“And that plan has all fallen through with the rest,” complained Le.

“Not entirely, my boy. You cannot have a honeymoon anywhere just now.
But we can go abroad together, and spend the summer in England. We can
take advantage of our visit to investigate the particulars of Lady Mary
Anglesea’s death. If we find that she died previous to the marriage of
that villain with the Widow Wright, then was that marriage legal, and
Mrs. Ann Anglesea is Angus Anglesea’s lawful wife, and our Odalite is
free. If this should be the case, Le, I would offer no obstacle, suggest
no delay, to your immediate marriage. By the way, Le, was that file of
the _Times_ you spoke of a complete one?”

“Oh, no, sir. Nor could I find a complete file in the city. From Mr.
Herbert’s file the twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth and thirtieth of August
were missing, and there was no notice of Lady Mary Anglesea’s death in
any that remained.”

“Well, we can find a perfect file in London. We can also find the
Anglesea parish register, and possibly some monument or tablet or
memorial window of the deceased lady which will give us the true date of
her death. We cannot possibly fail to find it, Le. We shall be sure to
do so. And if the discovery proves Odalite to be free, you shall have
her the next hour, or as soon as a minister can be found to marry you.”

“And, on the other hand, uncle, if the facts do not show her to be
legally free, still you will never, never yield her to that man?”
anxiously persisted Le.

“I have told you no—never! I would see her dead first. Be assured of
that. Why, Le, that scoundrel knows that he can never touch a hair of my
daughter’s head.”

“Then why did he enact the villainy of last night and this morning if it
were not in the hope of getting her into his possession?” demanded the
youth.

“He acted from a low malice, to annoy us; if possible, to humiliate us.
He knew that that was all he could do, and he did it. There, Le. There
is your car, and the other young folks are going to board it. Follow
them, my boy.”

“But may I not go in the carriage with you and Odalite?” pleaded the
youth.

“No, dear boy. There is no room for you. Miss Grandiere goes with us. We
are four, and fill the four seats. Hurry, or you will miss the car.”

Le ran down the steps, and saved the car.

All this time Odalite had been standing in the rear of her father, and
between her mother and her friend Sophie Grandiere. Her veil was down,
and it was so doubled as to hide her face. All three of the ladies were
silent.

When Le had left his side, Mr. Force turned toward them, and said:

“I ordered the carriage to come for us at about a quarter after two. I
had no idea we should be out before that hour, and have to wait.”

“Well, we have not had long to wait, and here it comes,” replied Mrs.
Force.

And the party walked down the steps, entered the carriage, and drove
homeward.

The Forces, except when they gave a dinner, always kept up their
old-fashioned, wholesome habit of dining in the middle of the day. Their
usual dinner hour was half-past two, and they reached home just in time
to take off their bonnets before sitting down to the table.

After dinner Mr. Force called a consultation of Mrs. Force, Odalite,
Leonidas, Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary, in the library, for he said that
all who were interested in the question about to be raised should have a
voice in the discussion.

When they were all seated he began, and said:

“Mrs. Force and myself have called you here, my children, to help us to
decide whether, under the circumstances that have lately arisen, we
shall go to England as soon as we can get off, or whether we shall carry
out our first intention of waiting until June for the school
commencement at which you three younger ones expect to graduate.
Court-martial fashion, we will begin with our youngest. Little Rosemary,
what do you think about it? Shall we wait two months longer, until you
graduate, or shall we go at once? You are to go with us whenever we go,
and so you are an interested party, you know. Come, speak up, without
fear or favor!”

But it was no easy matter to get the tiny creature to speak at all.

Looking down, fingering her apron, she managed at last to express her
opinion that Mr. and Mrs. Force ought to decide for them all.

“No, no! That won’t do at all! No shirking your duty, Liliputian! Tell
us what you think,” laughed the master of the house.

“Well—then—I—think—it would be nice to go at once.”

“And miss your scholastic honors?”

“Yes,” muttered the child, looking shyly up from her long eyelashes. “I
would rather miss them than miss going to England.”

“All right. One for the immediate voyage. Now, Elva?”

“Papa, I wish you would let Odalite settle the question. We all would
like Odalite to have her own way,” said the affectionate little sister.

“Quite right; we shall come to Odalite presently; but, in the meantime,
we want your own unbiased feeling about it.”

“Indeed, indeed, my feeling is to do just what Odalite wants me to do!
Please, please, let me hear what Odalite says before I decide.”

“Very well, then, so you shall. Now, Wynnette?”

“Papa, I think we had best go at once. It is very warm here in the
latter part of May, and all through June, and it will be so delightful
on the ocean——”

“But your graduation, Wynnette?”

“Oh, papa! we shall not lose anything by losing those exercises. We are
learning nothing new now. We are going over and over the old ground to
make ourselves verbally perfect for the examination. So, indeed, by
leaving school at once we shall lose nothing but the parade of the
commencement.”

“We score two votes for the immediate voyage. Odalite, my dear, you have
the floor.”

“Papa, if I could go to Europe immediately without detriment to the
education of these girls, I should be very glad to go. But I think
everything should yield to the interests of their education,” said
Odalite.

“You have heard what Wynnette says, my dear—that they are adding nothing
to their stock of knowledge in the last two months at school. Only
perfecting themselves, in parrot-like verbiage, to answer questions at
the coming examination. They will lose nothing but the pageantry of the
exhibition.”

“Then, papa, I think I would like to go very soon.”

“And now, so would I, papa,” put in Elva.

“Quite so! Four in favor of the voyage. Now, Le?”

“Uncle, you know my anxiety that we be off. I would go by telegraph, if
I could.”

“Five! Well, my dears, Mrs. Force and myself are already agreed that,
upon all accounts, it is best that we should sail by the first Liverpool
steamship on which we can procure staterooms for so large a party as
ours is likely to be. I will write to the agent of the Cunard line by
to-night’s mail. It is very necessary that we should go to England,
without delay, not only to see our relative, Lord Enderby, whose health
is in a very precarious condition, but also to investigate matters in
which Odalite’s and Le’s welfare and happiness are deeply concerned.
Rosemary, my dear, write and tell your aunt of our changed plans in
regard to the time of the voyage. Children, this is the second of April.
I think we will be able to sail by the twenty-third, at furthest. So you
may all begin to get ready for your voyage,” said Mr. Force, rising to
break up the conference.




                              CHAPTER XXI
                           PREPARING TO LEAVE


Mr. Force went at once to his writing desk to write letters—one to the
New York agent of the Cunard line of ocean steamers; another to his
overseer at Mondreer, and a third to Miss Grandiere.

When all these were dispatched he joined his family circle in the
parlor.

The talk ran on events of the day.

“The proceedings were much less formal than I had supposed they would
be,” Mrs. Force remarked.

Mr. Force laughed, and said:

“This reminds me of the first _habeas corpus_ case I ever witnessed. In
my youth I was traveling in the far West, and stopped, to get over an
attack of chills, at the first house that would take me in. It was a
better sort of log cabin, on the farm of Judge Starr, one of the judges
of the Supreme Court of the State; and it was occupied by the judge, his
wife and a hired boy. I had to sleep in the loft with the hired boy. The
judge and his wife occupied the room below as parlor, bedroom, dining
room and kitchen——”

“Oh, what living for civilized and enlightened human beings!” exclaimed
Mrs. Force.

“He lives in a five-hundred-thousand-dollar house now, my dear, and if
it were not irreverent to say so, I might almost add that his ‘cattle’
are ‘upon a thousand hills.’ But that is not the point now. On the
morning after my arrival I heard the judge say to his wife—for you could
hear through the gaping planks of the loft floor every word that was
spoken in the room below—I heard him say:

“‘That case of little Valley Henley will come up to-day.’

“‘Will it?’ she replied. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what to do, Nick! You
leave it to the child herself.’

“‘I will,’ said the judge.”

“And yet they say women have no power! And here was the wife of one of
the judges of the supreme court of the State, ordering him what to do!”
exclaimed Wynnette.

“Well,” continued Mr. Force, “about ten o’clock, having taken a warm cup
of coffee, brought up to me by Mrs. Judge, and having got over the fever
that followed the chill, I arose and dressed and went downstairs. But
Mrs. Judge was ‘in the suds,’ and the room was full of hot steam; so I
walked out into the back yard, where I found the judge in his red shirt
sleeves, sawing wood. Almost before I could say good-morning, came the
hired boy and proclaimed:

“‘They’re come.’

“‘Bring them right in here,’ said the judge, and he threw down his saw
and seated himself astraddle the log on the wood horse.

“And then came half a dozen or more of men with a pale, scared little
girl among them. An orphan child, she was, with plenty of money, and she
was claimed by two uncles, one of whom had taken out a writ of _habeas
corpus_, to compel the other to bring her before the judge, to decide
who should have her.

“Well, there was a lawyer on each side, and witnesses on each side, and
plenty of hard swearing and bold lying on both sides. And the judge sat
in his red flannel shirt sleeves, astride the log on the wood horse, and
stroked his stubble beard of a week’s growth, and listened patiently.
The poor little object of dispute stood and trembled, until the judge
noticed her and lifted her upon his knees, put his arm around her waist
and held her there, saying:

“‘Don’t be afraid, little woman. No one shall hurt you in any way.’

“And the child plucked up her little spirits, and the judge listened
first to one lawyer and then to the other, while they each exhausted all
their law on the case, without affecting the issue in the least
degree—for the result lay in the will of that helpless, orphan child,
whose little head lay against the judge’s red shirt. While they all
talked themselves hoarse, the judge listened gravely, but spoke never a
word.

“And Mrs. Judge came in and out of the yard, hanging her clothes on the
line.

“When they could talk no longer they were obliged to be silent, and then
the judge lifted the child’s head from his bosom, sat her up straight,
and asked her:

“‘Now, my little woman, let us hear what you have got to say, as you are
the most interested party. Which uncle had you rather go and live with?’

“It was some time before the frightened child found courage to open her
lips, but when, reassured by the manner of the judge, she did speak, it
was to the purpose.

“‘Oh, sir, please, I want to go back to dear Uncle Ben! Mamma did leave
me to Uncle Ben; indeed, indeed, the Lord knows that she did! And I
don’t know Mr. Holloway! And no more did she! I never saw Mr. Holloway
till he came here after me to take me away off to Portland.’

“‘Very well, you shall go back to Uncle Ben,’ said the judge, and
raising his voice, he continued: ‘Mr. Benjamin Truman, here is your
niece and ward. Take her, and take care of her.’

“A rough backwoodsman came forward and took the little maiden in his
arms and kissed her, and then touched his hat to the judge on the wood
horse and led the happy child away.

“And then a polished gentleman threw himself into a passion, and used
objectionable language that might have subjected him to fine and
imprisonment, had the law been administered to him in its severity. But
the good judge only said:

“‘If you are not satisfied, there’s the orphans’ court—though, I have no
doubt, that also would leave the child in the custody of her present
guardian.’

“And with this the judge got off his ‘bench,’ took up his saw and
resumed his work.

“And half the crowd went off swearing and threatening, and the other
half laughing and cheering. That was my first experience in _habeas
corpus_. Judge Starr has risen to wealth, power and position since then;
children came to him among other good gifts, and his eldest daughter has
lately married an English nobleman, who is quite as noble ‘in nature as
in rank.’”

“Oh, I like that judge! I am glad he rose in the world!” exclaimed
little Elva.

“I would like to see him,” murmured poor Odalite, won for the moment
from the contemplation of her own woes.

“My love, for the last three years you have met him many, many times,”
said her father.

“Met him!—here, in Washington? But I don’t remember any Judge Starr.”

“That was a fictitious name. I could not use his real name in telling
such a story—though I don’t know why, either. But, my dear, he is now
one of the judges of the Supreme Court of the United States. You cannot
fail to identify him.”

“Oh, I know! I know!” exclaimed Odalite, with a bright smile.

“Who was it? Which was it? What was his name?” came in a dozen tones
from the young people present.

“No; since papa has not named him, I must not,” said Odalite.

And then the sound of the supper bell summoned them to the table.

Two days after that Mr. Force received a letter from the New York agent
of the Cunard line of steamers, telling him that the first steamer on
which they could accommodate so large a party as the Forces’ would be
the _Persia_, which would sail on the twenty-eighth of May. There were
not so many ocean steamers then as now, and people had to secure their
passages a long way beforehand.

“The twenty-eighth of may! Nearly two months! What a nuisance! But it is
because there are so many of us! Seven cabin passengers for the first,
and two for the second cabin! However, wife, I will tell you what we
will do: We will go down to Mondreer to spend the intervening time; and
we will give up this house at once. You know our lease expired on the
first of April—two days ago—and we are only staying here a few days on
sufferance, because the house is not wanted at this season. Yes; we will
go down to Mondreer. What do you say?” inquired Abel Force of his wife,
to whom he had just read the agent’s letter.

“We will go down to Mondreer as soon as the Grandieres have finished
their visit. We invited them for a week, you know, and they have been
here but three days, and have seen but little of the city. And as to the
house, I suppose we will pay at the same rate at which we leased it, so
long as we shall stay,” replied Mrs. Force.

The evening mail brought a letter from Beever, the overseer at Mondreer,
giving good accounts of the estate; and also a letter from Miss
Grandiere, acquiescing in Mr. Force’s plans, and begging on the part of
her sister, Mrs. Hedge, as well as on her own, that Mr. and Mrs. Force
would use their own judgment in all matters connected with Rosemary and
the voyage; only stipulating that the child should be sent home to visit
her friends before going abroad.

Mr. Force wrote and mailed three letters that afternoon. One to the New
York agent of the Cunard steamships, engaging accommodations for his
whole party for the _Persia_, on the twenty-eighth of May; another to
Beever, expressing satisfaction at the report of affairs at Mondreer,
and announcing his speedy return with his family to their country home;
and a third to Miss Grandiere, telling her that Rosemary would be with
her in a few days.

Then Mr. Force turned his attention to the young guests of the family,
and put himself out a little to show them around Washington City and its
suburbs.

Mrs. Force, meanwhile, at the head of her household, was busy with her
packing and other preparations for their removal to Mondreer and their
after voyage to Europe.

Every day she sent off boxes by express to Mondreer.

And so the week passed.

Nothing, meantime, had been heard of Col. Anglesea, until Mr. Force put
a private detective upon his track, who reported, at the end of the
week, that the colonel had left Washington for Quebec.

That was a relief, at least.

It was the tenth of April before the Grandieres finally concluded to
return home, and then Mrs. Force, supported by her own girls, begged
that they would remain until the whole family were ready to go to
Mondreer, that all might travel together; for the lady did not wish that
the news of Odalite’s second interrupted wedding should reach the
neighborhood and get distorted by gossip before their own return to
their country home.

It was, therefore, on a fine day, the twelfth of April, that the large
party of family and guests left the city home in the care of the janitor
sent by the landlord, and took the train en route for Mondreer.




                              CHAPTER XXII
                       FAREWELL VISIT TO MONDREER


It was a long day’s ride, and it was dark when their train ran into the
little station where it stopped for half a minute.

The large party got out, and they found a much larger party collected to
meet them.

There was old Tom Grandiere—as the master of Oldfield was beginning to
be called—with an ox cart to carry his tribe of sons and daughters home.

There was William Elk, with an old barouche which he had brought to meet
his niece.

There was Miss Sibby Bayard in her mule cart, come to fetch Roland.

Lastly, there was Mrs. Anglesea, in the capacious break, driven by
Jacob, come to fetch the whole Force family home from the station to
Mondreer.

And there were such hearty, cordial greetings as are seldom heard in
this world.

“Welcome home, neighbors!”

“We have missed you!”

“Thank Heaven you have come back!”

And so on and so on! All speaking at once, so that it was difficult to
tell who said what, or to reply distinctly to anything.

Yet the Forces all responded in the most cordial manner to these
effusive greetings, in which Mrs. Force and Odalite detected an
undertone of sadness and sympathy which both mother and daughter
understood too well.

“They have heard of our new humiliation, although we have never written
of it! Yes, they have all heard of it, though no one alludes to it,” was
the unuttered thought of mother and daughter.

“Lord’s sake, ole man, hoist them children up here and get in! Don’t
stand palavering with them people all night! I’m gwine to drive you all
home myself. I only brought him for show! I wouldn’t trust him to take
us home safe over bad roads in the dark,” said Mrs. Anglesea, from her
seat on the box beside the coachman.

“Well, my girls and boys, have you been so spoiled by your gay city life
that you will never be content with your dull, country home again?”
demanded Thomas Grandiere, as he helped his big daughters to tumble up
into the ox cart.

“Oh, dad, it was perfectly delightful! But we are glad to get home and
see you, for all that!” answered Sophie.

                    “‘There’s no place like home,’”

sentimentally sighed Peggy. And all the other sisters and the brothers
chimed in with her.

“Washington is well enough, but they are all too indifferent about the
crops ever to amount to much, I think,” said Sam Grandiere, and his
brother Ned seconded the motion. And so that party waved a last adieu to
the Forces and drove off.

“Your mother and your aunt are both at our house, Rosemary, and so I
came to fetch you over there,” said William Elk, as he helped his little
mite of a niece into the old barouche. “You don’t grow a bit, child! Are
you never going to be a woman?” he further inquired, as he settled her
into her seat.

“Nature puts her finest essences into her tiniest receptacles, Uncle
Elk!” said Roland, who called everybody else’s uncle his own.

But William Elk had driven off without receiving the benefit of the
young man’s words.

“Roland, come here and get into this cart afore this here brute goes to
sleep and drops down. There’s a time for all things, sez I, and the time
to stand staring after a young gal, sez I, isn’t nine o’clock at night
when there’s an ole ’oman and wicious mule on a cart waitin’ for you,
and a mighty dark night and a rough road afore you, sez I!” called Miss
Sibby, from her seat.

“All right, aunty, I’m coming.”

And the young fellow jumped into the cart, took the reins from the old
lady, and started the mule at a speed that made the animal cock his ears
and meditate rebellion.

By this time Mr. and Mrs. Force, their three daughters and Leonidas were
seated in the break.

Mrs. Anglesea was on the box, driving. This she so insisted on doing
that there was no preventing her except by enacting a scene.

“Jake’s getting old, and blind, and stupid. I’m not going to trust my
precious neck to him, you bet! I have lost a good deal, but I want to
keep my head on my shoulders,” she had said, as she took the reins from
Jake, who immediately folded his arms, closed his eyes and resigned
himself to sleep.

“You had better let me drive if you are afraid to trust Jake, Mrs.
Anglesea,” suggested Mr. Force.

“You!” said the lady from Wild Cats’, in a tone of ineffable contempt.
“Not much! I’d a heap rather trust Jake than you! Why, ole man, you
never were a good whip since I knowed you, and you’ve been out of
practice three years! Sit still and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll
land you safe at Mondreer. Old Luce will have a comfortable tea there
for you, and strawberry shortcake, too. Think of strawberries on the
twelfth of April! But I raised ’em under glass. And so my beat wasn’t
dead, after all! And I in mourning for him ever since the fourteenth of
February! Well, my beat beats all! I shall never believe him dead until
I see him strung up by a hangman and cut up by the doctors—of which I
live in hopes! No, you needn’t worry. Jake’s fast asleep, and he
wouldn’t hear thunder, nor even the dinner horn, much less my talk!”

“How did you hear that Col. Anglesea had turned up again?” inquired Mr.
Force.

“Why, Lord! ole man, it’s all over the whole country. You couldn’t cork
up and seal down news like that! It would bu’st the bottle! I believe
some one fetched it down from Washington to the Calvert House, and then
it got all over the country; and Lord love you, Jake heard it at the
post office and fetched it home to the house. And then—when Beever got
your letter, and not a word was said about the wedding, and Miss
Grandiere got two—one from you and one from Rosemary—and nothing said
neither about no brides nor grooms, we felt to see how it was. And now
there’s lynching parties sworn in all over the neighborhood to put an
end to that beat if ever he dares to show his face here again. Oh! the
whole neighborhood is up in arms, I tell you!”

“I am very sorry my good neighbors’ sympathy demonstrates itself in that
way,” said Mr. Force.

“You can’t help it, though!” triumphantly exclaimed the lady from the
diggings, as she gave the off horse a sharp cut that started the whole
team in a gallop, and jerked all the party out of their seats and into
them again.

“As a magistrate, it is my bounden duty to help it,” returned Mr. Force,
as soon as he recovered from the jolt.

“Look here, ole man! You take a fool’s advice and lay low and say
nothing when lynch law is going round seeking whom it may devour! For
when it has feasted on one wictim it licks its chops and looks round for
another, and wouldn’t mind gobbling up a magistrate or two any more than
you would so many oysters! Leastways that is how it was at Wild Cats’.
And I tell you, our boys out there woudn’t have let a beat like him
cumber the face of the earth twenty-four hours after his first
performance, if they could have got hold of him. It’s a word and a blow
with them, and the blow comes first! Now, for goodness’ sake, do stop
talking, ole man! I can’t listen to you and drive down this steep hill
at the same time without danger of upsetting! Whoa, Jessie! What y’re
’bout, Jack? Stea—dee!”

And the lady on the box gave her whole attention to taking her team
safely down Chincapin Hill and across the bridge over Chincapin Creek.

“Oh! how glad I am to see the dear old woods and the creek and the
bridge once more!” said little Elva, fervently.

“‘See!’ Why, you can’t see a mite of it! It is as dark here as the
bottom of a shaft at midnight. No moon. And what light the stars might
give hid by the meeting of the trees overhead. ‘See,’ indeed! There’s
imagination for you!” replied Mrs. Anglesea.

“Well, anyhow I know we are on the dear old bridge, and going over the
creek, because I can hear the sound of the wheels on the planks and the
gurgle of the water running through the rocks and stones,” deprecatingly
replied Elva.

“Why don’t you say ecstatically—

                 “‘Hail! blest scenes of my childhood!’

That’s the way to go on if you mean to do it up brown!” chaffed
Wynnette.

“Oh, how can you be such a mocker! Are you not glad to get home?”
pleaded Elva.

“Rather; but I’m not in raptures over it.”

“Look here, young uns! Stop talking; you distract me. I can’t listen and
drive at the same time. And if you will keep on jawing you’ll get upset.
These roads are awful bad washed by the spring rains, and if we get home
safe it will be all owing to my good driving! Only you mustn’t distract
me by jawing!” said Mrs. Anglesea. And having silenced every tongue but
her own, she drove on slowly by the light of the carriage lanterns,
which only shed a little stream directly in front of her, talking all
the time about the negligence of the supervisors and the carelessness of
the farmers in suffering the roads to be in such a condition at that
time of the year.

“This could never a been the case if you’d been home, ole man! You’d a
been after them supervisors with a sharp stick, you would! But, Lord!
the don’t-care-ishness of the men about here!” she concluded, as she
drew up at the first broad gate across the road leading into the
Mondreer grounds.

Her passengers thought, but did not say, that if the lady on the box
could not listen and drive at the same time, she could certainly drive
and talk pretty continuously at the same time.

“Here, you lazy nigger, Jake! Wake up and jump down and open this here
gate!” exclaimed Mrs. Anglesea, giving the old sleeper such a sharp grip
and hard shake that he yelled before he woke and said he dreamed a limb
of a tree had caught him and knocked him out of his seat.

However, he soon came to a sense of the situation, half climbed and half
tumbled down to the ground and opened the gate to let the break pass
through.

The house was now in sight and lighted up from garret to basement.

“Oh, how pretty!” cried Elva.

And Wynnette mocked her good-humoredly.

“I told Luce to do it and leave all the window shutters open so you
could see through. Lord! tallow candles are cheap enough, ’specially
when you make ’em yourself. And there was an awful lot of beef tallow
last killing to render down. I couldn’t tell you how many candles I
run—about five hundred, I reckon! Well, here we are at the house,
and——Oh, Lord! Jake, jump down and hold that dog, or he’ll break his
chain and jump through the carriage windows!” cried Mrs. Anglesea, as
they stopped before the house.

Indeed, Joshua was making “the welkin ring” with his joyous barks and
his frantic efforts to get at the returning friends, whose presence he
had scented.

“Let him loose this instant, Jake! Unchain him, I say!” exclaimed
Wynnette. And without waiting for her orders to be obeyed, she sprang
from the carriage, fell upon the dog’s neck, and covered him with
caresses.

“Oh, you dear, good, true, trusty old fellow! To know us all again after
so many years! To be so glad to see us! And to forgive us at once for
going away and leaving you behind. You would never have left us, would
you, my dog? Ah! dogs are a great deal more faithful than human beings.”

While Wynnette with her own hands unloosed the chain, the other members
of the family alighted from the break.

And Joshua, released from restraint, dashed into the midst of the group,
barking in frantic raptures, and darting from one to another trying to
turn himself into a half a dozen dogs to worship at once a half a dozen
false gods in the form of his returning friends.

They all responded to Joshua’s demonstrations, and then entered the
house, closely followed by the dog, who did not mean to lose sight of
them again.

In the lighted hall they found all the family servants gathered to
welcome them home.

“Oh, dear mist’ess, we-dem all frought as you-dem had forsook us forever
and ever, amen!” said Luce, bursting into tears, as she took and kissed
the hand her mistress offered.




                             CHAPTER XXIII
                               LE’S PLAN


When all the greetings were over the family were allowed to go
upstairs—still in custody of the dog, who kept his eye on them—and take
off their traveling suits.

Mrs. Anglesea walked ahead to see that every one was comfortable.

Every bedroom was perfectly ready for its occupant, well lighted by
candles in silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece and on the dressing
bureau, and well warmed by a bright little wood fire in the open
fireplace, which this chilly April evening rendered very pleasant.

“One thing I do grieve to part with, even in the lovely spring, and that
is our beautiful open wood fires!” said Elva, as she sat down on the
rug, with Joshua lying beside her, before the fire in the bedroom
occupied by Wynnette and herself.

“So do I! I am always glad when a real cool evening comes to give us an
excuse to kindle one,” Wynnette assented.

But the tea bell rang, and they had to leave the bright attraction, and,
closely attended by Joshua, who resolved to keep them in view, go down
to the dining room, where all the family were assembled.

This apartment was also brightly lighted by a chandelier, which hung
from the ceiling over the well-spread table, and warmed by a clear
little wood fire in the open chimney.

“Strawberries and wood fires! The charms of summer and winter meeting in
spring!” exclaimed Wynnette, glancing from the open chimney to the
piled-up glass bowl of luscious fruit that stood as the crowning glory
of the table.

“Raised under glass, honey. And a time I had to keep the little niggers
from stealing them! Children may be little angels, but I never seed one
yet as wouldn’t steal fruit when it could get a chance.”

“I think they instinctively believe that all the fruit that grows
belongs to them, or at least, as much of it as ever they want, and—maybe
they are right,” said Mr. Force.

“That’s pretty morality to teach the young uns! You ought to be ashamed
of yourself, ole man. That’s not my way, nohow. I spanked every one of
them little niggers with a fine new shingle until they roared again,
every time I caught ’em at the strawberries; and, providentially, there
were plenty of new shingles handy—left by the carpenters who put the new
roof on the back porch,” said the lady from the mines.

But no one replied; and as Mrs. Force had taken her seat at the head of
the table, all the party gathered around, while the dog stretched
himself on the rug before the fire and watched his family. They wouldn’t
get away again for parts unknown, and stay three years—not if he knew
it!

It was late when they sat down to tea, but as they were all very hungry,
and this was their first meal at home after years of absence, they
lingered long around the table.

And when at last they arose and went into the drawing room, still
“dogged” by Joshua, it was only for a short chat around the fire, and
then a separation for the night.

“Jake, put that dog out,” said Mrs. Anglesea, who could not all at once
forget to give orders in the house she had ruled for three years, even
now when the mistress was present.

Jake advanced toward the brute, but Joshua laid himself down at
Wynnette’s feet and showed all his fangs in deadly fashion.

“’Deed, missis, it’s as much as my life’s worf to tech dat dorg now,”
pleaded Jake.

“Let Joshua alone,” said Wynnette; “he shall sleep on the rug in my
room, shan’t you, good dog?”

Joshua growled a reply that was perfectly well understood by Wynnette to
mean that he certainly should do that very thing in spite of all the
wildcat women in creation.

And so when all went upstairs, the dog trotted up soberly after his
little mistress, and when the latter reached their room, he laid himself
down contentedly on the rug, and watched until he saw them abed and
asleep. Then he resigned himself to rest.

“Oh! the rapture of being at home again!” breathed little Elva, standing
on the rose-wreathed front piazza, and looking forth upon the splendid
April morning, when the sky was blue, and the bay was blue, and the
forest trees of tenderest green, and the orchard trees with apple
blossoms, peach blossoms, all like one vast parterre of blossoming
flowers; and the tulips, hyacinths, jonquils, daffodils, pansies,
japonicas, and all the wealth and splendor of spring bloom on the flower
beds on the lawn were radiant with color and redolent of perfume.

“Oh! the rapture of being at home!” said little Elva, softly to herself,
as she gazed on the scene.

“‘Hail, blest scenes of my childhood!’” sentimentally murmured a voice
behind her.

Elva turned quickly, and saw, as she expected to see, the mocking face
of Wynnette.

“Oh, Wynnette! how can you make such fun of me!” inquired Elva, in an
aggrieved tone.

“To prevent other things making a fool of you. Come in, now, to
breakfast. They are all down, and I came out to look for you.”

The girls went in together, and took their places at the table.

When the breakfast was over, Le asked his uncle for the loan of a horse
to ride over to Greenbushes.

“I want to take a look at the little place, which I have not seen for
three years and more,” he explained.

“Why, certainly, Le. Take any horse you like. And never think it
necessary to ask me. Are you not as a son to me?” said Abel Force.

“I did hope to be your son, sir, in every possible sense of the word,
but that hope seems dead now,” sighed the young man.

“Not at all, Le! We have only to prove a fraud in the alteration of the
date of Lady Mary Anglesea’s death to set aside every imaginary barrier
between you and Odalite.”

“But, sir, he denies that there ever was any marriage between himself
and this Californian lady. He declares that it is all a conspiracy
between the woman and the priest, that the marriage certificate is a
forgery, and the telegram a fraud, and he defied us to go or send to St.
Sebastian to test the matter. Now if this Californian lady is not
Anglesea’s wife——” Le paused. He could not bring himself to conclude the
sentence.

“If the Californian is not his wife, Odalite is, no matter at which date
the first wife died,” said Mr. Force, finishing the unspoken argument.

“Yes, that is what I meant to say—only I could not.”

“My dear Le, have you the least doubt as to the reality of that St.
Sebastian marriage, whatever may be said of its legality?”

“No, none in the world. Still I want further proof of it. I want to go
to St. Sebastian and search the parish register, as he challenged us to
do!”

“Bah! He only did that out of bravado, to annoy us and to gain time. He
no more believed that we would either go or send to St. Sebastian than
he believed that he would ever be permitted to touch the tip of
Odalite’s finger as long as he should live in this world! He acted from
a low spite, without the slightest hope of any other success.”

“Notwithstanding that, Uncle Abel, upon reflection, I shall go to
California and search that parish register and bring back with me
absolute, unquestionable proof of that marriage to take with us to
England. Then, when we can prove that Lady Mary Anglesea’s death
occurred before Col. Anglesea’s second marriage, we shall know Odalite
to be free to become my wife. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, Le; but when do you propose to go to California on this quest? You
know we sail for England in six weeks from this.”

“I shall start to-morrow, and lose no time! travel express! do my work
as quickly as it can be done thoroughly—for to do it most thoroughly
must be my first care—then I shall travel express coming home, and so be
back again as soon as possible.”

“Well, my boy, go!” said Mr. Force. “I approve your earnestness, and may
Heaven speed you.”




                              CHAPTER XXIV
                        WHAT FOLLOWED THE RETURN


“Now, ole ’oman, I want you to go all over the house ’long o’ me, to see
for yourself how I’ve done my duty,” said the lady from Wild Cats’, as
she followed Mrs. Force from the breakfast room on the day after the
return of the family to Mondreer.

“Indeed, Mrs. Anglesea, I have no doubt you have done perfectly well,”
replied the mistress of the house, deprecatingly.

“Yes, but I want you to see that I have. Now come into the storeroom,”
said the housekeeper, resolutely leading the way, while Mrs. Force
obediently followed.

“Now look at them there rows of pickles and preserves, and jams and
jellies, on them there shelves. All made by my own hands. Them on the
top shelf is three years old, and all the better for their age. Them on
the middle shelf was made last year, and is very good. Them on the
bottom shelf is the newest, and wants a little more age on ’em.”

“I’m afraid you worked too hard in making up these things, and also
denied yourself the use of them, since the shelves are so full.”

“Who? Me? Not much! I own I did work hard. I like work. But as to
denying myself anything good to eat, jest you catch yours to command at
it, if you can; and if you do, jest let me know, so I can consult a mad
doctor to find out what’s the matter with my thinking machine. No,
ma’am. I don’t deny myself nothing good to eat. You bet your pile on
that. Fasting never was no means of grace to me. I had plenty of pickles
and preserves at all the three meals of the day. And so had the two
niggers. Lord! why, next to eating myself, I love dearly to see other
people eat.”

“I am very glad you enjoyed yourself,” said Mrs. Force.

“You bet! And now look into this closet, and see the dried yerbs and
roots and berries I have got here. See now!”

“A great store, indeed.”

“All gathered by my own hands, and with the dew on ’em, before the sun
was up, and shaken and dried in the shade by me. And now look here at
this shelf full of boxes of honey. I ’tended to it all myself. I hived
eleven swarms of bees since you have been gone. And I did want to
complete the dozen so much. But, Lord! it is always so. Just because I
wanted to, they got away while I was at church one Sunday morning. You
can’t beat any religion into bees. They didn’t mind breaking the Sabbath
no more than a wild Indian. But I’ll more than make up that dozen next
season, you bet.”

“You have done admirably well to have saved so many.”

“Think so? Well, now come out into the meat house, and see the barrels
of salt pork and beef, all corned by my own hands, and the sugar-cured
hams and the smoked tongues. Oh, I tell you!”

