_FOR WHOSE SAKE?_
                   A SEQUEL TO “WHY DID HE WED HER?”

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

                               Author of
     “Lilith,” “The Unloved Wife,” “Em,” “Em’s Husband,” “Ishmael,”
                          “Self-Raised,” Etc.

[Illustration]

                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                  PUBLISHERS      :: ::      NEW YORK




                             Popular Books

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

                       In Handsome Cloth Binding

                     Price      60 Cents per Volume


                  *       *       *       *       *

                           CAPITOLA’S PERIL
                           CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
                           “EM”
                           EM’S HUSBAND
                           FOR WHOSE SAKE
                           ISHMAEL
                           LILITH
                           THE BRIDE’S FATE
                           THE CHANGED BRIDES
                           THE HIDDEN HAND
                           THE UNLOVED WIFE
                           TRIED FOR HER LIFE
                           SELF-RAISED
                           WHY DID HE WED HER

                  *       *       *       *       *

    For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of
                                  price

                     A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS
                     52 Duane Street      New York

                            Copyright, 1884
                            By ROBERT BONNER

                             FOR WHOSE SAKE

                  Printed by special arrangement with
                             STREET & SMITH




                            FOR WHOSE SAKE?




                               CHAPTER I
                         A STARTLING RENCONTRE


Two travelers on board the ocean steamer _Scorpio_, bound from New York
to Liverpool, were Gentleman Geff and his queenly bride.

He was in blissful ignorance that his forsaken wife and her infant were
on the same ship.

The wife whom he believed to be in her pauper grave in potter’s field,
and the child of whose birth he had never heard!

Gentleman Geff was riding on the topmost wave of success and popularity.
He had paid a high price for his fortune, but he told himself
continually that the fortune was worth all he had given for it.

Certainly there were two awful pictures that would present themselves to
his mental vision with terrible distinctness and persistent regularity.

The first was of a deep wood, in the dead of night, and a young man’s
ghastly face turned up to the starlight.

The other was of a silent city street, in the dark hours before day, and
a girl’s form prone upon the pavement, with a dark stream creeping from
a wound in her side.

There were moments when the murderer would have given all that he had
gained by his crimes to wake up and find that they had all been “the
phantasmagoria of a midnight dream”; that he was not the counterfeit
Randolph Hay, Esquire, of Haymore, with a rent roll of twenty thousand
pounds sterling a year, and an income from invested funds of twice as
much, and with two atrocious murders on his soul, but simply the poor
devil of an adventurer who lived by his wits, and was known to the
miners as Gentleman Geff.

At such times he would drink deeply of brandy, and under its influence
find all his views change. He would philosophize about life, fortune,
destiny, necessity, and try to persuade himself that he had been more
sinned against than sinning. He then felt sure that, if he had been born
to wealth, he would have been a philanthropist of the highest order, a
benefactor to the whole human race; would have founded churches, and
sent out missionaries; would have established hospitals and asylums, and
erected model tenement houses for the poor.

Ah! how good and great a man he would have proved himself if he had only
been born to vast wealth! But he had been born to genteel poverty. Fate
had been unkind. It was all the fault of fate, he argued.

In this exaltation he would go into the gentlemen’s saloon, sit down at
one of the gaming tables, and stake, and win or lose, large sums of
money; and so, in the feverish mental and physical excitement of
drinking and gambling, he would seek to drive away remorse.

Often he would drink himself into a state of maudlin sentimentality, and
in that state reel into the stateroom occupied by himself and his bride.
He was really more “in love” with Lamia Leegh than he had ever been with
any woman in his long career of “lady-killing.” He had married her for
love, although it was the Turk’s love.

But Lamia did not love him in the least. She had married him for rank,
money and position. She had begun by liking him, then enduring him, and
now she ended by detesting him.

“Some poor girls marry old men for money; some marry ugly men or
withered men for the same cause; but to marry a drunkard for that, or
for any cause; to be obliged to live with the beast; to be unable to
escape from him; to see him day and night; to smell his nauseous
breath—it is horrible, abhorrent, abominable!” she said to herself.

Yet she never dared to let her disgust and abhorrence appear to
its object. She was too politic to offend him, for—he held the
purse strings. There had been no settlements—nothing of the
sort—notwithstanding all the talk about them with Will Walling.
For every dollar she would receive she must depend on her husband.

The Cashmere shawls and sable furs and solitaire diamonds that she
longed for, if she should get them at all, must be got from him, and she
knew she would get them, and everything else she might want, so long as
he should possess his fortune and she retain his favor. So she veiled
her dislike under a show of affection, and she even made for herself a
rule and set for herself a task, so that he might never find out her
real feelings toward him.

The more disgusted she might really be, the more enamored she would
pretend to be.

This was surely a very hard way of earning diamonds and the rest, but,
like Gentleman Geff, she told herself that they were worth it; and she
thought so.

Their fellow passengers all knew them to be a newly married pair; for
there happened to be a few New York “society” people on the ship, who
had heard all about the grand wedding at Peter Vansitart’s, and they had
spread the news in the first cabin.

Their fellow voyagers also believed them to be a very happy couple;
though ladies sometimes whispered together that he certainly did look
rather dissipated; and gentlemen remarked to each other that it was a
pity he drank so hard and played so high. It was a bad beginning at his
age, and if it should continue Haymore fortunes could scarcely “stand
the racket.”

But notwithstanding these drawbacks, Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay were very
popular among their fellow voyagers.

The weather continued good for the first week.

The bride and groom were daily to be seen on deck—well wrapped up, for
the fine October days were cold on midocean.

Yet though they were every day on deck, they had never yet encountered
Jennie.

How was that? And where was Jennie?

Jennie Montgomery was in her stateroom, so prostrated by seasickness
that she was scarcely able to take care of her child. She had never once
left her room even to go into the ladies’ saloon, but passed her time
between her lower berth and her broad sofa.

Stewardess Hopkins became interested in poor little Jennie and her
baby—“one as much of a baby as t’other,” she had said to one of the
stateroom stewards—and so she showed them kindness from a heartfelt
sympathy, such as no fee could have purchased.

On the eighth day out, Mrs. Hopkins was in the room with the young
mother and child, when Jennie, looking gratefully at the stewardess,
said, with tears in her eyes:

“Oh, Mrs. Hopkins, I do thank you with all my heart, but feel so deeply
that that is not enough. I shall never, never be able to repay you for
all your goodness to me.”

“Don’t talk in that way, my dear,” replied the stewardess, in
self-depreciation.

“If it were not for you, I believe that I and baby should both die on
the sea.”

“Oh, no, dear. ‘The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,’ and if I
hadn’t been here He would have provided some one else for you. But now,
dear, I do really think you ought to try and exert yourself to go up on
deck. Here we are a week at sea, and you have had no enjoyment of the
voyage at all. Don’t you think, now that the baby has gone to sleep, and
is safe to be quiet for two or three hours, you could let me wrap you up
warm and help you up on deck?”

“I should like to do so, but I am not able; indeed I am not. I am as
weak as a rat.”

“Rats are remarkably strong for their size, my dear, for they’re all
muscle. And as for you being weak, it is only a nervous fancy, caused by
your seasickness. But you’re over that now. And if you will only let me
help you up on deck, why, every step you take and every breath you
breathe will give you new life and strength,” persisted the stewardess.

“Well, I will go.”

Jennie stood up, holding by the edge of the upper berth for support,
while the stewardess prepared her to go up on deck.

And when last of all Jennie was well wrapped up in her fur-lined cloak,
Mrs. Hopkins led and supported her to the stairs, and took her carefully
up to the deck, and found her a sheltered seat on the lee side.

“Sit here,” she said, “and every breath of this fresh air you breathe
will give you new life.”

And having tucked a rug well around the feet of her charge, the
stewardess left Jennie to herself.

Jennie looked around her. There were very few people within the range of
her vision, only the man at the wheel and two or three deck hands.

It was the luncheon hour, and nearly all the passengers who were not in
their staterooms had gone to the dining saloon.

Then Jennie looked abroad over the boundless expanse of dazzling blue
sea, leaping and sparkling under the light of a radiant blue sky. It was
splendid, glorious, but blinding to vision just out of the shadows of
the stateroom and cabin, and so Jennie closed her eyes to recover them,
and sat with them closed for some moments. At this hour it was very
quiet on deck. Only the sounds of the ship’s movements were heard.
Jennie, with her tired eyes shut, sat there in calm content.

“Oh! I am going mad! I am going mad! It has taken shape at last—or is
this—delirium tremens? I—must not—drink so much!”

It was a low, husky, shuddering voice that uttered these strange words
in Jennie’s hearing.

She opened her eyes at the sound, looked up and saw——

Kightly Montgomery, her husband, within a few feet of her, staring in
horror upon her, while he supported himself in a collapsed state against
the bulwarks of the ship. The face that confronted her was ashen,
ghastly, awe-stricken, yet defiant, as with the impotent revolt of a
demon.

Jennie returned his glare with a gaze of amazement and perplexity.

And so they remained spellbound, staring at each other, without moving
or speaking, for perhaps a full minute.

Jennie was the first to recover herself. A moment’s reflection enabled
her to understand the situation—that Kightly Montgomery, under his new
name and with his new wife, was her fellow passenger on the _Scorpio_.
This was clear enough to her now.

She was also the first to break the spell of silence, though it cost her
an effort to do so, and her voice quivered, and she lowered her eyes as
she said:

“You seem to take me for an optical illusion.”

He still glared at her without answering.

“I am no ‘illusion,’” she continued, more steadily, gaining more
self-control every moment.

“If not—what—in the devil—are you?” he gasped at length, terrified, yet
aggressive.

“I am your wife; but shall never claim, or wish to claim, the position,”
she replied, still keeping her eyes down to avoid the pain of seeing his
face.

“You are—I do not—I thought——How——” he began, in utter confusion of
mind, and with his eyes starting from the intensity of his stare.

“Go away, please, and collect yourself. Do not fear me. I shall not
trouble you. But pray, go now, and do not come near me or speak to me
again,” said Jennie.

“But I thought—you were dead!” he blurted out, with brutal bluntness.

Jennie reflected for a moment. Why should he have thought that she was
dead, even though he had tried to kill her, and had indeed left her for
dead? Then she concluded that he must have fled from the city
immediately after having committed the crime by which he had intended to
rid himself of her forever; but she made no reply to his remark.

“Why have you followed me here?” he demanded, trying to cover his
intense anxiety with an air of bravado.

“I did not follow you. I did not know that you were to be on this boat.
How should I have known it? And why should I have followed you?” she
calmly inquired.

“How is it—that you are here, then?” he questioned, his voice still
shaking, his eyes staring, his form supported against the bulwarks of
the ship.

“I am going home to my father’s house. When I got well in the Samaritan
Hospital a few good women of means clubbed together and raised the funds
to give me an outfit and pay my passage to England. They engaged for me
one of the best staterooms in the ladies’ cabin.”

“How is it—that I have never seen you—or suspected your presence on the
ship before? Have you been hiding from me?”

“No; I have already told you that I did not know you were on board. You
have not seen me because I have been seasick in my stateroom. This is my
first day on deck. And now will you please to go away and leave me?”

“Presently. By Jove, Jennie, you take things very coolly!” he exclaimed,
drawing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his forehead,
on which beads of perspiration stood out. “What do you intend to do?” he
suddenly demanded.

“Nothing to trouble you while you are on this ship. I do not wish to
see, or speak to, or even to know you here again, and I will not.”

“I—well—I thank you for so much grace. But what will you do after you
shall have reached England?”

“I shall tell my father the whole story—of which he has no suspicion
now—and I shall place myself in his hands for direction, and do whatever
he counsels me to do. He was my guard and guide all my life until I
threw off his safe authority and followed you.”

“Pity!” muttered Gentleman Geff to himself.

“And now,” said Jennie, “once more, and for the third time, I beg you to
leave me. Let this distressing and most improper interview come to an
end at once. I think it is both sinful and shameful, in view of the past
and the present, for you to speak to me, or even to look at me. Perhaps
I am doing wrong in keeping quiet. Perhaps I ought to denounce you to
the captain and officers of this ship.”

“That would be quite useless, my girl,” exclaimed Gentleman Geff, daring
to speak contemptuously for the first time during the interview, yet
still quaking between the conflicting passions of terror and defiance;
“you could not prove anything against me here.”

“Probably not; and my interference would not only be useless, but worse
than useless; it would make an ugly scandal, and create a great
disturbance. No, I will do nothing until I take counsel with my father.
But let me give you this warning: My father is to meet me at Liverpool.
Do not let him see you then! And now, Capt. Montgomery, if you do not
leave me, I shall be obliged to go to my room,” Jennie concluded.

Gentleman Geff turned away. It was time, for people were leaving the
dining saloon and coming up on deck.

Several people—men, women and children—passed Jennie on their way
forward; nearly every one of these glanced at Jennie with more or less
interest; for hers was a new face. Now, in the beginning of a sea voyage
nearly all the passengers are strangers to each other. But after eight
days, when every one on board is known to the other by sight, a new face
is an event. And this face was fair, pensive and interesting, and it
belonged to a young woman who seemed to be quite alone on board.

Among those who passed was a superbly beautiful woman, whose Juno-like
form was wrapped in a rich fur-lined cloak, the hood of which was drawn
over her lovely head, partly concealing the glory of her red, gold-hued
hair, and half shading the radiance of her blond and blooming
complexion.

This goddess did something more than glance at the pretty, pale,
childlike form reclining there. She stopped and gazed at her for a
moment, and then, when Jennie lowered her eyes, the goddess passed on.

When the stream of passengers had all gone forward Jennie drew a sigh of
relief and composed herself to rest and to think over the sudden,
overwhelming interview which had just passed between herself and her
husband.

Jennie was troubled, not in her affections—for if Kightly Montgomery had
not succeeded in slaying her, he had certainly managed to kill her love
for him—but in her conscience. Was she right in letting him go on in his
course of evil? Ought she not to stop it? But could she, even if she
tried? And she shrank from trying. For if she should succeed in exposing
him, what a terrible mortification it would be to that unfortunate young
lady whom he had feloniously married; who was reported to be as
religious and charitable as she was beautiful and accomplished; who,
even in the busy week before her wedding day, had given time to go out
shopping for her—Jennie’s—outfit; and whom it was now too late to save,
since she had been living with her supposed husband for a week.

To expose him now, and here, would be to degrade her before all the
ship’s passengers, so that all who now admired, honored or envied her,
would soon pity and avoid her.

Jennie could not bring an “unoffending” fellow creature to that pass;
and if her forbearance was a sin, she hoped the Lord would pardon her
for His sake who pitied the sinful woman.

While Jennie was “wrestling” so in the spirit, the stewardess came up
and put her baby in her arms, smiling, and saying:

“As I was passing by your stateroom I just looked in to see if all was
right, and then I saw this little thing lying wide awake and crowing to
herself as good as pie. And I thought I would wrap her up and bring her
to you for a breath of this good, fresh air, which, if it was doing you
good, wouldn’t do her harm. Was I right?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Hopkins. And I thank you so much,” said Jennie, as she
stooped and kissed the babe that lay upon her lap; but Mrs. Hopkins had
already gone about her business.

Jennie smiled and cooed to the little one, enjoying its presence, and
rejoicing that Kightly Montgomery was gone from her side and was not
likely to return. She had purposely avoided speaking of the child to
him. She was glad that he had not once inquired about it. She had almost
a superstitious dread of his seeing, touching or even knowing of the
babe, for fear that his evil nature might, in some moral, physical or,
perhaps, occult way, bring harm to the little innocent.

She was still bending over the babe, when a soft, sweet, melodious voice
addressed her.

“Pardon me, you are Mrs. Montgomery, are you not?”

Jennie looked up. The goddess had come back. Jennie did not know her,
but she answered quietly:

“Yes, madam.”

“I am Mrs. Randolph Hay; and that I had heard of you and become
interested in you must be my excuse for intruding my acquaintance on
you,” added the beauty, with a bewitching smile.

Jennie flushed, paled, trembled and cast down her eyes.

This, then, was Lamia Leegh, the unfortunate young lady whom Kightly
Montgomery had married!

Jennie felt sorry for her, standing there in all the pride and pomp of
her beauty and wealth.

“You are very kind, madam,” was all that she could find to say, in a low
tone, with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks.

The goddess thought the little woman overpowered by her own grandeur,
smiled condescendingly, and said complacently:

“What a pretty baby you have! Girl or a boy?”

“Girl, madam.”

“That is right. I love girl babies. What is her name?”

“She is not christened yet.”

“How old is she?”

“Two months on the third of this month, madam.”

“Ah! She is well grown for that age. I need not ask if she has good
health. She looks so well.”

“Oh, yes, madam. Thank Heaven!”

“This is the first time you have been on deck, I think?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Suffered from seasickness, I fear.”

“Yes, madam, until this morning.”

“Ah! very sad to have missed all this beautiful voyage. An exceptionally
fine voyage. I have crossed many times, but have never experienced so
fine a voyage.”

Jennie did not reply.

“But, then, seasickness is a great benefit to some constitutions. I hope
that it will have been so in your case.”

Still Jennie did not answer, except by a bow.

“Have you quite recovered?”

“Quite, ma’am, thank you.”

“Yet you feel weak?”

“Yes, madam.”

“That will pass away. You are traveling quite alone, I believe.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then, if I or Mr. Randolph Hay can be of any service to you, I hope you
will call on us. I, and I am sure Mr. Hay also, would be very much
pleased to serve you.”

“I thank you, madam, very much, but my dear father will meet me at
Liverpool, so that I shall not need assistance. But equally I thank
you.”

Jennie would have said more had she been able. She would have
acknowledged the services or the supposed services the lady had
performed for her before they had ever met; but her tongue “clove to the
roof of her mouth,” so to speak. It was all she could do to utter the
perfunctory words she had spoken, and these without raising her eyes to
the face of the goddess.

Mrs. Randolph Hay bowed graciously, and passed on toward the cabin.

“Poor thing!” breathed Jennie, with deep pity; “poor, poor thing! She,
so proud, so stately, so beautiful, to be cast down to the dust! Oh, no!
Heaven pardon me, but I must spare him for her sake! I will do nothing
until I see my father, and then I must tell him all, and be guided by
his counsels.”

So then Jennie stooped and kissed her baby and felt at peace with all
the world.

Lamia Leegh was not one to hide her “light under a bushel.”

Before many hours had passed every one had heard the pathetic story of
the English curate’s young daughter, who had been married, deserted and
months afterward half murdered by her husband; how she had been taken to
the Samaritan Hospital, where she became a mother; how certain
charitable ladies had become so interested in her case that they had
made up a fund to give her and her child an outfit and send them home to
her father, and how she was on this very ship.

Without claiming all the credit in so many words, Lamia Leegh had left
the impression on the minds of her hearers that she herself had been the
principal, if not the only, benefactress of Jennie Montgomery, and she
won applause for her benevolence.

When Kightly Montgomery left his wife seated on the deck it was with a
feeling of relief to get out of her presence. He hurried to his
stateroom, looked around, and felt more relief to find that his deceived
bride was absent.

He kept a private stock of strong old brandy in a case. He opened a
bottle, poured out half a goblet full, and drank it at a draught.

Then he felt better still.

“She will keep her word,” he said to himself. “If she had intended to
give me away, she would have done so before this. Any man would have
denounced another under such circumstances. But these women are
inexplicable. I wonder if her child was born alive? I wonder if it is
living, and if she has it with her, or if she has placed it in some
asylum? Impossible to say. She volunteers no information on the subject,
and I certainly cannot question her about it. She wishes me to avoid
her. I am quite willing to oblige her in that particular. I very much do
not wish to see her again. No, nor her father! I must not meet the
dominie, under present complications. It would be awkward. I shall shirk
that _rencontre_ by getting off the steamer at Queenstown and taking the
mail route to London via Kingstown and Holyhead. That will do!”

He filled and drank another half goblet of brandy, and then sat staring
at his boots.

Presently Lamia Leegh entered the stateroom. He looked up at her
stupidly. His face was flushed, his eyes were fishy. The air was full of
the smell of brandy. She knew that he had been drinking to intoxication;
but she cared too little for him and too much for herself to notice
this. He might drink himself to death, if he pleased, without any
interference from her, so that he supplied her with plenty of money
while he lived and left her a rich dower when he should die.

So, without seeming to notice his state, she sat down on the sofa by him
and said, very pleasantly:

“You remember hearing me speak of that interesting young woman from the
Samaritan Hospital for whom we furnished an outfit and engaged a
stateroom in this cabin to send her home to her people?”

“What young woman? Ah! yes, I believe I do. What of her?” he drawled,
with assumed indifference.

“I have just seen her and her child——”

“Child?” he echoed involuntarily.

“Yes; I told you she had a child, you remember.”

“Aw—no—I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes. Such a pretty little girl baby! They have been shut up in
their stateroom for a week on account of the mother’s seasickness. She
is out on deck to-day for the first time. When I saw a new face there I
thought it was hers, but was not certain, so I passed her by. But a
little later, when I saw the stewardess place a young infant in her
arms, then I felt almost certain, and I went up and spoke to her. A
prodigal daughter, I fear she is, but a most interesting one, and her
father is to meet her at Liverpool and——”

“Lamia,” interrupted the man, “suppose we drop the subject. I am not at
all interested in your charity girl.” He yawned with a bored air.

“Oh, very well; what shall we talk about? The end of the voyage? Well, I
heard the captain say that we shall be at Queenstown to-morrow morning.”

“And we shall get off at Queenstown; do you hear?”

“At Queenstown? But why, when our tickets are for Liverpool?”

“Because I will it to be so!” said the man, in the sullen wilfulness of
intoxication.

“Oh, very well! Quite right! So be it!” replied Lamia, with contemptuous
submission.

And the discussion ended.

She loosened her dress and laid herself down on the lower berth to take
an afternoon nap.

He sat on the sofa, with the brandy bottle before him, and drank and
drank and drank.

That evening Gentleman Geff was much too drunk to go into the dining
saloon, yet with the fatuity of drunkenness he insisted on doing so, and
he reeled out of his stateroom and through the cabin and up the stairs.
But had it not been for Lamia’s strong support he could never have
reached his seat at their table. Lamia was like Burns’ Nanny:

                     “A handsome jaud and strang,”

and she succeeded in setting him safe in his seat, where he sat bloated,
blear-eyed, and luckily stupid, instead of hilarious or quarrelsome.
Every one at table noticed his condition, and—

“What a pity! What a pity!” was thought or whispered by one or another.

It was a severe ordeal for Lamia, yet the trial was softened by the
thought that all the sympathies of the company were with her, all the
condemnation for him.

She was glad at last when she succeeded in drawing him away from the
table to the privacy of their stateroom, where he fell upon the sofa and
sank into the heavy sleep of intoxication.

Lamia felt too bitterly humiliated to return to the saloon or go on
deck, so she remained in the stateroom, reading a French book until it
was time to retire.

Then she turned into her berth, leaving the stupefied inebriate to sleep
off the fumes of his brandy, lying on the sofa dressed as he was.

Jennie Montgomery sat on deck with her baby on her knees until the
fading day and the freshening breeze warned her to seek shelter in the
cabin.

Then she took her child to her stateroom, where soon after both were
rocked to sleep by the rolling of the ship.

It was a dark night, partly overclouded, and with but few stars shining.

A few passengers, all men, remained on deck to catch the first glimpse
of land. Before midnight the man on the lookout made Cape Clear
Lighthouse, and the ship ran along the coast of Ireland.




                               CHAPTER II
                          FATHER AND DAUGHTER


Jennie slept late that morning, and was finally awakened by the
cessation of the motion to which she had been accustomed day and night
for the last nine days.

She started up and looked out.

The ship was at anchor in the fine cove of Cork, and the window of her
stateroom commanded the harbor. She knew there was a crowd of people on
deck, but she felt no disposition to join them; so after she had washed
and dressed her child and herself she sat down and waited until the kind
stewardess brought her some breakfast.

“Well, here we are at Queenstown,” said the good woman, as she set down
the breakfast tray.

“Thank you for bringing my breakfast, Mrs. Hopkins. How long will we
remain here?” inquired Jennie.

“Only a few hours. The bride and groom—Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay, you
know—have got off. I know they took their tickets for Liverpool, and
here they have got off at Queenstown. Now they will go to London by way
of Holyhead.”

“Ah,” said Jennie, only because she felt that she must say something.

“Very queer, I call it, for gentlemen and ladies to sacrifice their
passage money in that way. But when people have more money than they
know what to do with they do fling a good deal away, that’s certain.”

Jennie began to drink her coffee to avoid the necessity of speaking. She
did not think it was queer that the pair should have left the steamer at
Queenstown, for she understood very well that Kightly Montgomery dared
not face her father at Liverpool.

“Are they really off, Mrs. Hopkins?” she inquired at last. “Are you sure
they have actually gone?”

“Went ashore in the boat half an hour ago. Took all their baggage from
the stateroom, but left that which is in the hold—big trunks that must
go to Liverpool, where they will claim them at the custom house, when
they themselves get there by the mail route,” replied the stewardess.

This was a great relief to Jennie. To know that Kightly Montgomery was
really gone from the steamer, not to return, gave her a sense of freedom
and security which she had not experienced since she had discovered his
baleful presence on board. She felt now that she could go freely on the
deck and take her child there, and enjoy all the delights of the voyage
across the channel and up the Mersey, without the fear of meeting him or
his deceived bride.

“I do not think, Mrs. Hopkins, that I shall trouble any one to bring my
meals to me here after this. I shall go to the public table,” she said.

“It would be much better for you, my dear,” the stewardess replied.

“And now that I have finished breakfast, I will take baby and go up on
deck.”

“That will be better for you, too, my dear. Let me help you.”

“Oh, no. I am quite well and ever so much stronger than I was yesterday.
Besides, the ship is quite still, so you see I can walk steadily and
carry baby.”

But the stewardess resolutely took the child from the arms of the young
mother and carried it up before her.

The deck was a crowded and busy scene. All the passengers were up there,
gazing out upon the beautiful scenery. But crowded as it was, the people
were nearly all standing, so it was easy for the stewardess to find a
good seat for the mother, to whom, when comfortably arranged, she gave
the child.

Her fellow passengers took but little notice of Jennie now; they were
too much interested in other matters. She sat there and enjoyed the
scene until the ship got under way again and stood out for the mouth of
the Mersey.

This last day on board Jennie enjoyed the voyage very much. She spent
nearly the whole day on deck, and left it with reluctance at night to
retire to her stateroom. That night she could scarcely sleep for the
excitement of anticipating her meeting with her father.

Nevertheless, she was up and out on deck early the next morning.

They were near the mouth of the Mersey. As soon as she had breakfasted
she packed up all her effects, so as to be ready to go on shore as soon
as the ship should land.

Then she sat on deck to watch the shores until at last the steamer drew
near to the great English seaport and came to anchor.

A steam tender from the piers was rapidly approaching the _Scorpio_.

A great crowd of people were on board the tender, apparently coming to
meet friends on the _Scorpio_.

Many field glasses were in active use in the hands of voyagers trying to
make out the persons of their friends.

Jennie had no glass, but as she stood bending forward, straining her
eyes to see, a gentleman near her said:

“Will you take my glass?”

She thanked him, and took it, adjusted the lenses to her sight, and held
the instrument up to her eyes.

A cry of joy had nearly broken from her lips. She saw her father
standing on the deck of the coming tender, looking well and happy. He,
too, had a glass, and was using it. She saw that he had seen her; he
took off his hat and waved it to her. She waved her hands.

The tender was drawing very near, and now came a general waving of
handkerchiefs in salutation from the passengers on both steamers.

In another minute the tender was alongside, the gangplank thrown down,
and the rush of friends to meet each other made a joyous confusion.

Jennie found herself in her father’s arms, scarcely knowing how she got
there in such a crowd and confusion.

“My daughter! my daughter! welcome! welcome! welcome! welcome to my
heart!” the father cried, in a breaking, choking voice, as he pressed
her fondly to his breast.

“My own beloved father! Oh, thank the Lord—thank the Lord, that I see
you again! And my mother!—my darling mother!—how is she?” cried Jennie,
sobbing for joy.

“Well, my dearest, well, thank Heaven! Sends fondest love to you, my
child, and waits your return with a joyful heart.”

“Oh! how have I deserved this love and tenderness, this divine
compassion and forgiveness? Oh! my father, I ought to fall—not on your
neck—but at your feet, and say—what I feel! what I feel!—‘Father, I have
sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be
called thy child.’”

“Hush! my darling, hush! We will talk later. Let us go away from here as
soon as possible. Where is your babe, Jennie?”

“In my stateroom, dear father, fast asleep. Will you come down with me
and see her?”

“Yes, dear.”

The father and daughter struggled through the pressing crowd, and made
their way slowly and with difficulty down into the cabin, which was now
all “upside down” with ladies and ladies’ maids, and gentlemen and
valets, stewards and stewardesses, getting together their “traps” and
making ready to go on shore.

Jennie took her father directly to her stateroom, where the pretty babe
lay sleeping on the lower berth.

Jennie lifted the babe and placed it in her father’s arms.

The minister received the child, raised his eyes, and solemnly invoked
God’s blessing on it, then stooped and pressed a kiss upon its brow.
Finally he returned the babe to its mother, saying:

“Wrap her up, my dear. We must hurry, or we shall miss the first return
trip of the tender and have to wait for the second, which would cause us
to lose our train.”

Jennie quickly folded the baby in the warm white cloak and hood which
had been given her by the Duncan children.

“Now I will take her again and carry her for you. Do you take up your
hand-bag and parasol. I will speak to have the other things brought
after us,” said Mr. Campbell, as he led the way to the deck, carrying
the babe, and followed by his daughter.

The passengers had all left the steamer.

Men were carrying baggage on board the tender. Mr. Campbell spoke to one
of them, directing him to the stateroom of his daughter. Then, holding
the babe on one arm, he gave the other to Jennie, and led her across the
gangplank and on board the tender, where by this time all the passengers
were gathered.

In a few minutes the tender put off from the ship and steamed to the
piers, where she soon arrived. The passengers swarmed out.

Mr. Campbell called a cab, put his daughter and her child into it,
followed them and gave the order: To the Lime Street Railway Station.

When they reached the place the minister stopped the cab, got out and
took the babe from her mother’s arms, and led the way into a
second-class waiting-room.

“You will stay here, my dear,” he said, “while I go back to the custom
house and get your baggage through. You will not mind?”

“Oh, no, dearest father. I shall not mind anything, except missing the
sight of your dear face, even for a minute. It seems to me as if I
should never bear to lose sight of you again.”

“I shall come back as soon as possible, my dear,” said the minister; and
he found for her a comfortable seat, placed the baby in her arms, and so
left her in the waiting-room.

Jennie sat there without feeling the time pass wearily, after all; her
mind was too full of delightful anticipations of homegoing.

Nearly an hour passed, and then her father came hurrying in.

“It is all done, my dear. Your trunks are rescued from the custom house
and deposited on the train, and now we have five minutes left in which
to take some refreshments, if you would like,” he said cheerfully.

“I want nothing, dear papa, for I have not very long since breakfasted.
But you?” she inquired.

“No, dear; nothing for me. And now, my dear child, I have at length
found breathing space in this hurry and confusion to ask about your
husband. You did not name him at all in your letter, from which I argued
ill; and if there had been time, I should have written to you for some
explanation; but I knew that you were then to sail in a few days, and
that you would reach Liverpool before my letter could get to New York.
Now, my dear, I must ask you some very serious questions.”

“Yes, papa.”

“How is it that you, the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of
England, and the wife of an ex-captain in her majesty’s army, should
have been confined in the charity ward of a public hospital?”

Jennie shuddered, but did not answer.

“How was it that you had to be indebted to alms for your outfit and
passage to this country? Why did you not mention your husband’s name in
your letter to me? Why are you here alone? Where is your husband? Tell
me, child. Do not fear or hesitate to tell your father everything,” he
said, tenderly taking her hand.

“Oh, papa, your goodness goes to my heart. He has left me, papa,” she
said, and then suddenly lifting her soft, dark eyes, full of truth and
candor, to meet her father’s pitying gaze, she added: “But do not mind
that, dear papa. I do not. The best thing he ever did for me was to
leave me.”

“Jennie!”

“Yes, papa dear, it was, indeed. I am not saying this from pride or
bravado, but because it is the very truth itself, that the best thing he
ever did for me was to leave me.”

“Oh, Jennie!”

“Yes, papa.”

“You do not care for him, then?”

“No, dear papa.”

“And yet, my child, he is your husband still,” said the minister.

“Unhappily, yes; but he has left me. It is the kindest act of his life
toward me.”

“And you never wish to see him again, Jennie?”

“Never, nor to hear of him. I am happy now in a quiet way. I wish for
nothing better on earth than to live in a quiet way at the darling
little parsonage with you and dearest mamma and my blessed baby.”

Suddenly into the pathos and gravity of Jennie’s face came a ripple of
humor as she spoke of her child and looked at her father.

The Rev. James Campbell was certainly the youngest grandfather in
England, if not in Europe. He was really but thirty-eight years old, and
might have been taken for a mere boy, for he was of medium height and of
slight and elegant form, with a shapely head, pure, clean-cut classic
features, a clear, fair complexion and dark chestnut hair, parted in the
middle, cut rather short and slightly curling. He wore neither beard nor
mustache. His dress was a clerical suit of black cloth of the cheapest
quality and somewhat threadbare; but it perfectly fitted his faultless
figure; but his linen collar and cuffs were spotless even after a
railway journey in the second-class cars and his gloves were neatly
mended.

Altogether he looked very young and even boyish, as we said, though he
was in middle life and a grandfather.

But for the close resemblance between the father and daughter, their
fellow passengers in the waiting-room must have taken them for a married
pair, and “o’er young to marry also.”

“But about this man, Jennie,” he said, seeing that she paused. “Where is
he now?”

“In Ireland, I believe, papa. It is a long story I have to tell when we
get home. And—here is our train.”

The whistle sounded, and the minister took his grandchild from his
daughter and carried it, followed by its mother, to their seats in one
of the second-class carriages.




                              CHAPTER III
                            HER WELCOME HOME


The curate and his daughter found themselves in a crowded carriage of
the second class, on the Great Northern express train from Liverpool to
Glasgow. I say crowded, for though no one was standing up, yet many of
the passengers had well-grown children on their laps.

Mr. Campbell and Jennie took the last two vacant seats.

“Give me the baby now, papa dear,” said the little mother, holding opt
her arms, as soon as she had settled herself in her seat.

“No, dear, the child is sleeping. If she wakes and frets, I will hand
her over to you; otherwise I will hold her to rest you,” replied her
father.