Mrs. Force followed her manager out of a back door into a paved yard and
across it, to a small detached building of stone, set apart for the
purpose to which the able housekeeper had put it.

We cannot follow the two women through all the round of inspection, into
the smoke houses, meat houses, poultry yards, etc., but will only add
that the lady was gratified by all she saw, and was liberal in
commendation of her deputy.

“Now come into the house, and we’ll go upstairs into the linen room, and
then up into the garret to look at the carpet and woolen curtains, and
blankets and things, laid up in lavender for the summer, and if you find
a hole unmended in anything whatsoever, or a patch put on crooked, jest
you let me know it, will you, and I’ll go right straight off and consult
that same mad doctor I mentioned before, to see if anything’s the matter
with my headpiece.”

When the inspection of the house was entirely over Mrs. Force was very
earnest in her expressions of satisfaction and gratitude to the faithful
and capable manager.

“You are a much better housekeeper than I ever was, Mrs. Anglesea,” she
said, as they came downstairs together.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Gifts is divers. You’ve got a gift of working in
silks and worsteds, and beads and things, and playing on the pianoforty,
and speaking in all the lingoes of the Tower of Babel. But you can’t
keep house worth a cent. And the Lord knows what would a-become of you
all if it had not been for ole Aunt Lucy. Now she’s a fairish sort of a
manager, though she can’t come up to me. No, ma’am! I never graduated
from no college. I can’t play on nothing but the Jew’s-harp, and I can’t
speak any language but what I learned at my ole mother’s knee. But,
Lord! as for good housekeeping and downright useful hard working, I can
whip the coat offen the back of any man or any woman going.”

“I think that few can excel you,” said Mrs. Force, as they entered the
little parlor.

“You bet!” said the lady from the diggings, as she dropped heavily into
an armchair and panted. “And I didn’t learn to keep house at Wild Cats’,
neither! Lord, no; there wasn’t much chance to keep house in a log cabin
with a dirt floor, and not even a loft or a lean-to! It was from my good
ole mother I learned all I know! And little use it was to me at Wild
Cats’. And, oh! when I think of the gold diggings, and my poor ole man
leaving of a comfortable home to go and live in a poor shanty, and dig
in the bowels of the earth for nigh eleven years to make his pile, and
then to die and leave it all behind for that grand vilyan to rob me
of——But there! Lord, what’s the use of thinking of it when I’ve got as
fine a goose in the roaster before the kitchen fire as ever swam upon a
pond, as rich a green gooseberry pie in the oven as ever was baked! And
so, ole ’oman, I’ll leave yer now, ’cause I can’t trust ole Luce! She
ain’t the ’oman she used to be by a long shot. She’s sort o’ getting
blind, I think,” concluded the housekeeper, as she arose and left the
room.

Mrs. Force sat back in her chair to rest after her tour of the house and
yard.

While thus resting she heard the sound of carriage wheels, and then a
gay bustle before the front door, the voices of Wynnette and Elva
mingled with the voices of a lady and gentleman, the laughing of a
child, the crowing of a baby, and the barking of a dog.

Presently the hall door opened and all this merry confusion of sounds
rolled into the hall and into the drawing room.

And before Mrs. Force could arise from her chair to go and see what
could be the matter, her door was suddenly thrown open and Wynnette, all
aglow with excitement, burst into the room, exclaiming:

“Oh, mamma! It is Natalie! Dear Natalie and—and two babies! Dr. Ingle
brought them in his gig, and he is only waiting to speak to you, to
leave them here while he goes his round among his patients, and then he
will call and take them home! But, oh, mamma, I want you to make him
promise to come back and stay to dinner and spend the evening—will you?
Oh, mamma, Natty is looking so lovely, and her babies are just
heavenly!”

“My dear, impetuous Wynnette, stop and take breath! Of course Natalie
and her children must spend the day, and the doctor must return to
dinner. Come! I will go to them,” said Mrs. Force, as she arose and went
into the drawing room, followed by the delighted Wynnette.




                              CHAPTER XXV
                           THE FIRST VISITORS


As soon as Mrs. Force opened the door Dr. Ingle stepped rapidly to meet
her, with both hands extended.

“Welcome back to us! Dear friend! Only this morning we heard of your
arrival through Ned Grandiere, who came to my office early to ask me to
call and see one of the colored folks on his farm; but Natalie
immediately took a fit, and declared that I must bring her and the
babies here before going anywhere else! So here they are, and now I must
be off to Oldfields.”

Before the doctor had half finished this speech Natalie herself was in
Mrs. Force’s arms, laughing and crying for joy.

“Well, well! I must say good-by, madam!” exclaimed the doctor, rather
impatiently, as he held out his hands to the lady of the house.

“I suppose I must not detain you from your patients; but I cannot let
you go until you have promised to return to dinner, and to spend the
evening with us,” said Mrs. Force.

“I thank you! I promise! Good-morning!” And the doctor bowed himself out
of the drawing room.

“Oh, you sweet little thing! You lovely, lovely little thing!” cooed
Elva, seated upon a hassock, with the few months old baby across her
lap.

“These are your children, Natalie? What fine children they are,” said
Mrs. Force, as they all resumed their seats.

“Do you think so? I am glad you think so,” replied the proud young
mother. “Come here, Effie, and speak to this lady,” she continued,
taking a little, white-robed toddler by the hand and leading her up to
Mrs. Force.

The little one stood before the lady, with her chin down on her bosom,
and her soft brown eyes turned shyly up to her hostess.

“Make your courtesy now to the lady,” said her mother.

The little creature obeyed and dropped her courtesy, still turning her
soft brown eyes, full of reverence and admiration, up to her hostess’
face.

“So this is my little namesake?” said Mrs. Force, lifting the child upon
her lap.

“Yes, named Elfrida, for you and Elva; but we call her Effie, and she
calls herself Essie,” said the young mother.

“Ah! is that your name, little one?” inquired the lady, stroking the
child’s curls.

“Es, ma’am—Essie,” replied the baby.

“And what else besides Essie?”

“Essie—Indy, ma’am.”

“Oh, Essie Ingle—is that it?”

“Es, ma’am; Essie—Indy.”

“And how old are you, Essie?”

“Me—two—doin’ on fee.”

Mrs. Force looked at the mother for a translation of these words.

“She is two years, going on three,” laughed little Mrs. Ingle.

Mrs. Force continued her catechism of the child, who answered in broken
baby language, but with rare intelligence, and still with such simple
reverence and admiration as touched the lady’s heart.

“Oh, Natalie!” she said, “can there be anything more spirit-searching to
a grown-up sinner than the innocent reverence and trust of a child! Lo!
they think us so wise and so good, while we know ourselves to be so
foolish and evil! Ah me, Natalie!”

Young Mrs. Ingle made no reply, but looked puzzled and distressed while
little Essie put up her hand timidly—reverentially, and stroked the fair
cheek of the lady, with some vague instinct of tenderness and sympathy.

“Oh, mamma, look at little Wynnie! sweet, little Wynnie! You have not
noticed her yet!” said Elva, reproachfully, as she arose, and brought
the infant to her mother.

“Wynnie?” inquired Mrs. Force, looking up into Natalie Ingle’s face, as
she sat Essie on the carpet and took the babe on her lap.

“Yes, we have named her Wynnette, and we call her Wynnie. She is not
christened yet. We waited for you to come home,” Natalie explained.

They were interrupted by other visitors.

The Rev. Dr. Peters and Mrs. Peters came to welcome their old friends to
the neighborhood.

“Three years and three months since you left the neighborhood, madam,”
said the rector, when the first greetings were over. “And dear, dear,
what changes three years have made! Your two younger daughters have
grown so much! Wynnette is a young lady. Elva soon will be one. And
Odalite, madam? I hope she is well.”

“Odalite is quite well, thank you, Dr. Peters. She has gone over to
Greenbushes, but she will be back to dinner. You and Mrs. Peters, I
hope, will give us the happiness of your company for the day,” said the
lady.

“Thank you, very much; but on this first day after your return home——”

“Now, doctor, I will take no denial. Wynnette, my love, go and tell
Jacob to put up the doctor’s carriage and horse. Mrs. Peters, will you
lay off your bonnet here, or will you go to a room?”

“I will go upstairs, if you please, dear. You see I have my cap in this
little bandbox,” replied the rector’s wife.

So they had come to stay! And, of course, Mrs. Force knew that well
enough when she invited them.

An old couple, like the good rector and his wife, could not be expected
to come so long a drive only to make a short call.

Mrs. Force conducted her latest guest upstairs to a spare room, where
the old lady took off her black Canton crape shawl, and her black silk
bonnet, and put on her lace cap with white satin ribbons.

And then they went down together.

When they returned to the drawing room they found the place deserted.

Wynnette had carried off young Mrs. Ingle and the two babies to her own
and Elva’s room, which was now converted into a day nursery, where
Natalie, seated in a low rocking-chair, was putting her baby to sleep,
while Elva, with a picture book, was quietly amusing Essie.

“Now, Natty, dear, as you know you are quite at home, you must excuse
me, and let me go down to Dr. Peters, who is alone in the drawing room,”
said Wynnette, as she kissed her ex-governess and dear friend and left
the chamber.

But when she reached the hall below she found that the good rector was
well taken care of.

Through the open hall door she saw him and her father walking up and
down the piazza, enjoying the fine spring day, and smoking some of the
squire’s fine cigars.

So Wynnette went into the drawing room, where she found her mother and
the rector’s wife, who had just entered the place.

More visitors.

The gallop and halt of a horse was heard without, and soon after Mr. Sam
Grandiere, escorted by Mr. Force and Dr. Peters, entered the drawing
room, and made his bow to the lady of the house and her guest, and then
shook hands with Wynnette and sat down, looking as red-headed,
freckle-faced, bashful and awkward as ever.

He remarked that it was a fine day, though bad for the wheat crop, which
wanted rain; and then he hoped that Mrs. Force and the young ladies felt
rested after their journey.

Mrs. Force thanked him, and replied that the whole family were quite
recovered from any little fatigue they might have felt.

The rector, to help the bashful young fellow out, inquired how he had
enjoyed his trip to Washington, and what he thought of the city.

Young Sam was not to be “improved” in that way. He made a characteristic
reply. Ignoring every object of interest within the city’s bounds, he
answered that he thought the land about Washington very poor indeed, and
very badly farmed, and crops looked very unpromising. He thought the
soil had been too hard worked, and too little manured, and that it
wanted rest and food, so to speak.

“But the city, my dear boy, the city! What do you think of the city, the
great capital of a great nation?” persisted the minister.

“The city!” Well, Mr. Sam Grandiere didn’t think much of the city. There
didn’t seem to be much downright, solid, earnest business going on
there, like there was in Baltimore; and, for his part, he didn’t see how
the people lived, except such as were in the service of the government.
No, bad as the country was round about Washington, the city was even
worse—even less productive.

The rector took up cudgels in defense of the national seat of
government; spoke of the public buildings—the capitol, the departments,
the patent office, the navy yard—and so on.

But Mr. Sam Grandiere could not see any profit or “produce” in any of
them.

So the rector gave him over to a reprobate spirit.

Presently Mrs. Ingle—having left both her babies asleep upstairs, with
Elva lovingly watching over them—came down into the drawing room and
greeted the minister and his wife, and also Mr. Force, whom she had not
earlier seen.

“You have grown plumper and rosier in the last three years, my dear. I
should scarcely recognize in you the pale, delicate young bride whom I
gave away to the worthy doctor. Ah! I see how it is! He has enforced the
laws of health,” said the squire, as he warmly shook her hand.

“Yes; that is it,” replied Natalie. “He makes my life a burden to me
with _régime_ and hygiene.”

At this moment Le and Odalite walked into the room.

Le shook hands with the rector and his wife, while Odalite literally
threw herself into the arms of Natalie.

And a few minutes later, when she had greeted all her parents’ guests,
she went upstairs with young Mrs. Ingle to feast her eyes on the
sleeping babies over which Elva was proudly and tenderly watching.

There the two friends sat down and had a good, long talk—all about the
young doctor’s prospects, the young couple’s home, the neighbors, and so
forth; but not once did they speak of Odalite’s trials. Odalite herself
never alluded to the subject, nor did Natalie dare to do so.

And it may here be said that the reticence which was observed in the
seclusion of the bedchamber was practiced in the social circle of the
drawing room.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Force mentioned the subject of their family
troubles, nor could their guests venture to do so.

Elfrida dreaded the indiscreet tongue of the lady from Wild Cats’; so
she was greatly relieved, when she went out to caution Mrs. Anglesea, to
hear that honest woman say:

“Let’s try to be jolly this one day, and forget all about my rascal and
our troubles! ’Deed, do you know I have told everybody in this county
how he treated me, so that they all know it as well as their a b c? And
that’s a rhyme come out of time. I didn’t intend it, but I can’t mend
it. I say! hold on here! there is something the matter with my
headpiece! I never composed no poetry before and didn’t mean to do it
now! It come out so itself! But you needn’t be afeard of me talking
about Skallawag Anglesea! I’m sick to death of the name of him!”
concluded the lady from the mines.

Mrs. Force then turned to receive young Dr. Ingle, who had just driven
up in his gig and was now entering the front door, while old Jake took
his equipage around to the stables.

Half an hour later dinner was served. And, in spite of all drawbacks, it
proved a happy reunion of old friends.

After dinner the carriages were ordered, and the visitors departed.




                              CHAPTER XXVI
                             LE’S DEPARTURE


One day Le spent in going around the neighborhood to see the old friends
and neighbors, whom he had not seen for more than three years. The next
day he stayed home at Mondreer, and spent nearly the whole of it in
company of Odalite.

At night the squire drove him to the railway station, accompanied by
Odalite, Wynnette and Elva, as once before. Also, Le was permitted to
sit on the back seat beside Odalite, and when there he held her hand in
his as on the previous occasion.

They reached the railway station in such good time that they had about
fifteen minutes to wait in the little sitting room; and there the last
adieus were made, when the train came in.

“It is not for a three years’ absence at sea this time, my dear! It is
scarcely for three weeks. Before the middle of May I shall be with you
again—please Heaven,” said Le, as he pressed Odalite to his heart in a
last embrace, before he jumped into the car to be whirled out of sight.

Mr. Force with his daughters waited until the sound of the rushing train
died away in the distance, and then took them back to the carriage and
drove homeward.

Again, as before, they reached home about ten o’clock, to find Mrs.
Force and the lady from the diggings waiting up for them—only on this
occasion they were not sitting over a blazing hickory wood fire, in the
dead of winter and night, with a jug of mulled wine steaming on the
hearth; but they were sitting on the front piazza, on a fine spring
evening, with a little table, on which was arranged a pitcher of iced
sherbet, with glasses and a plate of wafer cakes.

“Well, he went off gay and happy as a lark, and we have come home chirp
and merry as grigs!” said Wynnette, as she tore off and threw down her
straw hat and seated herself at the table.

“Oh, I hope he will have a pleasant journey and a good time altogether!
He can’t fail to get all the evidence he wants, ’cause it’s right there,
you know! And I give him a letter to Joe Mullins, at Wild Cats’, as one
of the witnesses to the marriage, though he wasn’t asked to sign the
register! How should he, when he couldn’t read? I hope he’ll have time
to run out to Wild Cats’ to see Joe! Though, come to think of it, I
don’t know as he’ll find anything there but dark shafts and empty
shanties. The leads was running out, and the boys was talking of leaving
when I came away. Ah! I hope he will find some of the poor, dear boys! I
should love to hear from them direct, once more.”

“How far is Wild Cats’ from St. Sebastian, Mrs. Anglesea?” rather
anxiously inquired Wynnette.

“Oh, only a step—le’s see, now; ’bout a hundred and seventy-seven miles,
I think they said it was.”

“Is there a railroad?”

“A what? A railroad? Oh, Lord! Why, child, when I was out there, which
was less than four years ago, there was not even a turnpike road within
a hundred miles of it. There’s a trail, though!”

“What do you mean by a trail?”

“Well, I mean a mule track.”

“Then I do not think that Le can go there. It must be a long and tedious
journey, and he will not have time.”

“Oh, yes he will! And opportunity also. There’ll be mule trains, you
know. He can pack on one of them. He can rough it! You bet! He’s every
inch a man, is Le Force!”

“He must not risk losing his passage on our steamer,” said Odalite.

“Do not be anxious, my dear; he will not run any risks of losing the
steamer. I think, also, that he will have time to do our friend’s
commission. There has been a road made over that section since Mrs.
Anglesea left it. And, now I think, we had better go indoors. The night
air is too cold to remain out longer.”

They went into the house and soon after retired to bed.

The days that followed Le’s departure were active, cheerful, full of
life.

The old friends and neighbors of the Forces received them back into
their midst with not only the earnest love of time-honored friendship,
but with the distinction due to illustrious visitors.

They called on them promptly.

They got up dinner and tea parties for their entertainment.

They would have nominated Mr. Force as their representative in Congress
for the ensuing year, but that he was going abroad with his family for a
year.

The Forces entered heartily into all the schemes of pleasure and
hospitality set on foot in the community.

They accepted all the invitations given to them, and in return they gave
dinner and tea parties until they had also entertained all their friends
and neighbors.

And so the last weeks of April passed and May was on hand.

Letters from Le came by every Californian mail.

He had reached St. Sebastian; he had found the Rev. Father Minitree; he
had searched the parish register; found the marriage between Angus
Anglesea and Ann Maria Wright duly recorded, signed and witnessed; he
had hunted out the living witnesses, and he had procured attested copies
of the marriage record, further indorsed by the written and sworn
statements of the officiating priest and of the surviving witnesses. And
so, with evidence as strong as evidence could be, he wrote that he was
ready to come home, only that he wished to oblige Mrs. Anglesea by going
out to Wild Cats’ Gulch to inquire after her boys. The journey there and
back, he thought, might occupy him four days. After that he should start
for home, which he hoped to reach about the fifteenth of May.

Letters also came from the Earl of Enderby in answer to Mrs. Force’s
missive that had announced the time of the family’s sailing for
Europe—letters saying that the very near prospect and the anticipation
of seeing his dear and only sister and her children had made him feel so
much better in spirits that his health had improved under it.

Among the most constant visitors at Mondreer was Mr. Sam Grandiere,
whose visits could not be mistaken as to their meaning, and whose
attentions to Wynnette on all occasions of their meetings in other
companies had attracted the observation of the whole neighborhood and
caused much talk.

“Mr. Force is such a practical sort of man that so long as he knows
young Grandiere comes of a good old Maryland family, and that his
character is beyond reproach, he will not mind his roughness of manner
or plainness of speech, or his want of a collegiate education, or refuse
him his daughter on that account,” said young Dr. Ingle to his wife one
evening when they were talking over the affair.

“No, perhaps not; but how could our brilliant Wynnette ever fancy such a
lout!” exclaimed Natalie, indignantly.

“Oh, indeed, you are too severe on the poor fellow! And you, coming from
the North, do not understand our Maryland ways. In your State it is the
farmers’ boys who are sent to school and college in preference to the
girls, if any are to go; but in Maryland it is always the farmers’ girls
who are put to boarding school in preference to the boys; as in your
State you find learned statesmen, lawyers and clergymen belonging to
families of very plainly educated women, so in our State you will find
refined and accomplished women in the same families with very plain,
simply schooled men. It is queer, but it is so. Our Maryland men will
make any sacrifice, even that of their own mental culture, in order to
educate their women, and I think in that they show the very spirit of
generosity.”

But among all the people who observed and criticized the growing
intimacy between Wynnette and young Grandiere, none was more interested
than quaint little Rosemary Hedge.

Rosemary was poetic, romantic and sentimental to a degree. She was
devoted to Wynnette and Elva Force; and she could not bear the idea of
Wynnette “throwing herself away” on such a rustic.

“He is my own dear cousin, Wynnette, and I love him dearly as a cousin;
but, indeed, I could not marry him to save my soul! And though he is a
good boy, I do not think he is a proper match for you,” said Rosemary,
one morning, when she had come to spend the day at Mondreer, and the two
girls were _tête-à-tête_ in Wynnette’s room, where she had taken her
visitor to lay off her bonnet.

“Why not?” curtly demanded Wynnette, who did not like these criticisms
upon her lover.

But worse was to come.

“Why not?” echoed Rosemary. “Why, because dear Sam is so rough and
ungainly. He has red hair and a freckled face——”

“So has the Duke of Argyll and all the princely Campbells!”

“And he has a club nose!”

“So have I. ‘Pot can’t call kettle black.’”

“And such big hands and feet——”

“So much the better for useful work.”

“But, oh! Wynnette, he—he——”

“What now?”

“He has no education to speak of—nothing but a common-school education!”

“Like any number of our great men who have risen to high rank, wealth
and fame in the army, navy, civil service, or learned professions.”

“Yes, but he’ll never rise above his station. He hasn’t intellect
enough.”

“Neither had any of the grand, brave, simple heroes and warriors of old
whose deeds stir our hearts, even now.”

“But, Wynnette, Sam Grandiere is nothing like that! He would not even
understand you if you were to talk to him as you do to me. His thoughts
run all on crops and cattle and——”

“Whatever is really useful and beneficial to his folks.”

“In meeting their material wants only, Wynnette. But it is vain to argue
with you. If you are determined to throw yourself away on Sam
Grandiere——”

“Now, Rosemary, stow that, or the fat will be in the fire!” exclaimed
the girl, flushing with a blaze of short-lived anger. “I mean I cannot
bear to hear you depreciate the excellence of Samuel Grandiere. He is
honest, true, and tender. He is as brave as a lion, and as magnanimous
as a king—ought to be!”

“Yes, I know, but——”

“And where would you find such a lineage in the State as his?”
vehemently interrupted Wynnette. “His pedigree can be traced back, step
by step, to the Sieur Louis de Grandiere, who came over to England in
the year 1420, in the suit of Katherine of Valois, queen of Henry the
Fifth; though, of course, that tells but little. He was probably a
gentleman in waiting, though he might have been a horse boy!”

“He was a gentleman in waiting on the queen. He was a nobleman of
Provence,” replied quaint little Rosemary, craning her neck in defense
of her ancestor.

“Oh, he was! Well, I always thought so! But that is more than can be
said of Mr. Roland Bayard!” said Wynnette, maliciously.

Rosemary flushed to the edges of her curly black hair.

“I do not know what he has to do with the question,” she murmured.

“Only this, my love: that while we are taking sweet counsel together,
and you are giving me the benefit of your wisdom in regard to Mr. Samuel
Elk Grandiere, I might reciprocate by giving you a friendly warning in
respect to Mr. Roland Bayard!”

“Oh, Wynnette!” cried Rosemary, deprecatingly, while the color deepened
all over her face and neck.

“Nobody knows who he is! He was washed ashore from the wreck of the
_Carrier Pigeon_, the only one saved. He was adopted by Miss Sibby, good
soul, and he was educated at the expense of Mr. Force, generous man!
Why, he was not only homeless, friendless and penniless, but he was
nameless until the name of Roland Bayard was given him by Mr. Force and
Miss Sibby, who were his sponsors in baptism!”

“Oh! oh! Wynnette! No one can look at Roland Bayard without seeing that
he must be of princely lineage! He is very handsome, and graceful and
accomplished! He is refined, cultured, intellectual!” pleaded Rosemary.

“Don’t see it! He has been through college and he has plenty of modest
assurance, which prevents him from being bashful and awkward, as some of
his betters are. But all the same, he is nobody’s son!”

“Oh, Wynnette! that is not generous of you! Can dear—can Roland help his
misfortune? Is he to blame for being wrecked on our shore in his
infancy, and losing everything, even his name? Oh, Wynnette!” said
Rosemary, with tears in her eyes.

“No! I am not generous! I am a little catamount, and worse than that! It
is not true, either, what I said about him! Roland is a fine fellow. And
of course he must have been somebody’s son! Don’t cry, Rosie. I didn’t
mean it, dear! Only the devil does get in me sometimes!” said the
generous girl, stooping and kissing her quaint little friend.

Rosemary smiled through her tears; and then they went downstairs
together.

And as this was the first, so it was the last time that the subject in
dispute was mentioned between the two girls.




                             CHAPTER XXVII
                            LUCE’S DISCOVERY


As Wynnette and Rosemary approached the drawing room they heard a sweet
confusion of laughing and talking within; which was explained as soon as
Wynnette had opened the door.

Le had just arrived, and was in the midst of his friends shaking hands,
hugging and kissing, asking and answering questions, all at once.

He rushed to Wynnette and Rosemary “at sight,” and gave them each a
hearty, brotherly embrace.

“Yes,” he continued, with something that he had been saying when the
girls came in—“yes, I have brought all the evidence we can possibly want
or use—an overwhelming mass of evidence as to the marriage of Angus
Anglesea and Ann Maria Wright at St. Sebastian, on August 1, 18—. That
is proved and established beyond all doubt or question.”

“As if anybody ever did doubt it. The Lord knows if ever I had thought
as any of you misdoubted as I was Anglesea’s lawful wedded wife, I
wouldn’t a-stayed in this house one hour. Not I!” indignantly protested
Mrs. Anglesea.

“No one ever did or ever could doubt that fact, my good lady,” said Mr.
Force, soothingly; “but there are captious people who will contest
things that they cannot doubt. And it is to meet such as these that we
must be armed with overwhelming evidence.”

Mrs. Anglesea was mollified, and presently inquired if Le had seen her
boys.

“I did not go to Wild Cats’ Gulch, dear Mrs. Anglesea,” replied Le.

“‘Didn’t go!’ But you wrote as you was a-going!” exclaimed the lady from
that section.

“Yes, and so I was. But on the very day when I proposed to start
thither, on inquiring the best way to get there, I was referred to a man
who was said to have once lived at the place. So I went, and found the
referee to be a Mr. Joe Mullins, in the jewelry line of business.”

“Joe Mullins! My Joe! He in St. Sebastian! Do tell me now!” exclaimed
Mrs. Anglesea.

“Yes, there he was, healthy, happy and prosperous, keeping a jeweler’s
store, and living over it with his wife and two children!”

“Lord a mercy! Married, too!”

“Yes, and prosperous.”

“Well, well! And the other boys?”

Le looked solemn.

                           “‘Some gone east;
                           Some gone west;
                           And some rest
                           At Crow’s Nest,’”

ruefully answered the young man.

“And the camp’s broke up, as I thought it would be.”

“Yes, two years ago.”

“Well, it is some satisfaction to hear about Joe. And so now I won’t
interrupt of you no longer, as I dessay you have a heap to talk about
among your ownselves,” said Mrs. Anglesea, as she left the drawing room.

As soon as she was gone the family fell into more confidential
conversation.

“We shall sail for England in ten days,” said Mr. Force, “and with this
complete evidence of the Californian marriage in our possession we will,
on our arrival in the old country, seek out authentic evidence of the
exact date of Lady Mary Anglesea’s demise, which I fully believe to have
occurred in the August of some year previous to that of Col. Anglesea’s
marriage with the Widow Wright. When we shall find such evidence, as I
feel sure we shall, then there will be nothing wanting to prove that Ann
Maria Anglesea is the lawful wife of Angus Anglesea, and that Odalite
Force is, and has always been, free, and there need be nothing to
prevent your immediate union, my dear children.”

“May Heaven speed the day!” earnestly aspirated Le.

Much more was said on the subject that need not be repeated here.

Preparations for their voyage had been so long and systematically in
progress that the Forces had perfect leisure in the last week of their
stay at home.

The last day was devoted to the friends they were about to leave behind.

They started early on the morning of the twenty-third of May, and made a
round of farewell visits to all their old neighbors.

The last call they made was at Forest Rest, to take leave of Miss Sibby
Bayard.

“So you are ralely a-going to cross the high seas? I hardly believed it
on you, Abel Force!” she said, as she shook hands in turn with Mr. and
Mrs. Force, Le and the three girls, and gave them seats. “I thought as
you had more sense, Abel Force! I did that! Them as has the least to do
with the sea, sez I, comes the best off, sez I!”

“But, my good lady, necessity has no law, you know. We are obliged to
go,” laughed Mr. Force.

“What have you been up and doing of, old Abel, that you are obliged to
run away from your own native country? Nobody but outlaws, sez I, is
obliged to go off to furrin parts, sez I!”

Mr. Force found nothing to say to this.

Wynnette came to her father’s assistance.

“We shall visit, among other interesting places, Arundel Castle, the
seat of your ancestors for centuries past, Miss Sibby.”

“Hush, honey! You don’t say as you’ll go there?”

“As sure as the Lord permits us, we will, Miss Sibby.”

“And see it?”

“Yes, and see it.”

“With your own eyes?”

“Well, no,” gravely replied Wynnette, “not with our own eyes, because we
might have to stretch them too wide to take in a view of the great
stronghold of the great ducal house. We propose to hire some stout,
able-bodied eyes for the occasion!”

“And now you are laughing at me, Miss Wynnette! You are always laughing
heartiest inside when you’re a looking solemnest outside! But you ralely
are gwine to visit ’Rundel Cassil?”

“Yes. All tourists go there.”

“Well, well, well! Them as lives the longest, sez I, sees the most, sez
I. But little did I think as I should live to see any of my neighbors
going to visit ’Rundel Cassil!”

“We will bring you a guidebook with illustrations, descriptive of the
castle, and some relics and curiosities of the place. They are to be
had, I think.”

“Do, my child! I should prize ’em above everything. And now, Miss
Wynnette, you take a ole ’oman’s advice. Them as follows my advice, sez
I, never comes to no harm, sez I. Mind that, honey.”

“All right, Miss Sibby; fire away!—I mean proceed with your good
counsel.”

“Well, then, honey, I ain’t been that blind but I could see what was
a-goin’ on between a certain young gentleman and a certain young lady.”

Wynnette tacitly pleaded guilty by a deep blush.

“Now, honey, don’t you take it anyways amiss what I am a-gwine to say.
You’re gwine off to furrin parts. Now, honey, don’t you let any of them
there furrin colonels and counts and things fashionate you away from you
own dear sweetheart. He’s a good, true man, is Sam Grandiere, and a ole
neighbor’s son. Now you take my advice and be true to him, as he is sure
to be true to you. Them as breaks faith, sez I, is sure to pay for it,
sez I. There, now, I won’t say no more. When you’ve said all you’ve got
to say, sez I, it is time to stop, sez I.”

Mrs. Force now arose to take leave.

All her party kissed Miss Sibby good-by.

The old lady cried a little, and prayed: “God bless them.”

And so they parted.

Early the next morning the Forces left Mondreer, taking the dog, Joshua,
with them.

Wynnette had insisted on his coming.

“I promised him, papa,” she said—“I promised him; and it would be
playing it too low to go back on a dumb brute—oh! I mean, dear papa,
that it would seem base to break faith with a poor, confiding dog.”

So Joshua went.

“Look yere, ole woman,” said the lady from Wild Cats’, “I’m gwine to
take the best of care of your house while you’re gone, and I want you to
keep an eye on my rascal over yonder, while I keep a sharp lookout for
him over here. He can’t be in both places at once; but wherever he is he
will be at some deviltry—you may bet your pile on that.”

This was the lady’s last good-by to the departing family.

She watched the procession of three carriages that took them and all
their luggage to the railway station, where Rosemary Hedge was to be
brought by her mother and aunt to join them.

She watched them cross the lawn, and go out through the north gate, and
disappear up the wooded road.

And then she turned into the house to face the howling Luce.

“What on earth ails the woman?” demanded the housekeeper.

“Oh! dey’s gone ag’in!—dey’s gone ag’in! An’ dis time dey’s gone across
de ocean! I shall nebber see ’em ag’in!—nebber no mo’!—nebber no mo’!”
sobbed Lucy, sitting flat on the hall floor, and rocking her body back
and forth.

“Oh, yes you will. Don’t be a fool! Get up and go to work. Work’s the
best cure for trouble. Indeed, work’s the best cure for most
things—poverty, for instance.”

“It didn’t use to be so! It didn’t use to be so!” said Luce, continuing
to rock herself. “Dey nebber use to go ’way from year’s end to year’s
end! But now it’s got to be a habit dey gibs deirselbes—a berry habit
dey gibs deirselbes!”




                             CHAPTER XXVIII
                             FORBIDDEN LOVE


The three carriages conveying the large party from the old manor house
rolled on through the familiar woods, so often traversed by the young
people of the household in going to and fro between Mondreer and
Greenbushes.

In the foremost carriage rode Mr. and Mrs. Force, Wynnette and Elva.

In the second, Odalite and Le.

In the third, Dickon and Gipsy, the valet and lady’s maid, in charge of
all the lighter luggage.

Joshua, the dog, raced on before in the highest state of ecstasy, but
occasionally raced back again, as if to be sure that his large family
were following him safely without disappearing in the woods to the right
or the left.

Mr. Force knew perfectly well that that dog was going to give him more
trouble and embarrassment on land and sea than all his party twice told;
that it would be the unfailing cause of rows and rumpuses, on trains and
boats, and that might end in Joshua being cast off, or lost, or killed.

But what could he do?

Talk of your henpecked husband, indeed! He is not half so common, or
half so helpless, as your chickpecked father.

Wynnette had promised Joshua that he should never be left behind again,
and she said that it would be base to deceive and betray a poor dog.
Wynnette said the dog must come, and he came.

When they came in sight of Chincapin Creek little Elva put her head out
of the window and gazed, and continued to gaze, fondly, if silently, on
the spot so full of pleasant, childish memories, until they had crossed
the bridge, and left the place behind. Then, with a little, involuntary
sigh, she drew in her head and sat back in her seat.

Wynnette mocked her.

“Why don’t you say, ‘Adieu, blest scenes of my innocent infancy! Virtue
and simplicity,’ and so on and so on!”

“Oh, Wynnette! How can you?” exclaimed Elva, almost in tears.

“I can’t! I never could! It isn’t in my line! But why don’t you?” mocked
the girl, raising her black eyebrows.

They reached the station in full time, and had twenty minutes to wait.
Mr. Force had engaged a whole compartment for his party by telegraph the
day before.

In the waiting room they found all the Grandieres, all the Elks, and
little Rosemary Hedge, with her luggage.

There followed an animating scene—a little laughing, more crying and
much talking.

Mrs. Hedge implored Mrs. Force to be a mother to her fatherless child,
and to bring her back safe and well at the end of the year.

Mrs. Force promised all that a woman could, under the circumstances.

And Roland Bayard, who sat beside little Rosemary holding her hand in
his, spoke up and said:

“Dear Mrs. Hedge, don’t grieve about the little maiden. If, at any time,
you should be pining to have her back, you can let me know and I will
just run over and fetch her.”

There was something very comforting in this promise, because Mrs. Hedge
knew that Roland Bayard meant what he said; and very cheering in the
manner in which he put it—“Just run over and fetch her!” Why, it sounded
like such a mere trifle to cross the ocean, in these days of steam. But
Roland was still talking.

“And, Rosemary, if you get homesick before our friends are ready to
return, write to me, darling, and I’ll come and fetch you back.”

“Oh, Mr. Bayard! you don’t know how you have consoled me!” said Mrs.
Hedge, wiping her eyes.

“I will write to you every week, Roland. And I will keep a journal for
you, and send it in monthly parts, so that you may seem to be traveling
with us! Oh, how I wish you were!” sighed Rosemary.

“Do you, darling? Well, perhaps you may see me sooner than you expect,”
replied Roland, mysteriously.

“Oh! oh! will you be coming over? Does the _Kitty_ ever go to England?”

“I don’t know, dear; but if the _Kitty_ don’t, there will be one or two
other little craft crossing—perhaps. Let us live in hope.”

While Rosemary and Roland chatted together, Mrs. Hedge turned to Mrs.
Force, saying:

“Oh, you happy woman! You are going to Europe with all you love at your
side—husband, children and nephew! While I stay home, widowed,
practically childless and alone! Talk of the compensations of life!
There is no compensation in mine.”

“‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness!’” murmured Elfrida Force to
herself.

“Mother! Mother! I won’t go! I won’t leave you!” cried Rosemary, jumping
up and throwing herself into the widow’s arms.

“Hush, my child, hush! I wish you to go, and you must do so. It is for
your own profit and instruction,” replied Mrs. Hedge.

“Then, my own dear mother, won’t you just think that I have only gone
back to school in Washington, and that I shall be home as usual to spend
the Christmas holidays? Mr. Force expects to bring us all home in
December.”

“Yes, yes, I shall be comforted, child,” replied the widow, and she held
her daughter on her lap, against her bosom, with Rosemary’s arms clasped
around her neck, until they heard the sound of the approaching train.

The train never stopped longer than three minutes at this station.

All arose to bid their last good-bys.

Among the rest, Joshua came out from behind Wynnette’s skirts, and shook
himself, and very nearly shook the building. All alert was he to see
that his eccentric family did not escape him again.

“Gracious goodness, Mr. Force! Here is that dog followed you all the way
from Mondreer! What’s to be done with him? Shall I take him home? Will
he follow me?” inquired Sam Grandiere, eager to be useful.

“He is to go abroad with us,” groaned the squire, who was hastily
shaking hands right and left with the friends who had come to see him
and his family off.

“But will they allow——”

There was no time to finish his question, for—

“Good-by, Sam,” said Wynnette, holding out her hand. “Remember the
advice I gave you about taking a course at Charlotte Hall College.”

“I will, Wynnette, I will!” earnestly answered the young fellow, with
tears brimming in his honest blue eyes.

“You will write to me as often as you can, and I will answer every one
of your letters. And—listen here, Sam,” she added, in a whisper that the
long-legged boy had to stoop to catch, “I won’t marry a royal duke if I
can resist the temptation! Good-by.”

The whole party hurried out of the building to the platform, where the
train had just stopped, with its puffing and blowing engine.

Mr. Force showed his tickets, and the party were conducted to their car.
In the confusion of a final leave-taking, then and there, between two
such large parties, Joshua, who did not at all like the looks of things
in general, with the long train of cars, the panting engine, the steam,
the smoke, the crowd, the baggage heavers, the excitement, and the
general “hullabuloo,” and who feared that he might lose sight of his
family in this crash of worlds, managed to slip into the car, between
Wynnette’s duster and Gipsy’s arms full of shawls, and to ensconce
himself under the broad lounge in the compartment.

The last kisses were given, the last “God bless you” spoken, and the
travelers were seated in their compartment not ten seconds before the
train started.

“Now!” exclaimed Wynnette, triumphantly. “Have we had the least trouble
with Joshua?”

“Not yet,” curtly replied her father. “Where is he?”

“Under the sofa—and Rosemary, Elva and myself, by sitting here, hide him
from view.”

“Very well. Keep him quiet, if you can.”

The train was rushing on at express speed, when the conductor came along
to collect the tickets. He entered their compartment. Joshua considered
his appearance an unwarrantable intrusion, and told him so in a low,
thunderous growl.

“What’s that?” suddenly demanded the conductor, looking around.

“Urr-rr-rr-rr,” remarked Joshua.

“It is a valuable dog of ours. I am quite willing to pay his fare,”
replied Mr. Force, taking out his pocketbook.

“He can’t be allowed in the passenger car, sir,” replied the conductor.

“Not in the compartment that we have taken for our own convenience, and
where he cannot possibly annoy anybody else?”

“No, sir; it is against the rules.”

“Oh, Mr. Conductor! please! please! He is such a good dog, and we love
him so much! Indeed, he will not bite when he knows you don’t mean to
hurt us! Please, Mr. Conductor, let him stay!” pleaded Elva.

“’Gainst the rules, miss. Very sorry.”

“Papa, tip that fellow with a V, and stop this row!—I mean, papa, pray
offer this officer the consideration of a five-dollar note, and conclude
this controversy.”

Of course, it was Wynnette who uttered this insolence.

“Hush, my dear, hush! This is quite inadmissible. The conductor must do
his duty.”

“If he gets put off the train I’ll go, too! He’ll never find his way
home!” said Wynnette.

Elva began to cry.

The conductor was in a hurry.

“If this young gentleman will bring the dog after me to the freight car,
the baggage master will take charge of him for a trifle,” suggested the
conductor, who was more moved to pity by Elva’s tears than to anger by
Wynnette’s insolence.

“Go, Le,” said Mr. Force, opening his pocketbook and taking from it a
note, which he put into the midshipman’s hands. “Give this to the man,
and tell him if he will take care of the dog he shall have another at
the end of this journey.”

“And introduce Joshua to the baggage master, and tell him what a
cultivated and gentlemanly dog he is! And don’t you leave them together
until you are sure that they are good friends! Do you hear me, Leonidas
Force?”

“All right, Wynnette,” said good-humored Le, taking Joshua by the collar
and trying to pull him from under the sofa.

But the dog declined to leave his retreat. He did not recognize Mr.
Midshipman Force as his master.

“Bother! I shall have to take him myself. You can come with us if you
like, Le; but you needn’t if you don’t,” said Wynnette. And she whistled
for the dog, who immediately came out and put his gray paws upon her
lap.

She arose and called him to follow her. Le and the conductor escorted
her.

“I know we are going to have no end of trouble with that dog,” said Mr.
Force.

“Oh, I think not, when we learn how to manage. We must always give him
in charge of the baggage master at the start,” replied Mrs. Force.

Wynnette and Le were gone nearly an hour. At last they returned.

“What kept you so long? Did the dog prove intractable, or the baggage
master unaccommodating?” inquired Odalite of Le.

“Not at all!” exclaimed Wynnette, answering for her companion. “That
baggage man’s a good sort. He and Joshua became pals at once. He loves
dogs, and dogs love him. As soon as ever I presented Joshua to him he
held out his hand, and said:

“‘Hello, old pard! how are you? Shall we be pals?’ or words to that
effect. And said Joshua slapped his paw into the open palm, and—

“‘It’s a whack!’ or barks to the same purpose.”

“But what kept you so long? What were you doing all that time?”

“Talking to the baggage master. I do like to talk to real men much
better than to the curled and scented la-da-da things we meet in
society. His name is Kirby. He came from Lancashire, England, where he
has an old father living, to whom he sends a part of his wages every
month. He is forty-five years old, and has been married twenty years,
and has eleven children, the oldest eighteen and the youngest one. I
told him we were going to Lancashire, and would take anything he might
like to send to his dad.”

“But, my dear, Lancashire is a large county, and we may not be anywhere
near his native place.”

“We could make a point of going there to oblige such a man as he is,
papa. Think of his bringing up a large family and helping his old
father, too, on such small wages as he must get. Oh, he is a downright
real man. And, indeed, I have a warm place in my heart for real men.”

“That is why you like Sa——”

“Shut up, Rosemary!”

And Rosemary obeyed.

The remainder of the journey was made without disturbance.

They reached Washington about 3 P.M., dined and rested for an hour at
their favorite hotel, and took the afternoon train to New York, where
they arrived very late at night.

They had no more trouble with the dog, now that they knew how to manage.

Mr. Force went down to the steamer to see about the passage of the
animal, and found that there was a place in the steerage of the great
ship where the creature could be accommodated.

Ah, what a chickpecked father that man was!

“If they had wanted to fetch a favorite cow, I should have been obliged
to bring her somehow,” he said to himself.

On the next morning Mr. Force took his family to Central Park and to the
menagerie.

In the evening he took them to the opera to hear Kellogg. That was their
last night in the city.




                              CHAPTER XXIX
                      “ONCE MORE UPON THE WATERS”


Saturday, the twenty-eighth of May, was a very fine day. As early as
seven in the morning the hacks engaged to take our travelers to the
steamer were standing before the ladies’ entrance of the Metropolitan
Hotel.

Their luggage had been sent aboard ship on the day before.

A little after seven the whole party came down and entered the
carriages, and were driven off toward the pier where the _Persia_ lay.

They arrived amid the bustle and confusion that always attends the
sailing of an ocean steamer—crowds of carriages and drags of all sorts;
crowds of men, women and children of all sorts; crowds of passengers
going on; crowds of friends seeing them off; here and there a
heartrending parting; a bedlam of sights; a babel of sounds, deafening
noises, suffocating scents.

Such was the scene on the pier and such was the scene on the deck when
Mr. Force had succeeded in navigating his party from the first to the
last.

“For Heaven’s sake keep close together! Are we all here?” he anxiously
inquired.

“All!” answered a score of voices.

“Where’s that dog?”

“Here, papa. I have him by the collar,” answered Wynnette.

“Keep hold of him, then. And sit down, all of you, and be quiet until
this crowd leaves the deck. We cannot attempt to get to our staterooms
at present.”

His party complied with this order.

“All ashore!” called out a voice in authority.

The words were magical.

Hurried embraces; laughing good-bys; weeping good-bys; fervent God bless
yous; agonized partings; and then a pressure over the gang plank to the
pier.

Five minutes later and the valedictory gun was fired, and the _Persia_
stood out to sea.

“Oh,” said little Elva, as she observed the sad faces of some passengers
who were leaning over the sides of the ship and waving handkerchiefs to
friends on the pier—“oh, I am glad we are all going together and have
not left any one behind to cry after—no, not even our dog.”

A little later on our passengers sought their staterooms below.
Dickon—than whom no blacker boy ever was born—took the dog to that part
of the ship for such four-footed passengers made and provided, and then
went to look up his own berth in the second cabin.

Never was finer weather, a clearer sky, a calmer sea, or a swifter
voyage than blessed the _Persia_, which sailed on that Saturday morning
of May 28th.

Only those of the most bilious temperaments suffered from seasickness.
None of our party were affected.

All the passengers rejoiced at the prosperity of the voyage—all except
Wynnette, who longed to see a storm at sea.

She was disgusted.

“I had just as lief travel in a canal boat!” she growled, when they were
about halfway across the Atlantic.

She was bound to be disappointed to the last. The voyage was continued
in the finest early summer weather, until in the dead of a moonlight
night the steamer anchored in the Cove of Cork.

Early the next morning all the passengers were out on deck to see the
beautiful bay with its lovely hilly shores, and its picturesque little
port of Queenstown.

The ship remained at anchor only long enough to deliver mails and
freight, and then she put to sea again and headed for the mouth of the
Mersey.

Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary remained on deck all day feasting their eyes
on the shores of England, the isles of the channel, and later on the
green banks of the Mersey with its pretty towns and villages, castles
and cottages.

Early in the afternoon the ship reached Liverpool.

When the bustle of the debarkation and the nuisance of the custom house
was over, and Mr. Force was handing the ladies of his party into a
capacious carriage to convey them to the Adelphi Hotel, he inquired:

“Well, shall we take rooms there for the night, or only supper, and
leave by the evening express for Cumberland?”

“Oh, let us go on, if you please! What time does our train leave?”
inquired Mrs. Force.

“Ten-fifty.”

“Then we can reach Nethermost, the nearest station to Enderby Castle, by
morning. If you telegraph to Enderby my brother will send carriages
there to meet us.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Force, as he shut the carriage door and gave the
coachman the address to which he was to drive.

Mr. Force then sent his two servants with the dog and the lighter
luggage in another conveyance after his family, while he and Leonidas
Force attended to the duty of having their trunks transferred from the
custom house to the Lime Street Railroad Station.

An hour after this the whole family were gathered around the tea table
in their private parlor at the Adelphi. The dog, stretched on a Russian
rug before the sofa, was making himself at home.

“What do you think of all this, Rosie?” kindly inquired Mr. Force of
little Rosemary Hedge.

“I—I—feel as if I were reading it all in a novel by Aunt Sukey’s evening
fire at Grove Hill,” replied the quaint little creature.

“And you, Elva?”

“Oh, I feel so very much at home, as if I had come back from somewhere
to grandmother’s house. A very strange, pleasant feeling of old
familiarity,” said weird little Elva.

“As for me,” said Wynnette, “I see ghosts!”

“Ghosts!” exclaimed all the company in chorus.

“Yes, ghosts! ‘This isle is full of spirits.’ I see ghosts! All sorts of
ghosts! Ghosts of savages in skins! These must be spirits of the ancient
Britons! Ghosts of men in armor! These must be the medieval knights and
men-at-arms! Ghosts of gentlemen in velvet and satin tunic and lace
collars and pointed shoes! These must be the courtiers of Queen
Elizabeth’s time! And now come the hideous powdered wigs, broad-bottomed
coats, and long silk stockings of——Say, papa! give me some of those
strawberries, or I shall see his Satanic majesty presently.”

Mr. Force gravely passed along the cut-glass bowl of the luscious fruit.

Immediately after supper the travelers left the hotel for the railway
station.

There Abel Force engaged a whole compartment for his family, and took
tickets in the second-class carriage for his two servants.

“And how can I carry a valuable dog?” inquired the squire of the guard.

“Take him in your own compartment, if you like, sir,” replied that
officer, staring a little.

Joshua didn’t wait for permission, but jumped into the carriage after
Wynnette.

The three other ladies followed. Last of all Abel Force and Le entered
and took their seats, though the train was not yet quite ready to start.

Compartments on English trains differ from those on our own, in being
entirely separated by a solid partition from other compartments on the
same carriage, and they are thereby quite private for those who engage a
whole one. This compartment taken by the Forces resembled the inside of
a large coach, having eight cushioned seats, four being in front and
four behind.

The train started at ten-fifty, and whirled on through the twilight of
the summer night, which in England never seems to grow quite dark.

At the first station at which the train stopped, the guard came along
and put his head into the window.

“Tickets, please, sir.”

Mr. Force handed over seven tickets for his party.

Guard counted them, and touched his hat.

“Dog ticket, please, sir.”

“What?” demanded the astonished squire.

“Dog ticket, please, sir.”

“Dog ticket? I have none. Didn’t know one would be required. Never heard
of such a thing. But I will pay his fare.”

“Couldn’t take it, sir. ’Gainst the rules.”

“Then what shall I do?” exclaimed the distressed squire.

“Uncle, I will jump out and buy a dog ticket at the station here,” said
Le; and without waiting a second he sprang from the carriage and
vanished into the ticket office.

“Look sharp, young gent, or you’ll be left. Train starts again in two
minutes,” called the guard.

Le did look sharp, and the next minute reappeared, flourishing the
prize.

He jumped in, and the train moved on.

Everybody went to sleep except Wynnette, who went off into a waking
dream, and saw the ghosts of all her ancestors, from the Druids down,
pass in procession before her. A weird, unreal, magical night journey
this seemed to the travelers. The night express stopped at fewer
stations than any other train of the twenty-four hours.

Whenever it did stop, our passengers waked up and looked out upon the
strange and beautiful land—old, but always new—dotted with its country
towns and villages, its castles, farmhouses and cottages, dimly seen in
the soft haze of the summer night, where evening and morning twilight
seemed to meet so that it was never dark.

On the whole, it was a pleasant, charming journey, the last few miles
being along the rough and rocky coast. The dawn was reddening in the
east, and the northern morning air felt fresh and invigorating, when the
train stopped at Nethermost, a picturesque little hamlet built up and
down the sides of the cliff wherever there was room for a sea-bird’s
nest.

“Oh, what a charming place!” exclaimed Rosemary, looking out upon it.
The line of railway ran along under the cliff, and the little station
was built against the rocks.

The guard came and opened the door.

Mr. Force jumped off, and then handed out the ladies of his party, one
by one.

The porters were at the same time throwing off their luggage.

In another minute the train had moved on, and the travelers were left
standing on the platform, with the sea on the west, the cliffs on the
east, and the hamlet of Nethermost scattered at random on the sides of
the latter.

“There are the carriages,” said Mr. Force, as he described three
vehicles grouped together at a short distance.

At the same time a servant in livery approached, touched his hat, and
respectfully inquired:

“Party for Enderby Castle, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Force.

“This way, if you please, sir.”




                              CHAPTER XXX
                             ENDERBY CASTLE


There were two spacious open barouches and one large wagon.

“My lord ordered me, sir, if the weather should be fine, to bring the
barouches for the ladies, as they would be so much pleasanter,” the man
explained, touching his hat, as he held the door of the first carriage
open for Mrs. Force.

The travelers were soon seated—Mr. and Mrs. Force, Wynnette and Elva in
the first barouche, Le, Odalite and Rosemary in the second, and the two
servants, with the dog and the luggage, in the wagon.

“Oh, how jolly!” exclaimed Wynnette, looking about her.

By this time it was light enough to see their surroundings—the hoary
cliffs and the picturesque fishing village on their right; the
far-spread rocky beach, with the fishing boats drawn up, on their left;
the expanse of ocean beyond, dotted at long distances with sails; and
right near them the only street of the hamlet that ran from the beach up
through a natural cleft in the rocks, and looked something like a rude,
broad staircase of flagstones, which were paved on edge to afford a hold
to horses’ feet in climbing up the steep ascent.

By this time, too, the denizens of the village were out before their
doors to stare at the unusual sight of three carriages and a large party
of visitors for Enderby Castle.

For, of course, as his lordship’s carriages and liveried servants were
there to meet the party of travelers, they must be visitors to the
castle.

The men took off their hats and the women courtesied as the open
carriages passed slowly up the steep street to the top of the cliff,
where it joined the road leading northward along the sea toward Enderby
Castle.

Now the travelers in the open carriages had a grand view of land and
water.

On the east, moorland rolling into hills in the mid distance and rising
into mountains on the far horizon. The newly risen sun shining above
them and tinting all their tops with the soft and varied hues of the
opal stone. Here and there at long distances could be seen the ruined
tower of some ancient stronghold, or the roof and chimneys of some old
farmstead. Everything looked old or ancient on this wild coast of
Cumberland.

On the west the ocean rolled out until lost to view in the mists of the
horizon.

Before them northward the road stretched for many a mile.

Far ahead they saw a mighty promontory stretching out to sea. At its
base the waves dashed, leaped, roared, tumbled like raging wild beasts
clawing at the rocks. On the extreme edge of its point arose a mass of
gray stone buildings scarcely to be distinguished from the foundation on
which they were built.

“How far is it to Enderby Castle?” inquired Mr. Force of the coachman
who drove his carriage.

“Ten miles from the station, sir,” replied the man, touching his hat.

“That is the castle,” said Mrs. Force, pointing to the pile of buildings
on the edge of the promontory, and handing the field glass with which
she had been taking a view of her birthplace and first home.

“That! It is a fine, commanding situation, but it scarcely looks to be
more than five miles from here.”

“It is not, if we could take a bee line over land and sea, but the road
has to follow the bend of the estuary,” replied the lady.

All the occupants of both carriages, which had come to a standstill,
were now on their feet gazing at that hoary headland, capped with its
ancient stronghold.

The field glass was passed from one to another, while the carriages
paused long enough for all to take a view.

“So that was the home of my grandparents and of our forefathers for—how
long, dear mamma?” inquired Odalite.

“Eight centuries, my dear. The round tower that you see is the oldest
part of the edifice, and was built by Kedrik of Enderbee in the year
950.”

“Lord, what a fine time the rats, mice, bats, owls, rooks and ghosts
must have in it!” remarked Wynnette.

“It is like a picture in a Christmas ghost story,” said Elva.

“It seems like Aunt Sukey was reading it all to me out of a novel by the
evening fire at Grove Hill,” mused Rosemary.

“Go on,” said Mr. Force.

And the carriages started again.

The road, still running along the top of the cliff, turned gradually
more and more to the left until its course verged from the north to the
northwest, and then to the west, as it entered upon the long, high point
of land upon which stood the castle. The road now began to ascend
another steep, paved with stones on edge to make a hold for the horses’
feet in climbing, and at length entered a sort of alley between huge
stone walls that rose higher and higher on either side as the road
ascended, until it reached a heavy gateway flanked with towers, between
which, and over the gateway, hung the spiked and rusting iron
portcullis, looking as if it were ready, at the touch of a spring, to
fall and impale any audacious intruder who might pass beneath it. But it
was fast rusted into its place, where it had been stationary for ages.

“I wonder who was the last warder that raised this portcullis?” mused
Wynnette.

“I cannot tell you, my dear. It has not been moved in the memory of
man,” replied Mrs. Force.

“I see ghosts again!” exclaimed Wynnette—“men-at-arms on yonder
battlements! Knights, squires and pursuivants in the courtyard here! Oh,
what a haunted hole is this!”

They entered a quadrangular courtyard paved with flagstones, inclosed by
stone buildings, and having at each of the four corners a strong tower.

The front building, through which they had passed by the ascending road,
was the most ancient part of the castle and faced the sea. But in the
rear of that was the more recent structure, used as the dwelling of the
earl and his household. This modern building also faced the sea, on the
other side, but it could not be approached from the cliff road except
through the front. These buildings were not used at all. They were given
over to the denizens objected to by Wynnette—to rats, mice, bats, owls
and rooks, and—perhaps ghosts.

On either side the buildings were used as quarters for the servants and
offices for the household.

They drove through the courtyard, under an archway in the wall of the
modern building, and out to the front entrance, facing the open sea.

Many steps led from the pavement up to the massive oaken doors, flanked
by huge pillars of stone, that gave admittance to the building.

The coachman left his box, went up these stairs and knocked.

The double doors swung open.

Mr. Force alighted and handed out his wife and two elder daughters,
while Le performed the same service for Elva and Rosemary, and the party
walked up the stairs to the open door.

A footman in the gray livery of Enderby bowed them in.




                              CHAPTER XXXI
                          MRS. FORCE’S BROTHER


A tall, fair, delicate-looking patrician of about forty years of age,
clothed in an India silk dressing gown, leaning on the arm of his
gray-haired valet, and further supporting himself by a gold-headed cane,
approached to welcome them.

“My sister—I am glad to see you, Elfrida,” he said, passing his cane
over to his valet and taking the lady by the hand to give her his
brotherly kiss. “Now present me to your husband and daughters, and to
these—young friends of yours. I am glad to see them all. Very glad.”

Mrs. Force introduced Mr. Force, Leonidas and the girls in turn.

Lord Enderby shook hands with each in succession, and heartily welcomed
them all to Enderby.

“You must take your place at the head of my bachelor household, Elfrida.
In the meantime, my housekeeper, Mrs. Kelsy here, will show you to your
rooms.”

As he spoke, an elderly woman, in her Sunday dress of black silk, with a
white net shoulder shawl and a white net cap, came from the rear of the
hall, courtesied, and said:

“My lady, this way, if you please.”

“Breakfast will be served as soon as you are ready for it, Elfrida,”
said the host, as, still leaning on the arm of his valet and supporting
himself by his cane, he turned and passed through a door on the right,
into his own sanctum.

Widely yawned the foot of the broad staircase, up which Mrs. Kelsy led
the guests of the house, to a vast upper hall, flanked with oaken doors
leading into a suit of apartments on either side.

The housekeeper opened a door on the right, saying:

“Here is a suit of five rooms, my lady, fitted up for yourself and the
young ladies. And here, on the opposite side, is a large room, with
dressing room attached, for the young gentlemen—Good Lord!!”

This sudden exclamation from the housekeeper was called forth by the
unexpected apparition of Gipsy, the negro maid, than whom no blacker
human being ever saw the light. Gipsy was as black as ink, as black as
ebony. Wynnette declared that charcoal made a light-colored mark on her.
But aside from her complexion, Gipsy was a good-looking girl, with
laughing black eyes, and laughing lips that disclosed fine white teeth.

“This is my maid, Zipporah, but we call her Gipsy for convenience,” said
Mrs. Force.

“Oh, my lady! Will it bite? Can’t it talk? Is it vicious?” inquired the
Cumberland woman, who had never seen and scarcely ever heard of a negro,
and had the vaguest idea of dark-colored savages in distant parts of the
world, who were pagans and cannibals.

“She is a very good girl, and can read and write as well as any of us;
and she is, besides, a member of the Episcopal church at home, which is
the same as your Church of England here,” Mrs. Force explained.

“Yes, my lady. Certainly, my lady. I beg pardon, my lady, I am sure,”
said the housekeeper, in profuse apology; but still she did not seem
satisfied, but gave Gipsy a wide berth while she eyed her suspiciously.

Now Gipsy resented this sort of treatment; besides, she was a bit of a
wag; so every time her mistress’ back was turned she rolled up the
whites of her big eyes, curled up her large red lips, and snapped her
teeth together, in a way that made Kelsy’s blood run cold.

As soon as it was possible to do so, she made an excuse and left the
room.

“Where is Dickon?” inquired Mr. Force.

“He’s round at the kennel with the dog. Joshua won’t make friends ’long
o’ none of the grooms, nor likewise none o’ the doogs, so Dickon have to
stay ’long o’ him to keep him quiet,” said Gipsy.

Mr. Force groaned.

“Now everything is going to be laid on that poor dog! Gipsy, I won’t
give you my crimson silk dress when I have done with it, just for that.
Papa, I can help you to dress just as well as Dickon can—and a great
deal better, too. I can fix your shaving things and hair brushes, and
lay out your clothes myself!” exclaimed Wynnette.

“My dear, I think you had better prepare for breakfast,” said her
mother.

“Mother, we can’t do much preparing, as our trunks have not been brought
up.”

“Take off your duster, my dear, and wash your face and hands, and brush
your hair,” suggested Mrs. Force.

“I suppose these two rooms are yours and papa’s, but which are ours?”

Mrs. Force walked through the whole suit, and finally assigned a room
next to her own to Wynnette and Odalite, and another to Elva and
Rosemary.

What struck all these visitors was the heavy and rather gloomy character
of their apartments. Thick Brussels carpets, thick moreen window
curtains, and bed curtains of dull colors and dingy appearance, massive
bedsteads, bureaus, presses and chairs.

“And they call this the modern part of the castle! Oh, I know I shall
see ghosts!” said Wynnette.

When they were all ready, they went downstairs to the hall, all hung
with suits of armor, and decorated with arms, shields, spears, banners,
battle-axes, and so on, and with stags’ heads and other trophies of the
battlefield and the chase.

Here a footman showed them into the breakfast room, where the earl sat
waiting for them. Breakfast was served in a very few minutes.

After breakfast the whole party adjourned to the drawing room, a vast,
gloomy apartment with walls lined with old oil paintings, windows hung
with heavy, dark curtains; floor covered with a thick, dull carpet, and
filled up with massive furniture.

After they had been seated for a while, the earl arose, taking his cane
in one hand and the arm of his brother-in-law with the other, and said:

“I hope you will amuse yourselves as you please, my dears, and excuse
me: I wish to have a talk on family matters with your parents in the
library. If you would like to go over the house, call one of the maids
or the housekeeper to be your guide,” he concluded, as he left the room,
accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Force.

Odalite acted on her uncle’s suggestion, rang the bell, and requested to
see the housekeeper.

Mrs. Kelsy came, and on being requested, expressed her willingness to
show the young ladies over the house.

“And to the picture gallery first, if you please,” she said, as she led
the way across the hall to a long room on the opposite side.

Here were the family portraits.

“Odalite, here are the originals of all the ghosts I saw with my eyes
shut, on last night’s journey, and of all the ghosts I saw here on the
battlements and in the courtyard—all, all, all—men-at-arms, squires,
knights, lords and ladies. If they would but talk, what interesting
shades they would be!”

“Which, Wynnette? The ghosts or the pictures?”

“Either. Both. This, you say, Mrs. Kelsy, was Elfrida, Lady Enderby, my
mother’s mother? Why, I should have known it. How much she is like my
mother, and like Elva. And this is the second and last Lady Enderby? How
lovely, yet how fragile. She was mamma’s stepmother, and she died young,
leaving one delicate little boy, our uncle, the present earl. _Sic
transit_, and so forth.”

They spent an hour in the picture gallery, and then the housekeeper
proposed that they go into the library.

“But we cannot go there. Papa, mamma and uncle are shut up there, in
close council,” said Odalite.

“Ah! Well, we will go upstairs, if you please, miss,” said Kelsy.

And upstairs they went. And all over the vast building they went,
finding only gloomy rooms, each one more depressing than the others.

“And now show me the room Queen Elizabeth slept in when on a visit to
Baron Ealon, of Enderby,” said Wynnette.

“Queen Elizabeth, miss! I never heard that Queen Elizabeth was ever in
this part of the country!” the housekeeper exclaimed.

Wynnette laughed.

“Oh, well, then,” she said, “show me the room that Alexander the Great,
or Julius Cæsar, or Napoleon Bonaparte, or George Washington slept in.”

“I—do not think I ever heard of any of these grandees stopping at
Enderby. But there is a room——”

“Yes, yes!” eagerly exclaimed Wynnette.

“Where the Young Pretender was hidden for days before he escaped to
France,” said the housekeeper.

“Oh, show us that room, Mrs. Kelsy,” said a chorus of voices.

The housekeeper took them down a long flight of stairs and along a dark
passage, and up another flight of stairs, and through a suit of
unfurnished apartments, to a large room in the rear of the main
building, whose black oak floor and whose paneled walls were bare, and
whose windows were curtainless.

In the middle of this room stood a huge bedstead, whose four posts were
the dragon supporters of the arms of Enderby and whose canopy was
surmounted by an earl’s coronet. The velvet hangings of this bedstead,
the brocade quilt and satin pillow cases had almost gone the way of all
perishable things.

“And the Young Pretender occupied this room?” inquired Rosemary,
reverently.

“Yes, miss, and it is kept just as he left it, except that the curtains
have been taken from the windows, because they had fallen into rags.”

“And he slept in this bed?” said Elva, timidly laying her hand upon the
sacred relic.

“Yes, miss, but I wouldn’t touch the quilt, if I was you. Bless you, it
would go to pieces if you were to handle it!”

“I would make a bonfire of every unhealthy mess in this room, if it were
mine!” said Wynnette.

The housekeeper looked at her in silent horror.

They lingered some time in “the pretender’s room.”

As they were leaving it, Wynnette said, at random:

“And now show us the haunted chamber, please.”

The housekeeper stopped short, turned pale and stared at the speaker.

“Who told you anything about the haunted room?” she inquired.

“Nobody did,” replied Wynnette, staring in her turn.

“How, then, did you know anything about it?”

“By inference. Given an old castle, inferred a haunted room. Come, now,
show it to us, dear Mrs. Kelsy.”

“No, you cannot see the haunted chamber, young miss. It has not been
opened for ten years or more.”

“Come! This is getting to be exciting, and I declare I will see it, if I
die for it,” said Wynnette.

“Not through my means, you will not, young lady. But there is the
luncheon bell, and we had better go down.”

They returned to the inhabited parts of the house, and were shown by the
housekeeper to the morning room, where the luncheon table was spread.

There they found Mr. and Mrs. Force. Their host had not yet joined them.

“My dear,” said Mr. Force, in a low voice, addressing Odalite, “we have
had a consultation in the library. It is almost certain that Lady Mary
Anglesea died one year before the time stated as that of her death. It
is best, however, that we go down to Angleton and search for evidence in
the church and mausoleum. Therefore, it is decided that Leonidas and
myself go to Lancashire to-morrow to investigate the facts, leaving your
mother, sisters, and self here. We shall only be absent for a few days.”

“Oh, papa! then you will take poor John Kirby’s letter and parcel to his
old father there? You see, they live only a few miles from Angleton,”
said Wynnette.

“Yes, dear, I will take them,” assented the squire. “And, Odalite, my
love,” he added, turning to his eldest daughter, “if all goes well we
shall have a merry marriage here at Enderby.”




                             CHAPTER XXXII
                           AN ANXIOUS SEARCH


Early the next morning Mr. Force, Leonidas and Wynnette, who begged to
make one of the party, left Enderby Castle for Lancashire.

The gray-haired coachman drove them in an open carriage to the
Nethermost Railway Station.

On this drive they retraced the road on the top of the cliffs which they
had traversed on the previous day.

They reached Nethermost just in time to jump on board the
“parliamentary,” a slow train—none but slow trains ever did stop at this
obscure and unfrequented station.

Mr. Force secured a first-class compartment for himself and party, and
they were soon comfortably seated and being whirled onward toward
Lancaster.

For some miles the road followed the line of the coast in a southerly
direction, and then diverged a little to the eastward until it reached
the ancient and picturesque town of Lancaster, perched upon its own hill
and crowned with its old castle, which dates back to the time of John of
Gaunt.