Their fellow travelers turned and looked at the young grandfather and
the youthful mother, and very naturally drew false conclusions.

They were mostly of the class who listen, comment and observe.

“It’s easy to see that is a young married pair, with their first child,”
whispered a fat, florid country woman, with one baby sitting on her
knees and two on the floor at her feet.

“He won’t be quite so fond of loading himself down with, the kids when
there’s a dozen of ’em, maybe,” replied her companion, a stout, brown
woman with a burden of two heavy bundles and a basket on and about her.

The minister and his daughter heard every word of this whispered
colloquy with slight smiles of amusement; but it warned them that they
could not indulge in any very confidential discourse there, where every
whispered word could be so distinctly heard.

All further explanations would have to be postponed until they should
reach Medge Parsonage. And that was a hundred miles off as yet. Nothing
but the commonplaces of conversation could pass between them.

“Are you quite comfortable, my dear?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You don’t feel the draught from that window?”

“No, papa dear.” Etcetera.

Jennie took particular pains to call her young father “papa” whenever
she spoke to him.

But that did not enlighten their companions as to the true relations
between the two. They thought it only one more silly affectation of the
youthful parents. Many vain young mothers called their husbands “papa”
for baby, as many proud young fathers called their wives “mamma” also
for baby.

So merely trivial talk passed between the father and daughter until the
train blew the steam whistle and “slowed” into the first station after
leaving Liverpool, stopped ten seconds and sped on again.

Jennie had not seen her native country for two years, and she looked out
at the vanishing station almost with the curiosity of a stranger, and
then exclaimed with a look of astonishment:

“Why, papa! That was Huton!”

“Well, my dear!”

Jennie looked at her father in amazement.

“What is the matter, my dear?” inquired the curate.

“Matter? Why, papa, matter enough. We have certainly taken the wrong
train. Huton is on the Great Northern, and not the South Eastern
Railroad. This is not the way to Medge.”

“But, dear, we are not going to Medge.”

“Not going to Medge?”

“No, my dear.”

Jennie stared.

“I also have something to tell you which I have reserved until now,”
said the minister gravely.

“What is it, papa? Oh, what is it?” demanded the young girl in sudden
alarm. “You said my dear mother was quite well. If she were in heaven,
you might say with truth she was quite well; but oh! how could I bear
it! Oh, how could I bear it! Is she quite well in this world?”

“Quite well, here on earth, my dear. Compose yourself.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing to alarm you, Jennie.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Haymore, in the North Biding of Yorkshire, where I have a curacy.”

“To Hay—— And you never told me!” said Jennie, aghast with astonishment.
All her life, until her hasty marriage, two years before, she had lived
with her parents at Medge. She considered them as fixtures to that spot.
She would as soon have expected the old parish church and graveyard to
be plucked up by the roots from Medge and transplanted to Haymore as to
have her father and mother removed from the first to the last named
place. “‘Haymore!’” she said to herself—“‘Haymore!’ Surely that was the
name of the manor to which Kightly Montgomery had fallen heir. And in
Yorkshire, too. It must be the same place! She and her father were going
there! And—Kightly Montgomery, under his new name, and with his new
bride, was also going there. The first as the lord of the manor, the
second as pastor of the parish. What was to be done? They must surely
meet, and then?” Jennie was dumfounded from consternation.

“Why, what ails you, Jennie, my child?” inquired her father.

She found her tongue at last, and said, because she did not know what
else to say:

“You never told me.”

“I explained that I reserved the information for our meeting,” gently
replied the curate.

“How long have you been at Haymore?” was her next question.

“About twelve weeks. Not quite three months. But don’t look so
horrified, my dear. If I had changed my religion, instead of having
changed my parish, you could scarcely seem more confounded,” said the
curate, with a little laugh.

“Oh, papa dear, what made you leave dear old Medge?” she dolefully
inquired.

“Necessity, Jennie. My old rector died——”

“Oh! Good old Dr. Twomby! Has he gone?” exclaimed Jennie in a tone of
grief.

“Yes, dear—full of years and honors. It would be impious to mourn the
departure of so sainted a man. His successor was a young Oxonian, who
gave me warning and put in a classmate of his own as his curate.”

“And what made you go so far—quite from the south to the north of
England?”

“Again necessity, my dear. I was out of employment, and your mother and
myself were living in cheap lodgings in the village, when I received a
letter from Dr. Orton—an old friend of my father, who had heard of my
misfortune—inviting me to come with my wife to Haymore and take his
parish and occupy his parsonage for a year, during which he was ordered
by his physician to travel for his health. I gratefully accepted the
offer.”

“And how do you like it, papa?”

“Very much, my dear. The rectory is a beautiful old house, very
conveniently fitted with all modern improvements and very comfortably
furnished. The house is covered with ivy and the porches with climbing
plants. There is a luxuriant old garden, full of flowers and herbs and
all kinds of fruits and vegetables that our climate will grow, and there
is a lawn with old oak trees.”

“How lovely!” impulsively exclaimed Jennie. But then her face fell.

“Yes, it is lovely,” assented the minister, who had not noticed the
change in his child’s countenance. “And I like it so well that I shall
grieve to leave it.”

“Oh, but you are sure of it for a twelvemonth!” exclaimed Jennie, eager
to please her father, yet again stopping short at the sudden memory of
what must meet him at Haymore.

“Oh, no, my dear. I am not sure of the place for a month even. Orton has
heart disease, and, though he may live for months or years, he may drop
dead at any moment. He may be dead now. And in such a case, you see, the
very same thing that happened to me at Medge would happen again at
Haymore.”

“How, papa?”

“If Orton should die, his successor would turn me adrift, to put in my
place some friend of his own.”

“Who has the appointing of the incumbent? The bishop of the diocese or
some nobleman?”

“Neither. The living is attached to Haymore Manor, and is in the gift of
the new squire.”

In the gift of the new squire, and that squire Kightly Montgomery under
a new name!

The thought of this complication turned Jennie pale. In her dismay and
confusion, she could settle upon but one course—the course she had
thought of all along—to tell her father everything; every single fact
she knew concerning Kightly Montgomery.

The minister was now watching her curiously, anxiously.

To cover her distress, she asked the first question that came into her
head, and not an irrelevant one:

“Were the terms favorable upon which you agreed to take this parish for
a year, papa?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. The living is worth six hundred pounds a year,
and Orton gives me two hundred, with the use of the rectory.”

“And you do all the work for one-third of the salary?”

“Yes, my dear; and I am very glad to do it. And there are hundreds of
capable clergymen in England who would be glad to do it for one-sixth of
the salary.”

Then Mr. Campbell suddenly became conscious that he was talking too
freely of private matters in a crowded car. He looked about him. But
every one seemed too sleepy to attend to him.

The woman with the three babies was sound asleep, as was her brood, and
the group reminded the curate of a fat, cozy pussy cat and her kittens.

The woman with the bundles was nodding, catching herself, gripping her
parcels and nodding again.

These were the nearest passengers to the curate and his daughter, and
had evidently not been listening to the conversation.

The express had been running on a long while without stopping, but now,
about noon, the steam horn shrieked again and the train drew into the
station of a large manufacturing town, stopped two minutes and roared on
again.

The swift motion of the train, that sent nearly all the grown people to
nodding and all the children to sleep, seemed to have so overpowered the
nerves of Jennie’s young baby as to steep it into a deep stupor.

The little mother at length grew anxious.

“Don’t you think baby sleeps too soundly, papa?” she inquired uneasily.

“Oh, no, my dear! She is all right. She will sleep until we get home and
then wake up as bright as a daisy.”

“Ten minutes for refreshments!” shouted the guard at the window, as he
climbed along on the outside of the carriage, while the train drew into
the station of another large town.

“Will you get out, Jennie?” inquired her father.

“No papa dear, I would much rather not,” she answered.

“Then take the baby while I go,” he said, carefully placing the little
one on her lap within her arms.

“Now, what shall I bring you, dear?” he next inquired.

“A cup of tea and a biscuit, papa, nothing more,” replied Jennie, who
remembered the slender purse of the curate, who could ill afford the
journey to Liverpool and back with his daughter.

She had ten pounds left of her own, but did not dare to offer them to
her father, whose very poverty made him sensitive. She meant, however,
when she should reach the parsonage, to put that little fund, through
her mother’s agency, into the general household expenses.

Mr. Campbell left the carriage and went across to the refreshment rooms.

Jennie’s fellow passengers of the second class did not leave their
seats, but took out luncheon baskets, and soon the air was full of the
sound of popping ginger beer or ale or porter bottles, while bread and
cheese and beef were laid out on laps covered with brown wrapping paper
for a tablecloth.

The woman with the babies and the woman with the bundles, who sat
opposite to Jennie and seemed to be friends, drew the cork of brown
stout—one holding the bottle, and the other pulling the screw with all
her might.

Then the mother filled a little thick glass tumbler with the foaming
porter and held it to Jennie, saying kindly:

“Drink it, dearie. It’ll do ’ee good; ’specially as ye’re nussing a
young babe.”

Jennie, touched by the kindness, smiled her sweetest and thanked her
neighbor, explaining that her heart was weak and that she could not bear
strong porter.

“Then I hope your good man will bring ’ee some light wine,” replied the
woman.

“The gentleman with me is my father,” said Jennie, glad to make this
explanation.

“Your fey—— And the grandfeyther o’ the bairn?” exclaimed the woman,
opening her eyes with astonishment.

“Yes,” said Jennie.

“Well, it’s wonderful! He didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Do he,
now, M’riah?” she said, appealing to her companion of the bundles.

“He don’t that,” replied the latter.

But here the three babies became clamorous for something to eat, and the
two women turned their attention to them. And though this party had been
nibbling cake or candy, more or less, during the whole journey, as is
too much the custom of their class, yet now they all ate as if they had
fasted since breakfast.

Mr. Campbell reappeared with a little tray in his hand, on which was
arranged a cup of tea, a small plate of cream toast, and another plate
with the wing of a roast chicken, which he placed on the vacant seat,
while he relieved Jennie of her sleeping babe.

“Oh, dear papa, to think that you should remember my taste for milk
toast and chicken, and bring them to me! This is killing the fatted
calf, indeed,” said Jennie gratefully as she took the tray upon her lap.

Mr. Campbell then sat down on the vacant seat with the baby in his arms;
but he made no reply except by a smile.

The train started.

“Oh, dear,” said Jennie, “we are carrying off the crockery ware!”

“Not at all,” replied the father. “The return train will bring them back
and leave them at this station. Such is the arrangement.”

“Then my mind is easy. Did you get anything to eat, papa dear?”

“Oh, yes; a slice of cold beef and a cup of coffee while they were
fixing up your tray.”

“I am glad,” said Jennie; and she gave her attention to her tray, and
exhibited such a healthy appetite that not a crumb or a drop was left
when she finished her meal and put the little service under the seat.

The train rushed on, nor stopped again until nearly sunset, when it ran
in at the station of York.

Here the father and daughter got off to take a branch line to Chuxton,
the nearest railway station to Haymore.

Willingly would the curate have stayed here overnight to show his
daughter the great cathedral city, which she had never seen, had not two
good reasons prevented—first, his poverty, which could not bear the
expense; secondly, the anxiety of the wife and mother at home to see her
long-absent daughter, which, he knew, could not tolerate the delay.

“Some day we will return to see this ancient city, my dear; but to-day
we must hurry home to your mother,” he said as he led her into the
waiting-room to stay till their train should be ready to start.

There the “little angel” awoke in no angelic temper, but impatient to be
nursed.

Jennie took her into the dressing-room, where she attended to all her
needs, and presently brought her back smiling and good-natured to the
arms of her grandfather.

“I foresee what an idol the grandmother will make of this little one,”
he said as he received her.

“The idea of calling my pretty young mamma a grandmother! It is well she
is not a woman of fashion, or she would be disgusted,” said Jennie,
laughing.

“As it is, she will be delighted,” said her father, looking curiously at
his child. He was very pleasantly disappointed in Jennie. He had feared
to meet in her a heartbroken woman—a forsaken wife, whom none of her
“old blessings” of father and mother, home and family affection, could
possibly console—and he found a daughter who had let go the unfaithful
husband and comforted herself with her unoffending babe, and meant even
to enjoy herself with her parents at the parsonage in the performance of
every filial, maternal and domestic duty. And that this disposition was
not forced, but was natural, might be seen and heard in her contented
countenance and frequent laugh. Even now, if the thought would recur
that the curate’s temporary parish lay in the manor of Haymore, and the
reigning or pretending squire was Kightly Montgomery, still, upon later
reflection, she felt so much confidence in the wisdom and goodness of
her father that she dismissed all dread of any fatal or even serious
result of his meeting with her husband. And for one circumstance Jennie
felt glad and grateful, namely, for the change of residence from Medge,
where everybody had known her from childhood, and might, therefore,
wonder and ask questions why the curate’s married daughter should return
home to live without her husband—since it was clear from her dress that
she was not a widow.

No such wonder could be excited at Haymore; no such questions asked. The
people were strangers. They had taken their temporary pastor upon
well-merited trust, and his family history was unknown to them.

As for the other matter connected with Kightly Montgomery, she would
tell her father everything, and he would know what to do.

Kightly Montgomery, she knew, never by any chance entered a church, so
her father would never see him there.

As for the curate, when she should have told him who the new squire
really was, it was unlikely that Mr. Campbell would feel disposed to
make a clerical call at the manor house.

Under the divine Providence she would leave everything to her father.

While the father and daughter were still chatting pleasantly together a
door was flung open and a voice was heard announcing:

“Train for Chuxton.”

“Come, my child,” said Mr. Campbell, rising with the baby on his arms
and crossing the room, followed by Jennie.

They went out to the train and entered the second-class carriage.

In five minutes, after they were comfortably seated, the train was off,
speeding away from the old cathedral city in a northerly direction
across the moors.

The sun had not yet set, though it was on the edge of the horizon.
Jennie fixed her eyes on the vastness of the brown moor that stretched,
or rather rolled, away in all directions to meet the horizon. It
reminded her of the sea. It seemed a boundless ocean, enchanted into
stillness; for not a breath of air disturbed the motionless heather, and
not a hamlet or a farmhouse broke the illusion. No doubt there were
farms and villages not far off, but they were in the hollows, out of
sight.

Presently Jennie turned from the window to look at her baby. The little
one was fast asleep again; so was the curate, who had been traveling all
night and all day, for twenty-four hours. He had his arms so securely
wound around the sleeping child that Jennie forbore to take it away,
lest she should disturb their rest.

The sun set; twilight faded; yet the train sped on over the moor.

Presently Jennie observed twinkling lights before her that seemed to be
on the edge of the horizon. As the train sped on toward those lights she
recognized them as belonging to a station.

Then the steam horn shrieked and waked up all the passengers, and the
guide shouted:

“Chuxton!”

“Here we are, my dear,” said the curate, waking up as the train stopped.

There were but few passengers who got out here, and there were all sorts
of conveyances waiting for them, from donkey carts to fine coaches.

“How far are we from Haymore, papa?” inquired Jennie as her father led
her from the train to the waiting-room of the station.

“Ten miles, my dear.”

“Is there a stagecoach to Haymore?”

“No, my dear, but I took the precaution to engage the fly from the Red
Fox to meet us here for this train. If it has not come yet—and I do not
see it—it will be here soon.”

“How much expense I put you to, dear papa!”

“Tut, tut! there is a time to spend! Whether there is a time to save or
not, while there is the least need anywhere of spending, I really do not
know! There’s the fly now!” exclaimed the curate, at the sound of
wheels, suddenly breaking off in his discourse and going to the door.

“Well, Nahum, you are on time, I see!” said Mr. Campbell, speaking
cheerfully to some one in the outer darkness.

“Ay, bound to be, sir, when your reverence had bespoken the kerridge,”
answered a buoyant voice from the shades.

“Come, my dear! But, Nahum, perhaps the mule wants food and water?”

“Not she, sir! She had her oats and her water and her mug of ale! You’d
no believe, sir, how that lass loves ale! So, with your leave, I’ll e’en
give her another mug of that same, whiles she rests five minutes. No
longer, your reverence. No longer, sir.”

“Quite right. Let us know when you are ready.”

The curate sat down by his daughter.

In something less than five minutes the voice of the hostler was heard,
calling:

“All right now, sir. Miss Nancy and me is at your service, sir.”

“Miss Nancy?” inquired Jennie as she arose and took her father’s arm.

“This mule, of course. Nahum is an oddity! His avocations are multiform.
He is coachman, groom, hostler and handy man generally at the Red Fox,”
Mr. Campbell explained as he took his daughter out to the carriage.

It was not a “fly” at all, though they called it so; it was a strong,
snug carryall, covered all over with a black tarpaulin, except the
front, which was open. It was drawn by a stout mule.

Mr. Campbell put his daughter and her child in the sheltered back seat
and placed himself beside the coachman in the front. And the carryall
rolled away over the murky moor until it seemed to be swallowed up in
the darkness.

But “Miss Nancy” knew the road, and, if she had not known it, her driver
did. So they went on in safety.




                               CHAPTER IV
                             STARTLING NEWS


Nahum opened conversation with Mr. Campbell.

“The last of the workmen have left to-day, sir,” he said.

“The workmen? Oh, the decorators and upholsterers who were fitting up
Haymore Hold for the young squire and his bride.”

“Yes, sir. All is finished in the very latest style, and with all the
modernest improvements. And they do say as there is not a place in the
North Riding aquil to it for magnificence and splendiferousness! They do
that!”

“Ah, when are the young pair expected?”

“That I can’t jest tell you, sir. But Mr. Isaiah Prowt, the bailiff, do
say as he is to receive a week’s notice of their arrival, so as to have
the triumphanting arches put up all along the road leading into the
village and the avenue from the park gate to the hall.”

“That will make a fine display, Nahum, but an expensive one. However, I
suppose it will give pleasure to the people.”

“It will that, your reverence. And that is not all! They are to have
tents and markees and pavilions all over the lawn, and a great outdoor
gala for all the tenants, and even the villagers who are not tenants,
and for the whole neighborhood; in fact, men, women, and children, sir,
are to be feasted on the fat of the land, and have dances and games, and
all that, all day long, and at night fireworks! All at the young
squire’s expense.”

“It will be a boon to the village, where there is never even a market
day or a fair.”

“It will that, sir. Why, the people have gone stark, staring mad over
the very thought of it, though they don’t the least know when it is to
come off. But they are looking forrid to it. For, as you say, sir, they
never have anything here. Chuxton is the market town, and the fairs go
there on market day.”

“So they never have a public fête unless it is given by the lord of the
manor on the occasion of a marriage, or a coming of age in the family?”

“And never then, up to this toime. Such a day as this coming on has
never been seen at Haymore in the memory of man. The old squires never
did nothing like it.”

“No? Why was that?”

“Oh, they kept themselves aloof. They never thought about their tenants,
except to keep them pretty strict and punctuous in the payment of the
rents. Otherwise they looked down on them as dirt underneath of their
feet.”

“Let us hope, from the present signs, that the new squire will be more
genial and benevolent.”

“He will that, sir. You may depend upon it. And no doubt he will have
the old church repaired. And you’ll do your part to welcome the bridal
pair. You’ll have the parish school children drilled to stand aich side
the road by which they come and sing songs and throw flowers? And you’ll
have the bellringers to ring out joyful peals of music?”

“Oh, yes, certainly, with all my heart. It falls in the way of my office
to see that the parish school children and the bellringers take their
part and do their duties properly in the ceremonial reception of the
bridal couple,” cordially responded Mr. Campbell.

No more was said just then.

Jennie was aghast. She had not thought that Kightly Montgomery would
bring his deceived bride, who was not a lawful wife, to England so soon
after his _rencontre_ with herself on shipboard. When he had left the
steamer at Queenstown, to avoid meeting her father at Liverpool, she had
supposed that he would go to the continent for his bridal tour, and
return later to England. But instead of doing so he had written a letter
from Queenstown, on the morning of his arrival there, to announce his
intention of coming to Haymore. This letter he must have posted on the
same morning, so that it came over land and sea by the shorter route of
the Irish mail, and reached its destination at Haymore before she, by
the longer way of the channel, arrived at Liverpool. But why did he
think of coming to Haymore at this time?

A little reflection told her why. She tried to put herself in Kightly
Montgomery’s place and think out his motives. Then she understood.

Kightly Montgomery knew certainly that Jennie had gone home to her
father’s, but he believed, erroneously, that she had gone to him in his
old parish at Medge, in Hantz, where the curate had lived and preached
for twenty years past, and where he was likely to continue to minister
for forty years to come.

Nearly the whole length of England lay between Medge, on the south coast
of Hantz, and Haymore, in the North Riding of Yorkshire. He might,
therefore, go safely to his manor house without fear of being troubled
by Jennie or her people. He could not dream, of course, that the Rev.
James Campbell had left Medge to become the pastor of the parish of
Haymore, where his daughter would be with him; else he would as soon
have rushed into a burning furnace as to come to Yorkshire.

So far Jennie reasoned out correctly the meaning of Kightly Montgomery’s
course. But there was more cause for his false sense of security than
she knew anything about.

Kightly Montgomery had not the least idea that Jennie, by putting odds
and ends of facts and probabilities together, had made herself
acquainted with his fraudulent claim to the name of Hay, and to the
inheritance of Haymore. He thought she knew nothing beyond the fact of
his second marriage, not even the name under which he married, and that,
therefore, she could not know how or where to seek him, even if she were
disposed to do so, which he utterly disbelieved. With his wronged wife
at the extreme south of England, and in ignorance of his present name
and residence, he felt perfectly safe in coming to Haymore in the north,
to gratify his pride and vanity by a triumphant entry, with his queenly
and beautiful bride, into the village and on to the manor house.

He little dreamed of the dread Nemesis awaiting him there.

“Jennie, my darling, why are you so silent?” inquired Mr. Campbell,
breaking in upon his daughter’s reverie.

“I have been listening, papa.”

“But you have not heard anything for the last half hour. We have not
been talking.”

“I listened with a great deal of interest while you did talk, papa.”

“And you have heard that in a few days, perhaps, we are going to have
grand doings at Haymore to welcome the young squire and his bride.”

“Yes, papa dear, I heard all that.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I think it will be a very exciting time,” evasively replied the young
woman.

“Jennie, my dear, you speak so faintly. Are you tired?”

“Yes, papa dear—rather tired.”

“Take courage, then, for we are near home, where the mother is waiting
to welcome us with a bright fire and a nice tea table,” said the curate.

“Yes, papa. Don’t mind me, dear. It is a healthful weariness that will
make me sleep all the better,” replied Jennie.

But the last words were fairly jolted out of her mouth, for the carryall
was now ascending a very steep hill.

The curate turned his head again to speak to his daughter.

“We are entering the village, dear, and the church and parsonage are at
this end. You can see nothing from where you sit behind there. If you
could you would see a stony road, with paving stones set sharp edge up
to make a hold for horses’ hoofs, otherwise they could scarcely climb it
And you would see high stone walls on each side of the road, with
plantations behind them. These walls, my dear, inclose Haymore Park,
through a portion of which this road runs. On the top of the hill is
Haymore Old Church and Rectory. There is our home at present. There is
an old graveyard around the church, and an old garden around the
rectory. All this is at the entrance of the village, which stretches on
both sides of the road over the hill and down the declivity. All around
the manor, the church and the village roll the everlasting moors from
the center to the circumference. There, my dear, you have a picture of
our home, though you cannot see it.”

“I see it in my mind’s eye, papa.”

All this time the mule was toiling slowly, painfully up the steep
ascent.

Jennie, straining her eyes to look forward, saw nothing for a while but
the black forms of her father and the driver against the darkness, but
presently fitful lights glanced in sight and disappeared. After a while
they grew more steady and stationary, and Jennie recognized

                      “The lights in the village,”

though they were still distant before her.

“Here we are,” said the curate blithely as the panting mule drew up
before a gate in a wall, all covered with ivy or some other creeping
plant, Jennie could not see what.

Beyond the gate and the wall was the front of a two-story, double stone
house, like the wall, all covered with creeping vines, but with a bright
firelight and lamplight gleaming redly from the windows of the lower
room on the right-hand side.

The curate lifted his daughter and her child from the carryall and
opened the gate that led between two low stone walls, also covered with
green creepers, up to the steps of the long porch before the house. But
some one in the house had heard the sound of wheels, for the front door
was flung open, a small, slender woman rushed out and threw herself,
sobbing, into the arms of Jennie.

“Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling!”

“Oh, mother! mother! mother!”

That was all they could say, as they clasped each other, sobbing.

Mr. Campbell went on before them into the house, carrying the baby out
of the night air.

“Come in, come in, come in! Oh, welcome home, my child! my child!”
sobbed the mother, as, with her arm around the waist of her daughter,
she supported her into the house, through the hall and into that warm,
bright room, where a sea coal fire was blazing in the grate, and a
chandelier hung from the ceiling just over a dainty white cloth that
covered the tea table, on which a pretty china service was arranged.

The parlor was furnished entirely in crimson—carpet, curtains, chair and
sofa covers were all crimson, which, in the lamplight and firelight,
gave a very warm, bright glow to the room, which the travelers had seen
from the carryall without.

Jennie was placed in an easy-chair, and her fur-lined cloak and beaver
hat taken off her by gentle mother hands. Even in that sacred moment of
meeting, the feminine instinct caused the curate’s wife to hold up and
admire the rich cloak and hat that had been given Jennie by her New York
friends.

“You haven’t looked at baby, mother dear,” said Jennie.

“Oh! so I haven’t! How could I forget!” exclaimed the young grandmother;
and down went cloak and hat, disregarded, on the floor, while she turned
to look for the little queen who was destined to ascend the throne of
the household.

Mr. Campbell, smiling at this impetuosity, placed the infant in her
arms.

And then—but I will spare my readers the rhapsodies that ensued.

Meanwhile, everything else was forgotten.

But Nahum, the driver, remembered he had to collect his fare, and so
“made bold” to walk into the curate’s house, and stand, hat in hand, at
the parlor door. As he stood in the full glare of the light, he appeared
a little, sturdy, muscular man, with a strange mixture of complexion;
for while his skin was swarthy and his short hair, stubby beard and
heavy eyebrows were as black as jet, his eyes were light blue. But the
most characteristic feature in his remarkable face was his nose, which
was large and turned up so that his nostrils described a semicircle
upward. It was a “mocking nose,” of the most distinct type. He wore a
suit of coarse blue tweed, and carried a battered felt hat.

“Well, Nahum!” exclaimed the curate on catching sight of him.

“Please, your reverence, it is eight shillings, sir.”

“Oh! Ah! Yes!” said the curate.

And the price was paid and the driver dismissed.

Esther Campbell and her recovered daughter were now seated close
together on the crimson sofa, which was drawn up on one side of the
blazing fire. Esther had her grandchild on her lap and her right arm
around Jennie’s waist, while Jennie’s head rested on her shoulder.

“Come, Hetty, my love, we want our tea,” said the curate.

Mrs. Campbell put the baby in its mother’s arms and rang the bell.

A Yorkshire woman of middle age, dressed in a blue cheviot cloth skirt
and a gay striped sack of many colors, came in with the tea urn and put
it on the table. She was a stranger to Jennie, but she courtesied to the
“master’s” daughter, who returned her greeting with a smile and bow.

“Where is our old servant, mamma?” inquired Jennie when the new one had
left the room.

“Oh, Julia? She married the greengrocer and left us just before we left
Medge.”

“Why, Julia was forty years old at least!”

“Yes, dear, and the greengrocer was a widower of fifty with all his
children grown up, married and settled.”

“A good match for Julia, then!”

“Excellent.”

The Yorkshire woman re-entered the room, bringing in a tray on which was
arranged hot muffins, dried toast, broiled chicken and fried ham, all of
which she placed on the table.

“This is our daughter, Mrs. Montgomery, whom we have been expecting to
see for so long a time, Elspeth,” said Mrs. Campbell, speaking from her
own genial nature and overflowing happiness.

Elspeth courtesied again and smiled, but said nothing; she was rather
shy. She took the baby, however, when the curate and his wife and
daughter sat down to the table.

Esther Campbell looked a young, fair and pretty woman as she presided
over the tea urn. She was really thirty-five years old, but did not look
more than twenty-three. But, then, she had always had excellent health,
few family cares and no sorrows, except in the marriage of her daughter,
and even that was a light one compared to what that wayward daughter was
made to suffer. She was a woman of medium height and slender form, for
she had escaped the malady of fat to which women of middle age or those
approaching middle age are subjected. Her figure was girlish, her
features were delicate, her complexion very fair, with a faint rose hue
over cheeks and chin. Her hair was brown, bright and curly. She wore her
only Sunday’s dress, a dark green silk with a little lace at the throat
and wrists. It was put on in honor of her daughter’s return.

The party of three waited on themselves and each other.

When all were served Hetty Campbell would most eagerly have asked her
daughter:

“Where is your husband?” but that she feared something was very wrong
with him and dared not question Jennie on this subject in the presence
of the new servant.

Jennie had a healthy young appetite, and ate heartily, to the great
comfort of her mother, who joyously watched her plate and kept it well
supplied.

“Do you like this place, mamma?” inquired Jennie at length.

“Yes, my dear, on many accounts I like it very much. Of course we felt a
natural regret at leaving a home where we had lived so long that we
seemed grown into it, like a cluster of oysters in their shells, which
to shuck out is death. But as it was not our own act there was no
compunction; and as it was inevitable, there had to be resignation. We
are happy here, my dear.”

“But the old friends—the people papa has christened and married and
comforted and instructed for twenty years! For he was there before you
were married, mamma.”

“Yes, it was hard to leave them. But the knowledge that we must submit
to the inevitable strengthened us even for that.”

“And how do you like the people here, mamma?”

“Very much, indeed. They are exceedingly kind.”

Elspeth having set the baby in its mother’s lap, and left the room to
take a new supply of hot muffins from the oven, Jennie lowered her voice
and inquired:

“And the one humble woman among the people with whom we are in daily
intercourse, and on whom so much of our comfort must depend, mamma?”

“You mean our new servant?”

“Of course. Is she a worthy successor to Julia?”

“A most worthy one. Elspeth—the widow Longman—has not always been in
service. She has had reverses and great sorrows—the loss of her husband
while she was still a young woman with an infant boy, a boy whom she
spoiled as only a widowed mother can spoil an only child. He grew up, so
it is said, not really wicked or worthless, but idle, wilful,
headstrong, and fond of pleasure and of roving. One day the poor mother
lost her temper, under some great provocation, and told him he was the
one grief and trial of her life, or words to that effect. He took his
hat and walked out of the house. She thought he had only gone to the
barn or to the village, and her burst of grief and anger being over, she
prepared that evening an extra good supper for her boy, that they might
make up their misunderstanding. But, though she waited long and
anxiously, he did not come, nor has he ever come, nor has she ever heard
one word of him since that day when he walked out of the house in sullen
wrath.”

“Oh, how dreadful! how dreadful!” exclaimed Jennie.

“Yes; it nearly killed her. The farm, with no one to look after it, went
to rack and ruin. She was compelled to sell off all the stock to pay the
rent, and then to give up the lease and go into service. That is
Elspeth’s sad little story,” said Mrs. Campbell, hurriedly concluding as
she saw the subject of her discourse re-entering the room with the plate
of hot muffins in hand.

But no one wanted any more.

The curate gave thanks and they arose from the table.

The mother and daughter reseated themselves on the crimson sofa in the
glow of the fire, Hetty Campbell took the baby on her lap, and the
fondling and idolizing recommenced, and might have continued all night,
but that James Campbell wisely put an end to the play.

“Come!” he said. “I have been traveling night and day for twenty-four
hours, and am well worn out. So is Jennie, though she has only traveled
one day by rail. So we had better go straight to bed. Listen, Hetty: I
have had our daughter all day long to myself. You take her to your bosom
to-night.”

“Eh?” exclaimed his wife, not understanding.

“Do you sleep with Jennie and the precious baby to-night. That will make
you all very happy, though I am not so sure about the baby. Only don’t
talk all night. Put off all mutual explanations until the morning,” the
curate explained.

Jennie sprang to her father and embraced him, exclaiming:

“Oh, papa! how good of you!”

Hetty, with the baby in her arms, came up on the other side, kissed him,
and said:

“How kindly thoughtful of you, dear Jim!”

The curate laughed.

“There! there! I shall not break my heart for your absence this one
night, Hetty, my dear. I shall sleep too soundly. And the arrangement is
on no account to be a perpetual one.”

Elspeth, having cleared away the tea table, was called in, and the
evening worship was offered earlier than usual.

Mr. Campbell in the course of his devotions prayed for the safe return
of the poor widow’s son. This he had always done morning and evening
since Elspeth had been living with the family.

It was a great comfort to the poor mother, who one day said to Mrs.
Campbell:

“No minister ever prayed for my poor lad to come back before. Now the
minister prays for him, I know he will come. I see it a’ as plain as if
my eyes were opened; the maister’s prayer goes straight up to the
Throne; the Lord receives it, and sends its spirit straight down to my
boy’s heart, wherever he may be on the footstool; and he will feel it
a-drawing and a-drawing of him until he turns his steps homeward. I know
it! And, oh! mem, the one that kept me from going crazy with the trouble
was the thought that go where he would, he wouldn’t get out of the
Lord’s world; and if I didn’t know where he was, the Lord did; and if I
couldn’t see him, the Lord could. So I prayed for him, and by the Lord’s
help kept up.”

When the prayers were over the little family circle separated.

Elspeth went back to her kitchen to wash up her dishes.

Hetty and Jennie kissed the husband and father good-night and went up to
a spacious, white-draped chamber which was over the parlor, and where a
fine sea coal fire was burning; and there they went to rest.




                               CHAPTER V
                     IN THE SILVER MOON MINING CAMP


It was the close of a dark November day. Heavy mists hung over the gulch
and settled upon the mountain stream that ran between high banks at its
bottom, and upon the miners’ huts that dotted either side.

The men had returned from their work and many of them were seeking rest
and refreshment in the shed dignified with the name of saloon, where
they paid very high prices for very bad whisky, and won or lost money
with very grimy cards.

One excuse for them was this—the camp was a new one, far out of
civilization. It had been called into existence by the hue and cry of a
new and grand discovery of ore in a mine which the discoverers
christened the Silver Moon. It was formed mostly of men who had been
unsuccessful in other mines. And there was not a woman in it.

Three men sat on the ground in the rudest of rude stone huts, built up
irregularly of small fragments of rocks, and roofed with slender logs.
There was neither door, window nor chimney, but there was an opening in
front, protected by a buffalo hide—to keep the heat in, and there was a
hole in the roof to let the smoke out. The floor was the solid earth,
and the fire was built against the wall. There was scarcely any
furniture to be seen, only a heap of coarse blankets in one corner, and
an iron pot and a few tin cups and plates in another.