Here they left their train, and on consulting the local time-table in
the ticket office found that the next train on the branch line going to
the station nearest Angleton did not start until 3 P.M.

This, as it was now but 11 A.M., gave the party an opportunity of seeing
the town, as well as of getting a luncheon.

A chorus of voices offered cabs; but Mr. Force, waving them all away,
walked up the street of antiquated houses and brought his party to the
ancient inn of “The Royal Oak.”

Here he ordered luncheon, to be ready at two, and then set out with his
young people to walk through the town.

They climbed the hill and viewed the castle, now fallen from its ancient
glory of a royal fortress—not into ruin, but into deeper degradation as
the county jail. But the donjon keep, King John’s Tower, and John of
Gaunt’s Gate remain as of old.

They next visited the old parish church of St. Mary’s, where they saw
some wonderful stained glass windows, brass statuary, and oak carvings
of a date to which the memory of man reached not back.

They could only gaze upon the outside of the cotton and silk factories
and the iron foundries before the clock in the church tower struck two,
and they returned to the hotel for lunch.

At three o’clock they took the train for Angleton.

Their course now lay eastward through many a mile of the manufacturing
districts, and then entered a moorland, waste and sparsely inhabited,
stretching eastward to the range of mountains known in local phraseology
as “England’s Backbone.”

It was six o’clock on a warm June afternoon when the slow train stopped
at a little, lonely station, in the midst of a moor, where there was not
another house anywhere in sight.

Here our travelers left their compartment and came out upon the
platform, carpetbags in hand; and the train went on its way.

Our party paused on the platform, looking about them.

On their right hand stood the station, a small, strong building of stone
with two rooms and a ticket office. Behind that the moor stretched out
in unbroken solitude to the horizon.

On their left hand was the track of the railroad, and beyond that the
moor rolling into low hills, toward the distant range of mountains.

There was not a vehicle of any sort in sight; and there were but two
human beings besides themselves on the spot—one was the ticket agent and
the other the railway porter.

Mr. Force spoke to the latter.

“Where can I get a carriage to take my party on to Angleton?”

The man, a red, shock-haired rustic, stared at the questioner a minute
before answering.

“Noa whurr, maister, leaf it be at t’ Whoit Coo.”

“And where is the White Cow?” inquired the gentleman.

The rustic stretched his arm out and pointed due east.

Mr. Force strained his eyes in that direction, but at first could see
nothing but the moor stretching out in the distance and rolling into
hills as it reached the range of mountains.

“Papa,” said Wynnette, who was straining her eyes also, “I think I see
the place. I know I see a curl of smoke and the top of a chimney, and
the peak of a gable-end roof. I think the rise of the ground prevents
our seeing more.”

“Oie, oie, yon’s t’ Whoit Coo,” assented the porter.

“How far is it from here?” inquired Mr. Force.

“Taw mulls, maister.”

“Can you go there and bring us a carriage of some sort? I will pay you
well for your trouble,” said Mr. Force.

“Naw, maister. Oi’ mawn’t leave t’ stution.”

“Uncle!” exclaimed Le, “I can go and bring you a carriage in no time.
You take Wynnette into the house and wait for me.”

And without more ado Le ran across the track and strode off across the
moor.

Mr. Force took Wynnette into the waiting room of the little wayside
station, where they sat down.

There was no carpet on the floor, no paper on the walls, no shades at
the windows, but against the walls were rows of wooden benches, and on
them large posters of railway and steamboat routes, hotels, watering
places, and so forth, and one picture of the winner of the last Derby.

They had scarcely time to get tired of waiting before Le came back with
the most wretched-looking turnout that ever tried to be a useful
conveyance.

It was a long cart covered with faded and torn black leather, and
furnished with wooden seats without cushions. Its harness was worn and
patched. But there was one comfort in the whole equipage—the horse was
in very good condition. It was a strong draught horse.

“I shall not have to cry for cruelty to animals, at any rate,” said
Wynnette, as her father helped her up into a seat.

“How far is it to Angleton?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver.

“Sux mulls, surr,” answered the man. “Sux mulls, if yur tek it cross t’
moor, but tun, ’round b’ t’ rood.”

“Is it very rough across the moor?” inquired Mr. Force.

“Muddlin’, maister,” replied the man.

“Go across the moor,” said the gentleman, as he stepped up into the
carriage.

Le followed him. The horse started and trudged on, jolting them over the
irons on the railway track and striking into the very worst country road
they had ever known.

Yes. It was rough riding across that moor, sitting on hard benches, in a
cart without springs, and drawn by a strong, hard-trotting horse.

Our travelers were jolted until their bones were sore before they
reached the first stopping place.

This was “‘The White Cow,” an old-fashioned inn, in a dip of the moor,
where the ground began to roll in hills and hollows toward the distant
mountains.

The house fronted east, and, as it lay basking in the late afternoon
summer sun, was very picturesque. Its steep, gable roof was of red
tiles, with tall, twisted chimneys, and projecting dormer windows; its
walls were of some dark, gray stone, with broad windows and doors, and a
great archway leading into the stable yard. A staff, with a swinging
sign, stood before the door.

The declining sun threw the shadow of the house in front of it; and in
this shade a pair of country laborers sat on a bench, with a table
before them. They were smoking short pipes and drinking beer, which
stood in pewter pots on the board.

This was the only sign of life and business about the still place.

As the cart drew up Mr. Force got out of it and helped his daughter to
alight.

Le followed them.

“I think we will go in the house and rest a while, and see if we can get
a decent cup of tea, my dear. We have had nothing since we left
Lancaster, at three o’clock, and it is now half-past seven. You must be
both tired and hungry,” said the squire, leading her in.

                         “‘I’m killed, sire,’”

responded Wynnette, misapplying a line from Browning, as she limped
along on her father’s arm.

The man who had driven them from the railway station, and whom after
developments proved to be waiter, hostler, groom and bootblack rolled
into one for the guests of the White Cow, left his horse and cart
standing and ran before Mr. Force to show the travelers into the house.

It was needless; but he did it.

They entered a broad hall paved with flagstones.

On the left of this an open door revealed the taproom, half full of
rustic workingmen, who were smoking, drinking, laughing and talking, and
whose forms loomed indistinctly through the thick smoke, tinted in one
corner like a golden mist by the horizontal rays of the setting sun that
streamed obliquely through the end window.

On the right another open door revealed a large low-ceiled parlor, with
whitewashed walls and sanded floor, a broad window in front filled with
flowering plants in pots, and a broad fireplace at the back filled with
evergreen boughs and cut paper flowers. On the walls were cheap colored
pictures, purporting to be portraits of the queen and members of the
royal family. Against the walls were ranged Windsor chairs. On the
mantelpiece stood an eight-day clock, flanked by a pair of sperm
candles, in brass candlesticks.

In the middle of the floor stood a square table, covered with a damask
cloth as white as new fallen snow, and so smooth and glossy, with such
sharp lines where it had been folded, that proved it to have been just
taken from the linen press and spread upon the table.

The house might be old-fashioned and somewhat dilapidated, not to say
tumble-down, as to its outward appearance; but this large, low-ceiled
room was clean, neat, fresh and fragrant as it was possible for a room
to be.

“This is pleasant, isn’t it, papa?” said Wynnette, as she stood by the
flowery window, threw off her brown straw hat, pulled off her gloves,
drew off her duster, put them all upon one chair and dropped herself
into another.

“Yes. If the tea proves as good as the room, we shall be content,”
replied Mr. Force.

The man-of-all-work, who had slipped out and put on a clean apron, and
taken up a clean towel, with magical expedition, now reappeared to take
orders.

“What would you please to have, sir?”

“Tea for the party, and anything else you have in the house that is good
to eat with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

And the waiter pulled the white tablecloth this way and that and
smoothed it with the palms of his hands, apparently for no other reason
than to prove his zeal, for he did not improve the cloth.

Mr. Force and Le walked out “to look around,” they said.




                             CHAPTER XXXIII
                                 A CLEW


The one maid-of-all-work came in and asked the young lady if she would
not like to go to a room and wash her face and hands.

Wynnette decidedly would like it, and said so.

The girl was a fresh, wholesome-looking English lass, with rosy cheeks
and rippling red hair. She wore a dark blue dress of some cheap woolen
material, with a white apron and white collar.

She led the young lady out into the hall again, and up a flight of broad
stone steps to an upper hall, and thence into a front bed chamber,
immediately over the parlor.

Here again were the whitewashed walls, clean bare floor, the broad,
white-shaded window, the open fireplace filled with evergreens, the
polished wooden chairs, ranged along the walls, and all the dainty
neatness of the room below. There were, besides, a white-curtained bed,
with a strip of carpet on each side of it; a white-draped dressing table
with an oval glass, and a white-covered washstand, with white china
basin and ewer. In a word, it was a pure, fresh, dainty, and fragrant
white room.

“Oh, what a nice place! Oh, how I should like to stay here to-night,
instead of going further!” exclaimed Wynnette, appreciatively.

The girl made no reply, but began to lay out towels on the washstand,
and to pour water from the ewer into the basin.

“This is a very lonesome country, though, isn’t it?” inquired Wynnette,
who was bound to talk.

“There’s not a many gentry, ma’am. There be mill hands and pitmen mostly
about here,” said the girl.

“Mill hands and pitmen! I saw no mills nor mines, either, as we drove
along.”

“No, ma’am; but they beant far off. The hills do hide them just about
here; but you might seen the high chimneys—I mean the tops of ’em and
the smoke.”

“Are they pitmen down there in the barroom?”

“In the taproom? Yes, ma’am. Mill hands, and farm hands, too. They do
come in at this hour for their beer and ’bacco.”

“Do you have many more customers besides these men?”

“Not ivery day, ma’am; but we hev the farmers on their way to Middlemoor
market stop here; and—and the gentry coming and going betwixt the
station and Fell Hall, or Middlemoor Court, or Anglewood Manor, ma’am.”

“How far is Anglewood Manor from this?”

“About five miles, ma’am.”

“‘Five!’ Why, I thought it wasn’t more than four. The coachman told us
it was only six from the station and we have come two.”

“That was Anglewood village, I reckon, ma’am. That is only four miles
from here; but Anglewood Manor is a short mile beyant that.”

“Ah! Who keeps this inn? There is no name on the sign.”

“No, ma’am. It’s ‘T’ Whoit Coo.’ It allers hev been ‘T’ Whoit Coo,’
ma’am.”

“But who keeps it?” persisted inquisitive Wynnette.

“Oo! Me mawther keeps it, iver sin’ feyther deed, ma’am. Mawther tends
bar hersen, and Jonah waits and waters horses, and cleans boots, and
does odd jobs, and I be chambermaid.”

“Ah! and who is Jonah?”

“Me brawther.”

“Ah! And so your mother, your brother, and yourself do all the work and
run the hotel?”

“Yes, ma’am. It would no pay us else,” replied the “Maid of the Inn,”
who seemed to be as much inclined to be communicative as Wynnette was to
be inquisitive.

“Oh, well, it is lucky that you are all able to do so. But you have not
told me your name yet.”

“Mine be Hetty Kirby, ma’am. Brawther Jonah’s be Jonah, and mawther’s be
the Widow Kirby,” definitely replied the girl.

“‘Kirby!’ Oh—why——Tell me, did you have a relation named John Kirby go
to America once upon a time?”

“Yes, ma’am, a long time ago, before I can remember, me Oncle John
Kirby, me feyther’s yo’ngest brawther, went there and never come back.”

“Oh! And—is your grandfather living?”

The “Maid of the Inn” stared. What was all this to the young lady?
Wynnette interpreted her look and explained:

“Because, if he is living, I have got a letter and a bundle for him from
his son in New York.”

“Oh, Law! hev you, though, ma’am? Look at thet, noo! What wonders in
this world. The grandfeyther is living, ma’am, but not in Moorton. He be
lately coom to dwell wi’ ‘is son Job, me Oncle Job, who be sexton at
Anglewood church.”

“Sexton at Anglewood church! Is your uncle sexton at Anglewood church?
And does your grandfather, old Mr. Kirby, live with him?”

The maid of the inn stared again. Why should this strange young lady
take so much interest in the Kirbys?

Again Wynnette interpreted her look, and explained:

“Because if your grandfather does live there, it will save us a journey
to Moorton, as we are going to Anglewood, and can give him the letter
and parcel without turning out of our way,” she said; but she was also
thinking that if this old Kirby, to whom she was bringing letters and
presents from his son in America, was the father of the sexton at
Anglewood church, an inmate of his cottage, and probably assistant in
his work, these circumstances might greatly facilitate their admission
into vaults and mausoleums which the party had come to see, but which
might otherwise have been closed to them.

“Oh, ma’am,” said Hetty, “would you mind letting mawther see the letter
and parcel?”

“No, certainly not; but I have no right to let her open either of them,
you know.”

“She shawnt, ma’am; but it wull do the mawther good to see the outside
’n ’em. And o’ Sunday, when she goes to church, she can see the
grandfeyther, and get to read t’ letter. And there be t’ bell, ma’am.
And we mun goo doon to tea.”

Wynnette was ready, and went downstairs, attended by the girl.

A dainty and delicious repast was spread upon the table. Tea, whose rich
aroma filled the room and proved its excellence, muffins, sally-lunns,
biscuits, buttered toast, rich milk, cream and butter, fried chicken,
poached eggs, sliced tongue and ham, radishes, pepper grass, cheese,
marmalade, jelly, pound cake and plum cake.

Wynnette’s eyes danced as she saw the feast.

“It is as good as a St. Mary’s county spread! And I couldn’t say more
for it if I were to talk all day!” she exclaimed, as she took her place
at the head of the table to pour out the tea.

Mr. Force asked a blessing, just as he would have done if he had been at
home, and then the three hungry travelers “fell to.”

“Father,” said Wynnette, when she had poured out the tea, which Hetty
began to hand around, “do you know the Widow Kirby who keeps this
hotel——”

“Inn, my dear—inn,” amended the squire. “I am so happy to find myself in
an old-fashioned inn that I protest against its being insulted with the
name of hotel.”

“All right, squire,” said Wynnette.

           “‘A sweet by any other smell would name as rose,’

or words to that effect. The landlady of this hostelry—I should say
tavern—I mean inn—the landlady of this inn is the Widow Kirby,
sister-in-law to the baggage master who took care of Joshua, and from
whom we brought the letter and parcel, you know. And this young person
is his niece, and the man who drove us here is his nephew. And his
brother is sexton at Anglewood Church, and his father lives there. Now!
What do you think of that?”

“We knew from the baggage master that the Kirbys lived in Lancashire, so
we need not be surprised to find them here.”

“But, papa, Lancashire is a large place.”

“My love, it has been said that the habitable globe is but a small
place, and we are always sure to meet some of the same people
everywhere.”

“Now, the widow wants to see the letter and the parcel—the outside of
them, I mean.”

“Well, there is no objection,” said the squire. And he made a move to
reach his valise.

But Le hastily anticipated him and brought it.

The kind-hearted squire unlocked the case, found the letter and the
parcel, and gave them into the hands of the young waitress.

“Oo! Thanky’, sir. Thanky’, ma’am. Thanky’,” she said, and continued to
say, bobbing courtesies, and turning over and staring at the letter and
the parcel as she took them out of the room.

“Wynnette, my dear, you find out everything; but you have missed your
vocation. You ought to have been a newspaper correspondent or a
detective.”

“I know it, papa. I know it!” exclaimed the girl, with a very
demonstrative sigh. “And that’s the complaint with most of us. We’re
nearly all out of place, and therefore in pain, like dislocated limbs.
And that’s what’s the matter with humanity. Almost all its members are
put out of joint.”

The rich glow of the summer sunset was slowly fading from the west.

Lights were brought in by the factotum, Jonah, who placed two on the tea
table, and then proceeded to light the two that stood upon the
mantelpiece.

Having done this, the man stood waiting orders.

“Have you put up the carriage?” inquired Mr. Force.

“Naw, maister. The carriage be waiting.”

“Well, then, you may just as well put it up. It is growing dark, and I
do not feel like crossing the moor at this time of night. We will stay
here, if you can let us have bedrooms.”

“Surely, maister, we ha’ rooms enough. I’ll call Hetty.”

The chambermaid was called, and bringing the letter and parcel, still
unopened, and her “mawther’s” duty and thanks to the gentlefolks for
letting her see the outside of them.

Hetty, on being interviewed on the subject of sleeping accommodations,
declared in effect that “The White Cow” could provide comfortable
quarters for the whole party, for if the two gentlemen would share the
double-bedded chamber over the taproom, the young lady could have the
large single-bedded chamber over the parlor.

“That will be perfectly lovely. I did long to sleep in that very room,
at least for one night,” said Wynnette, without waiting for any one else
to speak.

“All right, then. That will do. We will stay. Eh, Le?” said the squire,
turning to his young companion.

“Certainly, uncle. The half of a large bedded chamber is ample space for
one used to a hammock,” replied Le.

So it was settled, and as the travelers were fatigued, they retired
early.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV
                            ANGLEWOOD MANOR


Early the next morning our three travelers were astir.

They met in the neat parlor, where the air was delicious with the
fragrance of fresh white, pink and blue hyacinths that filled the flower
pots in the broad window.

They sat around the table, on which was arranged a breakfast that quite
equaled in excellence the tea of the evening before.

Jonah waited on the party.

“Is that elegant and commodious equipage which brought us here yesterday
the best thing in the way of a carriage that the White Cow can turn
out?” inquired Mr. Force, as he sipped his coffee.

“Beg pardon, maister?” said the man, with a puzzled look.

“Can’t you trot out a better trap than that old hurdle on wheels which
jolted us from the railway station yesterday?” demanded Wynnette.

“Beg pardon, ma’am?” said the man, with a bewildered look.

“We wish to know if you have not a better carriage than the one in which
we came here,” Le tried to explain.

“Naw, maister, t’ Whoit Coo hev naw much demand fo’ ’m. T’ gentry do
most come and go in their own, and send t’ same for or call t’ friends
in visiting,” the man replied, in a tone of apology.

“Very well. Have the cart at the door as soon as it can be brought here,
and bring me my bill.”

“Yes, maister.”

They all got up from the table.

“Papa,” said Wynnette, who was too well inclined to take the initiative
in most matters, “papa, I think if we can get our business done at the
manor to-day, we had better come back here to take supper and to sleep.
It seems to me that it would be much nicer than to stop at Angleton.”

“Wait until you see Angleton before you decide, my dear. You may find
the ‘Anglesea Arms’ as attractive as this inn,” replied the squire, who
was drawing on his railway duster—a needless operation, since there was
no more dust on the moor than could have been found on the sea.

“‘The Anglesea Arms,’ papa? No, thank you. The name is enough for me. I
would rather sit in the old cart all day and eat bread and cheese, and
sleep in the cart all night, gypsy fashion, than take rest or
refreshment at the Anglesea Arms,” exclaimed Wynnette.

“But, my dear, you are unjust. The inn has nothing to do with the man,
beyond the accident of having been on the land of his ancestors
centuries ago, and handed down the name from generation to generation.”

“Can’t help it, papa! I should feel—disgraced—there if I were to find
myself by any accident under the roof of the—Anglesea Arms.”

“Whe-ew-ew! Poor, old inn,” whistled Mr. Force.

Oh, no doubt he ought to have lectured his wilful little daughter; but
he did not. He was a child-spoiler, a chickpecked papa.

By this time they were ready to start.

Jonah brought the bill.

Mr. Force paid it, and gave the waiter half a crown.

Wynnette pulled his sleeve and whispered:

“Papa, give me half a sov. to tip the chambermaid. It’s the regular
thing, you know. I mean, papa, dear, that it is usual for ladies to
offer some such modest recognition of such young persons’ services.”

“What, my dear, have you no money?” inquired her father, looking at her
in some surprise.

                        “‘Oh, sir, you see me here,
                  A most poor woman, though a queen,’”

sighed Wynnette, in a very humble air, as she held out her open hand.

The squire poured into her palm some loose silver and one piece of
gold—the whole not amounting to so much as five dollars.

Wynnette thanked him and skipped out of the parlor to find Hetty.

She found her waiting just outside the door. Hetty was a very good girl
in her way; but she profited by the traditions of her class, and
generally was to be found waiting when ladies were leaving the inn.

Wynnette pressed the half sovereign into the hand of the girl. Wynnette
was a generous and extravagant little wretch, without the slightest idea
of the value of money, and therefore likely, in some opinions, to come
to poverty.

This half sovereign was about four times as much as the maid ever got
from the richest of the inn’s guests; and she courtesied about four
times as often in return.

“Small favors gratefully acknowledged, large ones in proportion,” seemed
to be her just and simple rule.

“Come, Wynnette. Come, my dear,” called her father, who was already in
the hall waiting for her.

In another minute the whole party were in the dilapidated carryall, and
the driver turned the horse’s head eastward into an almost invisible
roadway over the moor.

It was a splendid June morning. The sky was of a deep, clear sapphire
blue so seldom seen even on the sunniest days in England. The moor took
a darker shade of color from the sky, and the heather with which it was
thickly overgrown seemed of a deep, intense green. The ground rolled in
hills and dales, gradually rising higher and higher toward the range of
mountains on the eastern horizon, where the highest ridges were capped
with soft, snow-white clouds. As the sun rose higher, these clouds, as
well as the mountain sides, became tinted with the most delicate and
beautiful hues of rose, azure, emerald and gold, melting into each other
and forming the loveliest varieties of color, light and shade.

Yet in the vast solitude of the moor no human being or human dwelling
was to be seen.

The first sign of habitation was a thin spire which seemed to rise in
mid distance before them.

“What is that?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver.

“Thet, maister, be the steeple of old Anglewood Church.”

“Are we so near the manor, then?”

“Naw, sir. It be better’n three mulls off yet. You would naw see it,
only for the air is so clear the day.”

Wynnette craned her neck to look forward. But there was nothing to be
seen but the thin spire, as if drawn with pen and ink from the dark blue
heath to the deep blue sky.

As they went on, the spire became a steeple, and the steeple a tower,
and the tower a church.

As yet nothing but the church—darkly outlined against the background of
hills—was visible. They were now on the top of one of the rolling hills,
and could see it clearly.

“Is that church in the village of Angleton or in the manor of
Anglewood?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver.

“It be on t’ manor, maister. The village it be nearer t’ us, but being
in t’ hollow you can’t see it yet.”

“Ah!”

They went down the hill and through the hollow, came up the side of
another higher hill, and then looked down on the village of Angleton in
the vale at its foot.

On the top of the next hill stood the Old Church of Anglewood in full
view.

The driver stopped his horse while they looked at the village in the
vale and the church on the hill beyond.

“Wull I drive to the Anglesea Arms, maister?” inquired the driver, as he
set his horse in motion again.

“No,” replied the squire, in deference to Wynnette. He had “won his
spurs elsewhere,” no doubt, but the chickpecked papa was a little afraid
of his baby. “No; but I want to stop at the village for a few minutes.
Is there a newspaper published at Angleton?”

“Yes, sir. T’ Angleton _’Wertiser_ it be,” replied the man.

“Very well, then. Drive to the office of that paper.”

“Yes, maister.”

They were now descending a steep road, between low stone walls, leading
down into the main street of the village and past the one public house,
the one general store, the doctor’s office and surgery, the lawyer’s
office, and finally the printing and publishing office of the Angleton
_Advertiser_.

It was a two-storied stone building, evidently a dwelling house as well
as a printing office; for there were two doors—one apparently a private
door, leading into a narrow hall; the other the public door, broad and
rough, and leading into the business rooms. Besides the upper windows
were hung with Norfolk lace curtains and adorned with pots of geraniums,
while the lower windows were shaded with dust and draped with cobwebs,
and sustained above them the broad signboard—Angleton _Advertiser_.

When the carriage drew up before this building the three travelers
alighted and went in.

The driver of the vehicle remained in his seat in charge.

The party of three found themselves in a very dingy room, with a counter
on their right hand, at the nearest end of which a man stood writing at
a desk. At the furthest end a boy stood folding and wrapping papers.

“Is this the office of the Angleton _Advertiser_?” needlessly inquired
Mr. Force of the gentleman behind the desk.

“It is. What can I have the pleasure of doing for you, sir?” inquired
the latter.

“You are the proprietor?” half asserted, half inquired the squire.

“Proprietor, editor, printer and publisher,” answered the man, reaching
behind him and taking from a shelf a copy of his paper, which he offered
to his visitor, saying: “Out to-day, sir; and there’s my name.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Force, spreading the paper before him, and looking first
at the prospectus for the name of his new acquaintance.

“Can I be of any service to you, sir?” inquired the proprietor.

“Well, Mr. Purdy, I would like to have a few minutes talk with you, if
you are not too busy.”

“I am directing papers for the mail, but I am not pressed for time, as
the mail does not go until to-night.”

“Thank you,” said the squire, as a mere form, for there did not appear
to be any particular cause for gratitude. And he drew from his breast
pocket a certain copy of the Angleton _Advertiser_ and handed it to the
man, saying again: “Thank you, Mr. Purdy. My name is Force. I only wish
to ask you—and I hope without offense—what is the meaning of the
obituary notice of a living man that is published in the first column of
this paper?”

Purdy took the paper in a slow and dazed manner, and looked at the
column which Mr. Force pointed out to him.

And as he looked he stared and stared.

“I—I—don’t understand!” he said at last, looking from the paper up to
the face of his strange visitor.

“Neither do I understand, Mr. Purdy; but if we put our heads together
perhaps we may be able to do so,” replied Abel Force.

The printer turned the paper over and over, in and out, up and down,
and, lastly, back to the front page; and then he stared at the obituary
notice of his landlord.

“What do you make of it?” inquired Abel Force.

“I can’t make anything of it. But I think it will make a lunatic of me!
This is certainly my paper! I know my paper as well as I know my
children. This is certainly my paper—though it is an old one—and this is
the obituary notice of Col. Anglesea, who was alive and well at that
very time, and is so at this present, as I think.”

“How do you account for that?”

“I can’t account for it! If I weren’t a sound man, and a sober man, and
a wide-awake one, I should think I was drunk, or dreaming, or deranged.
It is quite beyond me, Mr. Force. This is my paper—I see it, and know
it—and this is an obituary notice of a living man that I never put in
there! I see and know that as well! But how to reconcile these two
contradictory facts, I don’t know. How did you come by that paper, if
you please?”

“It was sent to me by mail!”

“Well, well, well!”

“Have you a file of the Angleton _Advertiser_?”

“Of course I have, sir.”

“Let us look at it, then, and compare this paper with the paper of that
same date on the file.”

“Why, that is a good idea. And I shall only have to look at the copy of
August 20th in last year’s file. I’ll do it at once.”

The editor turned and took down a roller full of papers from the two
wooden pins on the wall behind him, and laid it upon the counter and
began to turn over the sheets.

“Here it is!” exclaimed Purdy, pulling out a paper and spreading it out
on the counter. “August 20th—and appears to be a facsimile of the one
you brought here, sir. Now let us lay them on the board side by side and
compare them.”

He took the file and hung it up again on the wall, to make room on the
counter. Then he spread out the two papers side by side, with their
first pages uppermost.

As he did so the boy who had been folding and wrapping papers at the
other end of the counter left his work and crept toward the two men.

“Oh! see this!” exclaimed the proprietor—“see this! The two papers are
facsimile in every letter and line, except in two places! See this! The
first column on the first page of the paper from the file is occupied by
the report of an agricultural fair at Middlemoor, and the same column in
the same edition of the paper, in the copy you brought, is filled with
the obituary of Col. Anglesea! And here! In the list of deaths on
another page, the first paragraph in this paper from the file is a
notice of the death of the Rev. Mr. Orton, our old vicar; and in the
copy of the same paper that you brought me the same space is taken up
with the notice of the death of Col. Anglesea. This is a very great
mystery!”

“Perhaps if you could recall all the incidents of the day on which this
paper was issued we might come to some solution of the problem,”
suggested Mr. Force.

“I don’t know that I could,” replied Purdy.

“Father,” said the boy—“father, I remember something queer about that
very day—I do.”




                              CHAPTER XXXV
                            A SECRET WITNESS


“You do? Come here, my son.”

The lad came up to the counter. He was a fine, wholesome-looking boy of
about fifteen years of age, with a fresh complexion, blue eyes, and
closely cut, light brown hair.

He bowed to the visitors and stood waiting for his father’s questions.

“You say you remember something about the twentieth of last August?”

“Why, I ought to, father, because it was something that happened
unexpectedly that day that caused me to be promoted from being a mere
’prentice in the printing room to being your helper here.”

“Oh! Ah! Let me see! That was—yes—the day I took you into the office was
the day Norton absconded, for his sudden desertion left me in the lurch.
And so, Mr. Force,” said the editor, turning to his visitor, “I took my
lad here, who had been learning to be a printer, on to help me. It was
only as a temporary accommodation of myself to circumstances that I took
him, for I intended to look up another assistant, but he proved himself
so capable that I have kept him on ever since, and saved the expense of
a journeyman.”

“Ah!” breathed Mr. Force, while Wynnette and Leonidas bent eagerly
forward to listen for further developments of the mystery.

“Won’t the young lady take a chair?” said Mr. Purdy; for the party had
been standing the whole time.

Leonidas drew the only chair in sight from the back of the passage
between the counter and the wall, and Wynnette bowed, and seated
herself.

“Could there have been any connection between the insertion of that
fraudulent notice and the sudden flight of your foreman?” inquired Mr.
Force.

“Looks like it,” said the editor, still being much puzzled. Then,
turning to his son, he inquired:

“Obed, do you think you can throw any light on this mystery? You know
what we are talking about, of course. You heard what this gentleman has
been telling me.”

“Yes, father.”

“Well, do you remember anything more about the events of that day—the
last that Norton was here?”

“Yes, father. And the more I think about it now, the better I understand
things that I didn’t think much of at the time.”

“What were these things, Obed?”

“Yes!” involuntarily muttered Mr. Force. “What?”

Wynnette and Leonidas almost held their breath.

Obed told his story:

“You know, father, when the last paper was taken off the press that
twentieth of August, Norton and I didn’t go to distributing the type,
either of us, but both came into the front office at your call to help
to fold and direct the papers, because the edition was a large one on
account of the agricultural fair. You remember that, father?”

“Yes, now you remind me of it.”

“And when the papers were all dispatched it was nearly dark, and you
went home, leaving Norton and myself to close up. The type was not
distributed, but left, as it often was, till the next day.”

“Our paper is a weekly, as you, perhaps, know, sir,” interpolated the
editor.

Mr. Force bowed.

The boy continued, now addressing the whole party:

“After father went out Norton said to me—and I remembered how surprised
I was at his sudden kindness, though it did not arouse my suspicion of
anything wrong—he said to me:

“‘You needn’t stop to-night, old man. I reckon I can clear up the
counter and shut up the office.’

“So I went home to supper, and told father that Norton had let me off.
You remember that, father?”

“Y-y-yes, now you remind me of it. But I don’t think I should remember
it even now if the event were not marked by the fact that I never saw
Norton from that night.”

“After supper,” continued the boy, “I went out to walk. The village
street is always very gay on Saturday night. All the mill hands have got
their week’s wages and are abroad, buying for Sunday, and the shops are
gay. I stayed out just to see them until the custom began to drop off
and the shutters to be put up. And then I started for home.”

“You needn’t think, sir, by that that my lad is the least bit wild. Obed
is as steady as a lamp-post, but after being shut up in the office all
day he must pull himself out a little by taking a walk, even though it
is night. I tell him to,” Mr. Purdy explained.

“Quite right,” assented Mr. Force.

Obed continued:

“Now, father, comes the strange part, which I didn’t think much of at
the time, but a great deal of now!”

“Go on, my boy.”

“When I came in sight of our printing office it was all closed up, the
heavy shutters up and the iron bars across them; but I saw a glimmer of
light through the chinks, and my first thought was fire, and I ran
around to the back and climbed over the wall and looked through a hole
that I knew was in the shutter of the back window, and there I saw——”

“Yes! yes!” exclaimed the editor, impatiently, as the boy had only
stopped to clear his throat.

“There I saw Norton as busy setting type as if the making up of the
paper was behindhand and he was working against time.”

“Ah!” breathed Abel Force.

“The gas jet was burning right in front of him, shining on his face and
on his work so I could see him quite plainly. I thought maybe he had
some job to do, and so it was all right; but just then a man came out of
the shadows of the room somewhere and leaned over him.”

“Who was it? Col. Anglesea?” hastily demanded Abel Force.

Obed stared, and then replied, somewhat indignantly:

“Col. Anglesea? Not likely, sir.”

“What sort of a man was it?” inquired Mr. Purdy, by way of diversion
from the Anglesea question.

“He was a gentleman, I should think, though,” said the boy,
apologetically. “He was a rather short, stout man with a red face and
light hair. I saw that much, for when he went up to Norton the gas jet
shone on him also, and I could see him plainly. He spoke with Norton for
a few minutes, and then went back somewhere into the darkness. I thought
maybe it was some one who wanted some little job of labels printed and
Norton was doing it for him. So I came away and went home.”

“Was that all?”

“Not quite. When we went to the office on Monday we found it closed,
though it was Norton’s place to have opened it an hour before. Father
and I opened it, and I went to the press to begin to distribute the
type, and found——”

The boy stopped to clear his throat again.

“Yes, yes, what did you find, my lad?”

“Why, that the first two columns of the first page were distributed.”

“Oh!”

“I wasn’t surprised at that a bit, and I never thought anything else
about it but that he—Norton—had already begun to distribute the type,
and had got that far and stopped. The rest of the type looked just as it
had been set. Father and I distributed the rest.”

“See how it is now, so far as the act goes; but I can see no motive for
it,” said the editor.

“I do not know much about printing,” remarked Abel Force; “but was it
not likely that on the Saturday night, when you and your son had gone
home, leaving the press and the type just as the last copy of the paper
had been taken from it, was it not possible that this man Norton may
have distributed the type that had been set up for the report of the
agricultural fair which had been struck off, and then set up this
fraudulent obituary notice and substituted it for the distributed
matter, and then struck off a few more copies of the paper?”