Judy’s well-ordered hut at Grizzly was a little palace compared to this
squalid shelter.

The three men sitting on the earth floor, before the fire, which
afforded the only light in the place, were unkempt, unwashed and
altogether about the roughest-looking savages since the prehistoric
ages. Yet they were three as different men as could be found anywhere.

The first was perhaps the very tallest man ever seen outside of a show,
grandly proportioned, with a fine head, fine face, clear, blue eyes, and
yellow hair that flowed to his shoulders, and a yellow beard that fell
to his bosom. He was clothed in a buckskin coat trimmed with fur, now
much the worse for wear, and buckskin leggings and buffalo-hide boots.
In a word, this Hercules was our old friend, Samson Longman.

The second was a medium-sized and elderly man, with a thin, red face,
red beard and a bald head. He was clothed in a coarse, gray shirt, duck
trousers, a nondescript jacket, and many wrappings of sackcloth and sage
grass around his feet and ankles, by way of boots. He was our old
acquaintance, Andrew Quin.

The third was a slight yet muscular youth, with clear, bright
complexion, dark gray eyes and dark brown hair, a mocking nose and a
laughing mouth. He wore a coarse, red flannel shirt, duck trousers,
tucked into hide boots, a knit-woolen blouse, and battered felt hat. Of
course, he was young Michael Man.

All three of the men lived together like friends in this hut. This
evening they were all very grave, not to say gloomy.

Old Dandy Quin, sitting flat upon the ground and engaged in unwinding
the strips of sacking from his tired feet, was the first to break a
silence that had continued some time.

“I’m gettin’ tired of this yere,” he grumbled. “Here we’ve been more’n
two months working like mules, and never got a gleam o’ this yere
moonlight. It’s moon-calves we are, all on us. Ef it hadn’t been for
Longman and his gun we’d ’a’ starved! that’s what we would—’a’ starved!
We never had no luck nowhere! Leastways, I never had! I’ve been nigh
twenty years slaving in the mines, digging in the bowels of the yeth,
working hard and living harder, and running like a luny after a
jack-o’-lantern, from one grand discov’ry to another, but never got no
more but hard work and harder living out of any on ’em, and now I’m
sixty years old come next Martinmas, and I’m gettin’ tired on it,” he
concluded, flinging his rags aside and caressing his poor feet.

“Dandy, ye poor ould craychur, haven’t ye pit a cint itself, nowhere?”
questioned Mike in a sympathetic tone.

“Oh, jest eleven hund’ed dollar in the savings bank at Sacramento, and
that I hev saved up, dollar be dollar, in the last twenty years,
a-working hard an’ the—Regiment hard, and a-starving and a-stinting of
meself to do it! And since here we have come to this Silver Moon Mine it
hev been all loss and no gain! And as I said before, we’d ’a’ starved to
death ef it hadn’t been for Longman and his gun. And now he is going
back on us!” concluded Dandy in an injured tone and with a look of
reproach at the giant.

“I should be sorry to do that,” said Longman, stroking his long, yellow
beard. “But, Dandy, why won’t you go with me? I will gladly take you.
You are alone here and growing old. Have you no natural longings to see
your native country? Come! come along with me!”

“Why can’t you stay here? How do you know but to-morrow the stroke of a
pick may strike a vein of solid silver running down to the very middle
of the earth?” demanded Dandy.

“Ah, that’s it! Delusive hope has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has led
you on from post to pillar for twenty years of unsuccess.”

“Well, after working twenty years for almost nothing, you wouldn’t have
a man miss the chance of turning up a fortune with the very next stroke
of his pick—a fortune that would pay him for all he has suffered—would
you?”

“No, certainly not, if such luck were probable. But, Dandy, my friend,
your pick has never struck a vein, and I think it never will. Be
sensible. Draw your money from the savings bank, and come home to
England with me. That sum will be a fortune to you in England, and set
you up in any light business you may like; or buy you a small annuity,
sufficient for your comforts for the rest of your life. Think of it,
Dandy,” said Longman, with kindly interest in the lonely man.

“What makes you so hot-foot all of a sudden to go back to England?”
demanded Dandy. “A great, strapping, very strapping young fellow like
you to leave the grand field of enterprise to go back to England?”

Longman sighed and asked in his turn:

“What brought you here, Dandy?”

“Well, I s’pose it was the goold.”

“Ay, man, the gold—the gold fever. I have nothing to say against it,
because it has, on the whole, enriched and blessed the world; or, at
least, I hope and believe so. But you, to come out here to the gold
country at forty years of age, and to spend twenty years of life as hard
as the life of a convict, in the pursuit of an ignis-fatuus that always
eluded you, still under the delusion that the next stroke of your pick
may discover a vein, is to have lost so much of your life! Think of what
I have said, Dandy, and redeem and enjoy the rest.”

“I’ll think of it, Maister Longman. But ye hevn’t answered my question.
What brought yerself out? Not the goold fever, I’ll be bound. I hev
never seed ye handle a pick or shool.”

“No, not the gold fever. I was never fond of digging or delving, or any
sort of hard work. That was my ruin, Dandy,” said Longman with a deep
sigh.

“Ruin!” exclaimed old Andrew, looking at the speaker from head to foot.
“Well, then, ye are the foinest spacimin of a well-presarved ruin as
ever I seed in my loife.”

“My hatred of steady work made me an outcast from my home and an exile
from my country, Dandy,” gravely replied the hunter.

“A great, tall, strong fellow like you to be lazy!” exclaimed Dandy.

“No, not lazy; but averse to steady, hard, confining work,” said
Longman.

“An’ for that same did the feyther of ye turn ye adrift, me poor Sam?”
inquired Mike, striking into the talk.

“No, not my father—he was dead; but my mother did.”

“Your mither! Hivenly mither av us all!” exclaimed Mike, stupidly
staring at the hunter.

“I deserved it, Michael,” said the hunter.

“Och, thin, tell us all and about it, Sam, dear,” said Mike
sympathetically.

And Longman briefly told his little story.

“You see, my father was a small farmer at Chuxton, in the North Riding
of Yorkshire. I do not remember him, though I hope some day to make his
acquaintance in the upper world. He left this one when I was a very
young child—the first and only child,” he began.

“‘The only son of his mother, and she a widow?’ Ye’ll be looked after,
Sam, be the Lord Himsilf, or ilse all the howly fathers have taiched me
is not true,” put in Mike.

“Our neighbors used to say that my mother spoiled me. I have often heard
them say it to her before my face when I was a bairn.”

“And, no doobt, they telled the truth,” exclaimed Dandy.

“And what would the mither say to that?” inquired Mike.

“She would only draw me to her side and kiss me, to comfort me for the
mortification of hearing such words. But you were right, Dandy. The
neighbors did tell the truth. My poor, widowed young mother did spoil
her only child in her excessive fondness for him.”

“Well, it was naterel,” admitted Dandy.

“I grew up a very idle and headstrong boy, fonder of consorting with
gamekeepers, and even with poachers, than of working on our farm. I
think if I could have been taken on as an assistant by some gamekeeper,
who would have given me plenty to do among guns and game, I might have
been contented to stay at home; but I could get no such place. Besides,
my work was badly wanted on the farm. We were not able to hire laborers.
My mother, myself and one boy were expected to do everything; but I
neglected my part,” said Longman with a deep sigh.

No one made any reply.

“Mother bore with me very patiently for all the years I was growing; but
by the time I was twenty years old, and as strong and tall for that age
as if I had been twenty-five instead, and when the farm had been growing
from bad to worse for years, my poor mother frequently lost her temper
and scolded me—scolded me, a man, whom she had never scolded as a boy.”

“And, faith, ye desarved it, hinny,” said Dandy.

“Yes, I know I did. But one thing I can remember with satisfaction: bad
as I was, I never gave my mother what she would have called ‘the back
answer.’ I never in my life spoke an undutiful word to my mother.”

“Good for ye, Sam!” exclaimed Mike.

“When her words were very sharp and bitter, and I could stand them no
longer, I used to take my hat and walk out, and never come back till
night. And she—poor mother!—she would have a nice, hot supper waiting
for her prodigal son, with some extra luxury that she could ill afford
added to the feast.”

“An’ she was a good craychur, be that same token,” exclaimed Mike.

“Yes, she was good—very good—but I tired her beyond her patience. One
day the crisis came; the rent was behindhand; the bailiff was
threatening; there seemed danger of an eviction. Then my mother, in her
grief and anger, turned on me, said that if it had not been for my
worthlessness the farm would have been prosperous. She had said that so
often before that the words had lost all significance to me. But she
ended in saying this:

“‘If it hadn’t been for you, Samson, I shouldn’t ha’ been brought to
this disgrace and poverty. The cost of keeping you in idleness would
have paid an able-bodied farm laborer, who would have kept the place in
order. And now I tell you, if you can’t work here, you had better go and
find employment somewhere else to suit you.’”

“Faix, it was harrd on ye,” said Mike.

“It was, though she did not mean it. She was half crazy with the trouble
that I might have warded off from her. But, boys,” added Longman
solemnly, “her words fell on me stinging, burning, smarting, humiliating
as a lash laid on a naked back. Without a word I took up my hat and
walked out of the house, as I had often done before on other but less
bitter occasions; only this time I did not return. That was five years
ago. I have never seen my mother since.”

A solemn silence fell on the trio.

Presently old Dandy inquired:

“An’ where did ye go thin? Ye couldn’t hev hed mooch money in yer
pocket, if there was none to pay the rint.”

“No, I had not a shilling. I walked into Chuxton, sold my silver watch
for all it would bring, and then took a third-class ticket in the cheap
parliamentary train to London, shipped as an able-bodied seaman on board
the _Auro_, bound from St. Katherine’s Docks to the Golden Gate.”

“So it was for goold ye kem, after all,” said Dandy.

“Not at all. I never went near the mines in search of gold. I drew my
pay at ’Frisco, bought a couple of guns, a lot of ammunition, some
boots, and struck into the wilderness, where there was plenty of game
and no game laws.”

“An’ how hev ye thriven? Ye see, I niver knowed ye afore we met in the
woods last summer,” said Dandy.

“I have done well. I have been an industrious hunter. I have supplied
forts, post agencies, miners’ camps and military caravans with game. I
have saved more money than you have, Dandy; and I am going home to old
England—on a visit, mind you, not to stay—I wouldn’t stay there on any
terms, unless some one would make me head keeper on some estate where
there is plenty of game. Even that would be a poor substitute for the
grand, free life of the hunter in these wilds. But, Mike, why do you
look at me in that strange way?” Longman inquired of the Irish boy, who
had been sitting with his elbows on his knees, and his head held between
the palms of his hands, gazing silently and steadfastly into the face of
the hunter.

“Yis, I’m lookin’ at ye; I’m observin’ ye, Misther Longman. That’s so!
That’s a fact there’s no denyin’,” replied Mike, without removing his
gaze, which was becoming embarrassing, if not offensive, to the
good-natured hunter.

“But why? What’s the matter?” demanded Longman, shifting his position so
as to get out of the range of Mike’s eyes’ fire.

“What is the matther? Och! he ax what is the matther! Haven’t ye just
telled us how ye ran away fram yer poor withowed mither in her throuble,
an’ nivir wint back to ax how she windded through it? An’ ye ax me
what’s the matther?” exclaimed Mike with much excitement.

“But, Mike, she turned me out of doors.”

“No, she didn’t, Misther Longman. Not aven on your own showin’, which
was like to be in your own favor. She upbreeded you for idleness an’
neglect av dooty. An’ she was right! An’ she told yer if ye couldn’t
worruk on the farrm ye’d betther go and worruk somewheres else. An’ she
was right again, so she was.”

“Well, she was right; and I took her at her word and left to work
somewhere else.”

“Yis; an’ ye were the vagabond av the worruld for doin’ that same,
Misther Longman. Sure ye knew she nivir meant it, an’ yez leaving must
ha’ broke her heart, and yez her onliest one in the worruld.”

“What would you have had me to do, Mike?” inquired Longman very
patiently.

“What wad I hev had ye to do, is it? Why, to hev gone to worruk on the
farm and mindded yer ways from that hour, and hed the rint reddy on pay
day. That’s what I wud hev had ye to do, Misther Longman. I nivir hed a
mither; me and me twin swishter, Judy, was orphint childer—born so—and
nivir knowed a mither. But if I hed hed a mither, and she had got mad at
me and put me out av the front door, I’d ’a’ kem in at the back one. I
wud nivir hev deserted me own mither—nivir! But I nivir hed a mither,
and thim as has blessings nivir vally thim. I’m spaking me mind, Misther
Longman, and ye may dooble me oop and fling me over the bank and brek me
neck at the bottom of the gulch if ye like, for ye’re twice as big and
strong as meself, but I’m bound to spake me mind!” exclaimed the Irish
boy excitedly, digging his hands in his trousers pockets and
straightening himself up.

“Give me your hand, Mike. You are a brave, true young fellow, and all
that you say is right. Now, then, I must tell you that I have not
neglected my mother. I wrote to her before I sailed from London, telling
her where I was going. I also wrote to her from ’Frisco. I have written
to her from every available point where I have taken up my abode. But I
have never had an answer to any letter. She must have discarded me, and
perhaps married again, for she was a comely woman, only thirty-eight
years old, when I left her.”

“Did it nivir occur till ye that the letthers might be lost in a wild,
onsartin part uv the worruld like this?” inquired Mike.

“Yes, I have thought of that. And lately—I don’t know why—the thought
has grown upon me that my poor mother may be lonely and pining for her
prodigal son. I cannot get rid of that thought. It haunts me day and
night. That is why I have made up my mind to go home and make friends
with my mother.”

“As if she ivir was anything else but frinds wi’ ye, Sam, darlint!”
broke in Mike. He had stopped calling his comrade “Misther Longman.”

“I didn’t mean that exactly. I meant to make it all up with her, and to
her, if I could. To give her all the money I have saved, to make her
comfortable for life; and then come back to the free woods and the free
game.”

“Less ye could win to a keeper’s place in the owld counthry,” put in
Mike.

“Yes; but that’s a dream,” laughed Longman.

“Aven so, it’s a dhrame that may kem as thrue as me own swishter Judy’s
dhrame about her swateharrt that brought her all through the Black Woods
to find him at last.”

“I don’t in the least see how my dream—which was not even a dream, but a
passing thought of a bare possibility—can come true,” laughed Longman.

“Then I’ll tell you!” exclaimed Mike. “Ye know Ran, whose life ye
saved?”

“Why, of course!” exclaimed Longman in surprise at the vain question.

“Well, I only wanted to mind ye of him. Ye know he has kum into a great
estate?”

“Of course, I have heard that, too.”

“Very well, thin. He’s going to live on it. And if ye be in England, and
wanting av a keeper’s place, what more natural than Misther Hay should
pit you over his own kivvirs? You thet saved his life!”

“But, of course, the estate has a gamekeeper already.”

“Tare an’ ’ounds, man, and supposin’ an’ if it has! Misther Hay wud kape
two keepers before he’d lave you out’n the cold!” indignantly exclaimed
Mike.

“I know he would do all he possibly could for any of us. But it is time
enough to think of all that when we get to England,” said Longman.

“And are you bent on going, Mr. Longman?” inquired Andrew Quin.

“‘Bent on’ it, Dandy? I can’t help it. Something is drawing me. I feel
it all the time.”

“On a visit?”

“On a visit for the present.”

“Then I go with you, sir, and come back with you, if I feel like
it—though it is giving up the chance of a grand future.”

“But it is making reasonably sure of enjoying the rest of your days,
Dandy.”

“Well, mates, if you’ll both be laving, it’s meself that will go wid
you. The ould fort will be right on our road, and I can shtop there to
see me swishter Judy, and then I’ll go back to Grizzly. Grizzly ain’t no
great shakes; but for a steady-going old mining camp, that will nivir
promise to mek a man a millingnaire, nor yet starve him to death, but
sorter keep him a-going on fair hopes and fair profits, why, thin, give
me ould Grizzly!”

“Good for you, Mike, my bold boy! We shall be glad to have your company,
even as far as the fort, if no further,” said Longman, clapping his
young comrade on the shoulder.

“Well, now, boys,” said Andrew, “I hev hed twenty years’ experience in
these regions, where both of you are, relatively speaking, newcomers.
And I tell you, airly as it is in the season, there’s snow not far off,
and if so be we are bound to start, we had better be off to-morrow. What
do you say?”

“I’m riddy,” said Mike.

“And you, Mr. Longman?”

“I agree with you.

                 “‘Laugh those who can! Weep those who may!
                 Southward we march by break of day!’”




                               CHAPTER VI
                              AT THE FORT


It was a glorious November morning, not yet cold in the latitude of the
fort. Though there was a large wood fire in the sitting-room of the
colonel’s quarters, the front windows were open, admitting the fresh air
as well as the bright sunshine.

The colonel’s wife sat in her sewing-chair beside her work-stand at some
little distance from the open window and nearer the fire, engaged in
making a frock for one of her younger girls.

Judy sat at the window with a book in her hand, dividing her attention
between the open page and the open view.

There was no one else in the room. The colonel and his eldest son,
“Jim,” were at the adjutant’s office. All the younger children were in
the schoolroom under the charge of their eldest sister, “Betty,” who was
their teacher.

Judy had been three months separated from her brother, and from her
betrothed, and under the exclusive care of Mrs. Moseley. Quick, witty,
imitative and anxious to improve, Judy had made rapid advances. She had
recovered all the half-forgotten book knowledge taught her at the
convent school, and had progressed considerably beyond that. Hearing
only good English spoken about her, she had gradually dropped her sweet
dialect, which both Col. Moseley and Mr. Jim declared to be a lost
charm, and only occasionally, under emotion or excitement, she would
suddenly fall into it again. She was also better dressed than formerly;
though again the colonel and his son declared not so picturesquely.

Mrs. Moseley had judiciously expended a portion of the money left by
Mike for the benefit of his sister, and her short, red skirt and black
jacket had given place to a brown dress with white cuffs and collars,
exchanged on Sundays for a fine, dark blue one with embroidered frills.

The mail came twice a week to the fort, and every mail brought Judy two
or more letters from Ran; for he wrote nearly every day. The desire to
answer all Ran’s letters was a great spur to improvement in Judy, who,
showing all her compositions to Mrs. Moseley, begging her to correct the
spelling, grammar and punctuation, and then carefully studying these
corrections before making the clean copy that finally went to her
betrothed, made greater progress in her education than she could have
accomplished under any other circumstances.

Ran kept her advised of everything that happened to him, and his latest
communications assured her that his cause was going on swimmingly,
though, of course, there were, necessarily, “law’s delays.”

To corroborate this, Mrs. Moseley received occasional letters from her
old schoolmate, Mrs. Samuel Walling, who gave her chapter after chapter
of what she called this romance in real life; how much the hero of it
was admired by all to whom she had introduced him; how from his dark
beauty and grace he was dubbed the Oriental Prince; how he was taken up
by every one in society except the Vansitarts, who, in the interests of
their late governess and favorite, and with idiotic obstinacy,
disallowed a claim that every one else was forced to admit; last of all,
how young Randolph Hay had discovered a lovely cousin, and sole
surviving relative, in Palma Hay Stuart, the only child of his late
Uncle James Jordan Hay, and the wife of Cleve Stuart, a man of fortune
from Mississippi.

Much of this information—all of it, in fact, except that which concerned
his “lionizing”—Ran had faithfully imparted to Judy. And she rejoiced in
his present prosperity and future prospects.

Judy had but one source of anxiety—her Brother Mike! Three letters she
had received from him since he took leave of her in September; but these
had reached her at intervals of a week or ten days apart, and since the
last of these three, two months had passed and she had heard nothing.

There were times when she grew very much distressed, and felt almost
sure that the party of adventurers to which Mike belonged had been
massacred.

On this splendid November morning Judy, sitting at the window, with her
grammar in hand, was more than usually downcast.

First, there was the news that had come to her from her betrothed, that
he was to sail for England about the first of December with Mr. Will
Walling, to go through certain forms, preliminary to taking possession
of the Hay estate and ousting the present usurper; his absence must be
indefinite; but he would return as soon as possible—he hoped in two
months’ time at the furthest. That news depressed the girl very much;
but that was not all. The mail that brought Ran’s letter brought none
from Mike. It was at least her twentieth disappointment, but she felt it
as bitterly as if it had been her first.

“What is the matter, Judy?” at length inquired the colonel’s wife,
noticing the dejected countenance of her protégée.

“Oh, ma’am, it’s about Mike! I am sure the Indians must have—— Oh,
ma’am, I can’t spake it!” the girl answered, breaking off with a sob.

“My poor child, there is really no cause for such keen anxiety. Your
brother and his party have gone far beyond the mail route in their
search for silver. He cannot send a letter to you from his present camp,
except by the chance of some one returning toward the mail routes. Be
patient and hopeful, Judy.”

“I do try, ma’am; but it is awful to lose one’s brother in such a—void!”

“There is no void in which any creature can be lost, Judy; for the
Creator is everywhere, and He is our Father as well, and none of His
children can stray out of His presence. It must be dreadful to have any
beloved one disappear mysteriously, but it is certain that the Lord
knows where he or she is, and will take care of His child, living or
dead!”

“I believe that, ma’am,” said Judy, trying to rally her spirits.

She returned to the study of her book; but her thoughts were too
distracted for concentration, and her eyes wandered from the page to the
open window. The great gates of the fort were directly in front of the
colonel’s quarters and about a hundred yards distant.

Presently Judy, looking out toward them, dropped her book, started up
and exclaimed:

“Why! What!”

And then she stopped and gazed through the window.

“What is it, my child?” inquired the lady.

“A strange officer, ma’am, and several strange soldiers coming in at the
gate.”

Mrs. Moseley laid down her work and came and joined Judy at the window.

A small troop of horsemen, about ten men in all, with an officer at
their head, marched through the gate, wheeled to the right, and rode up
to the adjutant’s quarters, where they all dismounted.

The officer, attended by an orderly, went into the office.

The men remained outside, standing by their horses.

“What does it mean, ma’am, do you think?” inquired Judy.

“I don’t know. It may be some small reinforcement on their way to some
other fort. We shall hear when the colonel comes in.”

As the lady spoke the orderly came out of the adjutant’s office and
spoke to the dismounted men, who immediately dispersed, leading their
horses away.

The two women stood a few minutes longer at the window, and then, as
there was nothing more to be learned by looking out, each returned to
her employment.

Even after that, Judy continued to glance from her lesson in syntax,
through the open window that commanded the great gates and a broad sweep
of the fort grounds; but nothing occurred to reward her vigilance or
satisfy her curiosity.

At length she grew tired of watching, and gave her undivided attention
to her lesson.

Two hours passed, and the colonel might have been seen coming from the
adjutant’s office to his own quarters, with a brisk step and a radiant
face, with full twenty years taken off his fifty.

“Good news, Dolly, my dear!” he said, bursting into the sitting-room.
“Good news! Dispatches from Washington. Call all the children together
to hear the good news.”

“Go, Judy, dear, and bring them,” exclaimed Mrs. Moseley in eager
anticipation.

Judy flew to do her bidding, and soon the room was filled with the
progeny of the military patriarch.

“Where’s Jim?” demanded the colonel, looking around.

“Here I am, father,” said the eldest son, entering the room at that
moment.

“And Betty?”

“Here, father, behind you. So close to you that you can’t see me!”

“And Baby Lu?”

“Right there between your feet, father. If you look down you will see
her.”

“Hadn’t you better call the roll, dad? Then you will be sure that we are
all here!” cried Master Clin.

“Hold your tongue, you young scamp, and listen!” exclaimed the colonel,
laughing. Then turning to his wife gravely, almost tearfully, he said:

“Dolly, my dear, it has come at last! It has been a long time coming. I
have got my promotion and six months’ leave!”

Mrs. Moseley jumped from her chair.

“Oh, Moses! Moses! I am so glad! So thankful! I never expected it in our
lifetime—never! I looked that we should live and die among the frontier
forts, with no change but from one to another. Oh, thank Heaven! Thank
Heaven!”

“Maj. Lawson will succeed me in command here. Capt. King, who brought
the dispatches, remains here with the ten new recruits who are to take
the places of as many of our soldiers whose terms of service are drawing
to a close. There, children, there is my good news. Now be off with you
and rollic over it!” he added, turning to the young people.

“Oh! father dear, are we really going East? Really going to the cities
and to civilization?” breathlessly demanded Betty, thinking this news
much too good, too wonderful to be true.

And the faces of all the other children eagerly seconded their elder
sister’s question.

“Really and truly, my dear ones. And my pleasure in going is
immeasurably heightened by the joy the anticipation of the change gives
you all. Now run away; I wish to speak to your mother,” he said, smiling
on them.

“Tell us one thing, dad, do!” said Master Clinton.

“Well, what is it, my boy?”

“When are we going?”

“In a very few days. I cannot tell you yet what day. Now run away.”

The boy scampered off, and his army of brothers and sisters followed
him.

Judy also would have left the room, but Mrs. Moseley stopped her.

“Stay, my dear girl. We only sent the children away that they might give
vent to their joy in the open air, as you hear them doing. Now, Moses!”
said the lady.

“Well, my dear, it is only this: King will dine with us to-day, and I
have invited Lawson, and Hill, and Perry to meet him. Is it too late to
make some suitable addition to our family spread?” anxiously inquired
the colonel.

“Oh! no, not if we put back the dinner an hour. There is a fine haunch
of venison, a buffalo tongue, and a bunch of prairie fowl that I have
just bought from an Indian. And then I will open my preserve jars in
honor of the occasion, though I did not intend to touch them until
Christmas.”

“You are a tower of strength, Dolly, my dear, but we shall not be here
at Christmas. Now I have something to do over at the office. I will be
back with King a little while before dinner,” concluded the colonel as
he left the room.

“What is the matter, Judy? You look very grave, my dear,” said Mrs.
Moseley, who was at last at leisure to observe her protégée.

“Oh, ma’am!” said the girl in a broken voice, being almost in tears;
“oh, dear, ma’am, it is not that I am not glad and thankful for the good
fortune that has come to you and the dear colonel and the childer——”

“Children, Judy.”

“Yes, ma’am, children, to be sure, only sometimes I do forget.”

“Well, you were saying——”

“Yes, ma’am, I was saying I am glad and thankful to the Lord and all the
saints for the blessing and the prosperity that have come to you; but,
but, but——”

“But what, Judy?”

The girl did not answer, but burst into tears and sobbed aloud.

“Judy! Judy! Judy! What is all this? Are you crying because you are
doubtful of what is to become of you?” tenderly inquired the lady,
laying her hand on the girl’s curly, dark hair.

“It’s the parting with yeez a’, ma’am! And the thought what will I do at
all, at all, when ye lave this! Oh, sure it is a silfish wretch that I
am to be graiving for meself, instid of rejoicing with yeez!” wept the
girl, backsliding hopelessly into her dialect.

“Judy, dear, do you think we would leave you behind? No, dear, not one
of us would think of such a cruel thing. We must take you with us, Judy,
my poor child!”

“Oh, ma’am, sure and it’s a hivinly angel av goodness ye are and always
was, and meself always said it. And I’d go with you, willing, and glad,
and grateful, only there’s me poor Mike. If Mike should write to me, or
come to see me, what wud he do not to find me?”

“My girl, we would leave word with the adjutant to forward any letters
that might come for you, and if your brother should appear in person, to
tell him where you were to be found. There! will that do? And remember
we are going to New York, and you will see Ran before he sails for
England. Come, now! will that do?” archly inquired the colonel’s wife.

“Oh, yis, ma’am! Yis, sure!” exclaimed Judy, her eyes sparkling through
her tears. “And sure meself will be the thankful craychur!”

“Creature, Judy.”

“So it is! Creature, ma’am, thank you, and I will learn after a while.”

Mrs. Moseley then left the sitting-room and went to the kitchen to give
directions to the soldier’s wife who filled the place of her cook.

Judy laid aside her book and began to put the room in order for the
visitors.

Punctually at about fifteen minutes before the dinner hour the colonel
came in with Capt. King, a fine, tall, stalwart-looking man with dark
complexion, black hair and mustache, and about thirty-five years of age.
He introduced the strangers to Mrs. Moseley, who received him cordially,
and to “Miss Man,” who only bowed.

They were soon joined by the major, the adjutant and the surgeon, and
then all went in to dinner. Judy scarcely opened her lips in speech
during the meal, for fear of falling into her dialect. The impromptu
dinner party passed off very successfully, and the evening passed gayly.

The next day being Tuesday, preparations for leaving the fort were
commenced by the colonel and his family.

They fixed the ensuing Monday for their departure.

Mrs. Moseley, in the midst of her packing, found time to write to her
friend, Augusta Walling, announcing their return to the East, and asking
her to find a large furnished house suitable to their large family and
moderate income, somewhere in an inexpensive suburb of New York, and to
have it ready for them to enter on their arrival, to save the cost of
going to a hotel with their numerous party.

Every one was happy except Judy, who was grieving to go away without
having heard from her missing brother, even though she was going where
she would be sure to meet her betrothed.

With distressful anxiety she watched for the one remaining mail that
would come in before they would leave the fort.

Thursday, the next mail day, came and brought her letters from Ran,
telling her of the progress of his business and the passing of his time,
and that he had at length secured apartments in the same building with
his cousins, and had left his hotel to establish himself there until he
should sail for England.

Judy was satisfied so far as her lover was concerned; but she was so
bitterly disappointed and distressed at not getting any news of her
brother by this last mail that she felt as if her last hope for him had
died out, almost as if she might mourn him as dead, and she went away to
her own tiny room to have her cry out by herself.

Then she wrote a long letter addressed to her brother, in which she
explained to him the necessity of leaving the fort with the colonel’s
family, and begging him to write to her or come and see her.

This she placed in the adjutant’s hands, begging him to give it to Mike
if he should come to the fort.

By Friday night all the preparations for departure were completed. It
had been a heavy week’s work to get ready a family of fifteen for a
removal and a long journey, but the task was finished at last, and the
colonel said:

“We may now take two Sabbaths’ rest, the Jewish and the Christian,
before setting out on our pilgrimage.”

And that night the whole family went to bed tired enough to enjoy the
two days’ rest to come.

The next day—Saturday—was a beautiful day, clear, and bright, and mild.
Fine fires were burning in all the fireplaces, but all the windows were
open.

Mrs. Moseley was distributing to the few soldiers’ wives that were in
the camp many household articles that she would not want. Also she was
receiving informal visits from officers’ wives, who were sorry to have
her leave the fort.

Judy, having nothing on earth to do, was walking up and down on the
piazza of the colonel’s quarters, thinking of her brother, Mike, and his
too probable fate.

On this day, people were coming in and going out of the fort gates
continually; but Judy took no notice of them.

Presently there came through the gates another troop—not a troop of
horse as on the preceding Monday, but a very small troop on foot,
consisting of some half a dozen of the most ragged, dirty, forlorn and
Heaven-forsaken looking tramps that Christian eyes ever beheld.

Judy, pacing up and down the piazza, never saw them. She was muttering
to herself:

“I know he is dead, but I shall never know how he died, or where he
died, or how much he might have suffered before he died. And this will
be a sorrow to me worse than death itself! A life-long sorrow that even
me darlint Ran can nivir comfort me for.”

“Judy!”

A familiar voice called in her ear, a hard hand clapped her on the
shoulder.

She sprang as if she had been shot, gazed for an instant as if she had
gone mad, and then, with a great cry, flung herself in her brother’s
arms.

Mike was worn out with his wearisome tramp, so he sat down on one of the
wooden benches, drew his sister on his knees, and held her to his bosom,
where she lay sobbing in a great paroxysm of emotion.

Her cry had brought Mrs. Moseley and several other members of the family
to the door. They saw Mike sitting there with his sister’s face hidden
on his bosom. Mike lifted his old rag of a hat to the lady, who smiled
and returned into the house with all who had followed her to the door.
She would not disturb such a joyful meeting. She was as much delighted
as surprised that it had come so opportunely.

It was some time before Judy was composed enough to speak. And even then
her first utterances were incoherent ejaculations of thankfulness,
delight and affection. At length she said, falling into her old dialect:

“It’s an answer to prayer! It’s a blissing come down from the Mither av
Hivin. Oh, sure me harrt was breaking in me brest to lave this, an’
yoursilf away, and me unbeknownst of whativir hed become av ye!”

“Wheriver were ye going, Judy?” he asked.

“Oh, sure ye didn’t know! How should ye?” she said. And then she told
him the situation, and inquired, in her turn, how it was that he came so
happily to see her, before her departure.

“That Silver Moon Mine was jist the most misfortunate ventur’ as ivir
was made! Iviry one of the bhoys as went from Grizzly have come back,
hed to, ilse we wud ha’ perished in the snow there, this winter. What a
differint climit this is! Why, it’s almost like simmir here compared to
there. So we’s all going back to slow and sure old Grizzly. All,
lasteways, ixcipt Longman and Dandy, who are going back to the ould
counthry.”

“Oh, Mike, are you going back to Grizzly?”

“Yis, sure! Where ilse wud I go?”

“Oh, Mike, don’t let us be parted! Go with me to New York! Ran is going
to England about the first of December; wouldn’t you like to see him
once more before he goes?”

Mike hesitated, then he said slowly:

“Sure, and I wud like to go with ye, Judy, and I wud like to see Ran,
but——”

“Oh, don’t say but, Mike. Draw out the bit of money ye left in the
savings bank at ’Frisco, and come with us.”

“Yis, but what the divil will I do before I get to ’Frisco without a
cint av money or a dacint suit av clothes?”

“Oh—I’ll—I’ll—I’ll spake to the colonel’s leddy!” said Judy, springing
up impulsively and running into the house to lay the case before her
benefactress.

Mrs. Moseley was all sympathy and kindness, and soon devised a plan by
which Mike should have an outfit and transportation to San Francisco,
where he might draw his savings from the bank, and repay all advances.

That day and the next, through the kindness of the colonel and his
officers, the footsore, starved and wearied tramps were fed and rested
at the fort.

On Monday the determined miners went on their way to Grizzly, well
provided with food and drink for their journey through the woods.

At the same time a train of ambulances and army wagons, containing the
colonel and his numerous family, the discharged soldiers, with Longman,
Mike, Dandy and much goods, filed out of the fort gates and took the
road to St. Agnetta, where they were all to take the train to San
Francisco, en route for New York.




                              CHAPTER VII
                            A GLAD SURPRISE


“I have found them, ma’am! I have found them! And they are
charming—charming!” exclaimed Ran Hay with boyish exultation, bursting
into Mrs. Samuel Walling’s parlor with the freedom of an inmate on the
morning succeeding his meeting with Cleve and Palma Stuart.