“Yes, sir; and that is just what has been done. But the motive, the
motive, that’s what puzzles me,” exclaimed the editor.

“The motive was to spread a false report of Col. Anglesea’s death in
America, where he had incurred some personal liabilities,” replied Mr.
Force.

John Purdy stared.

“In America—Col. Anglesea—liabilities? I think you must be mistaken,
sir.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Force did not wish to get into a discussion; he wished to
get information. “Have you any idea who the man could have been who was
in your printing office on that night?” he inquired.

“Not the least in the world, sir, except that it was not Col. Anglesea.
You take my word of honor for that.” Mr. Force bowed. He thought the
boy’s description of the man who was in the office with the printer that
night tallied perfectly with the personal appearance of Anglesea as he
had known him, but he did not say so; he shunned disputes, so as to get
facts.

“Where was Col. Anglesea at this time?” he inquired.

“Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea, of Anglewood Manor, was at his home. He
was soon after appointed deputy lieutenant of the county,” replied
Purdy, with some vicarious dignity.

“Where is he now?”

“Abroad—traveling for his health, I think.”

“And—this man Norton, who must have set up the fraudulent obituary,
where is he?”

“Nobody knows. He never returned to the office. I never saw him, or
heard of him again. His was one of the cases of ‘Mysterious
Disappearance,’ and as such it was noticed in all the local papers. All
had different theories. The Middlemoor _Messenger_ thought that he had
been made away with by pitmen. The wretched pitmen get blamed for all
the undiscovered crime in the county. They live mostly in darkness, and
so people seem to believe that they ‘love darkness rather than light
because their deeds are evil.’ But this is not so.”

“And no clew was ever discovered to the fate of Norton?”

“None, sir. You see he was a single man, without any near relations, and
so the affair was soon forgotten.”

“Well,” said Abel Force, straightening himself up, “I thank you for the
information you have given me, and the opportunity you have afforded us
of comparing the fraudulent paper with that of the same date on your
file. This is your mailing day, and I must not detain you.”

“Come in at any time, sir; we shall be glad to see you. Making any stay
in this place, sir?”

“Thank you. No, only over the Sabbath. Good-day.”

“Good-day, sir.”

“Le,” said Mr. Force, as they re-entered the carriage, “we are on the
track of the fraud, but need not pursue it in the direction of that man
and boy. Now we will see what the tombstones have to tell us.”

“Where to now, maister?” inquired the driver, from his seat.

“To Anglewood Church, Anglewood Manor,” said Mr. Force.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI
                          ANGLEWOOD OLD CHURCH


Leaving the office of the Angleton _Advertiser_, and turning up the
village street, they repassed the blacksmith’s, the general dealer’s,
the doctor’s surgery, the lawyer’s office, the post office, the news
agency, and finally the Angleton Arms—an ancient hostelry, built of
stone, with strong walls, peaked roof, high chimney and low, broad,
latticed windows—which stood as on guard at the entrance of the hamlet.

Leaving the place at this point, they entered the road leading to
Anglewood Manor.

No pleasant, shady, grass-bordered country road was this, with vistas of
woods and waters, fields and farms. It was a white and arid highway,
running between gray stone walls, whose dread monotony was varied only
by the occasional branch of a tree over their tops, or of an iron gate,
or oaken door, in the sides.

“Whose property is this on the right and left of us?” inquired Mr. Force
of the driver.

“Thet on t’ roight, maister, be Middlemoor, t’ seat o’ t’ Arl o’
Middlemoor. Thet on t’ left be Fell Hall, t’ seat o’ Squoire Ogden,”
replied the man.

“What hateful roads!” exclaimed Wynnette. “I feel exactly as if we were
driving on between a madhouse and a jail!”

They were slowly going uphill now, and presently came to a lane on the
left, into which the carriage turned. Still on the left of the new way
was the low stone wall, but behind and above it was a green hedge of
Osage orange bushes, while opposite, on the right, was a lovely green
hedge of all the variety of bushes and brambles that grow outdoors in
that part of England.

“This is better,” said Wynnette, as they drove slowly on between the
green hedges.

“We be noo at back o’ Fell Hall. And yon’s t’ steeple o’ t’ church,” the
coachman volunteered to explain, as he pointed to the spire which rose
above a clump of trees on their left.

They soon reached the entrance of the churchyard and passed in.

The church stood on an eminence, which they had been gradually climbing
all the way from Angleton.

It was a very picturesque building of ancient English type—moss-grown
and ivy-covered from base to pinnacle, until not a bit of its walls or
roof could be seen. Many ancient gravestones, gray with age, sunk in
long grass and covered with moss, clustered around it.

“Is the church open to visitors?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver, as
they drew up to the closed and formidable-looking, iron-bound oaken
doors.

“Oy, maister! It be t’ show o’ t’ place, be Anglewood Old Church.”

They all alighted from the rough carriage and stood on the flagstones of
the church porch, and looked around them. The sun was in the west now,
and shining on the grass-grown yard and the moss-covered gravestones.

“Are any of the Anglesea family buried out here?” inquired Mr. Force.

“Oot here? Laird, no, maister! They be all in t’ vault. And none ha’
been put into t’ groond here, even of t’ common folk, in my toime! They
be took to t’ simitry.”

“To the cemetery?”

“Oy, maister, on t’ hill, over by yonder.”

“Ah! well! how are we to get into this building?”

“I’ll rin and get the key fra’ m’ oncle, Silas Kirby, t’ sexton.”

“And don’t you know, papa, we have got that letter and parcel from John
Kirby to his father?” said Wynnette.

“Yes, yes, my dear, I know.”

“Well, then, may we not go to the sexton ourselves?”

“I will see. How far is your uncle’s home from here?” inquired Mr. Force
of the driver.

“Whoy, joost by t’other gate o’ the churchyard,” replied the man.

“Then we will leave the carriage here and go across to his house, to
take something we have brought for your grandfather,” said Mr. Force.

“Oy, oy! t’ letter Oi heerd t’ mawther talk aboot. Coom along wi’ Oi,
maister. This be the way.”

Leaving the old carriage standing before the church door, the driver led
the way through the long grass, and in and out among the tombstones,
taking care not to step upon the graves, and so reached another gate
opening upon a sequestered lane and flanked by two buildings, one of
which was the sexton’s cottage, built of stone, with a steep roof, tall
chimneys and latticed windows, and, like the church, so moss-grown and
ivy-covered that only its doors and windows escaped the veil.

A tall, venerable, white-haired man, with a long white beard, sat in the
door, smoking, and apparently meditating.

“Grandfeyther,” said Jonah Kirby, addressing this patriarch, “here be a
gentleman from foreign pairts a bringing of a letter and news from Uncle
John.”

“Eh! eh! then, what be ye talking aboot, lad?” inquired the old man,
rising with difficulty, balancing himself, and bowing to the strangers.

Jonah Kirby repeated his introduction.

“Eh! My service to you, gentlefolks. A letter fra m’ lad in ’Merica! Eh!
Laird bless us!—a letter fra m’ lad, quotha?”

“Yes, Mr. Kirby, my little girl here has brought you a letter from your
son, John Kirby, who is a baggage master on a prosperous railroad in the
United States. She made his acquaintance on the train. Here, Wynnette,
my dear, give the old man his letter and parcel.”

The young girl handed both.

“Thanky, me leddy! Thanky koindly!” said the patriarch, sinking back in
his armchair; for between age, weakness and emotion he was no longer
able to stand.

“And ’ee saw me lad? And ’ee brought me this letter fra him? God bless
’ee, me leddy! God bless ’ee!” said the old man, in an earnest voice
which trembled with agitation, as he took the girl’s hand, made as if he
would have kissed it, but pressed it to his forehead and to his wet eyes
instead—“God bless ’ee, me leddy!”

“It was all through the dog,” said Wynnette. “He took care of my dear
dog for me, and fed him on the journey, and kept him from jumping off
the train and out of all danger.”

“Oy! oy! John was ever good to animals, and varry fond of dogs, was
John. And t’ lad’s doing well, ye say, me leddy?”

“Oh, yes. Read his letter,” said Wynnette.

“Oy, oy, to be sure. Here, Silas—Silas, lad—here be a letter fra furrin
pairts, fra your brawther John. Come hither, Silas—and bring chairs for
t’ gentlefolks. Ah! bad manners of me to be sitting while t’ gentlefolks
stand!” said the patriarch, striving to get upon his feet, but failing,
and sinking back.

“Pray do not disturb yourself,” said Mr. Force. “We do not wish to sit
down. We would like to see the inside of the old church, if your son,
the sexton, can show it to us.”

“Of coorse he can, and thet just noo. Silas, Silas, where be ye, and t’
gentlefolks waiting on ye?”

A tall, robust, tawny-headed and bearded man came out.

“Here’s a letter fra your brawther as t’ gentlefolks ha’ brought fra
furrin pairts. But ’ee can read it when ’ee coom back. Gae, noo, and
show t’ gentlefolks to Old Church. Coom here, Katie, me lass, and read
this letter to thy auld grandad.”

This last speech was addressed to a fair-haired girl of about sixteen,
who appeared at the door and courtesied to the strangers.

Silas Kirby, the sexton, bowed to the visitors, and in a few muffled
words intimated his readiness to oblige them, and walked on before,
swinging a large key in his hand.

When he reached the church door he put the key in the ponderous lock,
turned it with a great twist, and unlocked it with a loud noise.

The travelers entered an obscurity of rich light and shade from stained
glass windows, half-hidden in ivy, and glowing down upon dark oaken pews
and tessellated floor.

When their eyes became accustomed to the semidarkness, the travelers
went up toward the chancel, and saw the recumbent effigy of the founder
of the family of Anglesea, and memorial tablets of many of their
descendants.

Some little time was spent in reading the inscriptions upon these
monuments, and examining the paintings on the walls between the windows;
and then Mr. Force inquired:

“Is the monument of the late Lady Mary Anglesea in this church?”

“Noa, maister; not in the church.”

“Are her remains in the vault?”

“Loikely they be, maister. I ha’ not had occasion to go into t’ vault
since I coom to t’ parish.”

“Then you were no here when Lady Mary Anglesea died, then?”

“Noa, maister, I were not. That were in Goodman Prout’s time. But her
leddyship will be loikely i’ t’ vault.”

Saying this, the sexton took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door
on the right-hand side of the chancel, revealing a narrow flight of
stone steps leading into the crypt below.

All the party approached the opening.

“Wynnette, my dear, you had better not venture down. The air must be
very bad,” said Mr. Force.

“Nay, maister, none so bad as you think. There be many a gentleman’s
cellar far worse. There be windys—open windys—wi’ airn bars on each side
of the wall, and on each end of the wall even wi’ the ground, and though
they be some of ’em well choked up, yet for all that there be enough o’
them open to keep the air fresh i’ the vault. There be na fear,
maister,” said the sexton.

Mr. Force, standing at the head of the steps leading down into the
vault, felt for himself that there was no fear of foul air; the
atmosphere was as fresh, though a little damper, than that of the church
above.

The sexton unhooked a lantern that hung on a nail within the door, took
a match from his pocket, lighted the little lamp and walked before the
visitors down the steps.

The vault occupied all the space under the church, and it was provided
with stone tables ranged around the four walls.

The place was dimly visible by the daylight which struggled through the
ivy that half choked up the barred windows. This was strongest from the
west, from which the declining sun shot rays of golden light through
bars and ivy leaves, whose shadows flickered dimly on the stone tables
and on the leaden caskets they supported.

But it needed the additional light of the lantern by which to read the
inscription on the latter.

Mr. Force began at the casket nearest the foot of the stairs and read
the name—Alexander d’Anglesay, 1250; Malcolm d’Anglesay, A. D.—the rest
worn out; Dame Margery d’An—the rest illegible—see, 1090—the rest gone.

“On this side must be the oldest caskets; let us try the other,” said
Mr. Force, crossing over to the opposite row, followed by the sexton
carrying the lantern, and beginning to read the inscriptions:

“Ah! Richard Anglesea, born July 1, 1801, died January 31, 1850; aged 49
years. Ah! that was the father of an unworthy son! Fell gallantly at the
head of his regiment in the battle of——What is that you say, Le?” Mr.
Force broke off from his remarks to attend to the words of his young
companion.

“I have looked at every casket, uncle! That of Lady Mary Anglesea is not
in the vault,” said the young man, with a sigh of disappointment.

“Not, Le! Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, uncle.”

“It is not here, papa! I have looked at every one with Le, and it is not
among them,” added Wynnette.

Yet Mr. Force would not be satisfied, but went round to every casket,
attended by the sexton carrying the lantern, by the light of which they
read every inscription, or what was left of the inscription; but found
no trace of Lady Mary Anglesea.

“We had as well give up the search here,” said Mr. Force.

“And where else should we look?” inquired Le, with a face of despair.

“The only other possible place will be the churchyard.”

“Oh, her leddyship will not be there, maister! Nabody has been interred
there this many a year. T’ parish officers will na’ allow it! They all
go to t’ simitry on t’ hill. Let alone one o’ t’ great family as never
was buried in t’ open churchyard! Oh! But noo I moind me, maister!”
exclaimed the man, with a sudden lightening of his face.

“What?” demanded Abel Force.

“And what a gey coote I was to forget it!”

“What?” again inquired Mr. Force.

“But it was all along of my thinking as you wanted to see t’ auld
church, and not the leddy’s munniment, as put me off the track,”
continued the man.

Mr. Force said no more, but waited for the sexton to explain himself in
his own way.

“Her leddyship’s body must be in t’ grand new musselman as the squire
had built to her memory. Eh, maister, I were not i’ the parish when t’
bootiful leddy deed; but the folk do say he took on a soight! Shet
himself up in t’ hoose after t’ funeral and wouldn’t see a soul! Had the
foine musselman built in the park and her laid in it! And then he betook
hisself to furrin pairts and never come home for years! Bother my wooden
head for not telling you first off; but you see, maister, I thought it
was t’ auld church you wanted and not the leddy’s munnimint.”

“Where is”—Abel Force could scarcely bring himself to utter the detested
name—“where is Col. Anglesea now?”

“Traveling, maister, in furrin lands. He coom home aboot a year ago, and
he was ’pointed leevetinint o’ t’ county. But he couldn’t abide the
manor since her leddyship deed, and so he resigned and went away again.
Eh, but he loved the ground she walked on, and couldn’t abear it after
she deed.”

Mr. Force, Wynnette and Leonidas listened to this with surprise and
incredulity. This was, indeed, a new view of Angus Anglesea’s character.

“Can the mausoleum in the park be seen?” inquired Abel Force.

“Varry loikely, maister. T’ whole place can be seen, for t’ matter of
that. T’ squoire let open t’ whole manor, hall and a’, to a’ that loike
to look at it. A free-hairted and free-handed gentleman be our squoire.”

Here was another revelation.

“Will you be our guide to the new mausoleum?” inquired Abel Force.

“Ay, maister. I’ll walk over and speak to the keeper, Proby, and meet
you at t’ musselman. Jonah will drive you over, maister. He knows t’ way
as well as I do myself.”




                             CHAPTER XXXVII
                          THE TOMB’S EVIDENCE


They crossed the churchyard again and entered the carriage. Jonah
mounted the box.

“Noo drive the gentlefolks to t’ east o’ t’ park, and roond by the
musselman. I’ll cut across through t’ brush and speak to t’ keeper, and
meet you there. It will be all roight, maister.”

With this the sexton struck off through the bushes that stood between
the church and the manor house.

The old carriage left the churchyard by the way it had come and entered
once more upon the lane, and turning eastward, drove on between green
hedges for about a quarter of a mile, when it reached a massive gate of
oak and iron, guarded by a porter’s lodge of stone in the same strong
style of building as the sexton’s cottage at the churchyard wall.

A tidy woman come out of the lodge, and seeing the old carriage, with
Jonah on the box, she smiled and nodded, and at once opened wide the
gates.

“Any one at the manor house, Mistress Dillon?” inquired Jonah.

“Noa, lad; none but t’ housekeeper and t’ servants,” replied the woman,
courtesying to “the gentlefolks” as the old carriage passed through the
gate and entered the long avenue leading through the park to the house.

This avenue was shaded by rows of gigantic old oak trees on each side,
whose branches met and intermingled overhead, so arching the way with a
thick roof of foliage.

“Oh, what a beautiful—what a majestic vista!” exclaimed Wynnette, with
more enthusiasm than she usually bestowed upon any object.

“It is very fine,” said her father. “There is nothing finer in their way
than these old English parks.”

Presently the carriage turned with the avenue in a curve, and suddenly
drew up before the manor house, which until that moment had been
concealed by the lofty trees around it.

Anglesea Manor was a huge oblong building of some gray stone, supported
at its corners by four square towers, each further strengthened by four
turrets, all of which added to the architectural beauty of the edifice.
There were three rows of lofty windows in the front. The lowest row was
divided in the middle by massive oaken doors, opening upon a stone
platform reached by seven stone steps.

“Oh-h-h!” breathed Wynnette, as she gazed on the fine old house. “To
think that such a palace as this should be the inheritance of such a
villain as he!”

The driver turned and looked at her with astonishment and some
indignation. Then checking himself, he said, in perfect simplicity:

“Oo! you don’t know, young leddy, I reckon—this place belongs to our
landlord, Col. Angus Anglesea.”

Then drawing up his horse, he inquired:

“Will you get out and go through the house, sir?”

“For Heaven’s sake, uncle, no—not yet. Let us go directly to the
mausoleum, and see the date that is on the tomb, and solve this doubt
that is intolerable,” pleaded Le.

“Very well, my dear boy; very well. Kirby, drive at once to the
mausoleum. We will see the house later,” said Mr. Force.

The man touched his hat and started his horse.

They turned into a grass-grown road winding in and out among magnificent
oaks that seemed the growth of many centuries, and that were probably
once parts of the primeval forest of Britain.

Presently they came upon the mausoleum. It stood between two fine oak
trees, and in front of a third, which formed its background. It was
built in the form of a Grecian temple and surrounded by a silver-plated
iron railing.

The carriage stopped and our tourists got out.

Le pushed on impetuously, opened the little gate, and stepped up to read
the inscription on the marble. He read it attentively, stopped, gazed at
it, read it again, and then turned away in silence.

“What is it, Le?” anxiously inquired Abel Force.

“It is—read it, uncle,” replied the young man, breaking down and turning
away.

Mr. Force entered the inclosure and read the inscription on the
mausoleum:

                                 MARY,
                    Beloved Wife of ANGUS ANGLESEA,
                          Died August 25, 18—,
                                AGED 49.

Mr. Force turned away without a word.

Wynnette entered the inclosure, read the inscription and came out in
perfect silence.

The driver of the old carriage and the sexton of the church, who had
only just now kept his promise and come up to join the party, stood a
little apart, not understanding the emotion of the strangers, attributed
it all to sympathy with the bereaved husband.

“Oo, ay, maister, it was a sorrowful day when her leddyship departed
this loife,” said Jonah Kirby, shaking his head—“a sorrowful day! I was
at t’ funeral, as in duty bound. T’ squoire were first mourner, and hed
to be present, though he were far from fit to stand. Laird Middlemoor,
his feyther-in-law, hed to hold him up. I never saw t’ squoire from the
day of t’ funeral until the day he took t’ train for Lunnun, when he
were going abroad to furrin pairts. And then he had gone away to nothing
but skin and bone! He came back about a year ago; but he couldn’t abear
the place, and went away again. Ah, poor gentleman!”

Le and his uncle looked at each other in wonder. Was this Angus Anglesea
of whom the man was speaking? who had reared this monument to the memory
of his “beloved wife”? Was this Angus Anglesea, whom every one praised?
And yet, who had gone abroad and deceived, betrayed, and robbed and
deserted the poor Californian widow? And how, indeed, could he have
married the Californian woman in St. Sebastian, on the first of August,
as Le had unquestionable evidence that he had done, and be present at
the death of his wife in the English manor house on the twenty-fifth of
the same month, as these people declared that he had been; and, again,
meet the Force family at Niagara early in the following September? It
might have been just possible by almost incredibly rapid transits.

“Had Col. Anglesea been abroad just before his wife’s death?” inquired
Abel Force of the driver, who knew more about the affairs of Anglewood
than the sexton, because the former had always lived at Angleton, and
the latter had only lately come to the parish.

“Oo, ay, maister, thet was the pity o’ ’t. The squoire hed been away a
month or more. He coom home only a week before her leddyship deed. And
he went away again after t’ funeral. He coom back again a year ago, but
he couldn’t abear to stay. So he put up t’ musselman to her memory and
went his way again. Ah, poor gentleman! He were a good gentleman, and a
wise and a brave one!”

“I cannot make it out,” murmured Abel Force.

“The man is drawing a long bow, papa! that’s all there is in it—I mean
he is telling romances in praise of his landlord. There cannot be a word
of truth in what he says,” said Wynnette.

Le said nothing. He seemed utterly crushed by the blow that had fallen
on him.

The carriage driver seemed not to hear or understand the murmured talk
between the father and daughter, but when it ceased he touched his hat
and asked:

“Wull I drive you to t’ manor house, noo, maister?”

“Yes, if you please,” returned Mr. Force, as he helped Wynnette to climb
up into the dilapidated “trap.”

“And what do your honor think o’ t’ musselman, maister?” inquired the
sexton, coming up and taking off his cap.

“It is a very fine specimen of both architecture and sculpture,” replied
Mr. Force.

The sexton smiled satisfaction, bowed and withdrew.

“I am puzzled, Le, and I think by going through the manor house I may
come to understand things better,” whispered Mr. Force to his young
companion.

But Le was too much depressed to answer, or to take any further interest
in the events of the day.

They turned and drove back through the beautiful park to the front of
the manor house, where the carriage drew up.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII
                       TALE TOLD BY THE PORTRAITS


“If you will give me leave, maister, I’ll go roond and speak to Mistress
Bolton, t’ hoosekeeper, and get her to coom and open t’ great door,”
said Jonah Kirby, as he got down from his seat and struck into a flagged
walk that led to the rear of the house.

“Le! Le! don’t look so down-hearted, dear boy! Remember, come what may,
my daughter shall never be the wife of Angus Anglesea! Come, come, cheer
up, lad!” said Abel Force, clapping his young companion on the back.

But Le’s only answer was a profound sigh.

“I think the best and shortest way out of our difficulty will be to go
back to America, have that man prosecuted for bigamy and robbery, and
sent to the State prison, and then have him divorced, if, indeed, he has
any claim whatever on Odalite. And I don’t see why you don’t take that
way,” said Wynnette.

“Because, my dearest dear,” answered her father, “to prosecute the man
would be to bring our darling Odalite’s name into too much publicity.
And, as for divorce, the very word is an offense to right-minded
people.”

“It is better than——”

But whatever Wynnette was about to say was cut short by the loud, harsh
turning of a key, and the noisy opening of the great door of Anglewood
Manor House.

Jonah Kirby appeared, accompanied by altogether the very largest woman
our travelers had ever seen in their lives, even at a traveling circus.

She appeared to be about forty years old, and was dressed in a very
full, light blue calico skirt, and loose basque of the same, that made
her look even larger than she was. She wore a high-crowned, book-muslin
cap, with a broad, blue ribbon around it. She carried in her hand a
formidable bunch of keys.

“She’s ‘fearfully and wonderfully’ huge, papa. And she will expect a
crown, and, maybe, half a guinea, for showing the house,” said Wynnette,
in a low tone.

By this time Jonah Kirby had come down the steps and up to the side of
the carriage.

“Mrs. Bolton, maister, and she’ll show t’ hoose with pleasure. She
always loikes to oblige t’ gentlefolks, she bed me say.”

“Papa, it must be half a guinea, and don’t you forget!” whispered
Wynnette, as she gave her hand to Kirby and allowed him to help her out
of the carriage.

Mr. Force and Le followed, and they all walked up the steps, to be met
by the enormous woman in blue, with many courtesies.

She led them at once into a vast stone hall, whose walls were hung with
ancient armor, battle-axes, crossbows, lances and other insignia of war;
and with horns, bugles, antlers, weapons and trophies of the chase, and
whose tessellated floor was covered with the skins of wild animals. From
the center of this hall a magnificent flight of stairs ascended, in
large, spiral circles, to the stained glass skylight in the roof.

There were handsome doors of solid oak on either side.

Mrs. Bolton paused in the middle of the hall and said:

“The doors on the right lead into the justice room, and the long dining
room; those on the left into the ballroom, which is the largest room,
three times told, in the house. There is nothing on this floor very
interesting except the antique furniture and the curiously carved
woodwork of the chimney pieces and doors.”

She spoke like a guide book, but presently added:

“Some gentlefolks, if they have a heap of time, like to look through
them, but many prefer the picture gallery and the library, and the
drawing rooms, which are all on the floor above and all very handsome.”

“We will go upstairs first, if you please; later, if we have time, we
will see the rooms down here,” said Abel Force.

The housekeeper led the way upstairs to the next landing, where they
came out upon the hall, whose walls were hung with antique tapestry, and
whose oaken floor was covered here and there with Persian rugs.

On every side handsome mahogany double doors led into apartments. Before
every door lay a rich Persian rug.

Mrs. Bolton opened a door on the left.

“The picture gallery, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, using her
formula, though there was but one lady present.

They entered a long, lofty room lighted from the roof. The walls were
hung with many pictures, so dark and dim with age that even the good
light failed to make their meanings intelligible to the spectators. Yet
these were considered the most valuable in the whole collection, and the
housekeeper, with great pride, gave the history of each, in something
like this style:

“Martyrdom of St. Stephen, ladies and gentlemen—painted by Leonardo da
Vinci, in the year of our Lord 1480, purchased at Milan in 1700 for five
thousand guineas, by Ralph d’Anglesea of Anglewood. A very rare picture,
no copy of it being in existence.”

Our party looked up and saw in a heavy, gilded frame, about five feet
square, a very dark, murky canvas, with a small smirch in the
middle—nothing more.

This was only a sample of a score of other priceless paintings,
invisible as to forms and unintelligible as to meanings, which the
housekeeper introduced to the visitors with much pride in the showing.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the family portraits,” said Mrs.
Bolton, passing under a lofty archway adorned by the Anglesea arms, and
leading the visitors into another compartment of the same gallery.

“Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a portrait of Kenneth d’Anglesea, year
800; very old.”

Our party looked at it and thought it was “very old”—a long brown smudge
crowned with an oval yellow smudge, all in a very dark ground, and
supposed to represent a human form—no more.

“And here, ladies and gentlemen, is Ethus d’Anglesea, year 950—also
old.”

Again the visitors agreed with the housekeeper. The figure was old and
almost invisible.

And so she went through a dozen or more of these earlier family
portraits, and came down at last to later periods, to crusaders in the
reign of Richard the Lion-hearted, by gradations down to courtiers in
the reign of Elizabeth, to cavaliers in the reigns of the unfortunate
Stuarts, to gallants in the reigns of the Georges, and finally down to
the ladies and gentlemen of the reign of Queen Victoria.

“Here, sir, is an excellent portrait of our present master, Col. Angus
Anglesea, and of his late lamented lady,” said the housekeeper, pausing
before two full length portraits that hung side by side, like companion
pictures, at the end of the gallery.

Our travelers paused before the pictures and gazed at them in silence
for some moments.

The portrait of Col. Anglesea was a very striking likeness. All our
party recognized it at once as such.

But how was this? Here was the form, face and complexion, perfect to a
curve of figure, perfect to a shade of color; yet the expression was
different. For whereas the expression of Anglesea’s face, as our friends
had known it, was either joyous, morose, or defiant, the character of
this face was grave, thoughtful and benevolent. Yet it was certainly the
portrait of Angus Anglesea.

Wynnette perceived the perplexity on the brows of her companions and
whispered:

“A two-faced, double-dealing as well as double-dyed, villain, papa! A
sanctimonious hypocrite at home and a brawling ruffian abroad!”

“I should scarcely take this to be the face of a hypocrite, my dear, or
of any other than of a good, wise and brave man; yet—yet it is all very
strange.”

Then they looked at the portrait of Lady Mary Anglesea, at which they
had only glanced before.

It was the counterfeit presentment of a lady whose beauty, or rather the
special character of whose beauty, at once riveted attention.

It was that of a tall, well-formed though rather delicate woman, with
sweet, pale, oval face, tender, serious brown eyes, and soft, rippling
brown hair that strayed in little, careless ringlets about her forehead
and temples, adding to the exquisite sweetness and pathos of the whole
presence.

“What a beautiful, beautiful creature! What lovely, lovely eyes!”
breathed Wynnette, gazing at the picture.

“Yes, young lady,” said the housekeeper, “and as good and wise as she
was beautiful. And when the lovely eyes closed on this world, be sure
they opened in heaven. And when the beautiful form was laid in the tomb
all the light seemed to have gone out of this world for us! It nearly
killed the master. And no wonder—no wonder!” said Mrs. Bolton, drawing a
large pocket handkerchief, that would have answered for a small
tablecloth, from her pocket and wiping her eyes.

Again Abel Force and Leonidas looked at each other.

“Ah, yes! They were a handsome pair!” said the housekeeper, with a sigh
that raised her mighty bosom as the wind raises the ocean—“a very
handsome pair, and the parting of ’em has been nigh the death of the
colonel,” she added, as she replaced her handkerchief in her pocket.

“And yet I have heard that he married again while he was abroad,” Mr.
Force could not refrain from saying.

“He!” exclaimed Mrs. Bolton, in a tone of indignant astonishment.

“Yes; there is no law against a widower marrying, is there?” replied
Abel Force, quietly.

“He! he marry again! Oh, sir, you are mistaken! He was more likely to
die than to marry! Whoever told you so, sir—begging your pardon—told a
most haynious falsehood!”

“I really hope he never did marry again.”

“He never did, sir, and he never will. He is true to her memory, and he
lives only for their son, who is at Eton. Now, sir, shall I show you the
library and the drawing rooms?”

Mr. Force bowed, and with his party followed the housekeeper from the
picture gallery to the hall and through that to the drawing rooms, into
which they only looked, for the apartment was fitted up in modern style
and all the furniture shrouded in brown holland.

The library was more interesting, and contained many rare black-letter
tomes, into which Abel Force would have liked to look, had time allowed.

The sun was setting and it was growing dusk in this grand and gloomy
mansion.

“We must go now, I think, my dear,” said Mr. Force, in a low voice, to
his daughter.

Wynnette drew him quite away from the group into the light of the great
oriel window of the library and whispered:

“Not a crown, nor a half sov., but a guinea, papa! a whole guinea for
all those thundering bouncers—I mean those romances she has told us
about the jolly old smoke-dried window shades and fire screens hung up
in frames for pictures of the ancestors, and called Kenneths and Ethuses
and things! Why, papa, those couldn’t have been portraits! There were no
painters in Britain at the time those are said to have lived. And then
about the Leonardo da Vinci picture! If he ever painted that it would be
in one of the great art galleries of the world! Not in a private
collection! Give her a guinea, papa! She can’t afford to lie so much for
less!”

“My dear, the woman only repeats what she has heard,” said Mr. Force.

They rejoined Le and the housekeeper.

Mr. Force thanked the good woman for her attention and left a generous
remuneration in her hand.

She courtesied and then saw them downstairs.

In the hall below she pointed out the full suits of armor worn by this
or that knight in such or such a battle; and the antlers of the stag
killed by this or that huntsman, in such or such a chase.

“Would your honor now like to look into the ballroom, or the long dining
room, or justice room?”

“No, thank you; it is getting late. We have to return to Angleton,”
replied Mr. Force.

And then each of the party, in turn, again thanked the housekeeper for
the pleasure she had given them and took leave of her.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX
                              “SMUGGLERY”


“Papa, dear,” said Wynnette as she re-entered the dilapidated carriage,
“we must go to the sexton’s cottage to bid good-by to the old man.”

“Yes, my dear. Kirby, go back to your father’s cottage before we turn
into the highroad,” said Mr. Force.

The carriage rattled on, and in a short time drew up before the sexton’s
lodge at the great gate of the churchyard.

The old man still sat before the door; but he was smoking, and his bald
head and long white beard were enveloped in smoke.

He took the pipe from his mouth the instant he heard the sound of wheels
and he held out his hand to welcome Wynnette as she ran up to him.

“Ah, my little leddy; I ha’ read the lad’s letter! Ah! I do get a letter
by mail fra’ ’m coome the first week on every month! But a letter
brought by a leddy’s hand and she ha’ seen him face to face mayhap
within a month! Ah! but that’s better!”

“I have seen your son and shaken hands with him, and talked to him for
hours, within twenty-three days,” said Wynnette, after making a rapid
calculation.

“Eh, now! is thet possible?”

“I rode on his train all day on the twenty-sixth of May, two days before
we sailed for England. And this, you know, is the eighteenth of June.”

“Eh, then! look at thet, noo! Only in twenty-three days! He’s not thet
far away, after all, is he, me leddy?”

“Oh, no. Why, it’s nothing! Only across ‘the big herring pond,’ you
know.”

The old man stared helplessly.

“That is what they call it for fun, because it is such a little matter
to go across it. Why, people say to each other when they meet on the
deck of a steamer: ‘Going across?’ And another will say: ‘Not to-day.’
So you see what a trifle it is.”

“So it must be, indeed, me little leddy. And your words ha’ comforted me
more than the counsels of his reverence. Such a little thing! ‘Go
across?’ ‘Not to-day.’ Yes, that is a comfort. And the good ’bacco is
another comfort. The ’bacco was in the parcel you brought me, me leddy;
and you couldn’t get such ’bacco as this—no, not for love, nor yet for
money—not if you was a dying for ’t! Why, the Yarl o’ Middlemoor would
be proud to smoke sich ’bacco—I know he would! It must ha’ cost a power
o’ money! I reckon my lad be getting rich over yonder, to send his
feyther sich ’bacco as this. And the duty on’t must a been staggering
loike!”