“Sit down, you excitable fellow, and tell me whom you have found. Is it
Sir John Franklin and his crew, or is it Mr. Livingstone?” inquired the
lady, rising and giving her hand to the visitor.

“Neither, ma’am; though I would give my life to find either if it were
possible. But I have found my own dear cousins!” replied Ran, dropping
into a chair.

“Your Uncle James Jordan’s children? Those whom you advertised for?”

“His daughter, ma’am; his sole surviving child, Palma, and her husband,
Cleve Stuart, who is the only son and sole heir of the late John Stuart,
a rich planter of Mississippi. They are a charming young couple, only a
few months married.”

“Cleve Stuart?” said Mrs. Walling, musing.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why, I know him! He used to be a devoted admirer of Lamia Leegh. We all
thought that it would certainly be a match. But I fancy she discarded
him in favor of the wealthier suitor, your treacherous traveling
companion, Gentleman Geff, the rival claimant of Haymore.”

“If she did she made a miserable mistake. But I do not think she did. I
don’t believe she ever had the chance. I cannot fancy Stuart ever having
been enslaved by any woman before his lovely wife, to whom he is
perfectly devoted!” replied Ran.

“Ah! well, I may have been mistaken. He was very much in society. So was
Miss Leegh. They were frequently together. But tell me how you found
them.”

“Through that advertisement, of course.”

“Oh, yes, I know. But how?”

“Well, Stuart answered my advertisement by coming in person to my hotel;
finding me out, he left a note with his address, asking me to call
there. I got that note when I came in, and immediately started out to
see my cousins. I found them in an elegant little flat, their rooms
almost as charming as themselves. I spent the afternoon with them, dined
with them, went to the theater with them, supped with them, and only
left them in the ‘wee sma’ hours’ of the morning. And I could not sleep
for happiness in the thought of having found my kindred, and such
delightful kindred! Then as soon as possible this morning I came to tell
you the good news.”

“I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Hay! I have lost sight of Mr. Stuart for
the last six months.”

“That is just as long as they have been married. They were married on
the first of May last, and spent the whole season at some place up the
Hudson, and have only been in town for a few weeks. And I do not think
she knows a soul here!” said Ran with a pleading look in his soft, dark
eyes that said as plainly as words could have spoken:

“Won’t you please to take the dear little one under your wing?”

Mrs. Walling replied just as if he had spoken his plea.

“Yes, certainly, I will call on Mrs. Stuart with great pleasure if you
will give me her address.”

“When? Oh, when?” demanded Ran with more eagerness than politeness. And
then suddenly remembering himself he said: “Oh, I beg pardon.”

“Why, any time—this week, to-morrow, to-day, if you like. Yes, to-day,
it will be just as convenient as any other day. Will you escort me, Mr.
Hay?” said the lady.

“Oh, with the greatest pleasure and gratitude, ma’am. You are very
kind.”

Mrs. Walling touched a bell, which brought a servant to the room. She
ordered her carriage to be brought to the door, and then turning to
young Hay, said:

“If you will remain here until I put on my bonnet and wraps I will not
keep you long.”

Ran rose and bowed, and Mrs. Walling left the room.

Twenty minutes later Ran handed the lady into her carriage, entered
after her, and gave the order:

“To the Alto Flats.”

The truth is that Mrs. Samuel Walling was impelled by curiosity as well
as by neighborly kindness in thus promptly going to call on Mrs. Cleve
Stuart.

A half hour’s drive brought them to the flats.

Leaving Mrs. Walling in the carriage, but taking her card, he entered
the office of the house and gave it, with his own, to the janitor’s boy,
who took them upstairs.

In five minutes the boy came down and reported that Mrs. Cleve Stuart
was at home, and would the gentleman and lady come up?

Ran returned to the carriage, assisted Mrs. Walling to alight, and
conducted her into the house; they entered the elevator and were soon
“landed” at the door of the private hall leading into the Stuarts’ suite
of apartments.

The boy opened the parlor door and they entered.

Palma, neatly dressed in her well-worn, best suit of crimson cashmere,
with its narrow, white frills at throat and wrists, and her curly, black
hair lightly shading her forehead, arose from her chair and came forward
with shy grace to receive her visitors.

“This is Mrs. Samuel Walling, dear Cousin Palma. She does me the honor
to be my good friend. Mrs. Walling, my cousin, Mrs. Cleve Stuart,” said
Ran, going through the introduction as well as he could.

Palma put out her hand shyly, half in doubt whether she should do so or
not, and murmured:

“I am very happy to see you, madam.”

But Mrs. Walling took her hand with a frank and cordial smile and said:

“I am delighted to know you! I should have recognized you without an
introduction, anywhere, from your likeness to your cousin here! Why, you
might be twins.”

In a few minutes the three friends were seated and talking as freely as
if they had known each other all their lives.

Evidently the two women were mutually pleased with each other.

While they conversed Cleve Stuart came in from his daily, fruitless
quest after employment.

He looked surprised and pleased to see Mrs. Walling with his wife, and
warmly shook hands with her, expressing his satisfaction at meeting her
again after so long an interval of time.

“It was your own fault, Mr. Stuart. You should have sent an old friend
your wedding cards,” said the lady, laughing.

“We had none, madam. My little girl was an invalid, and our wedding was
a very quiet one at Lull’s, where I had taken her for a change of air,”
replied Stuart.

“I will not excuse you, sir. On your return to the city with your sweet,
young wife, you should have sent me your address, that I might have
called sooner. I hold that you have deprived me of some weeks’ enjoyment
I should otherwise have had in the acquaintance of Mrs. Cleve Stuart.”

“Then I have no more to say, dear madam, but to throw myself upon your
mercy,” replied Stuart as he seated himself near the group.

“Never mind, my dear,” said Mrs. Walling, turning to Palma, “we must
make up for lost time by becoming at once very intimate friends. Now,
will you come and take tea with me to-morrow at six o’clock? Not a
fashionable tea, dear child, at which hundreds of people sip Oolong or
Gunpowder out of dolls’ china cups, but a real unfashionable tea party
of ten or a dozen intimate friends, who assemble at ‘early
candle-light,’ and sit comfortably down to a long table—a custom of my
grandmother’s that I loved in my childhood, and brought with me from old
Maryland to this city, and indulge in whenever I can with some of my
friends. Will you come, you and Mr. Stuart, dear?”

“With much pleasure, thank you, ma’am,” replied Palma, speaking for
both.

“I want you to meet my friend, Mrs. Duncan, and one or two other good
people.”

“Thank you very much, madam,” said Palma shyly.

“She will be glad to make friends among your friends, Mrs. Walling, for
she is almost a stranger here,” added Stuart.

“Very well, then, to-morrow afternoon, at six o’clock,” concluded the
lady, and she arose to take her leave.

Ran shook hands with his cousins and escorted Mrs. Walling back to her
carriage, and would have bid her good-by at the door, but that the lady
said:

“Come in here, Mr. Hay. I want to have more talk with you.”

Ran obeyed.

When they were seated and were well on their way along the avenue Mrs.
Walling said:

“I have heard from our friends at the fort but once since your arrival,
Mr. Hay! The letter of introduction you brought is the last, except a
card, I have had from Mrs. Moseley, and never has so long an interval
passed without hearing from her.”

“And you answered her last letter, dear madam?”

“Of course I did, immediately, and have written one or two since. Have
you heard from them, Mr. Hay?”

“Not for two weeks! And I should be very anxious if I did not know that
they must have written. The mails in that unsettled region are very
irregular, often delayed and sometimes lost. That condition of affairs
out there explains an apparent silence that might otherwise make me
seriously anxious. We shall get letters by and by, Mrs. Walling, for
every mail is not lost.”

“Well, I hope they got my letters.”

“They must have received every one, though we have got none,” replied
Ran.

When the carriage drew up before the Walling house and Ran had helped
the lady to alight and escorted her to her own door, he would have taken
leave, but she insisted that he should enter with her and remain for
dinner.

There he spent the evening, after dinner taking a hand in a rubber of
whist with Mrs. Walling and the two Messrs. Walling.

That same night Mr. Samuel Walling left by the late train for Washington
to see the British minister. He expected to be back in three days.

The next morning Mrs. Walling sent out her few invitations to intimate
friends for her entertainment. It was only under certain conditions that
the lady could indulge in the practical reminiscence of her childhood,
represented by this old-fashioned tea party, which, when it occurred,
always superseded the late dinner; and the first of these conditions was
the absence of her husband, who could never give up a dinner for a tea,
no matter how abundantly the table for the latter might be spread.

Mr. Walling’s journey to Washington furnished her opportunity on this
occasion. So, early in the morning, she sent out about half a dozen
little cocked-hat notes of invitation to some of her old friends not
among the most fashionable of her acquaintances. And all who were
disengaged accepted at once. Among these was good little Mrs. Duncan,
and old Mrs. Murphy, and Miss Christiansen—all pleasant people.

At six o’clock her guests began to arrive—only eight in number,
including the hostess. Six of these were ladies, the only gentlemen
present being Mr. Cleve Stuart, Mr. Randolph Hay and Mr. Roger Duncan.

The elegant and luxurious “tea” was as abundant and varied as any dinner
need be, and much more dainty than any dinner can be. It was not a full
dress party, nor a ceremonious occasion; so both before and after tea
there was some card playing and much gossip.

Mr. Stuart and Mr. Duncan, with Miss Christiansen and Mrs. Murphy, sat
down to a rubber of whist. Mrs. Walling, Mrs. Duncan, Mrs. Stuart and
Mr. Hay sat near each other in a group and gossiped with all their might
and main.

Mrs. Duncan was the principal talker; and after telling many a spicy but
harmless bit of news, she took up the story of her protégée, Jennie
Montgomery, and soon interested all her hearers in it. The facts were
new to them all except to herself and Mrs. Murphy.

“What puzzled me about the young thing was this: That while she had lost
every particle of respect and affection for her would-be murderer, she
persisted in shielding him from justice. Now, I can understand a woman
shielding a criminal whom she has loved, and still loves; but I cannot
understand her protecting an assassin who has aimed at her life, and
whom she fears and abhors!”

Then Palma’s eyes began to sparkle. She had her little story to tell,
too. And she wanted to tell it.

“Do you know,” she said, as soon as she could slip into the busy
conversation—“do you know that my husband was arrested by mistake for
Capt. Kightly Montgomery, and held for a murderous assault, until he
could prove his identity by competent witnesses?”

The ladies, startled by this information, made little, low exclamations
of surprise.

“Your husband was one of the witnesses, Mrs. Walling,” continued Palma,
pleased with herself that she could contribute some little item of
interest to the conversation.

“Oh, yes! I think I remember hearing something about some one being
arrested by mistake, charged with something or other, and Mr. Walling
being called as a witness to prove the accused to be some other than the
man wanted; but, really, now, there are so many sensational items in the
daily papers that one shoves the other from the memory. So it was Mr.
Cleve Stuart, was it? Pleasant for him,” said Mrs. Walling.

“And it was really your husband, Mrs. Stuart, who was taken to the
woman’s ward of the hospital to be identified by Jennie Montgomery! I
heard all about it at the time, but I had forgotten the name of the
gentleman who had been arrested by mistake,” said Mrs. Duncan, taking a
good look at Stuart, who was in a fine light for the view, seated at the
card table immediately under a chandelier. “And there certainly is a
very striking likeness between him and the miniature of the young
woman’s murderous husband,” she concluded.

And then all the other ladies turned and gazed at Stuart, who was
blissfully unconscious of the severe scrutiny.

“But though there is a striking likeness, there is also a very great
difference,” resumed Mrs. Duncan. “But you can see for yourselves. By
the merest chance I have that miniature in my pocket.”

“Oh, do let us see it, dear Mrs. Duncan, do!” pleaded Palma, eager to
behold the likeness that had led to her husband’s false arrest.

“Yes, my dear; but first let me tell you how I happen to have it in my
possession, and also to have it with me here. Mrs. Montgomery spent the
last ten days of her stay in the city in my house. The miniature which
had been found in her possession when the police searched her room, and
had been used in the vain effort to trace her assailant, was at length
restored to her. And to show how entirely she had ceased to care for the
man who tried to murder her, she actually forgot his picture, and left
it behind in her bureau drawer. I never chanced to find it until this
morning; and as I was coming out, I thought I would do it up and send it
out to her by mail. So I put it in a small box, directed and sealed it
and put it in my pocket with the intention of posting it, and
then—forgot all about it until now. Now you shall see it.”

She drew a small pasteboard box from her pocket, broke the seals, opened
it and took out a small morocco case, which she also opened and handed
to Palma.

“There is a slight resemblance. Only a very slight one. I do not see how
any one could mistake this sinister-looking face for a miniature of Mr.
Stuart. Now, do you, Mrs. Walling?” said Palma with an aggrieved air as
she passed the picture to her friend and hostess.

“There is a very wonderful likeness to my eyes, my dear, in features,
hair, complexion and all—except expression.”

“And expression is everything. I see scarcely any likeness myself,”
persisted Palma.

“Will you allow me to look at it?” Ran inquired.

Mrs. Walling placed it in his hand.

“Now, do you see any likeness between that ill face and Cleve’s?”
inquired Palma, appealing to her cousin.

“Not the least!” exclaimed Ran on the first cursory glance at the
miniature. Then holding it closer and gazing more attentively he
exclaimed suddenly:

“Why, I know this fellow! It is Gentleman Geff, as he appeared when he
first came to Grizzly, before he shaved his mustache off and let his
beard grow! It’s Gentleman Geff!”

“‘Gentleman Geff!’” echoed all the ladies, except Mrs. Walling, who took
the picture and gazed at it in silence for a moment, and then, returning
it, said:

“Yes! I see now! So it is! Though the full beard made so great a
difference that even the likeness did not occur to me. Excuse me one
moment, friends. I will return directly.” And she hastily left the room.

Ran could scarcely get over his astonishment at his discovery. Gentleman
Geff, the very fine dude who had seemed too dainty for any of the
rudenesses of life, yet who had treacherously shot him in the woods,
robbed him of his documents, and possessed himself of his estates, was
also the man who had attempted the murder of his own wife and
feloniously married another woman!

“But who is Gentleman Geff?” inquired Palma, Mrs. Duncan and Miss
Christiansen, in a breath.

“Please wait a little, ladies, until the return of Mrs. Walling. Perhaps
she will inform you, or allow me to tell you, who he is,” said Ran
respectfully, and even deprecatingly.

Mrs. Walling returned with what might be called Mr. Walling’s
professional photograph album in her hand.

She opened it at a certain page and pointed out a face and said:

“Look at that and compare it with the miniature, and then tell me if the
two are not likenesses of the same person, notwithstanding the
difference made by the mustache on one face and the full beard on the
other.”

She had handed the two pictures first to Palma, who gazed for a moment,
and then nodded assent, and passed them around to her companions.

“But who is the man?” inquired Mrs. Duncan, while Palma and Miss
Christiansen seconded the question by their eager looks.

“Friends, he was one of Messrs. Wallings’ clients, but is so no longer.
He has managed to deceive two astute lawyers, to impose upon society, to
get hold of a name and an estate that does not belong to him, and to
marry the most beautiful woman in the country and take her off to Europe
in triumph, while his own deserted wife and child, whom he believed he
had safely disposed of by murder, sailed with him in the same ship,
unsuspected by him, unsuspicious, also, it seems, of her faithless,
murderous husband’s presence there. He is an adventurer of many aliases,
a gambler, a forger, a swindler, a perjurer, a bigamist and an
assassin.”

Mrs. Walling paused a moment to look upon her shocked audience, and then
continued:

“That is the man. What his name is I cannot tell you. We knew him as Mr.
Randolph Hay, of Haymore. You have all heard of him under that name, and
the _éclat_ of the splendid festivities at the Vansitart mansion on the
occasion of his marriage with Miss Leegh has scarcely died away. Jennie
Montgomery knew him as Capt. Kightly Montgomery; my young friend, Mr.
Hay, knew him as Geoffrey Delamere, Esq.; and gamblers of Grizzly Gulch
as Gentleman Geff.”

She paused again to mark the effect of her words.

But no one spoke; the women were shocked into silence and pallor. At
length, however, Ran murmured:

“This is too horrible!”

“You know that the man whom society has been lionizing for the last six
months is a fraudulent claimant of the Haymore estate; you should also
know that this gentleman here, whom I introduced to you as simply Mr.
Hay, is really the true Randolph Hay, of Haymore, and a few weeks at
furthest will see him invested with his manor.”

Mrs. Duncan and Miss Christiansen both turned to congratulate Ran, who
laughed and blushed like a girl at the honor due him.

“Four by honors and six by tricks, and we have beat the rubber!”
exclaimed Mr. Roger Duncan, rising in triumph from the whist table and
breaking in upon the gravity of the circle collected around the fire.

No one of that circle thought of speaking to the others of their
discovery through the miniature and photograph.

And soon the company broke up.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                          UNEXPECTED ARRIVALS


From this day forth the life of Cleve and Palma changed. They made
friends and went much into company through the introductions of Mrs.
Walling. They were young and innocently fond of gayety, and they were
led on by Ran, who was liberally supplied with money advanced by his
solicitors, and who, from being a daily visitor at their apartments, had
at last taken up his abode under the same roof for the sake of being
nearer to them until he should sail for England, accompanied by Mr.
William Walling.

Unfortunately, neither Randolph Hay nor the Wallings suspected the
impoverished condition of their new friends, else they would not have
tempted or led the young pair into a way of life so much above their
means.

As it was, their scanty little fund had to be drawn upon for such
additions to Palma’s toilet, and even to Cleve’s, in the way of nice
boots and fresh gloves, that seemed really indispensable to them when
they went out in the evening. Had Palma even suspected their own poverty
she would not have gone anywhere if it cost money to go there. But,
unsuspicious as she was, believing, as she did, that her husband was in
very easy circumstances, she went out a great deal; and Cleve, seeing
how much she enjoyed society, had not the heart to check her enjoyment
by telling her the truth.

Only gloves and boots and car fare her pleasures cost them. She had two
dresses, the crimson cashmere, much worn, but carefully preserved, and
often cleaned and repaired for continual use by the careful hands of
Mrs. Pole. This was her dress for dinners and afternoon teas. Her white
India muslin—her confirmation robe, and afterward her wedding suit—was
now her only evening dress. Neither of these were at all stylish, but
they were neat and clean; and then her boots and gloves were perfectly
fitting, fresh and faultless.

Every day Cleve went forth to seek employment, and every night returned
disappointed to find himself poorer by the day’s expenditures than he
had been the day before.

Everything was going out and nothing coming in; and yet he shrank from
saying to Palma:

“We cannot afford another pair of new gloves even, dear,” or to do
anything but smile in her face when she would only ask him to go with
her to a lunch party at Mrs. Duncan’s, or to a five-o’clock tea at Miss
Christiansen’s.

If Ran had only known their straits as he bounded daily up and down the
stairs, too full of life and energy to avail himself of the elevator,
how gladly, how joyously, would he have poured into his cousin’s lap
wealth from his own abundant means, nor ever dreamed of offering offense
in proffering what he himself, in their reversed circumstances, would
have been frankly willing to receive from them.

But he knew nothing, suspected nothing, of their poverty; and even if he
had known, and had offered to give assistance, Cleve Stuart, in his
spirit of pride or independence, would have refused it.

Ran held firmly to his purpose of giving his cousin a fair share of
their grandfather’s estate, as soon as he himself should be put in
lawful possession, which was only a question of a few weeks’ time; but
he said nothing more about it to either Palma or Cleve. He thought they
understood his intentions, and believed in them, and that it would be in
bad taste to refer to them again. Besides, he did not suspect how dark
the future looked to one of them at least, and what a source of anxiety
it was.

What the young pair really thought of their cousin’s offer to share, was
just this—that it had been made, not from a delicate sense of justice
that would stand the test of time and opportunity, but from a sudden
impulse of generosity that might yield to cool afterthought. Neither of
them placed much reliance on the offer, especially as they had
repudiated it at the time, and Ran had never renewed it.

The day for young Hay’s departure for England was at length fixed. He
was to sail on the second of December. It had been first suggested that
Mr. Samuel Walling should attend him to England, and introduce him
personally to the London solicitors of the Hays of Haymore; but, as
usual, Mr. Will put in his plea of overwork, brain exhaustion, want of
change, and so on, and, as usual, his claim was allowed, and it was
decided that he should accompany the young heir.

The aged priest, Father Pedro de Leon, having under oath testified to
the identity of Randolph Hay, had bidden an affectionate good-by to his
pupil and returned to his flock in San Francisco.

It was remarkable that while Mr. Sam Walling, the head of the firm of
Walling & Walling, took all the heaviest responsibilities, did all the
hardest work, seldom left his desk during the office hours, and never
left the city except on business, Mr. Will, the junior partner, required
all the relaxation in frequent visits to Newport and Saratoga during the
summer months, and Washington and even Savannah during the winter
season. And now it seemed absolutely necessary that Mr. Will should have
a sea voyage to restore the shaken equilibrium of his overtasked mind
and body.

“That’s just it!” Mrs. Walling said one day to Ran when speaking of the
trip to England. “Our firm, as a firm, is always full of work, yet
manages to have a good deal of play also; only Sam takes the work and
Will the play.”

As the month of November drew to a close and the day of his departure
came near, Ran grew more and more uneasy. He had not heard a word from
Judy for more than three weeks, though in that time he had written so
many letters; nor had Mrs. Walling lately heard from Mrs. Moseley.

Ran was not of a temperament to borrow trouble. Quite the contrary; he
always looked on the bright side. He was willing to make every allowance
for the well-known uncertainty of the mails in those unsettled regions
guarded by the frontier forts; but still it seemed strange and alarming
that for a month past no mail had come safely through contingent
dangers.

His greatest anxiety now was that he should have to sail for Europe
without having heard from Judy.

He confided his trouble to Cleve and Palma, with whom he now spent every
evening whenever they were at home.

One evening, about a week before he was to sail, he was sitting with
Cleve and Palma in their tiny parlor.

Cleve had been reading aloud, but laid down his book on the entrance of
Ran. Palma was knitting a woolen wristlet, the last of four pair that
she had been making for Cleve and Mrs. Pole, and she continued to knit
after greeting her cousin.

Ran brought a chair to the little table at which the other two sat,
threw himself into it, sighed and said:

“This is Saturday night, the twenty-fifth, and in one week from to-day,
on Saturday, the second of December, I must sail for England.”

“Yes, Cousin Randolph, I know. And I am very sorry it should be
necessary that you should have to go—very. But you will soon return,”
sympathetically replied Palma.

“It is about Judy,” frankly exclaimed Ran. “I have not had a letter from
her for nearly a month.”

“But you yourself have told us of the uncertainty of the mails.”

“Yes, and that might have been an explanation, and therefore a kind of
comfort, for failing to get a single letter in time. But when three or
four that I should have got have failed to come, it is strange and
alarming.”

Neither Cleve nor Palma found anything to answer to this. They knew and
felt that it was both “strange and alarming.”

“Let us hope that you will get a letter within a few days,” at length
ventured Stuart.

“Why, you may get one even to-morrow,” hopefully exclaimed Palma.

“Oh, yes! And I may have to sail for England in the most agonizing
anxiety as to Judy’s fate!” said Ran with a profound sigh.

“But there is no reason for such an intense anxiety. She is in excellent
hands,” said Palma.

“Oh! but when I came away there was a talk of the intended rising of the
Indians! Good Heaven! the fort may have been stormed and all hands
massacred for all I know!” exclaimed the youth, growing pallid at the
very thought.

“Randolph!” cried Palma in horror.

“Nothing of that sort could have happened without our having heard of it
before this. The authorities at Washington would have received the news,
and it would have been in all the papers. Some survivor would have
escaped to the nearest telegraph station and sent the message flying to
Washington,” said Cleve.

“Oh, yes—certainly. But I never thought of that! It is a real relief to
me! I hope I may get a letter before I go! If I do not, and could have
my own way, I would sacrifice the passage and wait here until I could
hear from Judy. But Mr. Walling says it is absolutely necessary that I
should go no later certainly than the day set for sailing.”

“But if a letter should come we will immediately send it after you,”
said Palma.

“Thank you, cousin, dear; I know that you will do all that you can.
Well, I have learned one lesson from all this,” said Ran so solemnly
that both his companions looked up inquiringly, and Palma asked:

“What is it, Cousin Randolph?”

“It is this: If Heaven ever should bring my dear Judy and myself
together again I will never part with her—no, never while we both shall
live! Nothing shall ever part us again except the will of Heaven!”

“But how about school and college that was to have prepared you both for
the sphere of life to which you are called?” Palma inquired with some
little amusement.

“Oh, bother that! It was all the nonsense about ‘the sphere of life to
which we are called’ that parted Judy and me! And it shall never part us
again! We will go to school and college, but we need not part and live
in school and college. We will marry and go to housekeeping in some city
where there are educational advantages. I will attend the college
courses. Judy shall have teachers at home. And so we will live until we
are polished up bright enough to show ourselves to my grandfather’s
neighbors and tenants at Haymore. Then we will settle there for good,
and no one will ever know that the successors of Squire Hay were first
of all a pair of little ragamuffins and ignoramuses from a California
mining camp! Yes, that is what I will do, and no prudence, and no
policy, and no consideration for ‘that sphere of life to which we are
called,’ nor for anything else but Judy herself, shall influence me!
When we meet again we shall be married out of hand and nothing but death
shall part us! When we meet again! But when will that be? Ah, me!”
sighed poor Ran.

There came a rap at the door, and the “boy” put in his head and said:

“The lady and ge’men would come up, sir, which they said there wasn’t no
call to send up no card,” then withdrew his head and ran away.

The three cousins looked up to see a tall, martial-looking man with a
gray mustache, and clothed in a military overcoat and fatigue cap, enter
the room with a slender, graceful girl, in a long gray cloth ulster and
a little gray plush hat, hanging on his arm.

The three companions stared for a moment, and then Ran sprang up,
overturning his chair in his haste, and rushed toward them, exclaiming:

“Col. Moseley! Judy! Oh, Judy!”

And in another instant Judy was pressed to his heart.

“Now, introduce us to your friends, Mr. Hay,” said the colonel, taking
off his cap and bowing to the lady and gentleman, who had risen to their
feet to receive the unknown and unexpected guests.

“Oh, pardon me,” exclaimed Ran, raising Judy, drawing her arm through
his own and taking her up to his cousins.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stuart, this is Miss Judith Man, my betrothed. Judy,
darling, these are my Cousin Palma and her husband,” he said.

It was to be thought that the young girl would have made her quaint,
parish school courtesy; but she did not. She bowed, blushed and smiled
very prettily. Cleve Stuart shook hands with her and said that he was
very glad to see her. But Palma drew the girl to her bosom and kissed
her, with a few murmured words of welcome.

Then Ran presented:

“Col. Moseley, Mrs. Stuart, Mr. Stuart.”

And all shook hands in the old-time, cordial manner.

And when all were seated, Col. Moseley in Ran’s vacated chair at the
little table with Cleve and Palma, and Ran and Judy, side by side, on
the little sofa near them, there came the natural question from Stuart:

“When did you reach New York, colonel?”

“At noon to-day,” replied Moseley.

“At noon to-day, and I see nothing of Judy until eight o’clock this
evening!” exclaimed Ran.

“Patience, my dear fellow; I had to find you before I could bring her. I
arrived, with a large party, at noon, as I said; took them all to an
old-fashioned hotel downtown, where the prices are not quite ruinous;
left them all there, and went to hunt up you at your hotel, found that
you had left it, but could not find out where you had gone; went back to
own place and dined with my family; after dinner went out to hunt up the
Wallings, with the view of finding you, and also of finding the
furnished house I had commissioned Walling to engage for me; looked in
at the office first, but found no one there but the janitor cleaning up;
office hours were over; Mr. Samuel Walling gone home to his dinner; got
his address; went to the house; found Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Walling, who
were as much amazed at seeing me as if I had been a ghost risen from the
dead. In fact, they had not got my letter of advice, and, consequently,
had not engaged any furnished house for my tribe. However, they insisted
on making it all right for us. They told me where to find you, Hay; and
then when I said I must go back to the hotel to pick up Judy, Mrs.
Walling insisted on going with me to see her old schoolmate and dear
friend, and she went with me. Well, in brief, when she met my wife,
nothing would do but she must take her and all the girls home to her own
house to stay until we can find a home for ourselves. I and the boys
remain at the hotel. Judy is to join Mrs. Moseley and the girls at the
Wallings’.”

“Indeed, then, Judy is to do nothing of the sort. Judy is to stay here
with me. I am her natural protector under the circumstances,” said
little Palma, drawing herself up with an assumption of matronly dignity
that was very amusing to the colonel.

“Very well, my dear lady. It shall be as you please, or as Miss Judith
pleases; only, I do not know how I shall face Mesdames Walling and
Moseley without taking her to them.”

“I will write a note and relieve you of responsibility in the matter,”
exclaimed Palma, rising and going toward a little writing-desk.

“But you have not consulted Miss Judith,” said the colonel.

“Oh, I know she will stay with us,” exclaimed Palma, going toward the
girl and putting her arms around her neck and murmuring:

“You will stay with us, will you not, dear Judy? I may call you Judy,
may I not? I have known you as Judy, and loved you as Judy, before I
ever saw you. Shall I call you Judy?”

“Sure and ye may, ma’am!” exclaimed the girl with cordial impetuosity;
but then, catching herself up suddenly, she blushed and added softly:
“If you please, ma’am, I should like you to call me so.”

Palma smiled, kissed her forehead, and then went to her tiny desk and
wrote the note to Mrs. Moseley.

The colonel had but little time to stay, and soon arose to say
good-night.

“By the way,” he said, “I had almost forgotten. I am the bearer of an
invitation for you all to come and dine with us at Mrs. Walling’s
to-morrow, at seven.”

Palma looked at her husband, understood his eyes, and answered for both:

“Love to Mrs. Walling, and we will go with much pleasure.”

Col. Moseley shook hands all around, like the plain, old-fashioned
soldier that he was, and then went away.

There remained Ran and Judy, sitting on the sofa, and Cleve and Palma at
the table.

The lovers were comparing notes, giving in their experience of the time
while they were separated, speaking in subdued tones that presently sank
so low as to be quite inaudible to any other ears than their own; so it
might be surmised that Ran was imparting to Judy his new scheme of life
for the future.

The married pair at the table with the truest politeness ignored the
presence of the just reunited lovers, and took up their occupations that
had been interrupted by the visitors. Cleve opened his book and resumed
his reading, but now in a lower tone, quite audible to Palma, but not
disturbing to Ran or Judy. He was reading Marmion, the scene of the
meeting between the pilgrim and the abbess on the balcony. But Palma,
knitting mechanically, could not listen. She was seized with a terrible
anxiety that filled her mind and crowded out everything else. She had,
from the impulse of a warm heart, invited Judy to stay, and Judy was
staying.

But where on the face of the earth was she to put Judy? They had in
their doll’s house of a flat but four tiny rooms—parlor, kitchen and two
bedrooms. What was to be done? How could she listen to the story the
abbess was telling the pilgrim, and the minutes passing so rapidly, and
bedtime coming on, and no bed to put her invited guest in? And there was
Cleve utterly unconscious of her dilemma, although he knew as well as
she did the extent—or rather limits—of their accommodation.

Cleve finished the canto and closed the book in complacent ignorance
that Palma had not heard a word of it.

The clock on the mantel struck eleven. It was a cheap clock and it
struck loudly.

Ran arose to bid good-night.

“I really ought to beg your pardon for keeping you up. But you will
excuse me for this once,” he said.

“Why, certainly! Certainly! Don’t go yet. We shall not retire for hours.
Oh, pray! pray! don’t go yet!” pleaded Palma with her curly hair fairly
stiffening itself on end; for, when Ran had left, what, in the name of
Heaven, was she to do with Judy? Take the girl in with herself and
Cleve? Or lay her over Mrs. Pole on that narrow slab of a cot that could
not hold two side by side?

Palma had got into a terrible dilemma which she feared, by the creepy
coldness of her scalp, was going to turn her hair white!

She would have been very much relieved if—after the old-fashioned New
England style—the betrothed lovers should sit up all night.

“Oh, do, do, do stay longer!” she still pleaded, looking beseechingly at
Ran.

But Ran was looking at his sweetheart, and replied gravely:

“You are very kind! Too kind! And I thank you so much! But, even for
Judy’s sake, I ought to go. She is very tired from her long journey.
Good-night.”

And he turned to go, Judy following him to the door of the parlor,
where, of course, they lingered over their adieus.

Then Stuart got a chance to speak apart with Palma. He looked into her
dismayed face and broke into a little, low laugh.

“Oh! what in the name of goodness shall I do?” she exclaimed, clasping
her hands and gazing appealingly up into his face.

Then he pitied her evident distress and answered:

“Why, dear, you will have to share your own bed with Miss Judy and give
me a rug on the sofa.”

Her face brightened.

“Oh, Cleve!” she exclaimed, “you are an angel of light in a cutaway
coat! You have saved my life—or reason!”

Then suddenly growing grave she added:

“But the little sofa is so short, and you are so long!”

“Now don’t look so distressed, dear. The inconvenience is nothing at
all. And it is only for one night. To-morrow I will see the janitor and
try to get a room for our little friend contiguous to our own, so that
she may remain with us.”

Stuart spoke of incurring this additional expense with apparent
cheerfulness, although his small funds were nearly exhausted, and his
efforts to procure employment were quite fruitless.

But he said no more then, for Ran, who had lingered at the door over his
last words with Judy, now kissed her good-night and went away, and the
girl rejoined her friends in the little parlor.




                               CHAPTER IX
                           PALMA’S NEW FRIEND


“I will leave you for half an hour to make your arrangements,” said
Stuart to his wife; and he left the room and went downstairs and out
upon the sidewalk to take the air.

Judy had thrown herself into an easy-chair and stretched out her feet to
the bright little fire.

Palma pushed the small sofa back against the wall, and then went into
the bedroom, from which she brought a cushion and a rug. When she had
arranged the sofa into a couch she turned and looked at her guest.

Judy was nodding.

Palma went and laid her hand on the sleeper’s shoulder and gently
aroused her, saying:

“Whenever you wish to retire, dear, your room is ready.”

“Oh! sure, I thank ye, ma’am. Any time as shutes yourself will shute
me,” replied Judy with a wide gape, waking up.

“Come, then,” said Palma, and she led the sleepy and half-bewildered
girl into the pretty little bedchamber, where she had laid out a dainty
night dress for her guest. Judy waked up fully in the process of
disrobing, and then her hostess said:

“To-morrow you shall have a better accommodation, but to-night you will
share my room. I hope you won’t mind it.”

“Och, no, ma’am. Sure and haven’t I been used to pigging in itself?”
began Judy brightly, but she suddenly checked herself and amended her
phraseology—“I mean, ma’am, I have been accustomed to close quarters in
the mining camp, and this is a palace compared to any place I have ever
seen before.”

“It is a pretty little doll’s house as one could wish, for dolls,”
replied Palma with a laugh. “Not quite spacious enough, however, for one
who loves space.”

“Which side am I to sleep on, ma’am?” inquired the girl when she was
ready for bed.

“Any side you wish, dear. But, Judy, please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ If
you do I shall be obliged to call you ‘miss,’ and I should not like
that, and I do not think you would like it, either.”

“Fegs and I wouldn’t! Oh! that is to say, no, ma’am, I should not. I
should feel it to be cold and unkind of you.”

“Very well, then, Judy dear, do as you would be done by.”

“I will, ma’am,” said the girl, getting into bed and lying down on the
side next to the wall and squeezing herself against it to take up as
little room as possible, “and indeed, ma’am, since it displeases you, I
will try to remember—never—to call—you ma’am—again.”

The last word was scarcely audible, for as soon as Judy’s head dropped
on the pillow her eyes closed and she fell fast asleep.

Palma returned to the parlor, drew the easy-chair to the fire, and
seated herself to wait for Stuart.

He came in at length and dropped himself into the larger easy-chair by
Palma’s side.

“Judy is fast asleep. She dropped asleep first in this chair here, and
afterward, when I got her to bed, she fell asleep as soon as her head
touched the pillow,” Palma told him with a smile.

“And you?” inquired Stuart.

“Oh! I am not at all sleepy. I feel too much elated by the arrival of
all these people. I wonder what Mrs. Pole will think when she finds out
that we have a visitor staying with us?”

“Doesn’t she know, Palma?”

“Why, no, Cleve. She went to bed before the colonel left us, and how
could she know that the girl remained behind? And I wonder what she will
say?”

“Well, Palma, I think she will disapprove.”

“But you don’t, Cleve?”

“Not at all, dear. I am glad you took the girl in. We will find a room
for her to-morrow.”

The clock struck twelve, yet still the young couple sat talking to each
other like a pair of lovers loath to say good-night, as any young
“courting couple” could possibly be; for, in fact, they were now
sweethearts. Palma, we know, had always loved Cleve; but only since
their marriage had Cleve been growing every day more in love with his
wife. So they sat and talked, or sat in silence over the fire, until the
clock struck two.

“Now, my dear, you must really go to bed, even if you are not sleepy,”
said Stuart, rising and standing up, as much as to say, “Here I shall
stand until you go.”

“You turn me out, then?”

“Yes, I turn you out!”

Palma stood on tiptoes to kiss him good-night. He lifted her in his arms
and kissed her again and again, and then set her down, and she vanished
through the damask portières into the little bedroom.

Stuart threw off his coat and lay down on the sofa. It was a short sofa
with a low back and two arms. Cleve’s head lay upon one arm and his legs
dangled over the other. The discomfort of the position would have kept
him from sleep even if the apartment had been quiet, which it was not.

Palma’s entrance had waked Judy. The girl had had three hours’ sound
sleep and had waked up refreshed in mind and body, delighted to find
herself in such a rare, beautiful little room and with such a lovely
companion. She felt no inclination to sleep more just then—but to talk.

A kindly yet indiscreet question from Palma set her tongue going, and
she talked on and never stopped until she had told her whole story.

As there was nothing but the red damask portières that separated the
little chamber from the little parlor, Stuart heard the whole of that
story; he could not help hearing it. Once or twice he hemmed to let the
narrator know that he was awake and listening; but that made no
difference to Judy. She had no secrets. “All the birds of the air” were
welcome to hear her history. It was near daylight when at length she had
talked herself to sleep. As for Palma, she had dozed through the
narrative, though Judy had not suspected it.

With the first glinting of the rising sun’s rays through the slats of
the parlor blinds, Stuart gladly arose from his uncomfortable couch and
went into the little bathroom to make his morning toilet.

When he had finished it, in returning to the parlor he passed by the
open door and saw that Mrs. Pole had risen, tidied up her kitchen and
got breakfast well under way. He stepped in to tell her about their
guest and send her into the parlor to set the room to rights. Then he
went downstairs to take the air on the sidewalk.

Mrs. Pole passed into the parlor to hoist the window, replenish the
fire, and restore the place to order before setting the breakfast table.

Her movements awoke the two sleepers in the next room.

They arose laughing and talking, dressed themselves quickly and came out
into the parlor.

Mrs. Pole turned from the window she was just closing to look at the
stranger.

Palma laughingly introduced the two.

“This is our friend, Miss Judith Man, Poley. And, Judy, darling, this is
our dear Mrs. Pole, who is like a second mother to me.”

The elder woman wiped her clean hands on her clean apron, and then gave
the stranger a close clasp and a warm welcome.

“Now, Poley, dear, you can go and look after the breakfast, and we will
set the table. Miss Judith is quite at home with us, and knows as much
about housekeeping as we do,” said Palma brightly.

Mrs. Pole made no objection, but left the room.

Then Palma—and Judy following her example—began to take the books off
the center table and pile them in a corner. Then they folded the table
cover and laid it upon them.

Palma went to the prettiest little doll’s corner cupboard that ever was
seen, opened a drawer in the lower part of it, and took out a white
damask cloth which she spread upon the table.

Then she handed out the china, piece by piece, which Judy took and
arranged on the cloth.

“You see, dear, what a little casket we live in,” said Palma when the
table was ready and the cupboard closed.

“Sure, darlint, ye are a precious jewel yerself, and where would ye be
stored but in a casket itself?” demanded Judy.

Presently Stuart came up from below and greeted the two young women
cordially.

Mrs. Pole brought in the breakfast and they sat down to the table.

They were scarcely seated when Ran entered, shook hands all around, and
took the fourth place at the table, which had been prepared for him.

The conversation grew lively.

“When shall we see Mike?” inquired Ran at length.

“Oh! to-day, I hope,” replied Judy.

“Does he know where to find us?”

“He didn’t yesterday! No more did we! And he wint with his
friends—friends to a chape—cheap boarding-house before the colonel found
you out. But sure he will know where we are by this time! The colonel
will have told him.”

While they were yet speaking in walked the colonel with Mike.

All the company arose from the table to receive them.

Ran and Mike closed hands cordially at once, while the colonel was
shaking hands with Stuart, Palma, and Judy.

Then Ran introduced Mike to his cousins, who received him heartily.

“And, now, won’t you both sit down and take some breakfast with us?”
inquired Stuart and Palma in a breath.

“Oh, thank you! I just got up from my breakfast to bring Man here,” said
the colonel.

“And meself finished before I wint to his honor,” said Mike.

“But do not let us disturb you. Pray, go on with your own breakfast,”
said Col. Moseley.

“Oh, we have done!” replied Stuart, while Palma rang the bell for Mrs.
Pole to come and take away the service.

A few minutes later they were all seated in the little parlor, which the
company of six nearly filled.

“And how is the misthress this morning, sir?” inquired Judy of the
colonel.

“Oh! she has quite recovered from her fatigue and has gone house-hunting
with Mrs. Walling.”

“And the childher?”

“Ah! well and delighted with the great city,” replied Col. Moseley; and
as Judy asked no more questions he turned to Ran and said:

“I find that you have had very little difficulty in prevailing on the
Messrs. Walling to recognize your rights, Hay!”

“None whatever, sir; thanks to your strong letter!” replied Ran.

“Thanks to your strong proofs, rather. Who could withstand such
overwhelming evidence? But, Hay, in none of your letters did you tell us
who the rival claimant was, although I asked you to do so.”

“I never got your letter containing such a request, sir, or I should
have complied with it. The reason why I never volunteered the
information was because the subject was a painful one. And, by the way,
has not Mr. or Mrs. Walling told you who that impostor was?”

“No. I have not had five minutes’ private conversation with them yet.
Mrs. Walling may have told my wife by this time.”

“Well, colonel, the claimant was, not my Uncle James’ son, as I
suspected, but a fraudulent adventurer whom we have known as Gentleman
Geff.”

“Gentleman Geff! Why, I thought he had been quite killed by the same
parties that half killed you, and that his bones were buried in the old
fort cemetery!”

“So did I. So did we all. But we were mistaken. The body buried in the
cemetery for Gentleman Geff’s was not his, but that of some poor victim
of border ruffianism, whose identification we shall, perhaps, never
discover, and Gentleman Geff is alive and flourishing in stolen plumes
on the continent of Europe.”

“Tell me all about it!” exclaimed the colonel.

And Ran went over the story of Gentleman Geff’s crimes, already so well
known to our readers.

Col. Moseley listened with grave interest; Mike with open-mouthed
wonder, Judy in stupefaction.

“I do not know why one should ever be surprised at anything that
happens,” mused the colonel.

“Bedad, meself is only shurprised that I nivir had the sinse to shuspect
it,” remarked Mike.

“And he that particular about his clane linen! Sure, I nivir less would
have belaived it av sich a jintleman!” sighed Judy.

“Where is the scoundrel now?” inquired the colonel.

“Somewhere in Europe on his bridal tour,” replied Ran.

“On his bridal tour?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ran.

And then he told the story of Gentleman Geff’s felonious marriage.

“A fine account he will have to settle!” exclaimed the colonel. “Two
assaults, with intent to kill, one bigamy, divers forgeries and
perjuries, to say nothing of the fraudulent claim of a name and estate
to which he has no right.”

“I shall not take a single step toward prosecuting him,” said Ran.

“Ah! you won’t! By the way, do you really sail on Saturday?”

“Yes, colonel, really. And, moreover, I mean to take Judy with me. Yes,
indeed, sir. She is more than wealth, and rank, and culture, and every
other worldly good. Sooner than part again, with half a sphere between
us, we will get married first and go to school afterward,” said Ran,
taking Judy’s hand within his own and keeping a close hold of it.

“Whe-ew! And what does Miss Judy say to that?” inquired the colonel.

“Sure, thin, sir,” began Judy—but her face flamed and she mended her
speech—“indeed, sir, I have consented to do as Ran wishes. Why should I
not? Absence has tried us. He has graived—suffered, that is. And as for
myself, sir, there was many a time when I could have started to walk
clear across the continent to go to him just as I walked through the
wilderness to find him when he was wounded, only it would not have
been—been—right, I suppose.”

“And so you mean really to marry this young fellow and go to Europe with
him?”

“Yis—yes, if you please, sir.”

“But you said out there at the fort that you would not do it
until—something or other, I have forgotten what.”

“Until he had seen something of the world, sir, to be sure of his own
mind—that is what I mint—meant. And now it is not as if Ran and myself
had only met lately at a party and took a sudden fancy to each other. We
have known each other for years.”

“And, sir,” said Ran, “you must not think that we have given up the plan
of education; for we have not. I have talked it over with my Cousin
Cleve here, and settled upon a plan, to which Judy has agreed. We will
marry, as I said, before we sail for England. After we have visited
Haymore we will go to London, as being the place of places where we can
live in the strictest retirement, unknown and untroubled, until
education shall have fitted us to mingle with society. After which we
will go and settle at Haymore. This is the best plan I can think of to
keep us united. And I will not entertain any plan that is to part this
dear, true girl from me, even for a season.”

“Bravo, my boy! Even if I had a right to set up any opposition to your
wishes, I should not do it. And what is to be done with Mike?”

“Mike is my brother,” replied Ran. “He shall share with me in any way he
likes. He shall go to England and live with us if he likes. Or stay
here, and enter into any business that he may choose and be fit for.”

Col. Moseley looked at Ran, and thought him the most unselfish, the most
unworldly individual he had ever seen in all the days of his life.

And so Ran was.

The colonel soon took leave, expressing his pleasure in the prospect of
meeting his friends at Mr. Samuel Walling’s that evening.

“And now, young man, that I have shown you the way to your sister’s
abiding-place, you will not need my guidance any longer. Good-day to
you,” he said to Mike as he left the room.

“Good-day, and many thanks for your shivility, sir,” returned Mike.

It occurred to Ran then that perhaps Mike, in the simplicity of his
heart, was staying longer than was convenient in the narrow quarters of
his cousins; so very soon he asked him:

“Where are Longman and old Dandy staying? I should like to see them.”

“Oh, they are at Markiss’, away down on Water Street. They’d be proud to
see you, Ran. Come with me, and I will take ye straight to them.”

This was exactly what Ran wished. He arose and bade the two young women
good-morning, and left the house with his friend.

Palma and Judy began to think of making preparations for the family
dinner party at Mrs. Walling’s.

Palma took out her crimson cashmere dress and gave it to Mrs. Pole to be
brushed and shaken, sponged and pressed, and looked over her small stock
of lace and gloves.

Judy looked down on her own brown traveling dress and said ruefully:

“This will never do to wear this evening. I have got a pretty dark blue
French merino; but it is in my trunk at the hotel, and sure it might as
well be in Aigypt—Egypt, that is.”

“Col. Moseley will be sure to send the trunk to you,” suggested Palma.
And even while she spoke a noise was heard outside and a knock came to
the door, and the janitor entered the parlor, followed by a porter with
the girl’s trunk on his shoulders. When he put it down on the floor
Stuart paid and discharged him, and shortly after left the house on his
daily hopeless search for employment.

That evening Stuart, Palma, Hay, Judith, Col. and Mrs. Moseley, Mr.
James and Miss Betty Moseley met at dinner at Mr. Samuel Walling’s. A
happier party never gathered around a table.

After dinner the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, leaving the
gentlemen to their wine.

In the drawing-room Mrs. Moseley introduced the subject of Ran and
Judy’s proposed marriage. She said to Judy:

“My dear, we are all friends here—intimate friends, indeed—so it is
quite proper that I should speak plainly. My young favorite, Mr. Hay,
has taken counsel with me concerning his wish to marry you and take you
to Europe with him. Am I right in supposing that this is your wish
also?”

“Yis—yes, madam,” replied Judy, modestly lowering her eyes.

“Then, dear, are you willing that Mrs. Stuart and myself should make all
the arrangements for you?”

“I should be very grateful to you, madam.”

“Look here! I am not going to be left out in the cold!” exclaimed
Augusta Walling, laughing and joining the circle.

“Of course you are not! How should you be, when we are hoping that the
wedding breakfast will be served right here in your house on Saturday
morning next?” said Mrs. Moseley, well knowing that she might take a
much greater liberty than that with her old schoolmate.

“That will be perfectly delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Walling. “I adore a
wedding breakfast at home, and never expected to enjoy one until my own
daughter, now at Vassar, grows up and gets married. Miss Judith, shall
this be so? Will you place yourself in my hands?”

“Sure and”—brightly exclaimed Judy, and then she stopped suddenly,
blushed and amended her speech—“I should be glad and grateful, ma’am,”
she answered.

Then Mrs. Walling turned to Palma, saying:

“And you will give me back your guest in time? You are rather too young
a matron to chaperon a bride-elect,” she added with a smile.

“As you and my cousins please, dear Mrs. Walling. I should myself be
very happy to serve them, but I will not stand in the way of another who
can do so much better,” replied Palma.

“That’s a dear, unselfish angel!” exclaimed Mrs. Walling. And then the
four women formed themselves into a committee of ways and means, and
discussed wedding breakfasts, trousseaus and so forth, treating Judy
with as much freedom, tenderness and liberality as if she had been their
own child, until the gentlemen came in and the subject was dropped.

The evening passed so pleasantly that it was late when the party broke
up.

Stuart, Palma, Ran and Judy returned to their flat.

Stuart had not been able to find a room for Judy. All the rooms were in
suites. One more night he had to sleep as well as he could on the short
sofa, while Judy shared Palma’s bed.

But the next day, toward the afternoon, Mrs. Walling came for Judy, to
take her to the Walling home to make preparations for her marriage on
Saturday.

“The Moseleys,” she said, “have secured a fine old manor house at Fort
Washington, about fifteen minutes by rail from New York. It is
completely furnished and in perfect readiness for occupation. The family
are in Europe, and the house has been left in the care of an agent, who
has just kept it in perfect order. They leave us to-night; so you see we
have room for a score of young girls, if we could find them.”

Palma made no objection to the departure of Judy, but kissed her an
affectionate good-by; and Mrs. Walling took the girl and the girl’s
little trunk away with her in the luxurious family carriage.

And Ran forsook the Stuarts and spent that evening with the Wallings,
returning quite late to his suite of rooms on their flat. But, under the
circumstances, his cousins forgave him.




                               CHAPTER X
                     A WEDDING AND OTHER INCIDENTS


Stuart and Palma were both very glad and very grateful that Mrs. Walling
had undertaken all the responsibilities of their cousin’s wedding. They
knew that her means were ample, and that Walling & Walling were
advancing, and would continue to advance, any sum that Randolph or
Judith might require for their personal preparations. They knew also
that Mrs. Walling was sincerely delighted with the idea of the wedding
celebration at her own house; whereas, had it been settled to come off
at the Stuarts’ apartments, Stuart, from impecuniosity, and Palma, from
inexperience, would have been very much embarrassed.

Mrs. Walling was in her element selecting a proper trousseau and outfit
for Judy.

She came in her carriage every morning to take Palma out shopping with
her and Judy. Mrs. Moseley could not accompany the party; not because
she was a little way out of town, for the cars ran all the time and
would have brought her in in fifteen minutes, but because she was “up to
her eyes in business” settling her large family in their new home.

So Mrs. Walling, Palma, and Judy went out together every day, until all
the shopping was completed.

Judy’s outfit was a very complete but not a very costly one.

“You know, dear,” Mrs. Walling explained to Palma, “that our little
friend is not going at all into society for two or three years to come.
The young pair will live very quietly somewhere, to advance their
education, before they show themselves to their neighbors at Haymore;
and so she will really need little more than a schoolgirl’s ‘kist.’ Her
wedding dress, of course, must be a pretty one, and her traveling dress
must be very nice, but the others plain and simple and inexpensive.”

Palma agreed to the prudence of all this. And Judy said never a word.
She left her affairs entirely in the hands of her two friends.

While the lady shopped for Judy she shopped for herself as well. But,
after a day or two, she could not but notice that Palma bought nothing;
that she let all the tempting goods, so pretty and so cheap, pass under
her admiring eyes unpurchased.

“What is the matter with the young one?” inquired Augusta of herself.
“Doesn’t she care for dress at all?” Then she remembered that she had
never seen Mrs. Stuart in but two dresses, and very inexpensive ones at
that, namely, an India muslin, sometimes, in her evenings at home, and a
fine crimson cashmere for visiting. And then it occurred to Augusta
Walling that the Stuarts might be in straitened circumstances; and her
heart was touched with sympathy for the beautiful young woman who saw so
many attractive articles of adornment pass under her eyes or be bought
by others without being able to buy one of them. And she wondered how
she might make Palma a pretty present without giving offense.

“I hate the rôle of a pretended benefactress. I should shrink from such
an imputation. Lovely little creature! how elegant she would look in a
ruby velvet, with duchess lace! And she shall have it! Yes, that she
shall! And I will take the risk of being snubbed and stood in a corner
for my impertinence.”

The outcome of the lady’s resolution was this: After she had set down
Palma at the Stuarts’ apartments, and taken Judy home to the Walling
house, she set out on a second shopping expedition.

The same night, while Stuart was taking his usual walk up and down the
pavement before the house, and Palma sat in her little room stitching
fresh edges on frayed collars and cuffs, one of Lovelace & Silkman’s
young ladies arrived at the apartment home, followed by a boy with a
large bandbox, and asked for Mrs. Cleve Stuart. She was brought up in
the elevator and ushered into the presence of Palma, who arose to
receive the unexpected visitor, staring a little. The stranger merely
nodded to the lady, then, without any preface, she took the bandbox from
the boy, set it on a chair, untied, unwrapped and opened it, and took
from it a glorious suit of dark, bright blue damassé velvet, trimmed
with satin, and spread it over a chair, saying:

“If it is convenient, I would like to have you try it on now, ma’am, so
that I may make any alterations that may be necessary before I leave.”

“But I——” began the wondering Palma, when she was suddenly interrupted
by the dressmaker exclaiming:

“Oh! I beg your pardon! I forgot!” And she handed a note addressed to
Mrs. Cleve Stuart.

Palma took it in perplexity, opened it, and read:


  “Beauty to the beautiful! To Palma Stuart, with the true love of
  Augusta Walling.”


Palma was touched, melted, delighted all at once. She had never had, nor
ever expected to have, so superb a dress. She was but a child in some
things. She could not speak for surprise, gratitude and embarrassment.

But the matter-of-fact young woman from the suit department of Lovelace
& Silkman’s went on to say:

“We were very sorry that we had not a ruby velvet made up, but the lady
who gave us your order said that there would be no time to make up one,
and she selected this; and I really think, madam, that this shade of
mazarine blue will be quite as becoming to your brunette style as garnet
or ruby.”

“It is beautiful! It could not be more beautiful!” exclaimed Palma.

“Will you try it on now?”

Palma arose and the dressmaker helped to relieve her of her cashmere
dress and induct her into the velvet.

But slight alteration was necessary—the front breadth shortened, the
sleeves shortened, the side seams of the waist taken in—that was all.

The young dressmaker laid off her hat and her wraps, and took from her
little hand-bag needle, sewing silk, scissors and thimble, and sat down
to work.

Then Palma, having nothing else to occupy herself with while the
dressmaker sat there, began idly to rummage among the silver tissue
paper in the bottom of the big bandbox, and there she found another
box—a smaller one—which she took out to examine. It had her name on it.
She opened the box and found a fichu and pocket handkerchief of duchess
lace, a pair of the finest white kid gloves, a lovely fan, and a little
turban of velvet and satin to match her dress.

The dressmaker soon finished her task, folded the dress, returned it to
the box, and took her leave.

Then Palma started up, like the delighted child that she was, opened the
box again, took out the elegant dress, spread it all over the sofa to
display its beauties to the best advantage, and called in Mrs. Pole to
admire it; and when that good woman had risen to as much enthusiasm as
she was capable of—for a suit—and returned to her own dominions, Palma
still left it there, that Stuart might be regaled with the vision when
he should come in.

When Cleve did come in and was shown the present and the note that came
with it he looked rather grave; he did not like presents, would much
rather that his pretty little wife had continued to wear her shabby red
cashmere, rather than be indebted to any one for a sapphire velvet; but
it was too late to prevent her acceptance of it now, so he quickly
cleared his brow and admired the dress to her heart’s content.

On that same evening Ran was, as usual, spending the hour with Mrs.
Walling and Judy. There was no other company. Ran had a secret source of
distress, and it was this—his humble, faithful friends down at Markiss’
Hotel, in the lower part of the city. They certainly did not belong to
the Walling “set.” Conventionally, they were a long, long way below that
set; yet Ran wanted them to be present both at his wedding and at the
wedding breakfast, and that wedding was to be celebrated at one of the
most “fashionable” churches in the city; and that wedding breakfast was
to be given at Mrs. Walling’s. How could Ran ask that very fine lady to
invite his humble friends? And, on the other hand, how could he slight
those faithful friends? Mike, his brother-in-law expectant, must come,
of course; that was to be taken for granted, and then Longman, who had
rescued him on the night when he was shot, and who had actually saved
his life—Longman ought certainly to come. And, finally, poor old Andrew
Quin ought not to be left—the only one—“out in the cold.”

While Ran was turning these matters over in his mind he was not noticing
what Mrs. Walling was doing. That good lady sat at a small writing-desk
busy with note paper and envelopes. Presently she said:

“Randolph, dear, give me the address of those good friends of yours.”

“Friends, madam!” exclaimed Ran, the more taken by surprise that he had
been just thinking of them. It seemed to him that the lady must have
read his thoughts.

“Yes, those old friends of yours who came on with Judy and the Moseleys
and are boarding somewhere down in the city while waiting for their
steamer.”

“Oh! yes, madam! You mean Samson Longman and Andrew Quin? They are with
Michael at Markiss’ on Water Street. I do not know the number.”

“That is not necessary. I am sending them invitations to the wedding and
the breakfast; for though, of course, such a hasty affair as this is
will not admit of much ceremony and elaboration, yet they must be
present. There will be the Moseleys, the Stuarts, ourselves and your
friends from Markiss’.”

“I should tell you beforehand that those friends of mine come from a
mining camp, and though good and true as men can be, they are rough and
plain.”

“Well, my dear boy, I have told you who is coming, and so you may know
that these friends will meet no one in our house who will be so silly as
to look down upon them for being rough and plain. Really, Ran, dear, it
ought not to be necessary for me to say this,” concluded the lady.

For all answer, Randolph Hay went to her side, raised her hand and
pressed it to his lips with reverential tenderness.

Judy looked up in her face with eyes full of tears and murmured:

“The Lord in heaven bless you, sweet and lovely lady!”

Mrs. Walling smiled deprecatingly at this effusiveness and patted Judy
gently on the head. Then she turned to her writing-desk and wrote her
informal notes. These were the only invitations the lady had written.
The few others to the members of the two families more immediately
concerned had been verbal ones.

When she had finished directing the envelopes she handed them over to
Ran, saying:

“The letter box is directly on your way home; will you mind dropping
them in?”

“I will take charge of them with pleasure,” said Ran, and as the hour
was late he arose, said good-night and left the house.

But Ran did not drop the notes in a letter box. He walked over to Sixth
Avenue, hailed a car, boarded it and rode down as far as that car would
take him, then got out and walked to Markiss’; for he was anxious that
his friends should get their bids as soon as possible. He found Mike,
Longman, and Dandy all sitting smoking in the grimy back parlor behind
Markiss’ bar.

He entered and sat down among them. There happened to be no other guests
in the room.

“Well, boys, did you think I had forgotten you?” inquired Ran, really
remorseful for not having sought them out before.

“If we did we excused you, under the circumstances,” replied Longman,
speaking for the rest.

“I suppose Mike has told you that I am to marry his sister on Saturday
morning—that is, the day after to-morrow?”

“Oh, ay! trust Mike for that!” cried old Dandy with a little giggle.

“Well, I have come to-night to bring you invitations to be present at
the ceremony in the church and afterward at the breakfast at the house.
And, boys, you must be sure to come.”

“And where am I to get the widding garment proper for the occasion?
Sure, there’s no time to be cutted and fitted and made dacint to appear
in sich grand company, though I thank the lady all the same,” said
Andrew Quin.

“Why, Dandy! Don’t you know that you are in New York, where you can be
fitted out for a wedding or a funeral or an Arctic expedition in five
minutes—more or less?” laughed Ran.

“Yes; it’s more or less, I’ll allow. But I do reckon I can get a
ready-made suit of clothes raisonable enough here.”

“Certainly you can! But you must let me see to that, Dandy. I will be
down here again to-morrow. And, lest I should forget to tell you, I must
do so now. On Saturday morning you must let Mike bring you to the
church. He knows where it is.”

“All right, Misther Hay,” said Dandy.

“And, Longman, you have not promised, but you will come, I am sure. My
friends uptown wish to make the acquaintance of the Nimrod who saved my
life.”

“Oh, Mr. Hay!” laughed the giant deprecatingly. “But I shall be proud to
come to your wedding,” he added.

Then Ran bade them good-night and went home.

The next day—Friday—was the last before the wedding and the sailing.
There were yet a few articles to be purchased, and so Mrs. Walling got
ready to go on her usual morning shopping round. She asked Judy to put
on her hat to go with her.

She did not intend to call for Palma on this occasion; a feeling of
delicacy withheld her from going into the way of her thanks.

But while the carriage was standing at the door, and while Mrs. Walling
was waiting in the parlor for Judy to join her, Mrs. Cleve Stuart was
announced and entered the room.

Palma went straight up to Mrs. Walling with outstretched hands and
glowing eyes and said:

“How shall I thank you for the rich, beautiful dress—the soft, lovely,
caressing dress—that folds me around with the feeling of a friend’s
embrace—your embrace?”

For answer the lady drew the speaker to her bosom and kissed her,
smiling.

“I want you to know,” continued Palma, “that I feel more comfort in this
than I should if I had bought it myself out of boundless riches.”

Again Mrs. Walling kissed her, laughing this time.

“Every time I put it on I shall feel your love around me.”

The elder lady pressed both the younger one’s hands and said:

“We are going out to try to find a suitable sea cloak for Judy. We must
find an extra heavy one. It will be terribly cold crossing the ocean at
this season. They will be on the banks of Newfoundland in the first days
of December. Will you go with us?”

“With pleasure,” said Palma. And as Judy now entered the room, ready
dressed for the drive, they arose to go out. But just at that moment
Mrs. Duncan was announced and came in.

Both Mrs. Walling and Palma received her as cordially as if she had not
interrupted their departure. Mrs. Walling then introduced:

“My young friend, Miss Judith Man.”

“How do you do, my dear? I am glad to see you,” said the visitor.

Judy bowed and smiled.

“You are going out. Don’t let me detain you. I was on my way down to
Fourteenth Street to do a little shopping and just dropped in here to
tell you a piece of news; but I can take another opportunity,” Mrs.
Duncan explained.

“Oh, no! Pray do not! We should die of suspense! Pray, sit right down
and open your budget. Our errand can wait as well as yours. It is only
shopping. And when you are ready for yours you would oblige us by taking
the fourth seat in our carriage, so that we can go together,” Mrs.
Walling pleaded.

Mrs. Duncan laid down her muff and shopping bag and seated herself in
one of the luxurious armchairs.

Mrs. Walling rang a bell and gave an order:

“Bring coffee into this room.”

And presently the four women had tiny china cups in their hands, sipping
hot and fragrant Mocha, three of them listening while the fourth told
her news.

“It is about Jennie Montgomery, the true wife of the counterfeit
Randolph Hay——” began the speaker.

“Yes! yes!” eagerly exclaimed Mrs. Walling and Palma in a breath, while
Judy looked up in eager curiosity.

“You know, without any one’s planning—unless fate be some one—that
Jennie and her child were passengers on the same steamship, and even in
the same cabin, with her fraudulent husband and his false bride?”

“Yes! yes!”

“I said when I discovered that complication that those elements were as
explosive as dynamite. Neither could have expected the presence of the
other on the steamer, and so I was really anxious to hear what happened
when Miss Leegh and her ‘bridegroom’ met his lawful wife and child on
the ship, on the ocean, whence neither could escape without jumping into
the sea.”

“Well, have you heard?” impatiently demanded Mrs. Walling.

“Yes; I have just received a long letter from Jennie, dated November
15th. She had been at home four weeks before she found time to write to
me.”

“And——” breathlessly exclaimed Mrs. Walling.

“She met her husband on the deck of the steamer. She was as much
astonished as he was confounded. But I had better read her letter to
you.”

And the visitor drew a thickly packed envelope, with a foreign stamp,
from her pocket, and read the pages describing Jennie’s voyage, her
meeting with her husband and Miss Leegh on the _Scorpio_, and her
arrival at home in her father’s new vicarage, as these events are
already known to our readers.

“To think of Jennie’s self-control and forbearance!” concluded Mrs.
Duncan.

“And to think of Lamia Leegh’s insolence in trying to patronize her, the
real wife of her own ‘brevet’ bridegroom!” exclaimed Mrs. Walling.

“And to think of the man’s assurance in carrying off matters with such a
high hand!” remarked Palma.

“Och, sure, and himself had always the impidince av the divil, had
Gintleman Geff!” exclaimed Judy, surprised into her dialect; then,
suddenly aware of her “backsliding,” she clapped her hand to her mouth a
minute too late and looked frightened; but as she saw that neither of
her friends were in the least disturbed she felt relieved, while the
visitor evidently thought that the brogue had been humorously assumed
for the occasion, for she replied in kind:

“Ay, has he—the thaif av the worruld!” Then, turning to Mrs. Walling,
she continued: “What an active fate there seems to be at work here! Did
you see the significance of the latter part of Jennie’s letter?”

“Yes, of course; her father has left Medge, in the south of England, and
is in temporary charge of Haymore vicarage, in the north of England,”
replied Mrs. Walling.

“And our Gentleman Geff of the many wives and aliases, in trying to
escape his one real wife and avoid her father by getting off the steamer
at Queenstown will unwittingly rush into their power again the moment he
sets foot within his stolen estate at Haymore. Now, if his lawful wife
had been anybody else there might be a chance for a show of fight. But
the daughter of the Vicar of Haymore!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Walling, drawing her breath hard.

“Jennie writes of the great preparations they are making at Haymore to
receive the usurping squire, who is now expected to arrive with a large
party of invited friends for the Christmas holidays, little knowing that
he will there meet his lawful wife and her avenging, priestly father.”

“And confront the lawful heir of Haymore with the more terrible family
solicitors,” laughed Mrs. Walling.

“Then Mr. Randolph Hay is really going over at once to take possession
of his estates?” inquired the visitor.

“Yes; he sails on Saturday; but not alone—he takes his wife with him. He
will be married on Saturday morning and embark in the afternoon.”

“Ah, indeed! That is news. I had heard no rumor of his being engaged, or
even attentive to any of our girls. Who is she?”

“My young friend here,” replied Mrs. Walling, pointing to Judy.

Mrs. Duncan jumped up and kissed the girl with effusions and
congratulations.

Judy blushed and smiled and bowed, but did not venture to speak again.

“The wedding is to be quiet. We don’t want a second edition of the
‘princely nuptials’ of ‘Mr. Randolph Hay’ and Miss Lamia Leegh. They, we
think, have done enough in that way ‘for the honor of the family.’ Our
wedding must be very plain. There are ‘no cards.’ I will not say there
will also be ‘no cake, no nothing.’ So, as you are interested, if you
will drop in, ‘promiscuously,’ at the ‘Little Church Around the Corner’
about ten o’clock to-morrow morning, you will witness one of the
happiest, though not one of the grandest, weddings on record.”

“I shall do myself that pleasure without a doubt,” replied Mrs. Duncan.

And then she arose and took up her muff and hand-bag to intimate that
she was ready to go.

And the four ladies entered the close carriage that was waiting at the
door and went on their shopping expedition.

It was perfectly successful, even to the sea cloak, a heavy cloth one,
reaching from head to heel, having long sleeves and hood, and lined
throughout with fur.

They took Mrs. Duncan to her door.

“There is one thing I would rather see than the wedding,” said Mrs.
Duncan.

“And what is that?” inquired Augusta Walling.

“The circus at Haymore Court when Mr. Randolph Hay and his wife arrive
there and meet Gentleman Geff and Miss Lamia Leegh.”