Here Wynnette started. She had not seen any duty paid on that tobacco;
nor, indeed, had the custom house officers at Liverpool seen the
tobacco; but she had not even thought of this before.

“And yet I ha’ a greater comfort even than this ’bacco as is fit for the
Turkey of All Constantinople to smoke. My lad writes as he is coming
over with his missus to see me next autumn. Thet’s the crooning comfort,
me leddy—thet’s the crooning comfort!”

Wynnete now took leave of the old man, and returned to her seat in the
carriage.

He arose with difficulty and stood up, bowing to the party, while Mr.
Force and Le raised their hats as the carriage drove off.

They returned upon their way, repassed the front of the old manor house,
now again closed up and gloomy, turned into the oak avenue, and in a few
minutes came to the great gate, which was opened by Mrs. Dillon, the
keeper of the lodge.

She smiled and courtesied as the old carriage passed.

Le, who was nearest to her, reached out his hand and dropped a piece of
silver in her palm.

She courtesied again. The carriage turned into the highroad and began
the journey back to Angleton.

The sun had set, and even the afterglow had faded from the western
horizon; yet still the long twilight of summer nights in these latitudes
prevailed, and the greater stars shone out one by one as they rattled
on, uphill and downhill, over the rolling moor, until at last they came
in view of the lights in the quiet village.

In ten minutes they entered the street, and passed under the archway of
the Anglesea Arms, the hungriest and weariest set of travelers who had
ever entered that ancient hostelry.

Jonah jumped from his seat and secured his horse.

Mr. Force alighted and handed out Wynnette. Le followed them. He had
scarcely spoken a word since leaving the mausoleum.

The landlady came out to meet them, in her Sunday gown of black silk,
and a new cap.

“I hope as you’ve hed a pleasant day, sir,” she said to Mr. Force, who
was the first to meet her.

“Thank you, madam. We have had a very hungry day, at any rate; and, if
you please, we would like just such a spread as you gave us last
evening,” replied Abel Force.

“You shall have it, sir. It will be on the table in twenty minutes.”

By this time they had reached the parlor and Mr. Force was pulling off
his gloves, when Wynnette said:

“Papa, I shall run up to my room and take off my things, and wash my
face, but I will be back in a little while.”

“Very well, my dear.”

Wynnette vanished.

Mr. Force sat down in the large armchair.

Le stood at the window and stared out at nothing whatever.

Jonah, in a clean white apron, and the official towel thrown over his
arm, came in, offered Mr. Force the Angleton _Advertiser_, and then
began to pull and stretch the perfectly smooth tablecloth this way and
that to show his zeal.

Presently he went out, and Wynnette returned to the room.

She glanced around, and, seeing no one present but her two companions,
drew a chair to her father’s side, threw herself into it and exclaimed:

“Oh, papa! I have been aching and burning and throbbing to tell you
something, but could not get a chance, because that man was always
present, and I was afraid he might inform on us and get us arrested, and
I didn’t know what the penalty might be—imprisonment and penal
servitude, perhaps. But, for all that, I am delighted—perfectly beside
myself with delight!”

“What are you talking of, Wynnette, my dear?”

“Here comes that man again. We must be cautious, though I could dance in
triumph,” said Wynnette.

At this moment Jonah re-entered the parlor with an ample waiter, on
which were piled the china, glass and cutlery, with which he hastened to
set the table.

When he had left the room again Wynnette continued in a mysterious
whisper:

“Papa, I have committed smugglery.”

“‘Smugglery,’ my dear. There’s no such word.”

“Well, then, there ought to be, and henceforth there is. I was born to
enrich the language, and—to commit smugglery. And I am proud and
delighted! But I should have been ever so much prouder and no end to be
delighted if I had intended to commit. But, ah me! It was an accident.
‘Some are born great; some achieve greatness; and some have greatness
thrust upon them,’ and others become great by accident. Such is my
case.”

“You rattle-trap, what are you talking about?”

“Smuggling, papa! That parcel I brought to old Mr. Kirby contained a tin
box of choice tobacco, and the duty is higher, and the excise law
stringent, and we never paid a cent!”

Mr. Force looked aghast, and then burst into a laugh.

“How did it happen, Wynnette?” he inquired, when he had done laughing.
“I did not know the thing was tobacco.”

“No more did I! I wish I had! But I didn’t. And the officer searched all
our trunks, and all our bags, and I carried that parcel in my hand, and
he never even looked at it! Oh! I am so proud of having smuggled that
tobacco! I wish I had intended it! But, henceforth, I do intend it! I
mean to smuggle every time I can get a chance—not for any profit to
myself, but for the principle of the thing! The Lord never made the
excise laws and so my conscience is not bound by them. And I never
helped to make them, and so my honor is not bound by them. But you,
papa, must keep them, because you have been a lawmaker.”

Wynnette’s discourse was cut short by the entrance of the waiter with
the supper, which he proceeded to arrange on the table.

“All ready, maister,” he said, with a flourish.

Wynnette took her seat at the head of the table to pour out the tea.

Mr. Force and Le sat down at opposite sides.

Jonah stayed until Mr. Force told him he need not wait. Then he went
out, and was met at the door by his sister Hester, who inquired:

“Wot was in t’ parcels t’ leddy carried to grandfeyther?”

“’Bacco, sent by Uncle John.”

“Oh! nawthing but ’bacco!” said the girl, in a tone of disappointment.

“There ain’t nothing better in this world nor ’bacco,” replied the boy,
as their voices passed out of hearing.

The travelers finished their supper and soon after retired for the
night.




                               CHAPTER XL
                              LE’S DESPAIR


It was a bright June morning when our small party of travelers, having
breakfasted well at the Anglesea Arms, and settled with the landlady,
once more entered the dilapidated one-horse carriage, to be driven to
the railway station.

As the front of the carriage was open, and every word spoken by the
travelers could be heard by the driver, there was but little
conversation indulged in except what related to the weather or the
scenery.

The drive over the moors, although, in the springless vehicle on the
rough up-and-down hill, it shook the passengers severely, was, in other
respects, very pleasant.

They reached the little way station in good time, and had only a few
moments to wait before the train came up.

Mr. Force was fortunate in securing a compartment for himself and his
companions; and it was not until they were all three seated within it
and the train was in motion again that any opportunity for private
conversation was given.

“Well, we have spent three days—I had nearly said we have lost three
days on our quest—and what have we gained?” gloomily inquired Mr. Force.
“Nothing apparently but the knowledge that the deepest-dyed villain in
the whole world enjoys in his own neighborhood the reputation of a
saint, a sage, a hero and a philanthropist rolled into one! It is very
curious that a man may be such an accomplished hypocrite all his life as
to deceive all his neighbors, and then to go off into a foreign country
and give reins to his evil nature and reveal himself as a pure devil!
Clearly he must have been in California when his wife was taken ill.
Clearly he married the Widow Wright during his wife’s lifetime, robbed
the dupe and fled back to England in time to play the hypocrite at Lady
Mary’s deathbed, and act chief mourner at her funeral; then, under
pretense that he could not bear the house where he missed her every
hour, hastened back to America, but, giving his dupe a wide berth, went
to the North instead of the South, and honored with his presence Niagara
Falls, where we——”

“‘Foregathered wi’ the de’il,’” put in Wynnette.

“True, my dear! We did! And we all suffered in consequence.” Then
turning to the young midshipman, who sat buried in his bitter thoughts,
he said: “Le, my dear boy, do not be so utterly cast down. There must be
some way out of this trouble, and we will try to find it. Let us do our
best and trust in Providence.”

The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently at this well-meant
piece of commonplace philosophy, as he replied:

“Yes, uncle, there is a way out of it, if you would only take it.”

“What way, Le?”

“The divorce court.”

“Le! The very word, divorce, is an offense to decent ears.”

“Uncle! the most straitlaced of all the Christian sects permit divorce
under certain circumstances. The Westminster Catechism, that strictest
of all moral and religious codes, provides for it.”

“If all the world’s church and state were to meet in convention and
provide for it I would have none of it—except—except—as the very last
resort; and then, Le, I should feel it as the very greatest humiliation
of my life.”

“Oh, uncle!”

“Listen, Le: Now that we know that Anglesea’s wife was living at the
time of his marriage with the Widow Wright, we also know that marriage
was unlawful; and now that we furthermore know that his wife was dead at
the time of his marriage with Odalite Force we also know that this last
marriage was lawful.”

“Uncle! uncle! I cannot bear——”

“One moment, Le. Do not be so impetuous. I said lawful—however wicked
and immoral. And because it was lawful, Le, my dear daughter is bound by
it, to a certain extent, and cannot form any matrimonial engagement
while this bond exists.”

“But, good Heaven, sir——”

“Patience, Le. Hear me out. But, because that marriage was wicked and
immoral, it shall never go a step further—it shall never be completed.
That villain shall never see or speak to my daughter again. I swear it
before high heaven! I shall keep Odalite at home under my own immediate
protection. If the scoundrel is not hanged or sent to the devil in some
other way before many years, I suppose I shall be compelled to advise my
daughter to seek relief from the law. She could get it without the
slightest difficulty.”

“But why not now?” pleaded the young man.

“Because of the humiliation. It will seem a less matter years hence.”

“And in the meantime,” said Le, bitterly, “I am to cherish murder in my
heart day and night by wishing that man dead!”

“Hush, Le, hush! Such thought is sin and leads to crime.”

Le said no more, but fell into a gloomy silence that lasted until the
train ran into Lancaster station.

They went to dine at the Royal Oak, and from that point Mr. Force
telegraphed to Enderby Castle for a carriage to meet the party in the
evening at Nethermost.

Then they took the afternoon train and started on their homeward
journey.

The sun was setting when they ran into the little wayside station.

A handsome open carriage, driven by the earl’s old coachman, awaited
them.

They entered it at once, and the coachman turned the horses’ heads and
began to ascend the graded and winding road that led up to the top of
the cliff, and then drove all along the edge of the precipice in the
direction of the castle.

It was a magnificent prospect, with the moors rolling off in hill and
vale, but always rising toward the range of mountains on the east; and
the ocean rolling away toward the western horizon, where the sky was
still aflame with the afterglow of the sunset; while straight before
them, though many miles distant up the coast, stretched out into the sea
the mighty promontory of Enderby Cliff, with the ruined border castle
standing on its crest, and the ocean beating at its base, while a few
yards nearer inland stood the latter building, which was the dwelling of
the earl and his household.

Wynnette had never been accused of artistic, poetic or romantic
tendencies, yet, gazing on that scene, she fell into thought, thence
into dream, finally into vision; and she saw passing before her, in a
long procession, tall and brawny, yellow-haired savages, clad in the
skins of wild beasts, and armed with heavy clubs, which they carried
over their shoulders; then barbarians in leathern jerkins, armed with
bows and arrows; rude soldiers with battle-axes and shields of tough
hide; then a splendid procession of mounted knights in helmets, shining
armor and gorgeous accouterments; ladies in long gowns of richest stuffs
and high headgear, that looked like long veils hoisted above the head on
a clothes prop; then trains of courtiers in plumed hats, full ruffs,
rich doublets and trunk hose; and ladies in close velvet caps and
cupid’s bow borders, large ruffs, long waists and enormous fardingales;
next a train of cavaliers, with flapping bonnets, flowing locks, velvet
coats and—

“Wynnette!”

It was the voice of her father that broke the spell and dispersed the
visionary train.

“Are you asleep, my dear?”

“N-n-no, papa; only dreaming dreams and seeing visions,” replied the
girl, rousing herself.

“Well, my dear, we are entering the castle courtyard.”

Wynnette looked out and saw that they were crossing the drawbridge that
had been down for centuries over a moat that had been dry for nearly as
long a period, and which was now thickly grown up in brushwood, and were
entering under the arch of the great portcullis, which had been up for
as many years as the drawbridge had been down and the moat had been dry.

They were in the middle of the hollow square that formed the courtyard
of the castle. They had entered on the north side. On the same side were
the stables, the kennels and the quarters for the outdoor servants.
Opposite to them, on the south side, were the conservatories and forcing
beds, protected by high walls. On the east side was the modern Enderby
Castle, where the earl and his household lived in modest comfort. But on
the west side, overhanging the terrible cliff, was the ancient Castle of
Enderby, not quite a ruin, but deserted and desolate, abandoned to wind
and wave, given over to bats and owls. At the foot of the awful rock the
thunder of the sea was heard day and night. Those who lived habitually
at the castle grew accustomed to it, but to temporary sojourners at
Enderby there was something weird and terrible in the unceasing thunder
of the sea against the rock. There was said to be a whirlpool through an
enormous cavern at the foot of the cliff, having many inlets and
outlets, and that the sea was drawn in and thrown out as by the sunken
head of a many-mouthed monster. However that might be, it is certain
that even in the finest weather, when the sea was calm everywhere else,
the tempest raged against Enderby Cliff.

“The very, very first thing that I do to-morrow shall be to explore that
old castle from top to bottom,” said Wynnette to herself, as the turning
of the carriage hid it from her view.




                              CHAPTER XLI
                         THE EARL’S PERPLEXITY


A footman was lighting the lamps in the hall when the party entered.

“Are all well in the house, Prout?” inquired Mr. Force.

“All well, sir. My lord is taking his afternoon nap. The ladies are not
down yet. The first dinner bell has just rung,” replied the man.

“Mamma and the girls are dressing for dinner, papa. I will just run up
and see,” said Wynnette, flying up the stairs.

“Then we had better go to our rooms at once, Le, and get some of the
dust of travel off us before we go to dinner,” said Mr. Force, as he
followed Wynnette upstairs, though in a more leisurely fashion. Perhaps
he was willing to put off, even for a few minutes, the painful task of
communicating his discouraging news to Odalite.

When Mr. Force reached his apartment he found Wynnette standing in the
middle of the room, under the hands of her mother’s ebony maid, Gipsy,
who was helping her off with her duster.

“Where is your mother, my dear?” he inquired.

“Oh, they are all gone down to the drawing room. Prout was mistaken in
thinking that they were not there. But, papa, I am not sorry! Bad news
will keep; because being already spoiled, it cannot spoil any more. And
now we must hurry and dress, or the porridge will be cold—I mean dinner
will be kept waiting,” and saying this, Wynnette caught up her hat and
duster, and, followed by Gipsy, passed into her own room, which she
occupied jointly with Odalite.

Mr. Force used such dispatch in dressing that he was the first one of
the three returning travelers who entered the drawing room.

He found no one present but Mrs. Force, Odalite, Elva and Rosemary.

Mrs. Force hurried to meet him, while Odalite stood pale and waiting,
and the two younger girls looked eagerly expectant.

“What news? What news?” anxiously inquired the lady. “Prout has just
told us of your return! What news? Oh, why don’t you answer, Abel?”

“My dear, because I have no good news to tell you,” he gravely replied.

Mrs. Force let go the hand she had seized and sank down upon the nearest
sofa.

Odalite turned away and bowed her head upon her hands.

Rosemary and Elva were both too much awed by the grief of their elders
even to come forward and greet the returned father and friend.

Nor did Mr. Force even observe the omission. His mind was absorbed by
thoughts of his daughter’s distress.

Mrs. Force was the first one to break the painful silence.

“Then it was all true as to the date of Anglesea’s first wife’s death?”
she inquired, in a faint voice.

“The date on Lady Mary’s tombstone is August 25, 18—,” gloomily replied
Mr. Force.

“Then the man’s marriage with Mrs. Wright on the first of the same
August is invalid?”

“As a matter of course.”

“And the ceremony begun, but not completed, with our daughter in the
following December gives Anglesea a shadow of a claim on Odalite?”

“A shadow of a claim only; yet a sufficiently dark and heavy and
oppressive shadow. And now, dear Elfrida, let us talk of something
else,” said Mr. Force, gravely.

“First, tell me about that fraudulent obituary notice in the Angleton
_Advertiser_. Did you find out how it was effected?” inquired the lady.

“Yes. On the evening of the twentieth of August, after the last copy of
the paper had been printed, and the whole edition sent off to its
various subscribers, the editor and proprietor, one Purdy, went home,
leaving the type undistributed on the press, and his pressman, one
Norton, in charge of the office. There was, besides, the editor’s young
son, whom Norton sent away. Later in the evening this Norton distributed
the type on the first two columns of the first page, and then was joined
by Angus Anglesea, who had furnished the manuscript for the false
obituary notice, and had bribed the printer to set it up and print it
off. So then several copies of the paper were thrown off, in all
respects like unto the regular edition of the day, with the exception of
the first two columns, in which the false obituary notice and memoir
were substituted for the report of an agricultural fair, or something of
the sort. And these last fraudulent copies were mailed at different
times to me. You see the motive! It was to entrap and humiliate us. The
same night, or the next morning, Norton absconded with the bribe he had
taken from Anglesea.”

“You know this to be true?”

“As well as I can know anything that I have not been an eye and ear
witness to. I will tell you how I unraveled the mystery when we have
more time. I wish to speak to Odalite now, my dear,” said Abel Force.

And he crossed to where his daughter stood, put his arm around her
waist, drew her to his heart, and said:

“Cheer up, my darling girl. You shall be as safe from all future
persecution by that scoundrel as if he were in the convict settlement of
Norfolk Island—where he ought to be. Try to forget all about him, my
dear, and remember only how much we all love you, and how much we are
anxious to do for your happiness.”

Odalite put her arms around her father’s neck, and kissed him in
silence, and smiled through her tears.

Rosemary and Elva now came up, and put out their hands to welcome the
travelers home.

Le came in, and almost in silence shook hands with his aunt and the two
younger girls, and then took the hand of Odalite, pressed it, dropped
it, and turned away to conceal his emotion.

Lastly entered the earl, leaning on the arm of his secretary.

He smilingly greeted the returning travelers, and hoped that they had
had a pleasant journey.

Fortunately the announcement of dinner prevented the necessity of a
reply. The earl gave his arm to his sister, smiling warmly, as he said:

“But it is you who must support me, my dear.”

And they led the way to the dining room.

Almost immediately after dinner, when the party returned to the drawing
room, Lord Enderby excused himself, and retired to his own apartments,
attended by his secretary and his valet.

Mr. and Mrs. Force, and the young people, remained in the drawing room,
where Mr. Force gave a more detailed account of his journey into
Lancashire, his researches at Anglewood, and all the circumstances that
led to the detection of the perpetrators of the obituary fraud.

“That is the way—or, rather, one way—in which false evidence can be
manufactured,” he said, in conclusion.

It was late before the excited family party retired to rest.

It was not until after breakfast the next morning, when the young people
had gone to take a walk on the edge of the cliff, and the three elders
were seated together in the library of the castle, that Mr. Force told
Lord Enderby the story of his journey into Lancashire, and its results.

The poor earl looked the image of distress and perplexity; his face,
that was always pale, grew paler; his frame, that was always infirm,
grew shaky; and his voice, always weak, became tremulous, as he said:

“I am amazed beyond all measure. I am grieved to the very soul. And—I am
all but incredulous. Angus Anglesea, my comrade in India! My
‘brother-in-arms,’ as I used fondly to call him. Angus Anglesea, the
very soul of truth and honor. Not overwise or prudent, but brave and
good to his heart’s core. I have not seen him for years, it is true; but
I had lost no faith in or affection for him. Circumstances have
separated us; but neither coldness nor distrust had estranged us. And
now you tell me, Force, that this man has radically, fundamentally
changed his very nature—his very self—that the man of pure truth, honor
and heroism has turned into an utter villain—a thief, a forger, a
bigamist, an unequaled scoundrel!”

The earl paused and groaned as in pain.

“I am sorry to grieve you, my lord, but I have brought unquestionable
proofs of the charges that I have made,” said Mr. Force.

“I admit the proofs; but, great heavens, that a man could so change in
so few years! My comrade in India! My friend, whom I loved as a brother!
Who could have thought it of him? Elfrida, you knew him in your youth.
Could you have believed this of him?”

“Not when I first met him in your company, my brother; but then I was a
very young girl, scarcely fifteen years of age, and the judgment of such
a girl on the merits of a young man, especially when he is a young
officer in a brilliant uniform, and with a more brilliant military
record, is not infallible, you know,” replied Mrs. Force, evasively.

“Yet you could not have believed this infamy of him.”

“No, certainly not,” replied the lady, more to soothe the nervous
invalid than to express her own convictions.

“Believe me, I am deeply grieved to have been the instrument of giving
you so much pain. I would not have told you had I not deemed it my duty
to do so; nor even under that impression had I supposed it would have
distressed you so much.”

“My dear Force, you were right to tell me, though the hearing gives me
sorrow—sorrow and perplexity, for I cannot reconcile the story you have
told and proved with all my previous knowledge of Anglesea. I wonder,
has he become insane? I did hear that he had been terribly affected by
the death of his wife, whom he adored. I was in Switzerland at the time,
and when I returned to England, in the autumn, I heard that he had gone
abroad. I think, perhaps, he may have become insane.”

“Perhaps so,” said Mr. Force, but he mentally added: “As much insane as,
and no more, than every criminal is insane—morally insane, but not,
therefore, irresponsible.”

“Force,” said the earl, “whatever may have been the cause of Anglesea’s
fall, your daughter Odalite must be released from her bonds.”




                              CHAPTER XLII
                             ENDERBY CASTLE


While their elders consulted together in the library the four young
girls, Odalite, Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary, accompanied by Le and
escorted by Joshua, walked across the courtyard, and entered the old
castle to explore its interior.

Le had in his hands a little guidebook to the castle and town of
Enderby, to which he referred from time to time.

Climbing over piles of rubbish, of fallen stones, covered with moss and
lichen, and half buried in rank growth of thistles and briers, they
entered an arched doorway, and found themselves upon the stone floor of
the great feudal castle hall, which had once re-echoed to the orgies of
the feudal baron and his rude retainers after a hunt, a foray, or a
battle, but now silent and abandoned to the birds of night and prey.

At one end of this hall was a great chimney—a chimney so vast that
within its walls, from foundation stone to roof, a modern New York
apartment house of seven floors might have been built, with full suits
of family rooms on every floor.

“And this is only the hall fireplace,” said Le. “The kitchen fireplace
is immediately below this, and still broader and deeper than this, but
we cannot get to it because it is buried in fallen stones and mortar. At
least, I mean, all entrance to that part of the castle is.”

They now noticed that the cavity of the deep chimney place was furnished
on each side with stone benches, built in with the masonry.

“Here,” said Le, “the wandering minstrel or the holy pilgrim, of the
olden time found warm seats in winter to thaw out their frozen limbs.”

Next they noticed that the hearth of the fireplace, raised about a foot
above the level of the floor, extended about a quarter of the length of
the hall itself.

“This,” said Le, “must be the dais for the upper portion of the table,
at which sat my lord baron, his family, his knights, and his guests,
while on each side of the lower part sat the retainers. But say! Here is
a trapdoor. Immediately under here must have stood my lord baron’s
chair. Let us look at that.”

Le referred to the guidebook, and read:

  “‘Immediately before the hall fireplace and on the elevated dais is a
  trapdoor connected with a walled-in shaft, descending through the
  castle kitchen under the hall, and into the ‘Dungeon of the Dark
  Death,’ under the foundations of the castle. In the rude days of the
  feudal system prisoners taken in war, or criminals convicted of high
  crime, were let down through that trapdoor into the Dungeon of the
  Dark Death, and never heard of more. And the lord of the castle held
  high festival above while his crushed victims perished below.’”

“Ur-r-r-r-r-r-r!” cried Wynnette, with a shudder. “That accounts for my
murderous instincts against Anglesea and other culprits. I inherit it
through my mother—from all these vindictive old vampires.”

“Oh, Le! let us go away. I don’t like it. I don’t like it!” pleaded
little Elva.

“No more do I,” said Rosemary.

“Stay,” said Le. “Here is something more about the place.” And he read:

  “‘This trapdoor has not been opened for more than fifty years.
  Tradition says that early in the last century a groom in the service
  of the lords of Enderby secretly married my lady’s maid, and as
  secretly murdered her and threw her body, together with that of her
  infant, down the shaft, for which crimes he was tried, condemned, and
  executed, and afterward hung in chains outside the wall of Carlisle
  Castle. The trapdoor was ordered to be riveted down by the then ruling
  Lord of Enderby, and has never since been raised.’”

“Ur-r-r-r-r-r-r!” again muttered Wynnette. “That’s worse than the
other.”

“Let us go away. Oh, I want to go away!” wailed Elva, trembling.

“Oh, please, please come away, Le,” pleaded Rosemary.

“Now just wait one moment, dears. You will not mind looking out of these
windows, loopholes, or whatever they are, that open through the
twelve-foot thickness of the outer wall. Great pyramids of Egypt, what
mighty builders were these men of old!” exclaimed Wynnette, walking off
toward the east side of the hall, where there were a row of windows six
feet high and four feet wide on the inner side, but diminishing into
mere slits on the outer side.

“Here the baron’s retainers could safely draw their bows and speed their
arrows through these loopholes at the besiegers without,” said Wynnette,
curiously examining the embrasures. “But, ah me, in times of peace what
a dark hall for the dame and her maidens.”

“Well, let us go on now,” said Le. “There is no means of entering the
lower portions of the building from the outside, but I suppose there
must be from the inside.”

So they left the hall by the side door and entered a corridor of solid
masonry, so dark that Le had to take a match and a coil of taper from
his pocket and strike a light.

This led them at last into a large circular room, with lofty but narrow
windows, through which the morning sun streamed, leaving oblong patches
of sunshine on the stone floor. A door on the side of the room, between
two of the windows, had fallen from its strong hinges, and the opening
was dark.

Le approached it, and discovered the top of a narrow flight of stairs
built in the thickness of the wall.

Le referred to his guidebook, and read:

  “‘Strong chamber in the round tower west of the great hall, ancient
  guardroom for men-at-arms. A secret staircase in the wall whose door
  was in former times concealed by the leathern hangings of the room,
  leads down to the torture chamber below.’

“Who will go down with me?” inquired Le.

“I will,” promptly answered Wynnette.

“And I,” added Odalite.

Elva and Rosemary would have shrunk from the adventure, but partly
driven by the fear of being left alone, and partly drawn by curiosity,
they consented to descend into the depths.

Le preceded the party with his lighted taper, and they followed him down
the steep and narrow stairs, and found themselves last in a dark,
circular room, with strong, iron-bound doors around its walls. Some of
these had fallen from their hinges, showing openings into still darker
recesses.

Le, with his taper, crept along the wall exploring these, and found them
to be dark cells, scarcely with space enough to hold a well-grown human
being. Many of them had rusting staples in the walls, with fragments of
broken iron chains attached.

Even the young midshipman shuddered and refrained from calling the
attention of his companions to the horror.

But he made more discoveries than these. Groping about the gloomy place
with his wax taper, he came upon various rusted and broken instruments
of torture, the thumbscrew, the iron boot, the rack, all of which he
recognized from the descriptions he had read of these articles
elsewhere; and there were other instruments that he had read of, yet
knew at sight to be of the same sort; so that at last, when he came upon
the grim headsman’s block, it was with a feeling of relief.

“What are those things, Le?” inquired Odalite, following him.

“Oh, rubbish, dear. Be careful where you step, you might fall over
them,” he replied. “And I think we had better leave this place and go to
the upper air now,” he added, groping along the walls to find the door
at the foot of the stairs down which they had come.

He found the place, but found also something that had escaped his
notice. It was a niche in the wall beside the door. The niche was about
six feet high and two feet broad; the opening was rough and ragged at
the sides, and there was a pile of rubbish at the foot, which on
examination proved to be fallen stones and mortar.

Le trimmed his taper until it gave a brighter light, and then referred
to his guidebook and unadvisedly read aloud from it:

  “‘In the Torture Chamber. Cunigunda. At the foot of the stairs leading
  down to this dreadful theater of mediæval punishment stands, in the
  right side of the wall, a curious niche, high and narrow, which was
  once the living grave of a lovely woman. About fifty years ago the
  closing front wall of this sepulcher fell and revealed a secret of
  centuries. A tradition of the castle tells of the sudden disappearance
  of the Lady Cunigunda of Enderby, the eldest daughter of the baron and
  the most beautiful woman of her time, for whose hand princes and
  nobles had sued in vain, because her affections had become fixed on a
  yeoman of my lord’s guard. In the spring of her youth and beauty she
  was mysteriously lost to the world. Her fate would never have been
  discovered had not the closing wall of the niche at the foot of the
  stairs in the torture chamber fallen and disclosed the upright
  skeleton and the stone tablet, upon which was cut, in old English
  letters, the following inscription:

                                CUNIGUNDA,

                  Who, for dishonoring her noble family
                By a secret marriage with a common yeoman,
              Was immured alive in the 20th year of her age,
                           January 24th, 1236.

                          _Requiescat in Pace._

  The poor bones, after six centuries, were coffined and consigned, with
  Christian rites, to the family vault at Enderby Church.’”

“I say, Le, what a perfectly devilish lot those old nobles were! I proud
of my ancestry! I would much rather know myself to be descended in a
direct line from Darwin’s monkeys,” said Wynnette.

“But, my dear, these men lived in a rude and barbarous age. Their
descendants in every generation have become more civilized and
enlightened, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. And I like the monkeys a great deal better as
forefathers!”

“Shall we try to find our way to the ‘Dungeon of the Dark Death’? You
know, it is under the kitchen which is under the great hall. But stop a
minute,” said Le: and he referred again to the guidebook, and then
added: “No, we cannot go there. There is no reaching it. The only
entrance into that deep perdition is by the trapdoor, on my lord baron’s
dais, and down the hollow, brick-walled shaft that runs through the
middle of the kitchen into the abyss below.”

“I am glad of it. Let us go to the upper light. Look at Elva!” said
Odalite, in an anxious tone.

Le turned the light of the taper on the little girl, and saw her
leaning, pale and faint and dumb, on the bosom of her sister.

“My poor, little frightened dove. Why, Elva, darling, what is the
matter?” tenderly inquired the midshipman.

The kind sympathy broke down the last remnant of the child’s
self-possession, and she broke into a gush of sobs and tears.

Le handed his taper to Wynnette and took Elva up in his arms, laid her
head over his shoulder, and carried her upstairs, followed by Odalite,
Wynnette and Rosemary.

In the sun and air Elva recovered herself, and the little party left the
ruins to return to the new castle.

“I wonder my Uncle Enderby does not have that dreadful old thing pulled
down,” piped Elva, in a pleading tone.

“Pulled down!” exclaimed Wynnette. “Why, that ancient castle is the
pride of his life. The modern one is nothing to be compared with it in
value. The oldest part of the ruin is said to be eight hundred years
old, while the modern castle is only a poor hundred and fifty. Why, he
would just as soon destroy his own pedigree and have it wiped out of the
royal and noble stud-book—I mean, omitted from ‘Burke’s Peerage’—as pull
down that ancient fortress. Why, child, you do not dream of its value.
You have not seen a quarter part of its historical attractions. If you
hadn’t flunked—I mean fainted, you poor, little soul—we should have gone
up the broad staircase leading from the hall to the staterooms
above—many of them in good preservation—and seen the chamber where King
Edward the First and Queen Eleanor slept, when resting on their journey
to Scotland. Also the other chamber where William Wallace was confined
under a strong guard when he was brought a prisoner to England. Well, I
don’t believe a word of it myself. I suppose all these old battle-ax
heroes that ever crossed the border are reported to have slept in every
border castle, from Solway Firth to the North Sea. Still, the old ruin
is very interesting indeed. And if the makers of the guidebooks like to
tell these stories, why, I like to look at the historical rooms.”

Wynnette’s last words brought them to the new castle, which they entered
just in time for luncheon, in the morning room.




                             CHAPTER XLIII
                      WYNNETTE’S STRANGE ADVENTURE


What ailed Wynnette?

That evening, while the family were all assembled in the drawing room
after dinner, she stole away and went to find the housekeeper.

The old woman was in her own sitting room, joining the servants’ hall.

Mrs. Kelsy welcomed the little lady, who had already become a great
favorite with her.

“I hope I don’t disturb you,” said Wynnette, deprecatingly.

“Dearie me, no, miss,” replied the housekeeper, rising and placing a
chair for her young visitor.

Wynnette thanked her and sat down.

“You have been over the old castle, I hear, Miss Wynnette,” said the old
woman.

“Yes, and I came here to get you to tell me all you know of that ancient
ruin. You have been housekeeper here for a long time, and you must know
lots about it.”

“Yes, my dear young lady, I have been here, girl and woman, for fifty
years. My mother was housekeeper here before me. I was still-room-maid
under until she died about twenty years ago, and I got her place,
through the kindness of the earl.”

“That must have been very agreeable to you, as you were so used to the
house.”

“It was, my dear young lady, it was.”

“And you must know lots of stories about the old castle.”

The housekeeper suddenly became silent and grave.

“And your mother must have known lots more than you did and told them to
you.”

The housekeeper looked solemn and reticent.

“Didn’t she, now? You might as well tell me. I am the niece of the earl,
and my mother is his heiress-presumptive.”

“Yes. I know that, young lady,” said Mrs. Kelsy, speaking at last.

“Well, then, you needn’t make a mystery of the matter to one of the
family, you know.”

“What is it that you wish to hear, Miss Wynnette?”

“Oh, any story of the old ruin, so that it is a really marrow-freezing,
blood-curdling, hair-raising story.”

“There is the guide to Enderby Castle, Miss Wynnette.”

“Oh, I know; but that contains only outlines—outlines traced in blood
and fire, to be sure, but still only outlines. I want a story with more
body in it. Come, now, that story of the Lady Cunigunda of Enderby, who
was the greatest beauty of her time, for whom kings and princes were
vainly breaking their hearts, and who was immured alive for marrying a
handsome soldier. Come, tell me all about her. That’s a darling.”

“My dear Miss Wynnette, I know no more about her than you do. Not a bit
more than what is printed in the guide. No, nor yet did my old mother,
rest her soul.”

“But, now, tell the truth. Does not the ghost of Lady Cunigunda haunt
the Round Tower in which she was immured?”

“Not as ever I heard of, my dear. Not as ever I heard of.”

“But, Mrs. Kelsy,” said Wynnette, solemnly, “I thought the old castle
was a venerable, historical building.”