                               CHAPTER XI
                            A BLITHE BRIDAL


It was a splendid winter morning. The snow, which had fallen thickly
during the night, was now frozen hard on the ground, the housetops and
the trees, and sparkled like frosted silver sprinkled with diamond dust
in the dazzling sunshine.

Mrs. Walling’s household was astir. They were to have an early family
breakfast before dressing to go to church.

Mrs. Walling and her young protégée met in the breakfast room. Judy was
pale and nervous.

“Good-morning, my dear. Do you see that the clouds have gone with the
night? A good omen for you, according to the folklore—‘Blessed is the
bride that the sun shines on,’” said the lady as she drew the girl to
her bosom and pressed a kiss on her brow.

“Oh, ma’am, I have prayed the Lord to bless the day for Ran’s sake, but
my heart misgives me, ma’am,” sighed Judy.

“That is very natural, but in your case very unreasonable, my child. I
never knew nuptials more promising for future happiness than are yours
and Randolph’s.”

“Oh, but, ma’am, am I a fit wife for a gentleman?”

“Not for every gentleman; for there are not so many gentlemen who would
be as worthy of you as Randolph Hay is. But why should you think that
you are not fit for him?”

“Oh, ma’am, I am only a poor, ignorant girl, and, with all the pains you
and Mrs. Moseley have taken with me, I have not been able to improve
much. Only yesterday I forgot my manners before the strange lady.”

“You mean that you fell for a moment into the sweet dialect of your
childhood? That did no harm, Judy. And, besides, when you go to London
you will soon drop it altogether.”

“We are to live in retirement, to be sure, until we are both trained for
society, I know. But still, for all that, I fear I am doing Ran a wrong
to marry him.”

“Look here, Judy! You and Randolph were engaged to be married to each
other, I think, while you were both in the miners’ camp—you a miner’s
sister; Ran a miner and the partner of your brother. You, neither of
you, dreamed of any higher position or better fortune than luck in the
mines might bring you. Is it not so?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Very well, then. Now suppose that it had been to you, instead of to
Randolph, that the unexpected fortune had come? Suppose that some
nobleman of high rank and wealth had suddenly come forward and claimed
you as his lost child and heiress, would you then have broken off with
poor Ran, because he was only a poor miner?”

“No! No! No!” cried Judy with flashing eyes and rising excitement. “I
nivir could a bin such a baste av the wurruld!”

Then she suddenly stopped and clapped her hands to her lips.

“But if Randolph had taken it into his head that he, a poor miner, was
no fit husband for you under your changed circumstances, what would you
have done?”

“I should have broken me harrt entirely!” exclaimed Judy, falling again
into dialect, as she always did when strongly moved.

“And yet you can talk about not being a fit wife for Randolph, just
because, since his engagement to you, he has come into a fortune. My
dear, you should consider your betrothal so sacred that no change of
fortune could be able to affect it.”

“I see it, ma’am! I see it! And I will say no more about it,” said Judy,
smiling through her timid tears.

“And now we will have breakfast,” said Mrs. Walling, rising and ringing
the bell.

The tray was brought in at one door, while Mr. Walling came in at the
other, and the three sat down to breakfast, the master of the house
merely greeting the guest with a kindly:

“Good-morning, my dear,” as he took his seat at the table.

As soon as breakfast was finished they separated to dress for church.

I would like, also, to give my reader a glimpse of the young
bridegroom-expectant on this the morning of his wedding day, in his
temporary home in the apartment house occupied by Stuart and Palma.

The three young people breakfasted together in the little, elegant
parlor of the Stuarts’ suite of rooms, Mrs. Pole waiting on them.

Ran’s face shone with joy that he could not hide; Cleve’s and Palma’s
were bright with sympathetic smiles.

Ran had entreated Mike Man to come and share his rooms at these flats
until the wedding day and the embarkation for Europe, but Mike had
steadily refused, declaring that, well as he loved his brother-in-law,
he would be out of place among Ran’s fine friends, and that he would
feel more at home “along wid Samson and Dandy.” Mike had decided to
accompany these old friends to Europe, in the second cabin of the same
steamer on which Ran had taken a stateroom in the first cabin for
himself and his bride. These three miners were going home to the old
country to settle there. Different motives actuated the three. Old Dandy
wished to spend his declining years among old friends. Longman wanted to
return to his aged and widowed mother. Mike could not stay behind all
his friends, and must go with them.

What each was to do on the other side of the ocean was not very clear,
even to themselves. Each had a little money saved up. Dandy thought he
would sink his savings in a life annuity. Longman hoped to get a
gamekeeper’s place on some estate. Mike wanted to go to school for a
little while. He was really nineteen years old, but so small and slender
that he might easily have passed for a schoolboy. But he meant to keep
near his mining “pards,” so as not to “inthrude” on Ran and Judy and
their fine friends.

Vainly had faithful Ran combated this resolution. Mike had been firm,
and Ran had to yield the point.

Now, as Ran sat at table with Stuart and Palma, the latter said to him:

“You and Judy will be married as Cleve and myself were—without
bridesmaid or groomsman.”

“Yes,” said Ran; “but it is not my fault or Judy’s. I wanted Judy’s
brother, my old partner, Mike Man, to be my groomsman, which would have
been right enough; but Mike stoutly refused. If Mike had consented to
stand up with me, then Judy might have had a bridesmaid in one of the
Moseley young ladies. But, no; Mike was as stubborn as a mule. To be
sure, I know that Mr. Jim Moseley and Miss Betty Moseley would have
kindly stood up with us, but Judy said no; and so we must stand up
alone.”

“It is just as well. And now, my dear,” said Palma, rising from her seat
with a pretty little matronly air of authority, “as you have finished
your breakfast, you had better go and dress yourself. Your carriage was
ordered at half-past nine, I think. When you have finished, come to me
that I may put the last touches on your toilet—twirl the curls and
mustache, and pin the boutonnière, as you have no valet. Though, I
suppose, you will set up some Monsieur Frangipanni as your personal
attendant and dresser.”

“Thank you, Cousin Palma. Never! Never! I should be too much in awe of
such a grand dignitary,” said Ran, laughing, as he left the room.

“What a happy dog he is, my dear,” exclaimed Stuart to his wife as they
also retired to dress for the wedding.

Meanwhile, at this same hour, in an upper room at Markiss’ Hotel on
Water Street, another scene of preparation was going on.

Samson Longman, Andrew Quin, and Michael Man were dressing for the
wedding.

The three men were fresh from the bath and the barber. Longman had his
hair cut and his fine, flowing beard dressed, and, with his strong,
regular features and his clear, blue eyes, looked a very handsome
colossus, indeed. He wore a fashionable dress suit of black cloth, with
a vest of black satin, a small white tie, a tea rose in his buttonhole,
white kid gloves and patent leather boots.

He looked every inch a gentleman, as he really was.

Dandy had had his red hair and side whiskers trimmed and dressed. He
also wore a dress suit of exactly the same style of Longman’s, even to
the little details of the white tie, tea rose, kid gloves and patent
leathers.

Mike, with his short, dark, curly hair neatly arranged, his fresh face,
innocent of beard or mustache, and his slight figure in a dress suit
proper to the occasion, looked like a boy got up for a birthday party,
or a freshman ready for his first college exhibition.

“Come, Mike! Stop admiring yourself and hurry up. Dandy, come! It is
nine o’clock, and time to start if we are to reach the church and get
seated in time to see the wedding party come in,” said Longman.

“Eh, Lorrd! But me courage has sunk down into the bottom av me boots!
What would ail me to be pushing meself amongst gentlefolk, anyway?”
exclaimed the nervous old man.

“Because it is my own Ran and Judy’s wedding, sure, and you are invited.
And they would feel hurt by your absence,” replied Mike.

“Eh, Lorrd, I wouldn’t mind the church so much. Sure, ivirybody’s free
to go into a church. But it’s the breakfast. Sure, an’ I nivir sat down
to the table wid gentlefolks in all my life, and wouldn’t know more’n
the babe just born how to behave myself, Lorrd! and if all tales be
thrue, gentlefolks’ ways at table is that diffunt from our’n!” sighed
Dandy.

“I suppose they eat, and drink, and talk, and laugh pretty much as other
people do. Take courage, Dandy, old man. Just look at yourself in the
glass! Why, you might be a Wall Street millionaire, or a college
professor, or a United States Senator, to look at you,” laughed Longman.

“I know!” exclaimed Dandy with a self-satisfied smirk after glancing at
the mirror. “Sure, ‘fine feathers make fine birds!’ And it is not how I
look, at all, at all, but how I’m to behave, what I’m to say, and what
I’m to do. That’s what bothers me.”

“Oh, bosh! You needn’t do anything nor say anything unless you like to.
As for behaving, just watch other people and behave as they do.”

“Now, that’s a first-rate idea o’ your’n, Longman—first-rate. And I’ll
jist be guided by that. I’ll watch the gentry, and behave jist as they
do, and thin I can’t do amiss!” exclaimed Dandy, brightening up.

A very dangerous rule, with many unsuspected exceptions.

“And now put on your overcoats and draw your woolen mittens over your
white kids, and come along, you two, or we shall be late,” said Longman,
who had already put on all his outer garments and stood ready to march.

When the three men were quite ready they went downstairs together,
walked over to the Fourth Avenue cars, boarded one and rode uptown; got
out at Blank Street, and walked to the church.

There was no sign about the building to indicate a wedding for that
morning. The doors were closed, and there was not a carriage nor a human
being near the sacred building.

The truth is that the Wallings and all concerned in the affair had kept
the intended wedding not only out of the papers but out of all gossiping
circles. They did not want to have a sensational supplement to the
magnificent pageantry of the grand Hay-Leegh wedding. And their
reticence had even extended to a firm refusal to indorse any
journalistic report of the appearance of the rightful claimant to the
Haymore estate.

“Don’t you think we hev bin afther making a mistake in the place, Mr.
Longman?” inquired Dandy, looking mistrustingly up to the closed and
silent building.

“No; we’re the first that’s come, that’s all. Walk in.”

And so saying he led the way, opening first the great black walnut outer
door and then the red cloth inner door and entering the church.

There they found the sexton, who asked them for cards.

Longman produced the three informal notes written by Mrs. Walling, and
the sexton, after looking at them, marshaled the three men up the aisle,
between empty pews, to seats near the altar, where they sat down.

When they had become accustomed to the “dim religious light” of the
interior, they perceived that they themselves were the only persons in
the church.

“You see that we are early,” said Longman.

“Well, sure, thin, I’m not sorry. I can compose the narves av me,”
replied Dandy.

They drew off their overcoats, folded them, and put them under the
seats, shoved their silk hats after the coats, and then took off their
woolen mitts, rolled them up, and put them in their pockets, and posed
themselves for the scene expected.

Presently the door opened and quite a large party entered, and were led
by the sexton to the front row of pews before the chancel.

“It’s the bowld Col. Moseley and his tribe, sure,” said Mike in a low
voice to his companions.

Dandy looked up.

It was the tribe, indeed. The colonel, his wife and ten of his girls and
boys. The two youngest children had been left at home on account of
their tender age. The colonel’s wife wore her Sunday suit of brown
satin, with a brown velvet bonnet and a rich old India shawl that had
been an heirloom in her family, having come down to her from her
great-grandmother. Her many daughters wore plain cardinal-red or
navy-blue dresses, with plush coats and felt hats to match.

Next entered a single pair, unknown to Longman and Dandy, but not to us.
They were Mr. and Mrs. Cleve Stuart. Palma wore her lovely suit of
navy-blue demassée velvet, with turban to match.

They were provided with seats to the left of the Moseleys.

A few minutes after them came a lady alone. She was Mrs. Duncan, in a
plum-colored satin dress and a sealskin coat and cap.

Finally, just as the organ began to peal forth a magnificent wedding
march, streamed in two processions from two opposite points.

First, out from the vestry door came two white-robed clergymen, with
open books in their hands, followed by the bridegroom, in evening dress,
with a white rose in his buttonhole.

“Ah, thin, see till our broth av a b’hoy! Sure, don’t his face shine
like the morning starr itself?” whispered Dandy to his companion.

Longman looked and saw Ran, with his brow radiant with frank happiness
which he did not think of suppressing.

“Whish! Look down the aisle itself! There comes me swate swishter! Och!
what an angel!” murmured Mike.

Longman looked and smiled.

Dandy turned his head and caught his breath. He had never in all his
life seen anything half so lovely as little Judy in her bridal array.
And yet her dress was simple enough. She wore a plain white silk,
trained; a white tulle overskirt, looped with sprays of orange buds; a
white tulle veil, fastened above her curly, black hair with sprigs of
orange buds; and on her neck and arms a set of pearls given her by Ran.
Her eyes were cast down until their long, sweeping, black lashes lay on
her slightly flushed oval cheeks. She came slowly, leaning on the arm of
Samuel Walling, who was to give her away.

No doubt her brother would have been asked to perform this service, but
that he was under age. And, besides, he would have shrunk from the honor
of taking so conspicuous a part in the ceremony, since he would not even
officiate as groomsman.

Behind them came Mrs. Samuel Walling, in a superb suit of ruby brocaded
velvet, with turban to match. She was leaning on the arm of her
brother-in-law, Mr. William Walling.

The two clergymen advanced to the altar railing with open books in their
hands.

The bridegroom met the bride and took her hand; both bowed to the
officiating ministers, and then knelt down on the hassocks before the
altar.

Their immediate friends drew around them. The company in the pews stood
up.

Mike bent eagerly, breathlessly forward.

The ceremony began. It continued amid a breathless silence, unbroken
except by the voices of the officiating ministers and responses of the
kneeling pair before them, and the short reply of the “church father” in
bestowing “this woman” upon “this man.”

After the benediction was pronounced friends crowded around the newly
wedded young pair with congratulations that were not merely
conventional, but earnest, heartfelt.

Mike crept out of his pew, glided easily through the crowd, and stood
before his sister and brother-in-law, mute, unable to speak, still
looking like a very shy schoolboy at his college exhibition.

But Ran seized his hand and shook it heartily, and held it fast while he
said:

“Mike—dear boy—we were always brothers in heart, and now we are brothers
in reality! Are you not going to embrace your sister? She is not less
your sister because she is my wife, but more so, for she has married
your bosom’s everlasting brother.”

Mike then turned to Judy, who opened her arms and folded him to her
heart in a warm embrace.

Longman and Dandy hung back for a little while, and then the old man
stood up and said:

“I can’t stand it at all, at all! Sure, I must go and spake to the
darlints!”

And out of the pew he went, and up to the chancel, where “fine” friends
were still surrounding the young pair.

They made way for the eager old man as he pushed through the group and
confronted Ran and Judy, offering each a hand and crying with emotion:

“I’ve come to wish ye the blissing av the Lord and all His holy saints,
me brave bhoy and gurrul—I mane Misther and Misthress Randolph Hay av
Hayti!”

Ran and Judy took each a hand of the old miner and said something
inarticulate in kindly thanks. Then, seeing Longman standing behind and
towering above Dandy, Ran held up his hand and the colossus came forward
and offered his congratulations, which both Ran and Judy received with
much hearty feeling.

“I do not forget, Longman, that I never should have lived to see this
happy day but for you,” said Ran, warmly pressing his hands, while
Judy’s smile expressed all that she also would have said if she could
have spoken.

“Come, my young friends,” said Mr. Samuel Walling, approaching the
group, “we must not keep the reverend gentlemen waiting; we must go into
the vestry room and sign the register.” And he drew Judy’s arm within
his own and carried her off, followed by Ran and the rest.

When this form was completed the small company left the church.

There were but two carriages waiting before the door. One was Mrs.
Walling’s, in which she had brought the bride to the church; the other
was Ran’s, in which he was going to take his wife back.

Mrs. Walling stood until she had seen Ran hand Judy into the clarence
and take his seat beside her, when she turned to William Walling and
said:

“Well! I would like to give you a seat back to the house; but I want to
take in Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. Go up in the street car—that is a good
fellow! And while you are at it see after those poor fellows from the
mines. Get them into the same car with yourself, so that they won’t miss
their way.”

“All right!” exclaimed good-humored Mr. Will. “Where are the bears?”

“There they are!” she said, nodding toward the three men coming from the
church door. “Go and introduce yourself to them, and then you will be
capable of bringing them up to the house and presenting them to your
brother and myself. They are great friends of Ran, you know. One of them
saved his life! They came with the colonel’s family and Judy from
California. Now be off!” added the lady as she saw her friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Stuart, approaching, and went to meet them, saying to Palma:

“My dear, I have been waiting for you to come out. I have two vacant
places in my carriage. I should be much pleased if you and Mr. Stuart
would take them.”

“Thank you very much. You are very kind,” said Palma, accepting the
offer as frankly as it was given.

Stuart bowed—there was nothing left for him to say or do. The “ladies”
had made the arrangement! That was enough for the Southern gentleman.

They entered the carriage with Mr. and Mrs. Walling and were driven
rapidly uptown.

The colonel’s large family crowded into a street car.

Will Walling, Longman and Dandy found seats in another car.

And so the wedding guests went their way to the Walling house.

Arrived there, the ladies and children, only nine in all, were shown
into an upper room to lay off their bonnets and wraps and add bouquets
and white kid gloves to their toilets.

The gentlemen, ten in all, were shown into another room for light
changes.

And after half an hour’s performances they all filed down to the
drawing-room, where they found their host and hostess, and the bride and
groom, waiting to receive them.

Here also the wedding presents were on view for a short time, before
being packed and dispatched to the steamer, which was to be effected
while the company should be at table. There was a silver tea service
from Mr. and Mrs. Walling; a silver salver from Mr. Will; a gold watch
and chain from Col. and Mrs. Moseley; a box of fine handkerchiefs from
Cleve and Palma Stuart—this was the same box that had been given by
Cleve to Palma months before, but not a handkerchief had been disturbed,
and having nothing else to give she gave it now, with Cleve’s consent.
There was a gold chain and cross from Mike; a pretty hand-bag from
Longman, a workbox from Dandy, and various dainty trifles, mostly of
their own manufacture, from the Moseley girls and boys.

A little later the butler slid back the rolling portières and announced
breakfast, which was laid in a long rear room.

The wedding party—host and hostess, bride and groom, and guests, filed
in and seated themselves at the table—nine on each side, host and
hostess at the head and foot. Ran and Judy sat on the right side of Mrs.
Walling, Col. and Mrs. Moseley on her left. Below Judy sat Mr. and Mrs.
Cleve Stuart. Below Mrs. Moseley sat Mr. William Walling and Mrs.
Duncan.

Longman sat on Mr. Walling’s right hand, and Dandy on his left. Other
guests, chiefly the young people of the colonel’s family, filled all the
other seats. Mike sat halfway up on the right side of the board.

Two waiters, in black dress suits, white satin waistcoats and kid
gloves, served the guests.

Tea, coffee or chocolate was offered.

Dandy took tea—in what a little, fragile eggshell of a cup! How
different from the massive, yellow bowl from which he used to gulp great
draughts of that rare luxury, or something made up to imitate it.

He was afraid to touch this chrysalis for fear he should crush it. He
left it on the table before him, and following Longman’s given rule,
watched to see how other people handled their cups; as a matter of
detail, he watched Col. Moseley, who stood, in his estimation, for the
most perfect gentleman he knew.

By this precaution he avoided the mistake of pouring his tea into his
saucer, which otherwise he would surely have done; for what on earth
else were saucers made for anyhow?

Presently came around the boned turkey and the chicken salad.

Dandy chose the salad. But where was the knife with which to shovel the
delicious compounds into his capacious mouth? Clearly the waiter had
neglected his duty in providing a knife, for there was nothing beside
his plate but a silver instrument with four fine prongs. In despair he
looked in the direction of his model, the colonel, and saw that
gentleman eating with the silver thing, holding it in his right hand.
All the others round the table were doing the same thing!

Old Dandy shook his head, saying within himself:

“Sure, and I don’t like these newfangled ways; they ain’t Irish, nor
’Merican, nor they ain’t natural, nuther! But it’s a baste I am to be
finding fault at Ran’s wedding, so it is.”

And then Dandy ate his salad as well as he could with his unaccustomed
instrument.

The fest went on, and delicacy after delicacy was served. Plates were
often changed, dishes were changed. Tea, coffee and chocolate gave place
to tokay, champagne and johanisberg.

Dandy, following what he considered a safe rule, but which was soon
proved to be anything else but safe, did as he saw other people do, and
got through the feast very creditably until at length Col. Moseley arose
in his place and called the attention of the company in a neat little
speech, which he concluded with:

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to propose the health
of the bride and groom.”

Up jumped Dandy to do as other people—notably his model colonel did, and
exclaimed:

“Me, too, ladies and gintlemin! I purpose the good health of the bride
and groom!”

Consternation fell for a moment on the company, but the colonel had
suffered more than one “surprise” in the course of his military life,
and he was equal to the occasion.

“Thank you, sir, in the name of our friends,” he said gravely, bowing to
Dandy. “Then, gentlemen, fill up your glasses.”

The toast was honored. And no one felt more satisfied with himself and
with all the world than did Dandy Quin.

Other toasts were offered and equally honored, Dandy taking a
conspicuous part in every one.

It was twelve o’clock when the guests sat down to the table. It was two
when they arose and withdrew to the drawing-room.

Then Judy went upstairs to change her light bridal dress for the heavy
green cloth suit that was to defend her from the wintry winds of the
open sea.

At her earnest request no one was to go down to the steamer to see them
off.

“Because I shall behave badly. I know I shall. I shall cry. And it is so
awful to cry in public!” said Judy.

All her effects had been packed and sent on the steamer, except the one
little trunk into which her last belongings were to go, and which was to
be put into the carriage with her.

So as soon as she was dressed for the departure—cloth suit, fur-lined
cloak, beaver poke and all—she came down, into the drawing-room, where
all her friends were assembled, and there she bade them all good-by. She
kissed, embraced and wept over her friends, one after the other; but
when she came to Mrs. Moseley she clung to her as if she could never
leave her, weeping as if her heart would break.

At last it was that tender lady herself who gently unwound the girl’s
arms from around her neck, and stooping, whispered:

“Look at Ran, dear. See how distressed he is. He must not see you grieve
so!”

Judy hastily wiped her eyes.

Mrs. Moseley beckoned Ran, who came forward and received the girl from
the lady’s arms.

“Oh, Ran, dear,” sobbed Judy, falling into her dialect, “don’t ye moind
me crying. Sure it’s a cowld-harrted craychur I’d be not to graive,
parting with the loikes av her, a rale highborn leddy as has ben sich a
mother to me.”

“My own dear Judy!” whispered Ran. And that was all he could say.

Mike had taken leave of all his friends and had gone on before. But
there were two more whom Judy thought she must bid good-by to.

“Where is Misther Longman and Uncle Dandy?”

“Here we are, Misthress Hay!” answered old Dandy from the hall.

“Oh! I must bid ye good-by, dear frinds!” said Judy, holding out her
hand.

“Nivir a bit of it, hinny. Sure we’re all in the same boat! That is, the
same stamer! We go wid ye across the say! On’v ye’s go in the grand
first cabin, and we go in the second. Our duds went on board this
morning, and Mike’s gone down to the tovvurn to pay our score. And,
sure, he’ll join us on the stamer!” said Dandy.

“Oh! I knew Mike was to go with us, but didn’t know you were. I am so
glad you are going with us!” exclaimed Judy, drying her last tears.

But Ran was hurrying her into the carriage that was to take them to the
steamer. When he had placed her in her seat he returned to speak to the
two men.

“Since you are going in the same ship, ride down with us. There are two
vacant seats in our carriage,” he said.

“Couldn’t think of such a thing!” exclaimed Longman, laughing. “What!
intrude on a bride and groom! We appreciate your magnanimity and thank
you mightily, but we couldn’t think of it!”

And though Ran urged his invitation, Longman steadily refused it, much
to Dandy’s disgust, who would willingly have enjoyed the luxury of a
ride in that elegant clarence.

“We will go down in the horse cars and get there before you. You’ll find
us on deck when you arrive. Come, Dandy!” said Longman, and raising his
felt wide awake, he walked away, carrying off his unwilling little old
friend.

Ran entered the carriage and gave the order to the coachman. And they
started for the steamer.

A half-hour’s drive brought them to the crowded pier, and five minutes’
struggle through the confusion transferred them to the deck of the
_Boadicea_, where they found Will Walling, Mike, Longman, and Dandy
waiting for them.

“No more partings here, dear Judy. Here are meetings!” said Ran with a
smile.

An hour later the _Boadicea_ sailed.

At that same moment Mrs. Duncan, taking leave of Mrs. Walling, repeated
her words:

“Ah! won’t there be a circus when Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay confront
Gentleman Geff and Miss Leegh at Haymore! How I would like to be there!”




                              CHAPTER XII
                           DARKEST BEFORE DAY


Stuart took his wife home from the wedding breakfast. It was four
o’clock, and the wintry sun was low on the western horizon.

Mrs. Pole had a good fire burning in the little grate when they entered
the parlor.

“See, Poley! I have brought you a piece of the wedding cake to dream on,
you know!” said Palma, offering a pretty little box done up in silver
paper.

“Ah, my dear! My dreaming days are long past! long past!” sighed the old
woman, as, nevertheless, she took the box.

“What a prosaic old fogy you are, Poley, to be sure. For that matter all
our dreaming days are over after we are married, I reckon.”

“Yes, honey, until we begin to dream for our children.”

Palma blushed and sank into sudden silence. She was beginning to dream
sweet dreams of motherhood, but that was her own precious secret, she
imagined, not suspecting that Mrs. Pole knew as much about it as she did
herself, and perhaps more. To cover her confusion she laughed and said:

“Well, Poley, if you do not care to dream on the cake yourself you can
give it to some young friends of yours, to one of your many cousins or
nieces; they will be glad to have it.”

Then she threw off her turban and her wraps, drew off her gloves and
sank into an easy-chair before the fire.

“After all, it is good to be quiet at home, is it not, Cleve? I love
this little snuggery of ours. We can live very happily here until next
May, and then flit to the woods and mountains again. I think I like our
simple way of life. Cleve, quite as well, if not better, than if you
spent all the revenues of your Mississippi plantation in living in the
grand style of some of our friends. What do you think, Cleve?” she
inquired, stretching out her pretty feet to the grateful warmth of the
fire.

He did not answer in words—he could not; he laid his hand tenderly on
her curly, black hair and turned slowly away and went out of the room.

Palma received the caress as a full assent to all that she had said, and
smiled to herself as she gazed into the fire.

Cleve Stuart went downstairs and out upon the sidewalk, and paced up and
down before the house. This was his nightly promenade ground, where he
came to smoke his cigar. But this evening he had no cigar, nor even the
wherewithal to get one.

Yes, it had come to this—Cleve Stuart was absolutely penniless. He had
paid out his last dime on the horse cars that brought himself and his
wife from the wedding breakfast. This was Saturday, the second of
December. On Monday, the fourth, their month’s rent would be due, and
there was not a penny to meet it.

What should he do?

If all his remaining earthly possessions were pawned they would not
bring money enough to meet the demand of their landlord.

Nor could he hope for any forbearance from that quarter. The terms of
the contract were strict, and amounted, in brief, to this: “Pay or go.”

Nor could he bring himself to the shame, not to say the dishonesty, of
trying to borrow money which he could foresee no way of paying.

This was the pass to which his marriage with Palma had brought him! Did
he regret his marriage?

“No,” he said to himself, “though I proposed to her, first of all, under
the diabolical influence of the beautiful fiend who had me in her power,
and for mercenary purposes that were to serve us, the two conspirators,
yet for one redeeming event I do thank Providence—and that is that I
discovered Palma to be penniless as well as invalided before I married
her. Then I kept faith with her; I married her; I saved her precious
life, and I have grown to know her and to love her above all things on
earth. And to whatever straits I may be reduced, and however much I may
suffer, I will, so far as possible, shield my beloved one from knowing
them or sharing them. But in the meantime what in the name of Heaven am
I to do? And what is to become of her? Men in such straits as mine have
been driven, are daily driven, to commit suicide. We read such cases in
almost every paper, and often with the concluding comment: ‘No motive
could be discovered for the desperate deed.’ I suppose, now, if I were
to be so lost to a sense of justice as to end my trouble with a shot
to-night, it would be said to-morrow: ‘He had just come from a wedding
breakfast, where he appeared among the happiest of the guests. No motive
can be surmised for his desperate deed.’ As if men paraded their
perplexities to all and sundry, in season and out of season, and wore
their motives and intentions pinned on their sleeves—especially such
motives and intentions. Pah! nothing could drive me to such a deed. I
must live and brave my fate, trusting in Heaven, doing my duty! But all
the same, sweet little Palma, if it were Heaven’s will, I think it would
be well if you and I should fall asleep to-night and never awake again
in this world!”

So deep, so painful, so absorbing was his reverie that he did not
perceive the approach of the postman, who ran against him in the dark,
begged his pardon and passed on until he reached the main entrance of
the apartment house, went in, came out, and hurried on again out of
sight up the street.

Stuart had scarcely noticed him, beyond muttering, “Not at all,” when
the other had said, “Beg pardon, sir.” And now he thought no more of the
incident, but continued his walk for an hour, as if by wearying his body
he might relieve his mind.

Presently, thinking that this was their dinner hour, though he had
little appetite for dinner just now, he turned and entered the hall. He
did not ring up the elevator, but he walked heavily up the five flights
of stairs. It was a mental relief to fatigue himself to faintness.

He entered the little parlor and found not dinner, but the tea table
spread.

Palma was sitting behind the urn and waiting for him. The fire was very
bright, the parlor very snug, and the little wife very happy. If this
could only continue!

“I thought, after a wedding feast at two o’clock, that tea would be
better than dinner at six. So I told Poley. Do you mind, Cleve?”
inquired Palma.

“No, dear; indeed, I prefer tea; it will be more refreshing,” he
replied, trying to overcome the heaviness of his soul so that it should
not appear in his look or tone.

“And Poley has made some of her delicious, light, puffy muffins. I never
saw any so nice anywhere as she can make. I tell you, Cleve, dear, if
our riches should suddenly ‘take unto themselves wings and fly away,’
Poley and I would open a bake shop with a specialty of these tea
muffins. Poley should make them. I would stand behind the counter and
sell them and you should keep the accounts, and we should all three make
our fortunes and divide the profits,” said Palma as she poured out the
delicate Japan tea.

Stuart smiled as he took a cup from her hand.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’s a letter for you! It came while you
were out. I put it on the corner of the mantelpiece. Will you look at it
now?”

“No, dear; I know what it is. It is only the bill for the month’s rent.
The landlord always sends it on the third of the month, and as the third
comes on Sunday this time, he has sent it on Saturday, a day earlier.”

“Try a muffin, Cleve. You don’t know how nice they are.”

He took one to please her.

Then she chatted on about the wedding they had just attended, and the
young pair who had just sailed for Europe.

“They are so anxious that we shall go and visit them at Haymore as soon
as they shall be settled there, Cleve. And, indeed, I did promise to use
all my influence with you to persuade you to take me over next summer.
Why, Cleve, it would be ever so much pleasanter than to go to Lull’s
again, even! And yet I used to think Lull’s was just Paradise! What do
you think, Cleve?”

“I think, my dear one, that it would be very delightful to spend the
summer with our friends at Haymore. As much as I have traveled, I have
never been in Yorkshire.”

“Then you think we may go?” eagerly demanded Palma.

“Providence permitting, yes, my dear,” he replied.

She perceived no evasion in this answer. Indeed, the phrase was her own
habitual formula whenever she fully intended to do any certain thing,
“Providence permitting.” She took his words for consent and answered
gleefully:

“That will be something to look forward to during the winter.”

Stuart smiled. Ah! how hard to keep up that cheerful countenance and
light tone when his heart was so heavy and his mind so dark.

They lingered long at the tea table, because Palma was full of life and
of the enjoyment of all life’s blessings, in possession and in
anticipation.

When they arose at last and the table was cleared of the tea service,
and the books and magazines replaced on it, Palma took her workbasket
and Cleve a book, and she sewed at mending gloves, he read aloud “The
Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood.”

The letter on the mantelpiece, confidently believed to be the rent bill,
was not looked at, or even thought of. There it lay, and was fated to
lay, until Monday morning.

The young pair retired at their usual hour; but only Palma slept. The
vulture of anxiety, gnawing at his heart, kept Stuart wide awake.

Sunday dawned clear, bright and beautiful.

The young couple arose and breakfasted and went to church.

They walked all the way, not because Cleve had not a dime to pay car
fare—though he had not—but because Palma never wished to tax the horses
on the Sabbath day except in cases of absolute necessity.

“Because,” she urged, “the merciful command of the Lord provides for the
rest of the beast as well as of the man, and these horses work hard
enough all the week to rest on Sunday.”

And Stuart had always yielded to her scruples in this respect.

The organ was pealing forth a fine voluntary when they entered the
church and took their seats. The music ceased and the service began.
Palma entered into it with all the loving devotion of her heart and
soul. Cleve could not concentrate his thoughts on worship, though he
tried to do so.

After a little while, in due course, the first hymn was given out, and
the first line fell like a trumpet blast, calling the Christian soul to
hope and courage:

                “Give to the winds thy fears!
                  Hope and be undismayed!
                God hears thy sighs and sees thy tears,
                  God shall lift up thy head.”

The words thrilled him, aroused him; all the black shadows of grief,
shame, despair and desperation, which had bowed and cowed his spirit
with the sense of helplessness and humiliation, rolled away as before a
rising sun. It seemed wonderful, miraculous, a memory of divine
intervention that never left him in all his after life. He had always
worshiped God as the supreme ruler of the universe; but never had known
Him as the Heavenly Father. But from this hour he knew, or rather he
felt, that “the God of the universe, the God of the race, was the God of
the individual man,” the giver of life, the giver of heaven, the giver
of the daily bread as well.

The sermon which followed was from the text: “Are not two sparrows sold
for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without
your Father.... Fear not, therefore, ye are of more value than many
sparrows.”

The sermon that followed was almost worthy of the text, not quite, for
no man’s nor angel’s words can add to the Word of the Lord; but it was
faithfully, lovingly and practically applied, and it did good service.

At the end of the worship Stuart, as well as Palma, came out into the
sunlight refreshed and comforted.

That morning Stuart, in his dark mood, had shrunk from the exertion of
going to church. What would be the use? he had thought in his secret
heart; and he had tried to excuse himself to Palma, but she, from a
feeling of duty, had persuaded him to go.

Now as they walked uptown through the sunny air he said:

“I am very glad we went to church to-day, dear.”

“So am I. We got our daily bread, our heavenly manna there, did we not?”

“Yes.”