“So it is, my dear. So it is. Nobody can gainsay that.”

“But, Mrs. Kelsy, no castle, however ancient, and however full of
legends of kings and princes and heroes and saints, can be even
respectable, much less venerable, unless it has its ghost.”

“Enderby Old Castle has its ghost, Miss Wynnette,” retorted the old
housekeeper, drawing herself up with dignity.

“Ah, I thought so! I knew so. Tell me about it, Mrs. Kelsy!” eagerly
exclaimed Wynnette.

“My dear, I cannot, especially to-night—especially to-night.”

“Why not to-night?”

“Because, my dear, this very night of the twentieth of June is the
anniversary of the murder of that poor young woman and her baby, when
her spirit always revisits the scene of her murder,” said the old woman,
solemnly.

“Do you mean—are you talking of the lady’s maid who was murdered by the
coachman, and whose body was thrown down the shaft in the castle hall?”
gravely inquired Wynnette.

“Hush, my dear. Hush! Don’t talk of it, or you may draw that perturbed
spirit even here.”

“You know all about that tragedy, then?” persisted Wynnette.

“My mother did, and told me. And people enough have seen the ghost in
the castle hall on this anniversary.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“Hush! Yes, once; and I never want to see it again. So that’s the last
word I will speak about it to-night. Some other time I’ll tell you all,
but not now. Not while her troubled spirit is abroad. Hush! What was
that?”

“Nothing but a sough of the wind.”

“Oh, I thought it was the sob of a woman. I thought it was her sob. Oh,
my dear, for the Lord’s sake, drop the subject,” pleaded the old woman.

“I will drop it this instant if you will promise to tell me all you know
some day soon,” whispered Wynnette.

“Yes, yes, I promise. Let a Sunday and a church service come between
this night and the story, and I will tell you on Monday,” said the
housekeeper, whom Wynnette’s persistence had brought to a state of great
nervous excitement.

The young girl then arose and bade the old woman good-night, and
returned to the drawing room, where she found all the family circle
about to separate and retire.

Wynnette went to the room which she shared with her eldest sister.

Odalite got ready and went to bed.

“Have you done with the light?” inquired Wynnette.

“Yes. Why?” inquired the elder sister.

“Because I want to turn it down low.”

“But are you not coming to bed?”

“Not yet. I wish to open the shutters and look out at the old castle by
moonlight. I will draw the curtains at the foot of your bed, so that the
beams may not keep you awake.”

“Oh, the moonlight would never disturb my slumbers, Wynnette,” said
Odalite.

Nevertheless, the younger girl went and drew the white dimity curtains
across the foot of the bed, which was facing the west window. Then
Wynnette turned down the light to a mere glow-worm size, and opened the
folding shutters of the window and sat down to look out at the prospect.

The moon was in its third quarter, had passed the meridian, and was now
halfway down the western hemisphere, and hung over the sea, above the
ruined castle on the cliff, illumining the scene with a weird light.

Wynnette looked down on the great square inclosure of the courtyard,
shut in by strong walls of mighty buildings on all four sides, the walls
of the ancient ruin being on the western side, directly opposite her
window. The courtyard was as secure and as clean as the carefully kept
interior of a barracks. And it was so quiet at this hour that the sound
of the sea, beating against the rocks at the base of the old ruin, was
heard as deafening thunder.

But Wynnette’s eyes were fixed on that row of ancient windows in the
ruined hall and looked like mere slits in the wall.

And now happened to the girl a very marvelous event. As she gazed on
these narrow openings they became illumined from within by a strange
light.

It was not from the moon, for the moon was far above, and would have to
be an hour lower to shed that light. Besides, it was a dark, red light,
like nothing on this earth.

Wynnette gazed and wondered—wondered and gazed. It was a steady light;
it never wavered or flickered, never brightened or faded.

Wynnette gazed and wondered—wondered and gazed, until, drawn by an
irresistible fascination, she arose slowly and turned from the window,
went past her sister’s bed, stooped over, saw that Odalite was fast
asleep, and then she softly opened the chamber door, passed out and
closed it behind her.

In the upper hall lights were always left burning low through the night.

By these Wynnette found her way down the grand staircase to the armorial
hall below.

Here, also, lights were burning low.

By these she found her way to the great west door in front, took down
the bars, unhooked the chain, drew back the bolts, and turned the heavy
key in the huge lock—all so noiselessly as to make her wonder, until she
remembered how well-oiled every lock, key, bolt and hinge was, to save
the nerves of the invalid earl.

She drew open the heavy doors and went out into the night.

The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, except where the old ruin some
yards in front cast its black shadow, for the moon was now behind it.

Everything was as still as death except the sea that thundered at the
foot of the cliff.

Wynnette felt no fear of material dangers. She knew that she was as safe
from harm as though she were in a fortress.

She went straight across the courtyard, drawing nearer and nearer to the
haunted castle; and as she approached it she gazed more intently at
those luridly lighted loopholes. And then, oh strange! the lights seemed
not to come from torch or candle, but from spectral eyes glaring forth
into the night, and drawing her on with an irresistible power. Wynnette
could not turn and fly; she was under a mighty spell, she must move
on—on—on—until she reached the pile of fallen stones around the castle
walls; and over these, climbing with difficulty and danger, still moving
on and on, until she reached the portals.

The great iron-bound oaken doors seemed now to be closed and secured
from within against intrusion, yet she was still drawn on so powerfully
that she pushed with all her strength against those mighty doors, but
with as little effect as if she had tried to move a mountain. When—

Suddenly the door opened, a cold hand seized her wrist, drew her in, and
the door closed.




                              CHAPTER XLIV
                   AT MIDNIGHT IN THE HAUNTED CASTLE


            A horrid specter rises on my sight
            Close to my side, plain and palpable
            In all clear seeming and close circumstance.
            What form is this? Oh, speak if voice thou hast!
            Tell me what sacrifice can soothe thy spirit,
            Can still the unquiet sleeper of the grave;
            For this most awful visitation is
            beyond endurance of the bravest soul
            In flesh and blood enrobed.—JOANNA BAILLIE.

Wynnette’s blood curdled. She would have cried out, but her organs of
speech seemed paralyzed. She would have struggled to free herself, but
the icy hand closed on her wrist like a fetter, and drew her on. She
could only pray mutely and hard.

She could see nothing before her, not even the fingers of frost that
closed around her wrist, and drew her on and on through the black
darkness.

Again she tried to cry out, but the sound of her voice died in her
throat. Again she tried to struggle, but the cold hand drew her on and
on with irresistible power.

Where was it taking her? Perhaps to the terrible trap opening into the
shaft leading down to the dread Dungeon of the Dark Death, under the
foundations of the castle.

Oh, if she could only cry out. Oh, if she could only tear herself away
from her horrible invisible captor. Oh, if she could but see where she
was. But her voice seemed palsied and her limbs paralyzed, while she was
drawn on and on through deepest darkness by an icy, invisible,
irresistible hand. On and on, now to the right, now to the left, now up
a few rugged steps, and now down and down into deeper depths of
darkness, if that were possible.

Once more Wynnette tried to cry out, but failed; tried to escape, but
failed; strained her eyes to see, but failed utterly in all attempts.

“It is a dream! It is a nightmare! Oh, if I could only scream so they
would hear me and come to me. Oh, father! Oh, mother! Oh, Lord, have
mercy on me!” her spirit cried, in her agony of terror, but no word came
from her frozen lips.

Down—down—down—into profounder abysms of blackness.

Where were they going? Under the foundations of the castle? Under the
bed of the sea? To the very center of the earth? Would they never stop
descending?

“Oh, what a fool I was to come here at midnight. Shall I ever get out of
this alive? Oh, no—never. Oh, what a horrible fate. Will they ever find
me or my body? Oh, no—never. How could they? Oh, my dear mother! Oh, my
dear father! What ever will you think has become of me—your wilful
Wynnette? My whole arm is freezing from the clasp of that icy hand
around my wrist. What is it going to do with me? But it is only a dream.
I know it is only a dream. A cruel, deadly nightmare. Oh, if I could
only scream. If I could only struggle and wake up. But I shall die in my
sleep here, and they will find me dead in the morning. Oh, Lord, forgive
my sins and save my soul. What was that?”

Suddenly the silence of that utter darkness was broken by a sound that
became a noise, a roar, a deafening thunder, and Wynnette, in the
anguish of her utter terror and helplessness, heard and knew the thunder
of the sea against the rocks. But the air was growing close, fetid,
sulphurous, suffocating.

“It is no nightmare. I hear the sea. It is breaking in mighty waves over
my head. Ah, my limbs are numb—my breath is gone—my brain is going. Oh,
if I could only cry out once. Mother! Mother!”

Then the darkness and the coldness as of death closed in, wrapped
around, and settled down upon her with the weight of the grave.

And for the time being Wynnette was dead and buried to all life, sense
and consciousness.

When Wynnette breathed again and opened her eyes she could not at once
recover her consciousness. The shock and strain upon her nervous system
had been too severe and protracted. She heard and saw as one half
asleep. She heard the awful reverberations of the thunder of the sea.
She saw around her blackness of darkness, relieved just in one spot, a
few yards distant from where she lay, by a small fire on the ground,
that smoldered in the foul air, and cast a lurid light but a few feet
around, and fell upon the face and form of a crouching figure squatted
near it.

It was a Rembrandt picture.

Wynnette watched it in weak, dull, stupid despair. Whether it was man,
woman, or even human being, she neither knew, nor cared, nor questioned.
Nor could any one else, even in the full possession of their senses,
have, at sight, classified the strange figure squatted by the low fire
in the subterranean abyss.

Wynnette was too stunned, dazed and weakened even to fear it.

And yet it was a dread, a frightful, a terrible form, tall and gaunt as
could be well known, even in that crouching attitude, by the length of
legs and arms. Its skin was like wrinkled parchment, and clung close to
its bones. Its face and features were strong and bony and sharp. The
eagle nose and the pointed chin nearly met over the sunken mouth.
Burning black eyes flashed and flamed under beetling brows. White hair,
parted over the top of the head, rolled in silver waves down over
shoulders and back. It wore but one garment, a dark red gown, with
sleeves that only reached to the elbow, and a skirt that only reached to
the knees. It was squatting, as we said before. Its knees were drawn up;
its long, gaunt, dark arms were around them, and the great claw-like
fingers were clasped upon them. The head was bent, but the blazing eyes
were fixed in a burning gaze upon the face of the recumbent girl.

As memory slowly awoke in the mind of the stupefied girl, she began to
recall some of the phases of her night’s adventure. When had it
happened? How long ago? An hour ago? A day? A year? A century? How long?
And where was she now? She dimly remembered when she died, and how she
died—how the faintness of death crept upon her; how her breath went and
then her sense, and then—nothingness.

But how long was that ago?

She could not think.

Where was she now?

She could not say.

Only one thing was certain. She had died, and she had come to a bad
place for her sins. She was in darkness. She was in—that awful pit of
utter despair whose name she could not bear to breathe to her own
spirit.

And that thing by the smoldering fire was her demon jailer!

Thus much was certainly true, she thought. And yet so dull and stupid
was she still that she did not care very much where she was, or even
wonder at her own insensibility.

At last, seeing that the creature by the fire still glared at her, she
tried to speak, and at length muttered the question:

“Who are you?”

“Nobody,” was the slow, soft answer, in a tone strangely sad and sweet
to come from such dried and withered lips.

“Are you—alive?” breathed Wynnette, in fearsome tones.

“Alive? Nay, babe, nor are you,” replied the same slow, sweet voice.

“I thought so; that is, I knew I was dead. But I thought maybe you
and—and—and—the other dev—I mean the other—I mean I thought the natives
of this place might be alive,” faltered Wynnette.

“Nay, child, I am dead as well as thou. We are both dead. But I have
been dead longer than thou! Ay, ay, many years than thou, I reckon; for
thou cannot be older than sixteen or seventeen, and I be ninety-seven.
Ay, ay, I ha’ been dead a long time.”

The voice that spoke those words was as tender and plaintive as the
notes of an Eolian harp.

“Are—we—are—we—in h—I mean, are we in the woeful place?”

“Yes, babe, we are in the woeful place. You and I and many, many, many
millions, and millions and millions of others are dead and buried, and
in the woeful place.”

“I feel as if I were alive, though. No, not quite; but almost alive,”
said Wynnette, first pinching her own arm and then setting her teeth in
it, and biting so hard that she only escaped breaking the skin.

“That’s a delusion, my baby. You are not alive, neither am I. But—they
are alive!” she cried, lifting and waving her arm.

“They? Who?” demanded Wynnette.

“They—the victims of hate, power, cruelty and despotism, whose ruined
earthly tabernacles lie all around us. All around us, like the broken
shells upon the seashore. They are alive! They are the martyrs of love
and truth; the martyrs of faith and freedom, of humanity. They are
alive, baby. They stand among that ‘great multitude, which no man could
number, of all nations and peoples and kindreds and tongues—before the
throne—clothed with white robes and palms in their hands.’ Ay, ay! They
are alive! But you and I—we are dead.”

“I—I think I understand,” said Wynnette, who was beginning to regain her
mental faculties and to recognize in her surroundings some subterranean
cave of the cliff, or crypt of the castle, and in her companion some
harmless lunatic. “We are in a sense dead and buried, and in a woeful
state; but where, in all this woeful state, are we now sitting?”

“Don’t ye ken, bairnie, we are in the place the tyrants called the
Dungeon of the Dark Death? And the heaps of gray and white lime that ye
see here—or ye might see, gin it were light enough—be the moldering
bones of their victims. And the latest victim of all was my lass! my
lass! But death could not hold her, nor darkness, nor coldness. She came
to life and ascended. She is a fair angel now—one of the fairest of
angels. But though she is alive and we are dead, she has not forgotten
us; but she comes on this day every year and visits our graves. I always
see her when she comes. I can see her through all the clods of the grave
that lie so heavy on my heart. Mayhap you may see her, too, baby; but I
don’t know, I don’t know,” murmured the plaintive voice, as the old
creature slowly shook her head.

“Does she—does she come here?” breathed Wynnette, in an awe-struck tone.

“Ay, she does; and every time she comes she shows me how her body was
murdered, and how herself came out of it alive. Look! look!” The woman
suddenly started up, crossed to the side of the girl, and clasped her
hand and held it fast, saying again: “Look! Listen!” and she pointed up
to the upper end of the cavern.

Now by what psychological law this weird old creature impressed her own
visions on the imagination of the girl, let the occult scientists
explain. I cannot pretend to do so.

But as Wynnette looked and listened, there came a whir-r-r-r through the
air, and a thud-d-d upon the distant ground, and the form of a young
woman and a child lay there.

Wynnette tried to shriek, but her voice died in her throat.

“You see her?” murmured the old woman.

Wynnette tried to speak, but failed.

“Watch!” said the crone.

Wynnette watched, breathlessly, her senses reeling. The shape presently
began to change as clouds change, from form to form, and presently to
arise like a pillar of mist, and take the form of a woman, young, fair,
angelic, with an infant pressed to her bosom, and with heavenward gaze,
slowly ascending in a path of light, which faded as she disappeared.

“There, she has gone! and we will go,” said the crone, as she tightened
her grasp on the girl’s hand and drew her away.

No longer terrified, but awed, confused, bewildered, Wynnette allowed
herself to be passively drawn away, and they began to toil up from the
depths. Wynnette thought of Dante’s return from the Inferno, when he
“saw the stars again.”

At length, more dead than alive, she began to realize, that though they
were still in darkness, they were creeping over level ground or a stone
floor. They were stealing along a dark and narrow passage, as she
thought; for once when she stretched out her hand at arm’s length she
felt the damp stone wall.

Presently, far off ahead of them, she saw the faint glimmer of a red
light. As they drew nearer to this, she saw that it came through the
chinks of an ill-fitting door.

When they reached the door the crone opened it, and Wynnette recognized,
with feelings of relief, the great hall of the castle, and knew that
they were above ground.

A fire of faggots burned on the flagstones, and burned more clearly in
the freer air than had that smoldering, smoking heap of rubbish in the
subterranean dungeon below.

The beldame drew the girl toward the fire, where there lay near by a
pile of rushes.

“Sit ye down here, lass, and rest,” she said, as she herself dropped in
a heap upon the rushes.

“I—I want to go home,” whimpered Wynnette, in the tone of a frightened
child.

“Nay, bairn, thou wants to hear the story of my lass, and none but I can
tell it. Not yon woman up in the new castle, for she but repeats the
lies she has been told, and she believes. None but I can tell the true
story. Sit ye down, bairn, and hear.”

“But—it is so late—so late—I ought to go home,” said Wynnette, divided
between curiosity and uneasiness.

“It is not late. It is not yet one hour past midnight; and thou art a
brave bairn, and there be none to harm thee. Besides, I must tell thee
the true story.”

Wynnette drew some of the rushes into a heap, and sat down upon them.




                              CHAPTER XLV
                          TOLD IN THE OLD HALL


“It was fifty years ago, my bairnie—fifty years ago. Earl Hardston ruled
at Enderby. Distant cousin he was to yon present Earl Francis——What was
that? Eh! nothing but the flap of the owl’s wing as it passed.

“Earl Hardston ruled at Enderby. A handsome devil he were. Tall,
broad-shouldered, straight-backed, strong-limbed. His hair was black and
glossy as the raven’s wing; his eyes were black and fiery as the hawk’s,
and sometimes soft as the dove’s. Ah, a taking rascal he were.

“His lady mother and his lady sisters lived at the castle, and were to
live there until my lord should marry, when they would all go to Kedge
Hall, the dower-house of the Widows of Enderby. Kedge Hall was no to be
compared to Enderby Castle, and so my lady and her daughters were no
minded that my lord should take a wife.

“Ah, but they were wicked!

“Handsome jades they were, every one. Black-a-vized, like me lord, but
not one of them to hold a candle to my lass, though she were the
hen-wife’s child, and her feyther the undergardener.

“Oh, but she were the beauty of the world!

“I ha’e seen the Venus in the castle gallery, but it was no to be
compared to my lass’ form. And her features were small and fine and
clean-cut, and her skin was like the wild rose leaf. Her eyes were blue
as violets, and her hair was yellow and soft and silky as the fringe of
the young maize corn.

“Oh, but she was the beauty of the world!

“Everybody was in love with her. Every servant in the castle, from the
old bachelor-butler down to the boy in buttons, which they called the
page, was half mad for the love of my lass. Every laborer in the
grounds, from the widowed gamekeeper down to the youngest stableboy, was
half dying for the love of my lass.

“No, bairnie, she did not scorn any of them—not the lowliest. She had a
smile and a gentle glance, and a kind word for every one—even for the
freckle-faced and red-haired young groom, who always had a cold in his
head and a swelled nose, and used to follow her about like a dog, until
he lost his place for neglecting his business. She was kind and good to
all.

“Oh, but she was the angel of the world, was my lassie. She were sweet
and tender to every one, but she would ha’e none o’ them i’ the way o’
marriage. That were too much to ask, she thought.

“So time went on, till my lass was twenty years old, and she had never
lo’ed a man. And my lord were thirty, and he had never married a wife.

“Ane autumn my lord had a company of friends staying at the
castle—gentlemen friends, the lot of them. Sorrow a lady was ever asked
to the castle barring it was some old lady without daughters, or nieces,
or any women at all. It was not my lady countess who would throw
temptation to matrimony in the way of her son, the earl.

“Oh, but she was the devil of the world. You shall hear, my bairn. You
shall hear. Among the company at the castle was ane painter lad, which
even the king made much of—so ’twas said—so fine was his paintings.

“My lady countess had noticed my lass, my Phebe. Ane day she sent a
lackey down to my cottage, with orders for me to bring my girl up to the
castle. So I obeyed my lady.

“We were showed to a room full of pictures, and images, and rubbish,
which I soon found out was the painter lad’s workshop. My lady was
there, sitting in the only easy-chair. And the painter lad was there,
standing before a queer prop, with a picture on it.

“As soon as the lackey said, ‘The young woman, my lady,’ and shut the
door, the countess looked at us without speaking, and then turned to the
painter, and said, ‘Here is your model, Mr. Fordyce,’ as if my Phebe had
been nothing but a bundle of lumber.

“The painter lad was an ugly little mug as ever was seen, but a great
painter he were, and a civil man. He looked at my Phebe, and I could see
the surprise and delight in his ill-favored little face, and he bowed to
her, and handed both of us to seats. My lady frowned, and he blushed,
and said something very softly, which I thought was asking pardon for
his civility to us.

“Aweel, bairnie, that were the beginning o’ the end. Fra that day my
lass went up to the castle every day, in obedience to my lady’s orders.
I do not know, I cannot tell when it was, or how it was, that my lord
first began to be present at the ‘sittings,’ as they called them. Maybe
he heard the painter lad praising the beauty of my lass, for, bairnie,
though she was born and brought up on his land, he had never seen her,
for he never showed his face down in such low places as his laborers’
huts. So, maybe, he heard the painter lad praising her beauty, and for
curiosity went in to take a look at her.

“But sometimes I think my lady countess planned it all—to amuse my lord,
and keep him at home. What did she care for a peasant girl’s heart, or
her soul, or her good name, either, if she could amuse my lord and keep
him from going off and getting married, and bringing a wife home to send
her and her lady daughter to Kedge Hall?

“Oh, but she was the devil of the world!

“Ah me! ah me! ah me! I did not know what was going on. You see, I
didn’t go with my lass to the castle after that first time. My lady’s
maid, an aul wife, always came and fetched her. No, I did not know what
was going on. And why should I tell you of wickedness that is not for
you to hear?

“No, no, I will pack the whole peck into a pint cup, and make an end of
it.

“Oh, such an old tale. Oh, such a common tale. It is heard in every
hamlet, on every hillside. Oh, but it comes home to one when it’s one’s
ain child. Ah me! ah me!

“Late in the autumn the pictures were finished and the sittings were
over, and the painter lad went his way back to London. And my lass
stayed hame with me and only went out sometimes in the gloaming. I never
thought ill. I used to go to look after the poultry yard by the castle
stables every day, and sometimes, with the gathering and sorting of
eggs, and other matters, I would be kept at work all day long.

“One day I got on wi’ my work so weel that I cam’ hame airlier than
common. And there, i’ the hut, was my lord, wi’ Phebe on his knee and
his arm around her waist. Before I could weel tak’ in the whole, my lord
had risen, and, with a ‘Good-e’en, dame,’ he passed me, and went out.
And I sat down on the floor and covered my head wi’ my apun. I could
speak no word of blame to my lass; my heart, it was broken.

“Presently she came to me and put her sweet arms around my neck, and
said to me, in her ain sweet voice, ‘Minnie, minnie, I canna see you
grieve and not tell you the truth, though I must break my word to do it.
Minnie, yon great earl is my husband and your son, and I love him as I
love my life!

“Bairnie, ye may think I were surprised at what I heard, but, indeed, I
were not. I were very pleased, and that’s the truth, but not surprised.
I thought my lass the beauty of the whole world. And the angel of the
whole world, and our folk-lore were full of tales of how noble lords,
and even royal princes, did love and marry peasant girls for their
beauty and for their goodness. And who so beautiful and who so good as
my ain lass?

“No. I was not surprised, but I was proud and pleased. I only asked her
the how and the when, and the where, and when she had told me I believed
in her, as I had a right to believe in her, but I also believed in him,
as I had no right to believe in any man.

“And then she begged me to keep the secret, because she had broken her
promise to keep it from everybody, and had told me, from love of me.

“I swore that I would keep her secret, and I kissed her, and petted her,
and loved her. And she said, ‘Now I am completely happy, dear minnie, as
I never was when I kept a secret from mine ain minnie.’ Ah me! ah me!
But, there. She is still happy. I only am miserable. She is alive! I
only am dead! But some time or other I shall come to life and be happy
with her. Where was I, bairnie? What was I telling you last?”

“Of your dear daughter’s secret marriage with the earl, and of your
promise to keep the secret,” said Wynnette.

“Ay, ay! And we were happy that night. Phebe and I. And I hugged her to
my heart as we slept together, and I called her ‘My little countess! My
little countess!’ Ah, I was drunk with pride and vanity. Not for myself,
but for my beauty and angel of the world. I could not sleep for thinking
of her and of her grandeur. Only I did think that mayhap if the king had
chanced to come by our way and see her the king himself might ha’
married her and made her a queen. And I did not care for the earl so
much but that I was sorry it was not the king who had seen her.

“Next morning Phebe went back to her spinning and I went to the
henhouse. I quieted down and began to go over the tales in our
folk-lore—and I thought, with uneasiness, how King Cœphutas, who married
the beggar girl, and the other king that married the nut-brown maid, and
all other kings and princes and nobles who had married good and
beautiful peasant maids, had wedded them in open day before all the
world, with a great flourish of trumpets and blowing of horns, and
flaunting of flags, in honor of the wedding, and all the neighboring
kings, and princes, and lords, and nobles invited to the feast. And here
was this earl, who was neither king nor prince and nobody but an earl
had married the beauty and the angel of the world, in the dark behind
the door, as it were, and keeping his marriage a secret as if he was
ashamed of it. I wondered what he meant. I thought if it had been the
king who had married my lass he would not have done so.

“When I came hame that night I asked my girl how it was. And she told me
it was from fear of his mother, who had set her heart on his marrying
the daughter of a duke. The daughter of a duke, indeed. What was the
daughter of a duke compared to the beauty and the angel of the whole
world, as kings and princes would ha’ fought for, if they had only seen
her? But it was all a lie, for my lady countess, she had set her heart
on his never marrying anybody so long as she should live.

“I thought the earl was unworthy to be compared with the kings and
princes of our folk-lore. And I feared my lass had thrown herself away
on an ungrateful earl—a mere common earl—when she might have married a
king or an emperor if she had only waited until one passed by and saw
her.

“But it was done, and he was her husband, so I would not say anything to
set her against him.”




                              CHAPTER XLVI
                         A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM


“Ah, well, as the days and the weeks passed I got mortal tired of
waiting for him to own my girl his wife, and take her to the great house
with blowing of trumpets, and waving of banners, and flaunting of flags,
and prancing of steeds, like I had heard of. What was the use of my girl
being the wife of a great lord, if she had to wear a linsey gown, and
sit in the hut and spin all day long while I was away to the henhouse?
Why, none at all.

“Oh, bairn, it is such a help to my poor heart telling you all this. And
you believe me, don’t you?”

“I believe every word you say—tell me more,” earnestly replied Wynnette.

“At long last my lady countess and her young lady daughters went up to
London town. And now I thought, while they are gone, my lord will take
his wife hame to the great house; but he didn’t, bairn; he didn’t. Oh,
he didn’t. He was abroad somewhere, to France, maybe, or to Paris, or
some other furrin country thereaway. And my lass gave herself up to
weeping, and never showed herself abroad, but stayed in the hut. One day
I laid a baby boy in her arms and told her to be comforted, for that her
son was the little Lord Glennon and the heir to the Earldom of Enderby.

“And then I had to tell my neighbors the secret, for I could not bear
they should think ill o’ my ain lass. But nane o’ them would believe me.
Not one. They laughed me to scorn—me and my lass. It is an old tale—oh,
such an old tale, such a common old tale! Only it comes hame when it’s
one’s ain bairn.

“One day my lord came hame and heard the report, and a fine passion he
was in with my lass and me. He denied her and her child. He pretended it
was Andy, the stableboy, she had married. And he scorned her, and
threatened to turn us both out of the hut if we ever so much as named
his name again.

“Oh, but he was the devil of the whole world!

“After that, in many long nights that my lass and I lay awake, we
talked, and I got to know why the great earl had married my beauty and
angel of the whole world. First he tried to win her love without her
hand; but my girl was good and firm; and then he grew so mad for her
love that he took her before a priest and married her.

“One day we did hear that the earl was to wed the duke’s daughter, and
all the cottagers said I was a mad crone to think my lord had stooped to
my lass. Ah, my lass! She was fading away before my very eyes. But not
fast enough for my lord.

“One day there was a fair at Enderby Town, and all the laborers on the
estate and all the servants at the castle had a holiday to go to the
fair. All went but me and my lass. We ne’er left hame in those days. We
could no bear that any should look on us and scorn us.

“So that day I left my lass spinning at the hut door, and the baby was
sleeping in the basket by her side, and I went to my duty in the
hen-houses. I had the old nests to clean out and fresh straw to put in
them. I got done about twelve of the clock and come hame.

“But my girl was not in the house, nor the babe. I had no misgiving. I
went in and waited for her. But she came no more. She never came again.
When it grew dark I began to be so uneasy that I went out to look for
her, but could no find her. There was no one as I could ask; all the
world was gone to the fair, and nane would be hame till late, maybe not
till morning.

“Well, bairn, when I had walked till my limbs were ready to sink under
me I went hame and laid down, just as I was, on the outside of my bed. I
was not asleep. Nay, bairnie, I was not asleep. I did no dream what
followed. I saw it. My eyes were shut and all the world was still; for
it was long after midnight, and even drawing near the morning; but still
it was pitch-dark, when—no, I wasn’t asleep, and I didn’t dream it—when
I felt a light through my shut eyelids. I opened them and saw the room
was full of light that did not come from sun, or moon, or star, or
candle, or lamp, or fire, but from a bright form that stood in the midst
of the place and beckoned me to come to it.

“In an awe that was not a fright, I got up and went to it and said
‘Phebe!’ for I knew it was my lass that stood there, with her child in
her arms, and clothed, not in the white raiment of the blest, but in
what I thought was lovelier, a clear, soft, rosy gown that fell from her
shoulders down to her feet. She had no crown on her head, but her silky,
yellow hair streamed down around her form like sunbeams. I knew she was
a spirit.

“‘Phebe!’ I said again—‘Phebe!’ She did not speak, but holding her child
on her right arm, she raised her left hand and beckoned me, and pointed
to the door, and went out. I followed her. She led me by ways I had
never gone before, but have gone every year since that night. The same
way I took you to-night, my bairn. The secret passage to the deep
caverns under the foundations of the castle, the only way to them except
through the trapdoor and shaft that runs two hundred feet down in a
straight line—a way that is now known to none but me. Even you could no
find it again. She led me through the secret passage and down the many,
many steps cut in the solid rock, down, down, down, her light making the
steep path light before me until we reached the Dungeon of the Dark
Death—and even that she lighted up.

“She led me to a spot where her dead body lay on the ground, just under
the bottom of the shaft, that reached only to the ceiling or roof above.
Her body lay with the body of her babe, just as if they both had dropped
down there and fallen asleep. I knew they were dead. I knew every bone
in both was broken, though that did not appear on the outside. It was
under where they struck the ground that the horror of death was. I knew
also, as if I had seen it all, how she had died—how she had been
entrapped to her sudden death—how she had not even suffered. There had
been a swift fall, a shock, nothing, and then a wonderful coming to life
in a new form.

“I tell you, lass, it was no dream, no dream! but a real seeing. And it
was wonderful to stand there by the two crushed, dead bodies and see the
two living souls. I thought of the chrysalis and the butterfly, the worm
and the moth, the eggshell and the bird, as I stood there between life
and death, and seeing both.

“And without any speech at all, my lass made me know how she had been
betrayed to death—how, every one being gone off the place, and she alone
in her hut, my lord had come to her and pretended to make it all up with
her, and had asked her to walk with him in the hall of the old castle.
And she had gone. And they walked up and down, up and down, until
suddenly, when she was passing with her babe over the trapdoor they had
passed so many times, he suddenly stepped back, the door fell in, and
she shot down, struck the ground two hundred feet below, and knew no
more until she woke up in her new form—not dead, but living, never more
to die.

“Presently she beckoned to me again, and walking before me, a form of
rosy light, led me back again by the way we had come, up, up, up, to the
upper air again. Nor did she leave me until we were back in the hut. She
waved her arm and signed for me to lie down on the bed; and I minded her
and did what she said. Then she stood by my bed waving her hand to and
fro, to and fro, until I went to sleep. And I slept so deep and so long
that it was broad daylight, with the sun shining in at the bare window,
when I waked.

“No, it was no dream, bairn. Soon as I waked I minded all that had
passed in the night, and I knowed it was no dream.

“I went no more out that day. At noon my lord came to the hut, the first
time he had come for many a day. And he asked me, in a careless way:

“‘Where is that wench of yours, goody?’ And I looked him straight in the
face, and answered him:

“‘Her body and her babe’s lie crushed to death on the stone floor of the
deep dungeon where you cast her down; but she and her child—they are in
Paradise.’

“He turned white as a sheet and he reeled in his saddle; but he quickly
put on a bold face and said:

“‘You are a mad old beast, and before twenty-four hours are over your
head you shall be committed to the County Lunatic Asylum.’

“And with that he struck spurs into his horse and dashed wildly away.

“Not too often, lass, does punishment follow fast on crime, but it did
in this case. He dashed wildly off in a state of mind, I reckon, that
made him unable to guide his young horse as he ought.

“Half an hour later he was carried hame to the castle on a shutter. The
horse had thrown him and broken his neck.

“The title and estates, they went to a distant cousin, great-grandfather
of the present Earl Francis. Earl Godfrey was good to me—he and his
children and his children’s children have been good to me—always good to
me, although they call me mad.

“When my girl was missed and the trapdoor was found open, they had it
that she had trodden on it and it had gin way under her weight, and her
death was a accident and nobody to blame. They wouldn’t listen to me—no
one word. They said I was a poor, harmless creetur, crazed by the loss
of my lass. They got a windlass and great chains and ropes, and then let
down men and they took up my birds’ broken shells and gave them
Christian burial.

“Everybody was kind to me, only they wouldn’t believe me. They said I
was mad. They would have it as it was the poor stableboy as wronged my
girl. And now I hear, after more than fifty years, some un have made
another story and got it into a book, how the stableboy killed my girl
and threw her body down the shaft, and was hanged for it at Carlisle.
All lies, bairn! All lies! My story is the only true one.”

“I believe you,” said Wynnette.