They reached home and found their pleasant little parlor aglow with the
bright fire in the grate, and inviting with the neatly spread table and
the simple midday meal of the Sabbath.

Mrs. Pole had also been to church at a much nearer point, and had got
home before them in good time to lay the cloth.

Dinner over, they spent the afternoon in reading.

They had an early tea, and then went out to church for the evening
service, walking there and back again. They reached home after ten
o’clock, for the way was long. They were revived in spirit and
wholesomely fatigued in body, so that they soon retired to rest and
slept well. Even Stuart slept, though he believed that this night ended
their last day in their pretty home, and that the next morning would
send them adrift, bereft of all their effects, except the clothes they
wore, and Heaven only knew whither! But—they would be in their Father’s
world! No one could turn them out of that. So they slept in peace.

I have been particular in describing these last two days of Stuart’s and
Palma’s experience, for they were ever after memorable in their lives.

On Monday morning they arose early, as usual. It had been Stuart’s daily
custom to go out after breakfast in search of employment. He had
continued this under all discouragements.

Yet this morning he stayed at home to see the landlord’s collector, who
always arrived the day after the bill had come by mail. As the bill had
arrived on Saturday, and the collector could not come on Sunday, he
would certainly put in an appearance on Monday, and Palma must not be
left alone to receive him—under the circumstances.

Palma took her knitting—a pair of mittens for Mrs. Pole—and sat down to
work near the window, from which she could look below upon the housetops
and above to the glorious December sky.

Stuart took a book and threw himself into a rocking-chair by the table,
but he did not read. He was waiting—for what? He did not know.

The door opened and “the boy” came in, silently laid a letter on the
table, and went out again.

Stuart took it up and opened it. Palma looked up from her work.

“Why—this is the rent bill. I thought it came Saturday. Where is that
letter that came?” Stuart inquired.

“On the corner of the mantelpiece. I’ll get it for you,” said Palma; and
she arose and handed him the letter.

He took it and gazed at it.

“I don’t know the handwriting at all,” he said meditatively, “and it is
postmarked ‘Wolfswalk, West Virginia.’ I should think it was intended
for some one else, if my name was not such an uncommon one, and
certainly there is no one else in this house that bears it.” And he
turned it over and over and scrutinized it after the strange manner of
people who receive a mysterious letter and play with their own curiosity
by delaying to open it. At length he broke the envelope and unfolded the
letter.

First of all he turned to the signature, which was at the bottom of the
fourth page, so that he did not happen to open the sheet and find what
lay between the leaves.

“‘John Cleve!’” he exclaimed. “Why, dear Palma, this is from my old
bachelor great-uncle, who, I thought, had been gathered to his fathers
ages ago. He must be at least eighty years old.”

“Oh, Cleve, read it to me! I never knew you had an uncle,” said Palma,
dropping her work and coming and leaning over the back of his chair so
that she could look at the open letter.

Cleve read as follows:

                                         “WOLFSWALK, WEST VIRGINIA,
                                                     “November 25, 186—.

  “MY DEAR GRAND-NEPHEW: You will be surprised to get a letter from me,
  of whom you can have but little memory, as you have not seen me since
  you were a babe of three years old, when your dear mother—my dear and
  only niece—brought you to my house.

  “Since her lamented death, in Mississippi, I had completely lost sight
  of you, thinking of you as in the hands of competent guardians during
  your minority, and of leading a prosperous life as an active planter
  on your estate since your majority. I thought of writing to you, but
  neglected to do so. How families do get separated in this world, to be
  sure, neglecting each other, forgetting each other, like aliens!

  “Several circumstances have occurred to bring you forcibly to my mind
  of late. First, the fact that my two grand-nephews, Frank and James,
  sole descendants of my only nephew, Charles, fell on the field of Cold
  Harbor, fighting for their native State. They died unmarried. This
  leaves you my sole heir.

  “As soon as I learned this fact I wrote to you in Mississippi, but
  failed to get a letter from you. I wrote to the postmaster of your
  post office there, and learned from him that you had been an absentee
  from home for many years.

  “Then I thought of advertising for you, but so hated the plan that I
  delayed putting it in execution.

  “At length chance favored me and gave the information I desired. A
  neighbor of mine went off on a business trip and was in Washington
  City last week, and met there a friend of yours—a Mr. Walling, of New
  York. By the merest accident your name came up—neither of the
  gentlemen knowing of how much importance it was to me—and Fairfax
  heard that you were in New York City, and, in fact, much about you
  which it is not necessary to repeat here, but all of which he told me.
  Therefore, I write you this letter.

  “And now, since you are not bound down to your Mississippi plantation,
  and since you are my sole heir, and I am old and feeble, and cannot
  last long, I ask you to be a good boy, and a dutiful nephew, and to
  come and bring your wife and live with me on the farm.

  “I have not suffered, as so many have, by the war. It did not sweep
  over my land, but gave it a rather wide berth.

  “My negroes have remained with me at fair wages, but whether they do
  fair work is something else.

  “I have an overseer to look after the negroes, but, my boy, I require
  some one to look after the overseer. Will you come?

  “As breaking up and traveling is always expensive, and as I do not
  know your financial condition, I inclose a check for five hundred
  dollars, merely as an advance to my heir. Give my love to your wife.
  Let me hear from you as soon as possible, and believe me, my dear
  Cleve, now and ever, your affectionate grand-uncle,

                                                           “JOHN CLEVE.”

“Thank God!” fervently ejaculated Stuart.

“But where is the check?” curiously inquired Palma.

Stuart opened the leaves of the letter again, then his face fell and he
murmured:

“My uncle must have forgotten to put it in!”

“No,” said Palma, “here it is!” And she picked it up from the carpet, to
which it had slipped.

“Thank God!” said Stuart again.

“Why, I am glad, very glad, that you have heard from your uncle. But
you, Cleve! I have never in all my life seen you so strongly moved. What
is it all about?” exclaimed Palma, amazed at his extreme agitation.

“My darling, when this providential letter came we were on the brink of
ruin!” he answered, telling her the truth at last.

“‘Ruin!’ You! Cleve Stuart!”

“Yes, my beloved.”

“But your vast wealth?”

“A fond imagination of yours.”

“And your rich Mississippi plantation?”

“A blasted wilderness.”

“Oh, Cleve! Cleve! How have we lived?”

“By the gradual disposal of all my useless effects.”

“Oh, Cleve! Cleve!”

“The last dime was spent on Saturday, dear, and this morning I looked
for nothing else but a distrain for rent and ejection from these
premises.”

“And you never told me! You never told me!”

“Why should I have distressed you, dear one?”

“Oh, I could have worked, Cleve. But I didn’t know! I didn’t know! I
thought you were rich. And I thought, sometimes, that you were too
prudent, too saving, especially when you did not get a dress coat to go
to Ran’s wedding. And all the time you were poor, and struggling on the
very brink of ruin! Oh, Cleve!”

“Never mind, dear heart, we are ready for the landlord, or for any other
demand. Tell me, darling, shall you like to go to this mountain
farmhouse in West Virginia, and keep house for the old man, and be
mistress, doctress, teacher and everything, to his horde of darkies?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes—a thousand times, yes! I shall be delighted,
Cleve!”

“Very well, then. As it all depended upon you, I will answer the old
man’s letter and accept his offer; then go out and change this check.”

“No, no; first of all, dear Cleve,” said Palma, gravely, “let us kneel
and return thanks to our Heavenly Father that we are saved.”




                              CHAPTER XIII
                              SAFE AT HOME


We left Jennie Montgomery sleeping in her mother’s arms, with her babe
safe beside them.

Jennie would have talked all night till broad daylight; but her mother,
knowing how tired the young traveler must be, discouraged all
conversation by pretending to be sleepy, by replying only in
monosyllables, or even answering at random, until at length the talker
herself gave up in despair, grew tired, then stupid, and then fell fast
asleep.

The consequence of her exhausted strength and her long vigil was that
she slept long and deeply and late into the next morning.

When at last she awoke she found herself alone in the room, with the
morning sunlight stealing through the slats of the window shutters, and
gilding bright lines on the white window curtains and on the light gray
ground of the carpet and the light gray color of the walls. She saw all
this through the festooned white curtains at the foot of her bed. She
raised herself up, and then she saw something through the same opening—a
bright little coal fire burning in the grate.

Her mother was gone and her baby was gone. Evidently Jennie had slept so
soundly that she had not heard their uprising and departure, and she had
continued to sleep on until she knew not what hour of the day.

She thought she would get up and dress herself quietly before any one
should discover that she was awake.

She slipped out of bed, and the first thing that she saw was her large
sea trunk, that had been packed with undiscovered treasure of clothing
by the benevolent women who had taken such a warm interest in her
welfare, and who had given her an outfit as well as a first-class
passage home.

The key of her trunk was in her _portemonnaie_, in the pocket of her
traveling dress. She got it out, unstrapped and unlocked the treasure
chest, and lifted the lid.

But just then she heard the voice of her baby crowing loudly in response
to another cooing voice that she recognized as her mother’s.

They were having a grand circus together in the parlor, that young
grandmother and the baby.

Jennie snatched up the first garment fitting to wear from the top of the
trunk, and then dropped the lid and hastily washed and dressed herself,
putting on a pretty blue cashmere princess wrapper, trimmed with blue
satin ribbons. Then, while still buttoning up, she hastily opened the
dividing door and entered the parlor.

Her mother was there, sitting in a low rocker, holding the baby across
her lap. Beside her, on the hob of the grate, stood the bowl of “infant
food” from which she had been feeding the child.

There was no one else in the room, nor did there need to be to make it
very lively there, for the baby was crowing with all the strength of her
lungs, while laughing up in the pretty, smiling face, with the cooing
voice, bending over her.

“Oh, mamma, darling! why didn’t you wake me?” exclaimed Jennie, coming
up before Mrs. Campbell perceived her presence in the room.

“Why, Jennie! Up and dressed, my pet? Why didn’t you ring for some one
to help you?” inquired the mother in her turn.

“You haven’t answered my question yet, and told me why you did not wake
me when you got up and dressed baby,” said Jennie as she stooped and
kissed her mother and the child.

“I was so well satisfied to see you sleeping off your fatigue that I
would not have disturbed you for a great deal,” said Mrs. Campbell,
returning her daughter’s caress.

“Well, now, the reason I didn’t ring for any one was because I didn’t
want any one. And when I heard you and baby in such earnest
conversation, I hurried with my dressing and came in. I thought baby
would be hungry.”

“She was hungry; but I sent to the chemist and got this ‘infant food’
for her.”

“Oh! she never was fed with that before!” exclaimed Jennie, in some
doubt of its good effects.

“Don’t be afraid, my dear. It is used in all the royal nurseries. See,
the royal arms are on the label,” said the lady.

“Of course, mamma, darling, if you give it, it is all right. I think
your judgment quite as good as that of all the royal family put
together.”

“Tut! tut! my pet! Your visit to America must have turned you into a
republican. But what a lovely wrapper you have got on, Jennie!” she
said, perhaps to turn the conversation.

“Is it not? And I have got another one just like it in mauve, which has
never been on my back, and which you must have, dear mamma. Those angel
women in New York have given me that huge trunk full of beautiful
clothing, and I shall never wear one-half of it out, but my greatest
pleasure in it will be to divide it with you, my dear, darling,
beautiful mamma.”

“Oh, Jennie!” was all the curate’s wife found to say to that, for she
did not mean to take any of her daughter’s pretty clothes, if she could
help it, nor did she want to vex the girl by refusing them just then.

“Where is papa?” inquired Jennie.

“Gone out to make some sick calls; he will be home by noon. But here I
am chatting away and forgetting that you have had no breakfast. We
breakfasted two hours ago!” laughed Mrs. Campbell as she put her hand
out to the bell rope and rang.

Elspeth Longman came in, smiled and nodded.

“Good-morning, ma’am,” to Jennie, and then went to work to lay the cloth
for her breakfast. It was soon spread upon the table—good coffee, rich
cream, muffins, fresh butter, grilled ham and poached eggs.

Mrs. Campbell gave the baby to Elspeth and sat down to pour out the
coffee for her prodigal daughter.

“Ah, mamma! You remember our old feeling, yours and mine, that a draught
poured out by beloved hands has the power of life-giving to the spirit
as well as to the body,” said Jennie as she received the cup from her
mother.

“And the same may be said of work gifts, my dear. Your little Shetland
veil that you knit for me years ago, always seemed full as it could hold
of your dear love, and its touch on my face like your caress,” replied
Mrs. Campbell.

While they sat at table Elspeth Longman stood at one of the windows with
the baby in her arms, tapping on the panes to make the child look out on
the blue sky and the evergreen trees.

“I shall stop calling baby ‘Baby’ now, mamma. She is going to be named
after you—Esther. It is too grown up a name to call a little baby in
common. And we can’t call her Hetty, because that is your pet name. Now
what shall we call her for short?”

“Essy,” replied the young grandmother.

“Essy, then, it shall be. Mind, Mrs. Longman. Our baby is to the
christened Esther, after mamma, and we are to call her Essy for short.”

“Very well, ma’am; it is a pretty name,” said the woman at the window.

“And we will have her christened on Sunday, mamma. We must wait for
Sunday, because I remember papa’s preference for christening babies on
Sunday, unless there should be some pressing necessity to perform the
ceremony on a week day.”

“There’s grandpa!” exclaimed Elspeth to the baby, tapping on the window.
And the next instant, the Rev. James Campbell—otherwise familiarly and
affectionately in his own family called “Jimmy”—entered the house and
walked into the room.

He kissed his daughter good-morning, and then took his stand on the rug,
with his back to the fire, looking so grave that his wife grew anxious,
but forbore to question him in the presence of their newly returned
daughter.

“And perhaps, after all,” she reflected, “it is nothing very personal.
He may have just returned from the deathbed of a parishioner. Such
scenes always affect him, more for the sake of those left behind than
for the departed, for he has too much faith to fret after the freed
soul.”

While Mrs. Campbell was turning these thoughts over in her mind, and Mr.
Campbell was standing in silence on the rug, Jennie finished her
breakfast and arose and took her crowing baby from the arms of Elspeth,
that the latter might clear off the table.

When this was done, and the woman had left the room, and Jennie had put
her baby to sleep in the pretty berceaunette that had been provided by
her mother that very morning, and the father, mother and daughter were
seated around the fire, both these women with needlework in their hands,
the curate said:

“Now, my dear, if you will, you may give us the explanation you
promised. Hetty!” he said, suddenly turning to his wife, “did she tell
you anything last night?”

“Not a word. I would not let her talk. I made her go to sleep.”

“That was right. Well, we know from her letter that she, daughter of a
minister of the church of England, though a very humble one, and the
wife of an ex-officer in her majesty’s service, though a most unworthy
one—that she, a lady by birth and by marriage, was brought to such
extremity as to be confined in the pauper ward of a public hospital, and
to depend on private charity for her outfit and passage home to us.”

“Thanks be to the Lord that we have her and her child safe and sound in
mind and body, however they came to us!” fervently exclaimed Hetty
Campbell.

“I say we know all this from our child’s letter. But we do not know why
all this should have happened in this way; nor why she never mentioned
her husband’s name in her letter; nor why she comes to us with her child
alone; nor why, when I asked her for an explanation, she replied to me
that the kindest act he ever did for her was—to leave her.”

“Oh, my Jennie! Oh, my dear Jennie!” exclaimed Hetty in a tone of pain.

“Yes, mamma; it is true. The kindest thing he ever did for me was to
leave me. I am not heartbroken over it. I have nothing, not the least
thing, to reproach myself with in all my conduct toward him. Mamma, when
I made Capt. Kightly Montgomery’s acquaintance I

                    “‘Foregathered wi’ the de’il.’”

“Oh, Jennie—my daughter!”

“This is hard fact, mamma, as you will know when you have heard the
story I am going to tell you. Is there any danger of any one coming in?”

“No, dear. There is no one in the house besides ourselves except
Elspeth, and as this is baking day she is very busy in the kitchen, and
will not come in here unless she should be called,” said Hetty.
Nevertheless, she got up and turned the keys in both doors.

“Now, then, my dear,” she said as she resumed her seat.

“It is a long story, and a painful one; yet, for every reason, I feel
that I must tell you the whole of it without reservation, because I
shall have to seek your counsel and be guided by it as to my future
course,” said Jennie, turning to her father.

“Yes; tell every word you know,” replied Jimmy.

Then Jennie told the whole horrible story—of her secret marriage—of
which her parents had heard before—of the many devices by which her
husband had kept her away from her parents, even after they had received
her penitent letter, and forgiven her, and invited her and her
bridegroom to visit them; of their wanderings through Europe, stopping
at the great gambling centers; of his abandonment of her; or her pursuit
of him over land and sea; of their meeting at night in the streets of
New York, just when he was on the eve of marriage with another woman; of
his fright at her appearance, his instant repudiation of her, and their
bitter altercation, which ended in his stabbing her and leaving her for
dead on the sidewalk of the deserted street,

              “In the dead waste and middle of the night.”

At this point of the story Mrs. Campbell screamed and flung her hands up
to her eyes as if to shut out the horrible vision her imagination had
conjured up from the words of Jennie.

Then there followed a pause in the narrative until Hetty had recovered
herself. Meanwhile the curate sat in grim silence, like a man who
resolves but does not mean to speak.

It was Jennie who broke the spell.

“That is the very worst, mamma. I have nothing to tell worse than
this—no, nor half as bad—and you see that it did not kill me. And now
what I have to tell you is mostly a pleasant experience; for when I
recovered consciousness, which was after many hours, I found myself on a
nice, white bed in a pleasant room, with the sweetest, kindest woman’s
face, like an angel’s face, bending over me, and my new-born baby lying
beside me. Yes; my wound had been in the flesh of my left breast,
shocking me into a swoon, but not fatal—as he had supposed it to be—and
not even dangerous. Under some anæsthetic—I suppose, though I do not
know—my wound had been dressed, and my baby born, and I awoke in such a
heaven of peace and good will, with my precious baby by my side, and
with angels of mercy all about me, that, mamma, every vestige of anger
against my husband for all his wrongs to me vanished from my bosom;
although there remained a shrinking from the thought of ever meeting him
again, and a horror of him that I feel can never be overcome in this
life. As soon as I was well enough to bear the ordeal I was questioned
as to my assailant; but I would not tell who he was. The police searched
my room on Vevay Street, and found his miniature; but it happened to be
the one which had been taken when he was in the army, in his regimental
uniform, and with his military mustache, and it bore his monogram, K. M.
They brought it to me, but I would have nothing to say to it; nor was it
available to trace Montgomery, for he now wore a citizen’s dress, had
grown a full, long beard, and he bore another name—a name supported by
documentary and direct evidence—a name which it will surprise you to
hear—but let that pass for the present.”

“Why not tell us now?”

“Wait, mamma, dear. I am following the narrative as the facts came to my
knowledge. The miniature was photographed and distributed to aid in the
identification and arrest of the suspected party. It did not lead to
Montgomery’s arrest, but to that of an unlucky gentleman who bore some
resemblance to the photograph, especially in the matter of the martial
mustache. This hapless person was brought before me for identification.
The likeness struck even me at first, and startled me into a
compromising exclamation; but a second glance assured me that I had
never seen the man before in my life; and I told them so. They did not
believe me. And afterward it took the evidence of several substantial
citizens to convince the magistrate before whom he was brought that the
accused man was quite a distinct individual from Capt. Kightly
Montgomery, my supposed assailant. I say my supposed assailant, dear
mamma; for they could not know him for such, since I would not give him
up to justice; for I wish him no harm, though I never want to see him in
this world.”

“Never!” breathed Hetty with all a mother’s intense sympathy.

“I told you in my letter of the great goodness of those angel women in
New York to me, and how, as soon as I was able to leave the hospital,
one of them, dear Mrs. Duncan, took me home to her own house, where she
cared for me and my baby as—as you do, sweet mamma.”

“God bless them!” exclaimed Hetty.

“I stayed with her while the ladies were preparing my outfit, and until
I took passage on the _Scorpio_.”

“And you saw no more of that——”

The conscientious minister hesitated at a word that any other man, under
the circumstances, would have pronounced with vim.

Jennie understood him, and answered promptly.

“No, dear papa. I saw no more of him until I was eight days out at sea.
Then we came face to face on deck.”

“‘Face to face on deck!’” exclaimed Hetty in dismay.

“‘Face to face on deck!’ Then he was actually coming over on the same
ship with yourself?” said the curate, losing much of his self-control.

“Yes, papa. Yes, mamma. He was coming over on the same ship with myself.
Coming over under his new name, with his new, deceived bride. They had
been married with the greatest _éclat_ in one of the most wealthy and
fashionable houses in New York. And they were on their wedding tour.”

Then Jennie gave a detailed account of the meeting between the recreant
husband and the wronged wife on board the _Scorpio_. She described his
fright, awe, horror on meeting one whom he believed to be in a pauper’s
grave in potter’s field, with the stigma of suicide on her name, and
then his slow acceptance of the fact that it was herself in the body,
and not an optical illusion created by _delirium tremens_, that was
there before him.

“I had not dreamed of meeting him there, or anywhere else on earth,”
said Jennie; “but when I saw him before me, so unexpectedly, I was
calmer than he was. I bade him leave me and avoid me, and told him that
I should not trouble him while we were, unfortunately, on the ship
together, but that I should tell you my whole story and take your advice
as to my future course.”

“You did wisely so far,” said the curate.

“Then I told him you were to meet me at Liverpool.”

“Well?”

“He had taken tickets for Liverpool, but he got off, with his party, at
Queenstown.”

“Ah!” breathed the curate, “that was prudently done. But now, my child,
tell me the alias under which this man is now traveling, and which you
said would surprise us very much?”

“Dear papa, first of all, will you please to tell me how much you
learned of Kightly Montgomery’s true history when you undertook to
investigate the antecedents of the young officer who had run off with
your daughter?”

“Yes, my dear. There was no mystery about him. I went to the colonel of
his regiment, and learned that he was the son of the late General the
Honorable Arthur Montgomery, who was so distinguished in the Indian war,
the grandson of the late and the nephew of the present Earl of
Engelmeed, and a disgrace to his ancestry and relatives; and that he had
held a commission in the—Regiment of Foot, but had been court-martialed
and dismissed the service for ‘conduct unworthy of an officer and a
gentleman.’”

“And you are sure that he is really Kightly Montgomery—that that is his
real name?”

“As sure as that James Campbell is my own,” said the curate. “And now,
will you tell me what name he passed under in America, and why he
dropped his own?”

“Yes, papa; the name under which he passed in New York; the name under
which he claims the richest estate in Yorkshire; the name under which he
married Miss Lamia Leegh, of New York; the name under which he sailed in
the _Scorpio_ for Liverpool, is——”

“Yes? Well?”

“Mr. Randolph Hay, of Haymore!”

“Great Heaven, Jennie!”

“Good Lord, Jennie!”

These exclamations burst simultaneously from the lips of Jimmy and
Hetty.

“Yes, mamma! Yes, papa! It is true as truth. Your landlord and patron,
the new Squire of Haymore, for whose home-coming with his bride all
these gorgeous preparations have been made, is no other than my husband,
your son-in-law, ex-captain of Foot, Kightly Montgomery, who
metaphorically fled from before your face by landing at Queenstown, to
avoid meeting you at Liverpool.”

“Oh, Hetty! Hetty!” said the curate, appealing to his wife, “what is
this world coming to?”

“To judgment one of these days, Jimmy, according to your own preaching!
‘Reck your own read,’ Jimmy. And take comfort, as I do, that whatever
has been, or is, or is to be, we have our darling daughter and her babe
safe at home!” paid Hetty, closing her arm around Jennie’s waist and
squeezing her fondly.

“And what a complication! The scoundrel—Heaven forgive me, the word
slipped out!—the man slunk off the steamer at Queenstown for fear of
meeting me at Liverpool, and now he is walking unaware into my very
arms!”

“And I don’t believe that your arms will fold him in a very fond
embrace!” exclaimed Hetty.

“If they had but the strength I fear it would be in the grizzly bear’s
hug, or the boa constrictor’s crush!” exclaimed the curate, gasping.

“But the mad audacity of his coming here, where you are! I don’t
understand it,” said Hetty.

“My dear, he does not dream that I am here! How should he? He thinks
that we are all at Medge, on the south coast, with the length of England
between us and Haymore!”

“So! I forgot that! What shall you do, Jimmy?”

“Nothing at present; but wait for his coming; then I will confront him
and expose him to the lady he has deceived and feloniously married.
Meanwhile, Hetty and Jennie, my dears, breathe not a word of this secret
to any one, whoever he or she may be. The effrontery of the man in
calling himself Randolph Hay, and claiming the Haymore estates, is
nothing less than insanity! And the credulity of lawyers in allowing his
claim is past belief!”

“Oh, but, my dear father, he had piles and piles of documents, and no
end of direct testimony besides! I heard all about Mr. Randolph Hay’s
appearance and claim to the Haymore estates, and his engagement to Miss
Leegh from Mrs. Duncan, before I ever discovered that the claimant and
bridegroom-elect were identical with my own recreant husband.”

“Forged or stolen documents, Jennie. And suborned and perjured
witnesses! That is the story of his claim, Jennie. But breathe not a
word to any one of this affair! Let the tenants and the villagers go on
with their preparations for a grand fête. Let Capt. Kightly Montgomery
and his bride come on in triumph to enjoy it! The higher the flight the
heavier the fall for him.”

“But the poor lady! She was one of those who helped me, papa.”

“I am sorry for her! But, even for her sake, the man should be exposed
and punished. She must not live with him in sin!” said the curate. Then,
after a pause, “I cannot comprehend how he dares to come to England! One
would think that he would be afraid of being recognized. It is true that
he believes this family to be on the south coast. True, also, that he
knows the regiment to which he lately belonged to be in India, so that
there is no danger of his meeting with any of his late fellow officers,
but still it is always possible that he may be recognized and exposed.”

“Oh, papa, you do not know what a change the full beard, and a
difference in the parting of his hair, has made in him,” said Jennie.

“And, besides, did we not hear that the new squire does not intend to
reside in England for some years to come? Did not some one say that he
was only coming here to make a sort of triumphal entry upon his paternal
land, and then, after liberally treating all his tenants and the
villagers, he was to leave on extended travels?”

“Oh, yes! yes! I believe we did hear something of the sort. I suppose
the fellow thinks he can safely come here with his bride to gratify his
pride and vanity, by exhibiting her and himself in a triumphal entry,
after the manner of royal personages! I dare say he thinks himself
secure in doing that. But he does not know the Nemesis that is waiting
for him! He does not dream that he will exchange triumph for shame,
luxury for torture, and Haymore Hall and fox-hunting for Portsmouth Isle
and penal servitude!” exclaimed the curate.

Then rising, he said:

“I must go and write my sermon. And this has given me some new ideas for
it.”

And when he left the room Hetty and Jennie both knew that the sermon in
question would be likely to deal more with the terrors of the law than
with the mercies of the Lord.




                              CHAPTER XIV
                             COMING EVENTS


The autumn days passed calmly at the parsonage of Haymore. The curate
had his own care, but he kept it to himself. On that morning succeeding
Jennie’s arrival, when Hetty had observed traces of unusual disturbance
on the brow of her Jimmy and had ascribed it to the effect of some
distressing deathbed scene of some parishioner and therefore had
forborne to question him, the cause of the curate’s uneasiness was just
this: He had, by that morning’s mail, received a letter from his rector
at Cannes, speaking hopelessly of his own illness and predicting an
early and fatal issue.

James Campbell would not disturb his wife and daughter with this news,
though it troubled him deeply and for more reasons than one.

In the first place, he felt a warm affection for the venerable rector
who had been his father’s classmate at Oxford, and who had remembered
him when he could do him a service and put him into his present
position.

In the second place, should the rector die soon, his successor would be
appointed by the Squire of Haymore and would naturally dismiss him,
James Campbell, from his curacy. And he and his family would have to go
forth in the world, homeless, moneyless and almost friendless, in
midwinter. What prospect lay before the three but destitution and
indebtedness—practically, first, to go into the cheapest lodgings they
could find; then to go into debt for their daily food as long as he
might be able to get credit.

And after that—what?

He did not know.

Of course, he would try to get work again—another curacy, or a
tutorship, or a secretaryship. But Jimmy knew by all his past experience
and observation how difficult, how almost impossible it was for a man in
his position, once out of employment, ever to get in again. If he could
only know who was to be the successor of his dying rector, he might, at
a proper time, try to gain his favor to be made his curate.

Well—he thought—“while he preacheth to others he must not himself be a
castaway.” As Hetty had told him, he must “reck his own read.” He must
do the best he could and leave the result to divine Providence. If he
could only hold his present position. What a commodious house he had for
his dear ones! What an affluent garden! What a spacious glebe! What a
lovely home, taken altogether! What a paradisal one for his family! If
he could only retain it by any amount of work—by doing double duty,
tenfold duty in the parish! He would not shrink from any labor, any
hardship, to retain this refuge for his beloved ones, he thought. Then
his conscience reproached him—he was thinking too much of his own, too
little of his parish; and besides, the idea of remaining in this sweet
home was but a dream, for if even the successor of his dying rector
should favor him so far as to retain him in the curacy, he could not
continue to reside in the rectory—where, of course, the new rector would
take up his abode—but would have to find a small house in the village
suitable to his small salary as a curate. But even this last favor was
highly improbable. The new rector would have some young clerical friend
whom he would take as his curate. They always did, he remembered.

“Is there much sickness or suffering in the parish, Jimmy?” Hetty asked
one day when they happened to be alone in the parlor together, Jennie
being in her bedroom with her baby, and Elspeth in the kitchen over her
cooking.

“Sickness? Why, no! Why do you ask?” inquired the curate.

“Is there any distress, then?”

“Why, no! They are all unusually well just now, and very hilarious over
the prospect of the arrival of their new squire and his bride and all
the high jinks of their reception. Why did you ask such questions,
Hetty?”

“Because, Jimmy, you always look as solemn as a hearse!”

“Do I? Well, in view of coming events, I cannot be expected to look very
merry, can I, Hetty?” he inquired, rather evasively.

“You refer to the expected arrival of the fraudulent claimant and
bigamous husband, and your duty to strike him down,

                     “‘Even in his pitch of pride.’

But I don’t see why that should make you look so solemn. And Jennie
home, too! And the dear baby! Oh, Jimmy, if you cannot appreciate the
blessings around you and be grateful and happy in the midst of them, the
Lord help you! though He certainly has a discouraging job of you, just
now!”

“I preach to my people and weary them, no doubt. You preach to me
and—avenge them!” laughed the Reverend James.

“Well, I am glad to see you laugh, even if it is at my expense,” said
Hetty.

“What are you two quarreling about?” inquired Jennie, who had put her
baby to sleep and now entered the parlor.

“As to which is the best preacher, your mother of myself,” answered the
curate.

“Oh, mamma! out and out! I have often wished I could hear her in the
pulpit!” laughed Jennie.

“That settles it! Hetty, you have gained the point!” said the Rev.
James, as he strolled out of the parlor into his study.

His wife’s words had not been without their effect. He was just now
surrounded with such bright blessings, living in such an atmosphere of
love, peace, health, comfort, and happiness that nothing could be added
to their blessedness; yet their very perfection troubled him, lest they
should not be permanent. He could not enjoy this blessed time, because
next month or next year might bring a change which might be for the
worse.

Why, what base thanklessness and faithlessness was this! While he
“preached to others” he was himself “a castaway.”

But he resolved that he would reform all this. He would take no anxious
care for the future. He would do the best he could and leave the rest to
the Lord.

From that day he presented a more cheerful aspect to his family.

The leading parishioners began to call on his daughter.

Partly from hearsay and partly from inference, they had got a mixed
opinion about the status of the young woman. She was the wife—so they
Lad heard—of one Capt. Kightly Montgomery, son of the late General the
Honorable Arthur Montgomery, and grandson of the late and nephew of the
present Earl of Engelwing; that the captain was now, of course, with his
regiment in India, and that his young wife had come home with her infant
on a long visit to her father, because the climate of India was so fatal
to young children of European parentage.

Under these mingled impressions of truth and error they called to pay
their respects to their pastor’s daughter.

From the village there came Mrs. and the Misses Leach, the doctor’s wife
and daughters; Mrs. Drum, the lawyer’s mother, and the Misses Lesmore,
the draper’s sisters, and several widows and maidens living on their
annuities. From the country came Lady Nutt, of Nuttwood, the widow of a
civil engineer who had been knighted for some special merit by the
queen; the three Misses Frobisher, “ladies of a certain age,”
co-heiresses of Frobisher Frowns, a queer and gloomy mansion on the
moor, which stood against a bank crowned with dark evergreen trees that
bent over the roof of the house, like towering brows on a human
face—thence I suppose the quaint if not forbidding name.

These were all. Others of the county gentry belonging to that
neighborhood were absentees.

Jennie as well as her mother was much pleased with the hearty, homely,
cordial manners of these Yorkshire country people. But the better she
liked the more she dreaded them!

“Oh, mamma!” she said, “I fear they cannot know my real position here!
They cannot know that I am a forsaken wife! Why, yesterday old Lady Nutt
patted my head and said:

“‘I can feel for you, my dear. I had a niece in the H. E. I. C.’s
service, and she had to come home with her young children and leave them
here with their grandmother while she went back to him. Do you intend to
stay here with your child, or leave it here with your parents and join
the captain in India?’

“Yes, mamma, in all innocence the dear old lady asked me that question!
And my cheeks burned like fire as I answered her the truth and said, ‘I
intend to stay here with my baby, my lady.’ She said, ‘That is right,’
and kissed me and went away before you came in.”

“She is a good old soul,” was Hetty’s only comment.

“Yes, mamma, but you have missed the point I wished to make. It is so
embarrassing to have people call on me and make remarks that I must
either correct by telling them plainly how I am situated, or else that I
must pass unnoticed, as if they were true, and so, as it were, silently
indorse a false view.”

“My dear, I don’t see how you can help yourself. You cannot blow a
trumpet before you proclaiming to all and sundry the wickedness of your
husband in deserting you, his lawful wife, and marrying, feloniously,
another woman! You cannot even tell that to your visitors in confidence.
It would not become you to do so.”

“No, mamma, dear, I cannot; but some day some visitor will innocently
ask me some straightforward, plain question, which will require an
answer, involving a confession of my real position. Oh! what shall I do
in such a case?”

“My dear child, wait until that day comes and that question is asked.
That will be time enough to worry about it. Jennie! the secret of peace
is the practice of faith. Do your present duty, bear your present
burden, enjoy your present blessings, and leave the future to the Lord.
You have nothing to do with it. For you it has not even an existence,”
said Hetty.