                             CHAPTER XLVII
                          THE END OF THE NIGHT


“The sky is red in the east. Go now, my bairn. Thou art a good child,
and brave to dare the ghosts of the old hall and to hear the tale of an
old crone. And it is true, bairn; it is true. Do not you give faith to
any who tell you it is not and tell you I am mad.”

“I will not. I will believe only you. But before I go tell me—can I do
anything for you?”

“Nay, bairn. Nothing, bless ’ee.”

“Where do you live?”

“In the old hut—the hut outside the south wall, open to the lane.”

“I can find it. May I come to see you there?”

“Ay, ay, bairn. Bless ’ee for the kind thought. Come when thou like, but
dinna bring ony other with ’ee. Na other might hear me sa kind and mind
me sa well as ye do.”

“Do you—are you—have you—will you——”

Wynnette hesitated and blushed.

“Speak out, bairn. Dinna be feared. Speak out.”

“Then—will you have—a good breakfast ready for you when you go home?”
hesitatingly inquired practical Wynnette.

“I shall have all I want, bairnie. Earl Francis has provided for me. Go
your ways to the house now, bairnie. Your friends will be speiring after
ye.”

Wynnette took the shriveled hand of the creature and pressed it kindly
before she left the old castle hall.

The early June morning was breaking brightly and beautifully over land
and sea as Wynnette went down the half-ruined steps that led from the
castle hall to the courtyard below.

She climbed over the piles of rubbish, and at length found herself on
the flagged walk that led up to the west entrance of the new castle.

Not a soul was yet astir. It could not have been more than half-past
four o’clock, and the servants of the castle were not accustomed to rise
before six.

She went up the broad stone stairs and opened the door, which she found,
as she had left it at midnight, unfastened.

She passed in silently, quietly replaced all the fastenings, and
ascended noiselessly to her room. Her sister was still sleeping soundly.
She felt no disposition to sleep. She resumed her seat at the west
window, and looked out upon the morning view, as she had looked on the
night scene, trying to understand the adventure she had passed through.

Was the old crone who had talked with her really mad? Had her only child
been ruined and murdered by the wicked earl? Had she, Wynnette, really
witnessed that wonderful vision in the dungeon under the castle, or had
she been so psychologized by the crone as to have been the subject of an
optical illusion?

She could not tell! She could make nothing of her night’s experience.
While she was musing over it all her thoughts grew confused, her vision
obscured, and perhaps she fell asleep; for she was presently roused as
from profound unconsciousness by the voice of Odalite calling out to
her:

“Wynnette! Wynnette! Child! you have never slept at that open window all
night? How imprudent!”

The girl roused herself and tried to recall her faculties.

“I believe I did fall asleep, Odalite,” she replied; but she shuddered
as she remembered her night’s adventure.

“And you are shivering now. And you are pale and heavy-eyed. Oh, my
dear, what an indiscreet thing to do—to sleep with your head on the sill
of an open window! You have caught cold.”

“Ah! if you only knew what I have caught,” thought Wynnette; but she
answered:

“Oh, no, I have not, Odalite. I am going to take a bath now and dress
for breakfast. I am all right. How could I take cold on such a lovely
night in June?”

“But you must not repeat this,” said Odalite.

“I don’t mean to!” significantly replied Wynnette.

An hour later they met the family at breakfast.

Wynnette was so unusually grave and silent that at length her uncle
noticed her manner and inquired:

“What is the matter with our Little Pickle this morning?”

“She sat in the chair at the open window all night, and fell asleep
there. That is the matter,” replied Odalite for her sister.

“Ah! ah! that will never do! We must put a stop to that sort of
practice!” replied the earl.

And then Mr. and Mrs. Force both fell upon their daughter with rebuke
and admonition, but were soothed and mollified when Wynnette assured
them not only that she had taken no harm on this occasion, but that she
never meant to repeat the last night’s performance again so long as she
should live.

When breakfast was over the family party adjourned to a pleasant morning
room looking out upon the sea, and occupied themselves with opening and
reading their letters, which had come in by the morning’s mail.

Mr. Force had letters from his farm manager and from his attorney,
giving satisfactory accounts of affairs at Mondreer.

Leonidas had equally good news from Beeves concerning his little estate
of Greenbushes.

Mrs. Force received a short note, ill-spelled and worse written, from
her housekeeper, but it gave good account of domestic affairs.

Rosemary Hedge had a joint letter from her mother and aunt, saying that
they were both in good health, and giving their child plenty of good
counsel.

Wynnette received an old-fashioned letter from young Grandiere, which
she laughed over and refused to show to any one.

In the midst of this occupation they were interrupted by the opening of
the door, and the entrance of a footman, who touched his forehead with a
grave air and stood in silence.

“What is it?” inquired the earl.

“If you please, my lord, it is Old Silly,” solemnly replied the man.

“Old Zillah?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“What of her?”

“If you please, my lord, she is dead.”

“Dead!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Old Zillah! Why—when did she die?”

“If you please, my lord, we don’t know. Kato, the under scullery maid,
who carried her some breakfast this morning, found her dead on her bed.”

“It was to have been expected. She was nearly a century old. It is
well!”




                             CHAPTER XLVIII
                               OLD ZILLAH


“She has come to life,” said Wynnette, quoting the words of the departed
woman.

All looked at the girl in some surprise. With all her oddities, Wynnette
was not used to make such speeches as that. And now, for the first time,
they noticed that Wynnette’s face was very pale, with dark circles under
her eyes.

“What is the matter with you, my dear?” inquired her mother.

“Nothing at all, mamma,” answered the girl.

“She sat by the open window late last night and fell asleep there, and
slept until I woke her up this morning. That was quite enough to make
her ill,” Odalite explained.

“Nay, my dear; in such fine June weather as the present, and in such
pure air as ours, it would hardly have hurt her had she slept outdoors,”
said the earl. “But what do you mean, my dear, by saying that our poor
Old Zillah ‘has come to life’?” he inquired, as he turned to the girl.

“Nothing heterodox, uncle. Nothing but what we hear from our pulpits on
every Easter Sunday morning,” she replied.

“Oh!” he exclaimed.

“Only in this case the truth seems to be very marked. A woman nearly a
hundred years old must have been nearly dead for many years and now has
certainly come to life.”

“Ah!”

“Nothing new, uncle, please. I never said anything new in my life.”

“Then you put old truths in a very new way.”

“Eternal truth, uncle, eternal truth; plain to gentle and simple, to
young and old; plain as the sunshine to all who can see; hidden only
from them who are blind, or who choose to keep their eyes shut.”

“Hum! Truth that neither the aged, the invalid nor the bereaved can
afford to disregard, at least. And now, my dear, I must leave you, to
inquire into the cause of Old Zillah’s sudden death. Will you come with
me, gentlemen?”

Mr. Force and Leonidas arose to attend him.

Le gave the invalid the support of his strong young arm.

And so the three men passed out of the room.

“Mamma, did you know anything about this wonderful old woman?” inquired
Wynnette.

“Very little, my dear. Only the years of my earliest childhood were
passed here. Old Zillah was an object of terror to me. Partly, perhaps,
because she wore a man’s coat over her skirt, and a man’s hat on her
head, and partly because she had the reputation of being a wise woman or
a witch. She never came to the castle, and I never saw her except by
chance, when I went with my nursery governess to walk or ride. She never
came near me or spoke to me. I think I should have gone into fits if she
had.”

“How old were you then, mamma?” she inquired.

“I do not know when I first began to hear of Old Zillah, or when I first
saw her. She was the shadow and the terror of my dawn of life. I was but
four years old when I lost my mother, and then my father left this
place, taking me with him; and he went to his estate in
Ireland—Weirdwaste, on the west coast.”

“‘Weirdwaste!’ What a name! Did you live long at Weirdwaste, mamma,
dear?”

“Yes, many years alone there with my governess. My father was traveling
on the continent.”

“What sort of a place was it, mamma?” inquired Wynnette. And Rosemary
and Elva drew their chairs nearer to the sofa on which their mother sat
to hear her answer.

“It was an old manor house on the inland end of a long, flat, dreary
point of land stretching into the Atlantic Ocean. At high tide the
entire cape, to within a few rods of the manor wall, was covered by the
sea, and day and night the swash of the sea was heard.”

“How lonely you must have been, mamma, with no one but your governess
and the servants,” said Elva. “But perhaps you had neighbors,” she
added.

“No; no neighbors at all. There was no one within miles of us but the
poorest Irish peasants, who were tenants of my father. The estate was
vast in extent of territory, but poor in soil. The land steward lived in
the manor house, to take care of it and of me. They kept two old
servants—a man and a woman—an old horse, and older jaunting car. That is
how I lived at Weirdwaste.”

“Oh! what a lonely life! How long did you live there, mamma?”

“Until I was nearly fifteen years of age, when my health failed, and the
surgeon from the nearest town was called to see me, and thought my case
so serious that he wrote to my father, who was in Paris. My father then
came to see me, took me and my governess to Brighton, and established us
in elegant lodgings on the King’s Road.”

“That must have been a most delightful change. How long did you stay in
Brighton, mamma? And where did you go next? Not back to Weirdwaste, I
hope,” said Wynnette.

“No, not back to Weirdwaste. I have never seen the dreary place since I
left it,” replied the lady, in a low voice, but with paling cheeks and
troubled brow.

“Mamma, love,” said Odalite, rising, “will you come with me into the
library now and help me to translate the passage in Camoëns we were
talking about yesterday?”

“Yes, dear,” replied the lady, rising to follow her eldest daughter.

“Well, I’m blest if that isn’t playing it rather too low down on a
fellow, Odalite—I mean it is very inconsiderate in you to carry off
mamma just as she is telling about the days of her youth, for the very
first time, too! Bah! bother! what a nuisance!”

But Mrs. Force and her eldest daughter had passed out of the room.

The death of Old Zillah caused quite a commotion in the castle and its
neighborhood. Notwithstanding her age, or, perhaps, because of her great
age, her death came as a surprise, not to say as a shock, to the
community. She had lived so long that it almost seemed as if she must
always continue to live.

“Why, it’s like as if the old tower of the ruined castle itself had
fallen!” said one to another.

People came from far and near to see the remains of the centenarian, and
to get her real age, and hear some facts of her life. And all the cruel
old legends were raked up again, until the whole air of the place was
full of fetor, fire and brimstone. The people reveled in the moral
malaria.

The mortal body of the oldest retainer of the House of Enderby at length
found a peaceful resting place in Enderby churchyard.

No peeress of the realm ever had a larger funeral than this pauper, at
least so far as the number of followers went.

It was not until night on the day after the funeral that Wynnette
slipped away from the family circle and went to the housekeeper’s room
to hear the promised story.

“I will hear both sides,” she said to herself, “though I do believe Old
Zillah’s version to be the true one.”

She found the good woman seated at a small worktable and engaged in
knitting.

“Well, Mrs. Kelsy, how are you to-night?” inquired Wynnette, as she took
the offered seat beside the dame.

“Thanky’, miss, I’m none the better for the worriment of this week,”
replied the housekeeper.

“You mean the funeral?”

“The whole on’t, miss! The greatest crowd as ever was every day this
week, not even honoring the Sabbath itself, but coming more on that day
than any other! And the talk, and the gossip, and the raking up of old
scandals, until I was soul sick of it all. And all because a wise woman,
over a hundred years old, was found dead in her bed. Warraloo! How else
and where else should she ha’ been found dead, I’d like to know!”

“But you have had a night and day of rest, and I hope you feel
recovered.”

“Rest, is it, miss? Recovered, is it? Not very much of either! It is
dead beat I am!”

“I am sorry to hear that. I was hoping that you would feel well to-night
and be inclined to tell me the story of the pretty maiden you promised.”

“Oh, ay, well, there is not so much to tell. And now the old creature as
hung on so long is gone, I don’t mind telling it so much. The girl’s
soul may have rest now that her mither doesn’t harry it up.”

“Yes, I hope it will,” said Wynnette, in a conciliating tone. “You will
tell me the story now?”

“Yes! and whatever other story you may hear about it will be false, for
I know that you will hear other stories, if you haven’t heard ’em
already. There’s plenty of ’em going around, I tell you, and no two
alike. But only I have the truth, for I have it straight from my mother,
who had it from her’n! So it must be true! And no other story could be!”

“But I suppose if Old Zillah were alive she also could give the real
facts,” ventured Wynnette.

“She? Least of all in this world could she tell it! For not only did she
fail to tell the truth, but she told a many mad fancies; for she was
about as mad as a March hare! Saw visions and talked with departed
spirits, prophesied future events, and all that, she did! Yes, miss. She
has been that a way ever since I knowed her, and as I have heard tell,
was that a way ever since she lost her daughter.”

“Tell me about her daughter.”

“I’m a-gwine to. Well, you see, it seems the feyther had been
undergardener, and he died, and then the widow was given the use of a
little hut in the outside of the old castle wall, on the lane. And there
she lived and brought up her only child, Phebe. They were both employed
in the poultry yard.

“Phebe grew up beautiful as an angel—so beautiful that everybody who
happened to meet her stopped to look at her—so beautiful, that her
beauty turned her own head, as well as her mother’s. While she was yet a
child all the gentry that met her gave her half crowns, and even half
guineas, for the love of her fair face. At least so ’twas said, and so
’twas handed down. And people used to make such foolish speeches about
her as that she was lovely enough to turn the head of a king.

“These speeches did turn her mother’s head, and her own as well. All the
young men were in love with her, but she scorned them all for a poor
little imp of a stableboy, an orphan as had been her playmate all her
life.”

“I did hear that it was for the sake of the young earl she flouted the
others,” said Wynnette.

“Oh, yes, I dare say—that was one of the stories that went round! That
was false. The young earl did come down to celebrate his coming of age,
and his mother and sisters came with him, and made up their minds to
stay with him, which they might do until he should marry, in which case
they would have to go to Kedge Hall, an old manor house on the moors. So
my lady seemed to think the longer she could keep my lord, her son, from
getting a wife, the better it would be for her and her girls.

“Among the men staying at the castle was an artist. He was to paint a
picture of St. Cecelia for the countess, but he wanted a model. One day
my lady, out driving, happened to see Phebe, and had her up to the
castle to sit to the artist. And then the mischief began. My lord fell
in love with her. Fairly went out of his senses for love of this
beautiful creature, who didn’t even know how to read.

“And my lady encouraged the folly and wickedness. Eh, my dear,
gentlefolks were not particular in those days. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘was a
beauty right on his own land, the child of his tenant, one of his own
born slaves, bound to do his will, who might amuse his fancy and keep
him from marriage for many a year.’ She never feared such a thing as my
lord marrying the girl. Such folly was not to be thought, and never was
thought of by either of them.”

“But,” said Wynnette, “I heard that the earl had married her.”

“Stuff and nonsense! He never dreamed of such a thing! He was the
proudest man alive! And he was engaged to a duke’s daughter! But the
crazy old mother and the silly young girl fancied that he even might do
that for love of Phebe’s fair face. So the poor stableboy was thrown
over, and the young earl was received. The boy got madly jealous, and
so—months after, when the hapless girl was found dead at the bottom of
the shaft in the old castle—the stableboy was arrested on suspicion of
the murder.”

“I know,” said Wynnette, “and the guide to Enderby Castle says that he
was tried and convicted and hanged at Carlisle. But I have heard that
contradicted.”

“Yes, it is contradicted. I do not know the truth. It has been so long
ago that no living person can remember it, now that Old Zillah is gone.”

“She could,” said Wynnette.

“Oh, yes! she could! But she got facts and fancies so mixed up in her
poor old brain that no one would dream of trusting to her stories. If
you could ever have had the chance to see her, miss, you would have seen
how very mad she was.”

Wynnette did not think it necessary to explain that she had seen Old
Zillah and heard her story.

To no one could the girl breathe one word of her terrible night in the
old castle. Sometimes she was half inclined to believe that she had
really fallen asleep on the window sill and dreamed it all—from the
moment of horror and amazement when the spectral eyes lighted up the
loopholes of the old wall, to the moment when she was awakened by the
voice of her sister.

Wynnette was more bewildered than she liked to own herself to
be—bewildered as to the dream, or the reality of her terrible night!
Bewildered as to the relative truth or falsehood of the two conflicting
stories she had heard of the beautiful peasant girl’s fate.

“What is dream and what is reality? What is fact and what is fable?” she
asked herself continually.




                              CHAPTER XLIX
                           BROTHER AND SISTER


Meanwhile there was another member of the family circle fully as much
perplexed as was Wynnette, though upon another subject.

The Earl of Enderby could not reconcile all his knowledge—his lifelong
knowledge of Angus Anglesea, his schoolmate at Harrow; his classmate at
Oxford, his brother-in-arms in India, the brave, tender, faithful friend
and comrade of many years and many lands—with this thief, forger,
bigamist, described under his name by Elfrida Force and all her family.

“Elf,” he said to her one day, as the two sat _tête-à-tête_ in the
library—all the other members of the family circle having gone out for a
stroll on the top of the cliffs—“Elf, my dear, I have had some trials in
my time—not the least among them, my inherited malady, dooming me to an
early death and barring me from marriage——”

“Oh, Francis, don’t say that! Medical science has reached such
perfection, you may be restored to health; and you are yet not
middle-aged—you may marry and be happy,” said the lady, almost in tears.

“No, Elf! No, dear! It is impossible! But it is not of my infirmities I
wish to speak now. I would rather never mention them—much rather forget
them, if that were possible! I only meant to say that of all the trials
I have ever suffered, that of hearing such news of Anglesea as you have
told me is the most painful! I cannot forget it! I think of it
constantly, by day and by night.”

“I am very sorry that we had to tell you, Francis.”

“Elf! You knew Anglesea in those early days when we both came down to
spend our holidays at Brighton with you.”

“Yes; I remember.”

“You knew him then. Could you have believed such villainies of him?”

“No, not then.”

“Nor could I then, nor can I now. I wish the man were in England. I
would go to him and make these charges face to face, and put him on his
defense. I shall never rest until I put him on his defense.”

“Do you not believe what we have told you and proved to you—that this
man is a thief, a forger and a bigamist, even on his own showing?”

“I believe that you believe it, my dear. And I believe as much of it as
I can believe in the absence of the accused. And when a man is accused
of crime he should be present and be put upon his defense. I wish to
charge Anglesea to his face with these felonies and to hear what he has
to say.”

Elfrida Force looked so coldly on her brother in answer to these words
that he hastened to say:

“See here, my dear. Consider how I loved and trusted that man from my
youth up. He was older than myself. He was my mentor, my guide,
philosopher and friend. I could no more have doubted his honor than I
could have doubted yours.”

The lady winced.

“Think of it, my dear. Do you wonder that I am sorely perplexed at what
I hear of him? Or that I wish to hear what he has to say for himself?
Suppose any one—Anglesea, for instance, before I had heard a word
against him, when I loved and trusted him most—had come to me and said:
‘Your sister, whom you love and honor so much, has forfeited both love
and honor——’ Elfrida! Heavens! What is the matter?” suddenly exclaimed
the earl, as the lady sank back pallid and fainting in her chair.

“It is——Go on,” said the sister, recovering herself with an effort.
“Nothing is the matter. You were saying that if Anglesea had come to you
with slanders of your sister——What would you have done?”

“I should have knocked him down and kicked him out, first of all, as a
preliminary to challenging him. Be sure I should not have believed his
story told behind your back. And I am certain you would not wish me to
be less just to Anglesea than to you.”

“Very well. I do not believe he will ever dare to show his face in
England again; but if he should, and you should meet him, make the
charge that we have made and see how he will meet it. Of course he will
deny all and accuse his accusers of conspiracy.”

“It is all very painful and very perplexing, but do not think otherwise
than that I will stand by you and yours, Elfrida, under all
circumstances.”

“I am quite sure that you will, dear Francis,” replied the lady; and
their talk drifted to other topics.

“I shall miss you very much, sister, when you go abroad,” he said at
length.

“But I shall not go, Francis. I shall remain with you. I have been over
the continent so often that I do not care to see it again,” replied the
lady.

“What do you say, Elfrida? You will not go on this tour with your
husband and children? You will stay here with your invalid brother? That
is good news to me, but what will your husband say to such a plan?”

“Of course I had a talk with Mr. Force before making up my mind. We
talked it over last night. He thinks just as I do—that it is best for me
to stay with you.”

“He is very kind; very, very kind. But you will both give up much for
the sake of a poor, sick man.”

“No, indeed. I really do not care for the continental tour, I have made
it so often.”

“But there are so many changes since you made it last.”

“Yes, there is gas instead of lamplight in all the cities; railway
trains instead of diligences on all the highways; and sons on the
thrones of their fathers. I am content to know of these things. I do not
care to see them.”

“But Mr. Force? He will miss you.”

“Dear brother, our honeymoon was passed twenty-two years ago. Young love
has matured to old love, or rather to love that never can know age nor
absence. It is not necessary that we should always be looking into each
other’s eyes to make sure that we are happy in our union.”

“Yet I dare say you never tried it. I dare swear you were never apart
from each other for twenty-four hours in your married life.”

“No; we never were.”

“That is why you talk so glibly of a separation for months. You had
better not try it, Elfrida. You had better go with your husband and
party, or make them stay here with you.”

“Not so, Francis. I will not leave you, now that I have come to you
after so many years of separation. And, on the other hand, I will not
keep the other members of our family party from their travel. It is
necessary that young people should have the advantage of this
continental tour, and it is desirable that they should have the
protection of their father, as well as of their cousin. So I must stay
here, and they must go. If Mr. Force or myself should grow lonesome
during the season of separation he can come here to me. Neither Abel nor
myself should feel the slightest hesitation in leaving our young girls
in the care of their cousin, Leonidas.”

“My dear, you have some strange, new, and, I suppose, American ideas of
the liberty allowable to young people.”

“To our own young people, who certainly may be trusted with liberty,”
replied Elfrida Force, with a smile.

“Well, of course—of course. I am human and selfish enough to be very
glad that you are to stay with me instead of going with your party.”

The brother and sister then talked of some details relating to the
intended tour, until the _tête-à-tête_ was broken into by the return of
the walking party.

It was the first of July that the tourists, consisting of Abel,
Leonidas, Odalite, Wynnette and Elva Force and Rosemary Hedge, set out
from Enderby to London, en route for Dover and Paris.

They were to have a three months’ travel over the continent, and were to
return on the first of October, unless they should receive advices from
the earl to meet him and his sister at Baden-Baden, where he often went
in the autumn for the benefit of his health.

And with this understanding, and with the promise of an incessant fire
of letters from both sides, the friends parted.

Leonidas, it should have been explained, on account of his six years
active service at sea—serving double turns, as he put it—had got a six
months furlough, beginning from the first of May. He would, therefore,
not be due at the navy department to report for orders until the first
of November.

When the large party had left the castle, life at Enderby settled down
to the calmest, not to say the dullest, routine.

Elfrida Force spent her time in waiting on her invalid brother, reading
the old black-letter tomes in the library, and in writing letters to her
absent family and reading their letters to herself. Sometimes she walked
or rode abroad, but always in company with her brother.

Sometimes the Vicar of Enderby came and dined with them, and played a
game of chess in the evening with the earl. Two or three times a week
the village doctor looked in to see his chronic patient, and once, on
his advice, a telegram to London brought down a titled court physician
to see the invalid.

Beyond these no company came to Enderby, and no visits were made by the
earl or his sister.

The castle was too remote and too difficult of approach for mere visits
of ceremony; and the sick earl was too much of a recluse to encourage or
enjoy the visits of his neighbors. So the lives of the brother and
sister, in the absence of their relatives, passed in almost monastic
seclusion.

And so July, August and half of September passed.

It was on the sixteenth of the last-mentioned month that the village
practitioner, after a long visit and talk with his patient, sent a
telegram to the London physician, who came to Enderby by the night’s
express.

The result of the consultation by the sofa of the invalid patient was
this—that the earl must depart for Baden-Baden as soon as possible.

Preparations were immediately made for departure.

Among other precautions, Elfrida Force did not forget Wynnette’s dear
dog. She made a visit to the kennels, where Joshua had found friends
among his canine as well as his human companions, and there she spoke
with the grooms and gave them some money in advance and promised them
more on her return if she should find Joshua well and hearty.

“I think if anything were to happen to the dog my daughter Wynnette
would almost break her heart,” she said.

“Bless ’ee, my lady, nothing shall happen the brute but good treatment.
He’s a dog as any one might grow fond on; and as for we, why, we fairly
dotes on him, my lady. And so do him on we. Look, my lady! Hi! Joshway!”

The dog came bounding from some distant spot and jumped upon the groom
with every demonstration of joy until he saw his mistress, when the old
love and loyalty immediately asserted itself, and he sprang from the
groom to the lady.

Elfrida Force caressed him to his heart’s content, and then to divert
his attention she emptied a small basket of cold meat that she had
brought for the purpose, and while he was busy with a well-covered beef
bone she patted his head and slipped away.

On the morning of the same day the earl sent off a telegram to Mr.
Force, at the Hotel d’Angleterre, St. Petersburg, merely saying: “We
leave to-morrow for Baden-Baden. Write to us at the Hotel d’Amerique.”

Late in the evening he received the following answer:

“We shall join you at the Hotel d’Amerique.”

The earl handed the telegram to his sister, saying:

“I told you the bridegroom would be impatient. The bridal honeymoon was
sweet, no doubt. But what was that to be compared to the honeymoon of
the silver wedding, eh, Elf?”

She was about to retort by asking him what he could know about it; but
remembering in time the pathos of her brother’s life, and not quite
knowing what else to say, she remarked that the twenty-fifth anniversary
of her wedding was yet three years off. And then she kissed her brother
and bade him good-night.

Fraught with destiny, the Civil War brought great changes and brought
with misery final happiness to the Forces, as will be related in the
third and final volume of this series, under the title of “When Shadows
Die.” This is published in uniform style and price with this volume.


                                THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      Good Fiction Worth Reading.


                  *       *       *       *       *

A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the
field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and
diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.

                  *       *       *       *       *

=A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE.= A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey
C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary
  scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true
  American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter,
  until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love
  story is a singularly charming idyl.

=THE TOWER OF LONDON.= A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane
Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four
illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

  This romance of the “Tower of London” depicts the Tower as palace,
  prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the
  middle of the sixteenth century.

  The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey,
  and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable
  characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the
  reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably
  over a half a century.

=IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.= A Romance of the American Revolution. By
Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery,
  and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of
  the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking
  a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so
  absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a
  love romance it is charming.

=GARTHOWEN.= A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  “This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare
  before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some
  strong points of Welsh character—the pride, the hasty temper, the
  quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story,
  interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another
  life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life.
  The result is excellent.”—Detroit Free Press.

=MIFANWY.= The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  “This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to
  read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it
  is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had
  known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is
  worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows
  wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are
  introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination.”—Boston
  Herald.

=DARNLEY.= A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By
G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davies. Price, $1.00.

  In point of publication, “Darnley” is that work by Mr. James which
  follows “Richelieu,” and, if rumor can be credited, it was owing to
  the advice and insistence of our own Washington Irving that we are
  indebted primarily for the story, the young author questioning whether
  he could properly paint the difference in the characters of the two
  great cardinals. And it is not surprising that James should have
  hesitated; he had been eminently successful in giving to the world the
  portrait of Richelieu as a man, and by attempting a similar task with
  Wolsey as the theme, was much like tempting fortune. Irving insisted
  that “Darnley” came naturally in sequence, and this opinion being
  supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author set about the work.

  As a historical romance “Darnley” is a book that can be taken up
  pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm
  which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have
  claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.

  If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial
  attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic
  “field of the cloth of gold” would entitle the story to the most
  favorable consideration of every reader.

  There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author
  has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom
  history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one
  for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world
  must love.

=CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE.= By Lieut. Henry A. Wise,
U. S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns
  who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come
  through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea
  and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more familiar
  with the scenes depicted.

  The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which
  will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain Brand,”
  who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate of eminence
  in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple, “Captain Brand”
  has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told
  without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no
  equal.

=NICK OF THE WOODS.= A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By
Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
  Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long
  out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic
  presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of
  settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a
  practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story.
  This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be certain
  to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird’s
  clever and versatile pen.

=GUY FAWKES.= A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison
Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.
Price, $1.00.

  The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the
  King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was
  weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of
  extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In
  their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits
  concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were
  arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other
  prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the
  entire romance.

=THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER.= A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.” The
  main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian
  missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given
  details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the
  wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,
  as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and
  at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent
  their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in
  comparative security.

  Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village
  of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description. The
  efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have
  been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders
  of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be
  of interest to the student.

  By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
  word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
  of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.

  It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
  it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
  braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
  star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
  simple and tender, runs through the book.

=RICHELIEU.= A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By
G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, “Richelieu,” and was
  recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.

  In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
  cardinal’s life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it
  was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic
  outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost
  wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is
  that of Cinq Mar’s conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal
  cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites;
  affording a better insight into the statecraft of that day than can be
  had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful romance
  of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing
  interest has never been excelled.

=ROB OF THE BOWL.= A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P.
Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.

  This story is an authentic exposition of the manners and customs
  during Lord Baltimore’s rule. The greater portion of the action takes
  place in St. Mary’s—the original capital of the State.

  The quaint character of Rob, the loss of whose legs was supplied by a
  wooden bowl strapped to his thighs, his misfortunes and mother wit,
  far outshine those fair to look upon. Pirates and smugglers did Rob
  consort with for gain, and it was to him that Blanche Werden owed her
  life and her happiness, as the author has told us in such an
  enchanting manner.

  As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, “Rob of
  the Bowl” has no equal. The story is full of splendid action, with a
  charming love story, and a plot that never loosens the grip of its
  interest to its last page.

=TICONDEROGA.= A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By
G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever
  evolved by Cooper. The story is located on the frontier of New York
  State. The principal characters in the story include an English
  gentleman, his beautiful daughter, Lord Howe, and certain Indian
  sachems belonging to the Five Nations, and the story ends with the
  Battle of Ticonderoga.

  The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice
  his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among
  the least of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention
  of the reader even to the last page.

  Interwoven with the plot is the Indian “blood” law, which demands a
  life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his
  race. A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never
  been written than “Ticonderoga.”

=MARY DERWENT.= A tale of the Wyoming Valley in 1778. By Mrs. Ann S.
Stephens. Cloth, 12mo. Four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.

  The scene of this fascinating story of early frontier life is laid in
  the Valley of Wyoming. Aside from Mary Derwent, who is of course the
  heroine, the story deals with Queen Esther’s son, Giengwatah, the
  Butlers of notorious memory, and the adventures of the Colonists with
  the Indians.

  Though much is made of the Massacre of Wyoming, a great portion of the
  tale describes the love making between Mary Derwent’s sister, Walter
  Butler, and one of the defenders of Forty Fort.

  This historical novel stands out bright and pleasing, because of the
  mystery and notoriety of several of the actors, the tender love
  scenes, descriptions of the different localities, and the struggles of
  the settlers. It holds the attention of the reader even to the last
  page.

=WINDSOR CASTLE.= A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII.,
Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth,
12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

  “Windsor Castle” is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne
  Boleyn. “Bluff King Hal,” although a well-loved monarch, was none too
  good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable
  acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and
  his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King’s love was as
  brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen,
  attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room
  for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all
  readers.

=HORSESHOE ROBINSON.= A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in
1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical
  fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans
  than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which
  depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists
  in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression
  of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.

  The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of
  the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning
  those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is
  never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared
  neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love
  story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as
  their share in the winning of the republic.

  Take it all in all, “Horseshoe Robinson” is a work which should be
  found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining
  story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning
  the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once
  more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to
  thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story
  again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to
  procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.

=THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND.= A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

  Written prior to 1862, the “Pearl of Orr’s Island” is ever new; a book
  filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew
  each time one reads them. One sees the “sea like an unbroken mirror
  all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr’s Island,” and
  straightway comes “the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach,
  like the wild angry howl of some savage animal.”

  Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which
  came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel’s wings,
  without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud
  blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the
  character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid
  the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.

  There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
  which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”

=THE LAST TRAIL.= A story of early days in the Ohio Valley. By Zane
Grey. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.

  “The Last Trail” is a story of the border. The scene is laid at Fort
  Henry, where Col. Ebenezer Zane with his family have built up a
  village despite the attacks of savages and renegades. The Colonel’s
  brother and Wetzel, known as Deathwind by the Indians, are the
  bordermen who devote their lives to the welfare of the white people. A
  splendid love story runs through the book.

  That Helen Sheppard, the heroine, should fall in love with such a
  brave, skilful scout as Jonathan Zane seems only reasonable after his
  years of association and defense of the people of the settlement from
  savages and renegades.

  If one has a liking for stories of the trail, where the white man
  matches brains against savage cunning, for tales of ambush and
  constant striving for the mastery, “The Last Trail” will be greatly to
  his liking.

=THE KNIGHTS OF THE HORSESHOE.= A traditionary tale of the Cocked Hat
Gentry in the Old Dominion. By Dr. Wm. A. Caruthers. Cloth, 12mo. Four
page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  Many will hail with delight the re-publication of this rare and justly
  famous story of early American colonial life and old-time Virginian
  hospitality.

  Much that is charmingly interesting will be found in this tale that so
  faithfully depicts early American colonial life, and also here is
  found all the details of the founding of the Tramontane Order, around
  which has ever been such a delicious flavor of romance.

  Early customs, much love making, plantation life, politics, intrigues,
  and finally that wonderful march across the mountains which resulted
  in the discovery and conquest of the fair Valley of Virginia. A rare
  book filled with a delicious flavor of romance.

=BY BERWEN BANKS.= A Romance of Welsh Life. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price $1.00.

  It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming
  picture of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a
  prose-poem, true, tender and graceful.

                  *       *       *       *       *

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52–58 Duane St., New York.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. P. 195, changed “Can you go there and bring us a carriage of some
            ?” to “Can you go there and bring us a carriage of some
      sort?” [Wild guess.]
 2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 5. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.