Early in December news came in a letter from Mr. Randolph Hay, in Paris,
to his bailiff, Mr. John Prowt, announcing the return of the squire,
with his wife and a party of friends, to spend the Christmas holidays at
the Hall. The house was to be made ready for them by the fifteenth of
the month.

Again all the estate, all the village and all the surrounding country
were agog with anticipations of the free festivities that should glorify
the triumphal entry of the new squire upon his paternal estate.

Every one who came to call at the rectory talked of nothing but the
expected event.

On the next Sunday morning the Rev. Mr. Campbell preached an awful
warning from the text:

“Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”

And in the afternoon he preached a similar jeremiad from another text:

“I have seen the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like a
green bay tree.

“Yet he passed away, and lo! he was not; yea, I sought him, but he could
not be found.”

In the course of the week there came dire news to the parish. A telegram
from his attendant physician in Cannes announced to Mr. Campbell the
death of his rector, the Rev. Dr. Orton, and added that his body would
be brought to the rectory to be interred under the chancel of the
Haymore church.

The Rev. James Campbell had been prepared for this blow for many weeks,
or at least he thought he had been so; yet when it fell it nearly
overwhelmed him. He was grieved for the loss of his friend and he was
perplexed for his household. At first he did not know what to do at all.
He was not a man of resources. Should he immediately vacate the rectory
with his family, and go to the village tavern, horrid, beery place, with
a bar and taproom, or should he seek lodgings in the village, dreadful,
little, stuffy rooms, in such a place, or should he remain at the
rectory until the arrival of the family with the remains of the
deceased?

At the church he must remain, of course; but at the rectory when the
family of the late rector were returning with his remains.

The family of the late rector, by the way, consisted of an aged widow
and a maiden daughter, both of whom were with him at Cannes, and two
unmarried sons, one a professor at Oxford, and the other a popular
preacher in London. The curate consulted his wife.

“Telegraph the widow and know her will before you take any step,” was
Hetty’s advice, and Jimmy acted upon it.

In a few hours came a courteous answer from Miss Orton, saying, in
effect, that Mr. Campbell was by no means to disturb himself or his
family. That the delicate condition of the widow’s health must prevent
her from leaving a sunny climate for a frosty one at this severe season;
that the daughter would stay with her mother; that the remains of the
deceased rector would be accompanied by his two sons, and taken directly
from the train to the chancel of the church, where the second funeral
services would be held on Friday, at 4 P. M. (the first having been held
at Cannes), immediately after which the sons would leave for London and
Oxford. So the curate’s family need not be disturbed in the rectory
until the appointment of the new rector.

“‘Until the appointment of the new rector!’ How long reprieve would that
be?” inquired the curate. And then he blamed himself for his selfishness
in thinking so much of his own and his family’s interests, when he
should be thinking only of his departed friend.

On Friday morning the parish church at Haymore was decked in solemn
funeral array to receive the remains of its rector. The pulpit, altar
and chancel were draped with crape. Places of business and schools were
all closed for the day, and all the parishioners filled the church, many
in deep mourning, and all the others with some badge of mourning on
their dresses.

The wife and daughter of the curate sat in the rectory pew. There,
later, they were joined by the two sons of the deceased rector.

The curate, in full vestments, waited the arrival of the casket, and,
book in hand, went to meet it at the church door, through which, upon a
bier of ebony, covered with a pall of black velvet, it was borne by six
bearers, and marshaled it up the aisle and before the chancel, repeating
the sublime words of our Lord:

“I am the resurrection and the life. He that liveth and believeth on me
shall never die. And he that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet
shall he live.”

When the bier, with the casket, was set down before the altar, and the
chief mourners—the two sons of the deceased, who had followed it—had
taken their seats in the rectory pew, then the funeral services,
conducted by the curate, went on to their solemn ending.

At the close the parishoniers came out of their pews in an orderly
manner, and passing on from the right to the left before the casket,
took their last look at the mask of their deceased pastor.

At last the door of the crypt below the chancel was opened, and the
pallbearers bore the casket down the narrow stairs and laid it in the
leaden coffin and lifted it to the stone niche prepared to receive it.

Then the “dust to dust” was spoken, and the minister came up again, went
to the altar, pronounced the benediction, and so dismissed the
congregation.

As the two sons of the late rector came out of their pew they met and
shook hands with the curate, but declined his invitation to the rectory,
saying that they were about to return immediately to Cannes, to remain
with their widowed mother for the few days in which they would absent
themselves from their professional duties.

So they took leave of the curate and his wife and daughter, entered a
carriage that was waiting, and drove off to their train.

The curate, leaving his parishioners talking together in groups in the
churchyard, while the sexton was closing up the church, followed his
wife and daughter through the gate in the wall that divided that
cemetery from the rectory grounds.

He went directly to his study to compose himself before joining his wife
and daughter in the parlor.

But what he found there did not tend to his composure. A letter, with a
Paris postmark, was lying on the table. He dropped into a chair and took
it. At first he thought it must be from Kightly Montgomery, whom he knew
to be flourishing in Paris under the name of Randolph Hay; but a
moment’s reflection assured him that the false claimant was not likely
to know of the accident of James Campbell’s temporary charge of the
Haymore parish.

He opened the letter, glanced at the signature, and saw that it was not
a stranger’s, and then read as follows:

                                              “PARIS, December 13, 187—.

  “REVEREND AND DEAR SIR: I learned with extreme grief a few days ago of
  the lamented death of the late honored rector of Haymore. I
  immediately came over to the city to see my brother-in-law, Mr. Hay,
  and apply to him for the living which is in his gift. He has been
  pleased to bestow it on me. My induction will date from the first of
  January next. I do not wish to inconvenience you, but I should be
  obliged if you could vacate the rectory in time to have the house
  prepared for my reception. Mr. Randolph Hay and his wife will be going
  to Haymore Hall for the Christmas holidays with a party of friends, of
  which, at his invitation, I have the happiness to make one. We shall,
  therefore, soon meet at Haymore. With best respects to Mrs. Campbell,
  I remain, dear sir, very truly yours,

                                                        “CASSIUS LEEGH.”

“Oh, my beloved helpless ones! What will become of you now?” moaned the
curate, covering his eyes.




                               CHAPTER XV
                          THE CURATE’S TROUBLE


After brooding over this disastrous letter for a long hour the curate
summoned enough courage to arise and go to his wife and take counsel
with her.

This was, indeed, a trouble that he dared not keep from her, even to
spare her from anxiety; for it was absolutely necessary that they should
take immediate measures for removal from the rectory and settlement in
lodgings somewhere in the town before the arrival of the new incumbent;
or, so at least it seemed to the curate in his dismayed state of mind.

He went directly into the back parlor, where the fire was burning
cheerfully in the grate, the tea table was set, and Hetty resting in her
low rocking-chair on the rug.

“Where is Jennie?” inquired the curate, dropping into another chair
beside his wife.

“In her bedroom, putting her baby to sleep,” replied Hetty.

“Well, I am glad the child is not here just now. I have bad news to tell
you, my dear.”

“Eh? Bad news? What is it, Jimmy? But, dear me, don’t look so dreadfully
cast down! It cannot be such awfully bad news, since you, I, Jennie and
the baby are all safe and sound in the house. But what, then, is your
bad news?”

“I have lost my position here, and we shall have to leave the rectory,”
replied Mr. Campbell in a tone of despair.

“Let me take a look at you?” said his wife, rising, giving him her hand,
helping him to his feet, and surveying him all around. “Well, I don’t
see that you have lost a limb, or any mental or bodily faculty, that you
need look so woebegone! As for losing your position, of course you lost
that when the old rector died; and as for leaving the rectory, we all
knew that we should have to do that.”

“Yes, but not so soon. We shall have to vacate by the first of January.”

“Well, that gives us plenty of time to choose new lodgings. I would not
‘fash my beard’ about that, if I were you, Jimmy! But why must we move
by that time?”

“Because my successor, or rather Dr. Orton’s successor, is appointed.”

“Already!”

“Yes, already.”

“Upon my word, there has been but little time lost! And you have
received notice to quit?”

“Yes, in a letter from the new incumbent, which I found lying on my
study table when I came in from the church.”

“Who is he, then?”

“‘Who is he?’ That is the very worst of all. Do you remember that
fellow, Cassius Leegh, who used to come to Medge parsonage long ago and
fasten on us for weeks?”

“I should think so!”

“He was the son of a small shopkeeper in the borough, London, studied
for the ministry as a matter of pride and ambition; but, morally and
spiritually, as unfit for the pulpit as a man can well be! I do not know
how he has contrived to get himself inducted into this living, except
upon the basis that he and the new squire are birds of a feather!”

“Stop!” exclaimed Hetty as a sudden light dawned on her mind—“I
understand it all perfectly now! Don’t you know that this man, this
so-called new squire of Haymore, married in New York a young lady by the
name of Leegh?”

“I paid no attention to the name of the lady,” replied the curate.

“Well, naturally I did, being a woman, you know. And the bride’s name
was Leegh! And surely you have heard Cassius Leegh speak of his
beautiful sister Lamia, who was taken up by a wealthy New York family?”

“Why—yes—certainly!”

“That is it, then. This man Leegh, no doubt, sought out his
brother-in-law and put in his plea for the living, even before Dr. Orton
was dead, and so he has secured it, and lost no time in warning you out.
But I wonder if he happened to mention your name to the ‘squire,’ for if
so, the said squire, finding out that you were here, would scarcely
venture to set foot within the place until you should be gone.”

“No,” said Mr. Campbell emphatically; “knowing the man as well as I do,
I can say most positively that he has never mentioned my name to his
patron, or even alluded to the fact that the late Dr. Orton left a
temporary substitute to fill his pulpit, when he himself went away for
his health, lest, you see, the knowledge of this fact should cause the
squire to take more time in appointing Dr. Orton’s successor. Don’t you
see?”

“Yes. To leave the absent squire to believe that the parish of Haymore
was entirely destitute of a pastor, would, of course, hasten the patron,
who wishes the good opinion of his people, to appoint an incumbent, and
the most natural thing would be to appoint his brother-in-law. I wish he
were a better man.”

“So do I, with all my heart!”

“Well! we are in Heaven’s hands. And as we must clear out by the first
of January, and get into new lodgings somewhere or other, I will go out
the first thing after breakfast to-morrow morning to look them up,” said
Hetty cheerfully.

“Lodgings in this town!” ruefully grunted the curate.

“They needn’t be in this town. There are, no doubt, plenty of farmhouses
in the surrounding country where we may get them very cheap, and very
wholesome and pleasant.”

“Yes; but how are we to pay, even for the cheapest?”

“Jimmy Campbell! You a minister of the gospel, and have no more faith
than to ask such a question! If you have lost your position here, and if
we must leave the pleasant rectory, still we are three able-bodied
people, who, if we do the best we can, and work at any honest thing our
hands may find to do, will be helped by the Lord, and will do very well
and pay our way.”

“Oh, Hetty, my dear, you have had no experience in a bitter struggle
with the world!”

“If I have not, it is well, perhaps, that I should have. And I am ready
to engage in the struggle, though I do not see why it need be a bitter
one, but just a healthful one.”

“You have a healthful nature, dear, that is certain. As for me, I
sometimes think I am falling weak in body and in mind,” sighed the
curate.

“No, no, dear Jimmy; not weak, only overworked and weary. Why, you have
not had a vacation for eighteen years, to my certain knowledge. So long
a strain might have made an idiot or a ‘damp, unpleasant corpse’ of any
man less strong and brave than yourself,” said the wife with
affectionate fervor.

“It helps me to see your faith in me, dear,” he sighed as he took her
hand and pressed it.

“As for me, Jimmy, I am glad that you will be obliged to rest for a few
weeks or months. Don’t doubt. You must rest. It is our turn now. Mine
and Jennie’s. We must work.”

“You! What in this world could you do?”

“A good many things. We—Jennie and I—could teach English and French,
music and drawing, to young ladies, or A B C’s to little children.
Failing that, we could take in dressmaking or plain sewing. Failing
that, I could go out as sick nurse, and Jennie could do up fine laces.”

“Hetty, you talk wildly.”

“Not at all. Unless you preach wildly. I am only going to put into
practice what you preach. You tell the artisans and agricultural
laborers that work is worship.”

“I would not mind your teaching——” slowly began the curate.

“Of course you would not,” promptly assented his wife; “and I should
prefer it. Teaching is, conventionally, considered a very ‘genteel’
occupation for a poor lady. And for that, and a few other unworthy
reasons, I would rather teach than do anything else. But if I cannot get
teaching to do I hope I am Christian enough to take whatever work I can
get, whether it should be dressmaking, plain sewing, sick nursing,
or—washing and ironing. There! Even that! I am ashamed of myself for
even preferring a ‘genteel’ occupation to an humble one which is equally
useful. But I won’t let my feelings govern me in this; and so sure as
you have to leave your situation here, you shall take a rest after
twenty years’ hard labor, and Jennie and I will go to work at whatever
we can get to do.”

“Hetty, you amaze and distract me! You do, indeed!”

“Look here, Jim. I have not kept my eyes shut all my life, and this is
what I have seen—many unsuccessful professional ‘gentlemen and ladies,’
who have not talent enough to climb where ‘there is more room higher
up,’ or even to keep their footing on the level where they were born,
but yet who will struggle, slip, flounder, suffer and sin where they are
rather than take a step ‘lower down,’ as they would consider it, but
where there is also ‘more room.’”

“I don’t quite follow you, Hetty.”

“This is what I mean: Take an illustration. A man may be an unsuccessful
lawyer, but his knowledge of law would make him so much better a clerk
that his chances of employment in that capacity would be much greater
than those of other competitors. Another man may fail as a minister, but
he might make all the better schoolmaster. A woman may fail as a
teacher, but succeed as a nurse. And what I would both inculcate and
practice is this: That when man or woman fails in the line of life they
have been born into or chosen for themselves, and when they have neither
the power to rise above the level or to keep their footing upon it, let
them not give up in despair or struggle in vain, but step frankly down
to an humbler and honester position. There is always some work of some
sort to be got. He who said ‘Six days shalt thou labor’ will give work
to every hand willing to take it, though it may not be the kind of work
their pride would like best. As for me and my daughter, whatever our
‘hands find to do, we will do it with our might,’ whether we like it or
not.”

“But, my dear, do you really not care about leaving this beautiful
home?”

“Under the circumstances, I should not care to stay, even if we could.
Should you? Reflect. The new squire will be here in a few days. You will
have to denounce him as an impostor, a fraudulent claimant, a bigamous
bridegroom. But it would take time to prove these charges. Could you
stay in the parish and preach in the church during that time with any
sort of peace to us all? No. Better that we should go away, and the
sooner we go the better.”

“My dear, I shall easily prove the fellow to be a bigamist; but as his
crime was committed in the United States of America, I cannot prosecute
him for it here in England. Neither can I prove him to be a fraudulent
claimant. I have been turning that matter over in my mind, and I do not
even know that he is one.”

“What!” exclaimed Hetty with wide-open eyes. “You do not know him to be
a fraudulent claimant when you know that his name is Kightly Montgomery,
and that he calls himself Randolph Hay?”

“See here, my love. I know nothing of the conditions of inheritance that
rule this estate. I know nothing of the history of the family or their
intermarriages with other families. How should I, coming here a stranger
from the south of England?”

“I should think it could not require much experience to teach you that
when a man’s name is Kightly Montgomery and he calls himself Randolph
Hay, he is a liar, swindler and an impostor.”

“But consider, dear, he may he next of kin and heir-at-law, and his name
now have been legally changed as the condition of his inheritance. His
mother or his grandmother may have been born a daughter of Hay, of
Haymore. The estate may have ‘fallen to the distaff,’ as it is
called—that is, to the female line, and so the heir through that line
might be obliged to take the family name as the condition of his
heirship. Now do you see?”

“Yes, I see what you mean. But your theory has so many ‘mays’ that it
won’t do. As for me, I prefer to think the villain a fraudulent claimant
as well as a bigamous bridegroom.”

They were interrupted by a ring at the doorbell.

Mr. Campbell went to answer it. It was his custom always, when at home,
to do so, to save the steps of the rectory’s one elderly servant-woman.

There was a hanging lamp in the little hall between the parlor and the
study that gave but a subdued light. They had no gas, and oil was dear,
and economy necessary.

Mr. Campbell opened the door, expecting to see no one but the little old
sexton. He saw, instead, the tallest and finest looking athlete he had
ever seen in or out of a circus; but he could not distinguish his
features.

“The Rev. Mr. Campbell?” said the stranger interrogatively.

“That is my name. What can I do for you?” inquired the curate, who, now
that his eyes had got used to the obscurity, saw that the collossus was
clothed from head to heel in an outlandish costume of dressed buckskin
trimmed with fur, and that his stature was heightened, and his face
shortened by the tall fur cap he wore pulled low down over his forehead
and ears, for the night was cold.

“My name is Longman—Samson Longman, at your service, sir. I have been
directed by the people at Chuxton to come to you, sir, for information
concerning one Elizabeth Longman, widow——” The speaker’s voice trembled
and broke.

“Your mother!” said the curate gravely. “She is well and happy as she
can be, without the son she is always pining for and praying for.”

“Heaven be praised for that! And may the Lord forgive me. Where is she,
sir, if you please?”

“With us here in the house, our cherished housekeeper, almost our
mother——”

“Thank the Lord! Can I see her, sir, now, at once? I have come a long
way to ask her forgiveness at last, and to stay with her forever.”

“Come into my study. We must prepare her for the sight of her son, for
although she seems to be always expecting you, yet the sudden meeting
might be too much for her,” said the curate as he closed the front door
after the entrance of his visitor and led the way into the study.

“Now, Mr. Longman, sit down here at my desk and write a letter to your
mother. It need be only a line or so, to give me the means of breaking
the glad tidings safely to her ears,” said Mr. Campbell as he turned up
the light of the study lamp and placed a chair for the visitor.

Longman obeyed like a child, and sat down and wrote his letter.

“Will that do?” he inquired as he put the sheet of paper into the
curate’s hands.

“Yes! that will do very well. Now put it into an envelope and seal and
direct it regularly,” said the curate when he had read and returned the
letter.

Again Longman obeyed like a child, and when he had sealed the letter,
arose and placed it in the hands of the curate.

“Resume your seat and wait for my return,” said Mr. Campbell as he left
the study.

He went first into the parlor.

Hetty was still sitting there alone. Jennie was still with her baby in
the bedroom.

“Who was that, Jim? A man come to serve you with a writ of eviction?”
inquired Hetty mischievously.

“Hardly, my dear. But I am sure you will be happy to hear who it was.”

“Who was it, then?”

“Elspeth Longman’s prodigal son returned.”

“Oh-h-h, Jim!” exclaimed Hetty, jumping up, her face perfectly radiant
with benevolent delight.

“Yes, dear. And now, if you please, I will take you to see him in the
study, where you can talk to him while I go and break these ‘glad
tidings of great joy’ to the poor, long-suffering mother.”

“Oh, yes! I would love to go! What is the boy like?”

“‘Boy?’ ‘Like?’ He is like the Apollo Belvedere, or like the Colossus of
Rhodes. A superb, a stupendous fellow. But all dressed in hides like a
North American Indian, or a prehistoric Norseman. But come and see!”
said Mr. Campbell, leading the way to the study.

Hetty followed, now half anxious, half afraid to see the savage.

As they entered Longman, seeing the lady, arose, bowed and handed a
chair with so much ease, dignity and grace that Mrs. Campbell was
surprised, pleased and reassured.

“Mr. Longman, this lady is my wife. She will entertain you while I go to
your mother,” said the curate.

Longman bowed more profoundly than before, and murmured something to the
effect that he was most honored and grateful to be permitted to make the
lady’s acquaintance; but the hunter was always shy in the society of
gentlewomen.

Then Mr. Campbell, knowing that Hetty could give the prodigal son more
satisfactory information about his mother in five minutes than any other
creature could in five years, went out and left them together.

He passed through the parlor and opened the kitchen door. He saw Elspeth
sitting before the stove, knitting, while she waited for her muffins to
bake.

“Will you come into the parlor for a moment? I wish to speak to you,
Mrs. Longman,” said the curate.

“Yes, sir,” replied the woman, rising and untying her kitchen apron,
which she took off and hung over the back of her chair. Then she went
into the parlor.

“Take Mrs. Campbell’s rocking-chair while we talk. Save your back
whenever you can, Mrs. Longman.”

“Oh, no, sir, it better becomes me to stand in your reverence’s
presence.”

“Pray, sit down. No, but I insist upon it. I have something to say to
you which cannot be said in a minute.”

The widow sighed profoundly and sank into the easy-chair. She thought
she knew what was coming. Without the least intention of eavesdropping,
she had heard enough of the conversation that had that evening passed
between the minister and his wife—and which, by the way, had never been
intended to be concealed—to know that they expected to leave the rectory
under such reverse of fortune as would compel them to use the closest
economy in their domestic arrangements.

Therefore Elspeth thought that she had been summoned to the parlor to
receive her “warning” or her discharge. And she felt not so sorry for
herself in the prospect of losing a good home as for the curate and his
wife on having to dispense with her services. She was turning over in
her meek mind the question of how, without seeming presumptuous, she
could offer to remain with them and serve them without wages, just so
long as her strength and also her clothes and shoes should last, and if
they could afford to keep her even on such easy terms as her board and
lodging.

Mr. Campbell broke gently in upon her troubled thoughts by asking her:

“Have you ever received any letter from your son since he has been away,
Mrs. Longman?”

“Not one, sir, though I feel sure in my mind that he has writ to me,
maybe many letters, and they have all gone astray; and then what hurts
me worst of all is that he may think I must have got some of his letters
and as I was too mad at him and too unforgiving to answer any of them.
And I don’t even know where to write to tell him any better.”

“But when at last you meet, face to face, then you can tell him.”

“Oh, yes, sir. And I know that we shall meet again. He who raised the
widow’s son from his bier will hear the poor old widowed mother’s
prayer, and bring her boy back. Though it seems long! Oh, it seems long!
But all the while it comforts me to think that if I don’t know where he
is, the Lord does! If I can’t see him, the Lord can! And I may pray to
the Lord for my boy and He will hear me!”

“How old are you, Mrs. Longman?” was the curate’s next seemingly
irrelevant question.

“Forty-three, sir; will be forty-four on the thirty-first of December.
But I must look full sixty, my hair is so white, and my face so thin and
wrinkly.”

“Well, you have good health, and you Yorkshire people are long-lived.
You may live forty years longer yet—forty happy years with your son.”

“Oh, minister! what does your reverence mean? Have you heard anything?
Have you got anything to tell me?” inquired the mother, startled by
something in the curate’s tone or look, and speaking with repressed
eagerness.

“Well, something has come. Have you anybody who would be likely to write
a letter to you?”

“Nobody in the world, sir, except my boy, and I have never had a letter
from him, as I told you.”

“Well, a letter has come for you. I did not give it at first, for fear
it might startle you. I think it must be from your son.”

“Oh, give it to me, sir, please!—now, this moment!”

The curate handed the letter. The woman seized it, held it under the
light of the lamp and devoured the superscription with ravenous eyes.

“Oh, yes! It is his writing! It is his own! Oh, thank the Lord! Oh,
thank the Lord!” she cried, falling on her knees and sinking her head in
the cushion of the chair. But she soon arose and drew her spectacles
from her pocket and opened the letter and tried to read it; but the
words ran together in dark lines before her disturbed vision, and she
could not decipher them.

“Oh, sir, be so kind! Read it for me! Please do!”

“With pleasure,” said Mr. Campbell. And he took the letter, and omitting
date, read as follows:

“‘MY BELOVED MOTHER——’”

“The darling boy!” ejaculated Elspeth in rapture.

“‘I have crossed the sea and come back to England——’”

“He is in England! In England! Oh, thank Heaven! Thank Heaven! Go on,
sir! Please go on!” impatiently exclaimed Elspeth.

The curate smiled at her impetuosity and continued:

“‘To see your dear face again, and to beg your forgiveness, which I know
you will grant me, though I know I do not deserve it——’”

“Ah, hear the noble fellow! Taking all the blame on himself, though I
was more in fault nor him! But go on, sir! Pray go on!”

“‘I long to be with you, to stay with you all the rest of our lives; to
work for you, and to try to make you happy and comfortable, and so atone
for all the trouble I have caused you——’”

“Oh! the grand son! the noble boy! He will stay with me all the rest of
my life! Oh, that will be joyful!” exclaimed Elspeth, clapping her hands
and breaking into a camp meeting revival hymn, very appropriate, it is
true:

                      “‘Oh! that will be joyful!
                        Joyful! Joyful! Joyful!
                      Oh! that will be joyful,
                        To meet and part no more!’

“It will be like heaven, sir! like heaven! to have my boy with me all
the rest of my life! But do go on, sir! Forgive a poor mother’s
impatience, and read me what else he says!” she cried, ready to turn
from rapture to tears.

“There is not much more,” said Mr. Campbell. “Only this:

  “‘Please, dearest mother, if you can pardon me, let me know when I can
  come to see you. And believe me your sincerely penitent and evermore
  loving and dutiful son,

                                                                “‘SAM.’”


“Oh! the darling of darlings! the angel of angels! Oh, please, dear
minister, write for me directly, for I never can hold a pen in the hand
that is trembling for joy and blessedness and gratitude, and tell him to
come immediately. But, no! I will go to him! Where is he? I’ll get the
Red Fox carryall and start for the station immediately. Truly, where
shall I go? Tell me, minister, dear! Look at the letter! Where is it
dated from?” she eagerly demanded.

“You will not have far to go. He is in this village,” said Mr. Campbell,
smiling.

“In this village! Oh! then he is at the Red Fox! Let me get my bonnet
and cloak!” she cried, rising to her feet.

“He is nearer to you than that,” said the minister. Then he drew the
woman’s arm within his own and led her into the study.

“Mother!” exclaimed Longman, starting up and striding toward her with
outstretched arms.

“Oh, my darling! my darling!” cried Elspeth, and she fell fainting on
his bosom.

So much for the careful breaking of the news.

But she did not swoon to unconsciousness. She almost immediately
recovered.

Then Longman seated her in the large armchair, and placed himself on the
hassock at her feet. She put her arms over his shaggy head and smiled
through her tears.

“Come!” said Hetty, laughing. “You and I are _de trop_ in a room with
such a pair of lovers as these!” And she slipped her hand through her
husband’s arm and dragged him from the room without the reunited pair—so
absorbed in their meeting—seeing them go.




                              CHAPTER XVI
                          THE SQUIRE’S ARRIVAL


Hetty drew her husband back into the cozy parlor, where they found
Jennie waiting alone.

“Well, I have put the baby to sleep at last! Little witch! she wanted to
laugh and crow and kick all night. Such a time as I had getting her
quiet! But where have you two been? You look—just as if you had come
from a circus!” said Jennie.

“So we have! or rather from a domestic drama!” exclaimed Hetty,
laughing; and then she told her daughter all about the sudden return of
Samson Longman, and the joy of his mother.

Jennie listened in sympathetic delight.

“And now, my dear, you may come in the kitchen and help me to bring in
the tea. Elspeth has forgotten that there is any such thing as tea in
the world. And who can blame her!” exclaimed Hetty as she left the room
attended by her daughter.

It was, indeed, nearly an hour beyond their usual tea time.

The tea was drawn too much, and the muffins were baked too dry;
nevertheless, father, mother, and daughter enjoyed the refreshment.

There was a good-sized dining-room in the rear of the house on the other
side of the hall, but for reasons of economy it was not used in cold
weather, as it would require another fire, the meals being served in the
family sitting-room or parlor.

Now, however, as soon as the curate and his family arose from the tea,
his wife said:

“Jimmy, we must be kind. The kindlings and coal are all laid in the
grate of the back room ready for lighting a fire when required. Do,
dear, go and start it; and Jennie and I will clear off this tea table,
and set another in there for Elspeth and her big boy to take their tea
comfortably; for it is not every day that a prodigal son returns.”

“And you just know how it is yourselves, don’t you, papa and mamma?”
inquired the prodigal daughter, tenderly.

“Yes, we do; and I will go right off and do as you wish,” exclaimed the
curate merrily as he left the room.

Hetty and Jennie went eagerly to work, and soon cleared away their own
table, and then went and set one in the dining-room, where the curate
had already kindled a good fire in the grate.

Hetty brought out from all the treasures of pantry and cupboard, and in
addition to the substantial fare of cold beef and ham, cheese, bread and
butter, she laid out cake, honey and sweetmeats.

When all this was done she made a large pot of fresh tea and set it to
draw. Finally she returned to the parlor and sat down with her husband
and daughter in pleasant expectancy for developments from the study.

She had not to wait long. Very soon came Elspeth into the parlor, her
eyes shining with happiness, and said:

“If you please, sir, Samson—that is my boy—would like to thank you and
say good-evening before he goes away.” Then noticing for the first time
that the tea table had been cleared away, she started with a little look
of dismay, and before anybody could speak again, she said:

“Oh! I am so sorry! I clean forgot! I——”

“Don’t say another word, dear woman. It is all right—quite right. Jennie
and I did all that was necessary, and took pleasure in doing it. And as
for your boy saying good-night and going away before he has broken bread
with you, that cannot be permitted on any account. There! take him into
the dining-room, where you will find a fine fire, and a tea table, and a
pot of tea simmering on the hob.”

“Oh, ma’am, but you are too good!”

“Nonsense! I’m delighted—we are all delighted! And, Elspeth, when you
have had your tea, bring your boy in to us while you go upstairs and
make him up a bed in the little spare room next to your own. Do you
hear?”

“Oh, ma’am, you are too good! Whatever shall I do to repay your
kindness!” exclaimed the grateful creature, with eyes full of tears, as
she lifted Hetty’s hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Do just as she tells you, Mrs. Longman. And say to your son that we
should be pleased to have him remain here with you until after
Christmas. He shall be most cordially welcome to us all,” added Mr.
Campbell.

“God bless you, sir, for your great kindness; for indeed it will be a
great joy to me to have my boy under the very same roof with me for a
few days, now that he has come back,” said Elspeth, her wintry face in
an April aspect of smiles and tears.

“And, of course, it is a delight to us to be able to contribute to your
happiness, you know,” said Mr. Campbell cheerily.

Elspeth dropped her old-fashioned courtesy and went out.

And very soon the three remaining in the parlor heard the mother and her
son going down the passage to the rear dining-room that was behind the
study.

Hetty and Jennie took their needlework, and Mr. Campbell picked up the
morning paper, which no one had had time to look at all day long, and
began to read to them items of news.

So an hour passed.

The reunited mother and son lingered long in the dining-room, but at
length they came out and entered the parlor.

Longman went at once up to Mr. Campbell and said:

“Sir, I thank you very much for the hospitality you have so kindly
proffered me, and which, for my mother’s sake, I am very happy to
accept.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Longman. Have a seat. This is my daughter, Mrs.
Montgomery,” said the curate, rising and handing a chair.

Longman bowed profoundly to the young lady, and then dropped into his
seat.

Elspeth was speaking to Mrs. Campbell:

“Which room did you say, ma’am, he might have?”

“Any vacant one you please. The little room next to your own you might
prefer, perhaps,” returned Hetty.

“Yes, ma’am, I would, thanky, ma’am,” said Elspeth, and she left the
parlor.

“When did you reach England, Mr. Longman?” inquired Hetty, to make
conversation and set the embarrassed colossus at his ease.

“Only about twenty-four hours since, ma’am. And I had the honor of
traveling in company with the new Squire of Haymore and his bride,
expected by the people in this neighborhood,” replied Longman, looking
down on his own folded hands, so that he failed to see the effect of his
words; for Mr. Campbell started, Hetty gasped, and Jennie turned pale.

And the conversation that followed was all at cross-purposes, for
Longman came to speak of Randolph Hay, the only true Squire of Haymore,
and his wife, Judith, and of their crossing the Atlantic Ocean together;
while the curate and his family spoke of Kightly Montgomery, the
fraudulent claimant, and his deceived bride, Lamia Leegh, and of their
crossing the English Channel.

“The Squire of Haymore and his lady are in England, then?” was the
remark with which the curate reopened the conversation.

“Yes, sir. I had the honor of coming over in the same steamer with them.
We landed yesterday.”

“And you left them in London?”

“Beg pardon, sir, no. We traveled from London together. We reached
Chuxton this afternoon about sunset. We had to wait there for a
conveyance hither, and while we waited, and Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay
and their party took luncheon, I went in search of my dear mother,
expecting to find her there where I had left her, but I heard instead
that she was living at the rectory with your family. So then I told Mr.
Randolph Hay, and he very kindly offered me a seat in his carriage, and
so brought me on here. I rode to the Hall with them, and there left them
and walked on here.”

“And do you mean to say that the squire and his lady are now really at
the Hall?” demanded the astonished curate.

“Yes, sir, as I said, or should have said, they arrived to-night a
little after dusk.”

“But,” continued the deeply perplexed curate, “I don’t understand. The
squire and—his lady were to have sent a telegram from London announcing
their approach, and were expected to make quite a triumphal entry by
daylight, amid the ringing of bells and singing of children, and
flinging of flowers, and all the parade and pageantry that this season
would permit. Prowt, the bailiff, has had his orders to be in readiness
for weeks past, and for days has been waiting a telegram.”

“I don’t know how that is, sir. I know that Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay
came home very quietly indeed,” replied Longman.

“But was it not a great surprise, not to say shock, to the servants at
the Hall? And were they at all ready for the squire and—his lady?”

“I think so, sir. I know Mr. Randolph Hay sent a dispatch to the
housekeeper at the Hall, with instructions to have rooms aired and fires
built, dinner prepared, and everything in readiness to receive himself
and his wife this evening. I know it, sir, for I carried the dispatch to
the telegraph office myself,” said Longman.

“The people will be very much disappointed at missing the pageantry,”
remarked the curate.

“I do not think Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay cared for display. I am a
little surprised that it should have been thought of in connection with
them,” said Longman, reflectively.

“Why, man alive, it was by the squire’s own orders, without the
slightest suggestion from anybody here!” laughed the curate.

“It was not like him. A more modest and unpretending gentleman I do not
know anywhere in this world!” persisted Longman.

The curate repressed an inclination to utter a long, low whistle; but he
did say to himself: “So much for the blindness of prejudice.”

“Oh! I have just thought of it! I will tell you why I think the
triumphal entry was abandoned!” exclaimed Hetty.

“Why?” inquired her husband.

“Why, on account of the death of the rector.”

“Oh! to be sure! that was it; though it was a more gracious thought than
I should have given the man credit for,” added Mr. Campbell.

At this moment Elspeth came in, smiling. She had been absent much longer
than they had expected her to be; for she had not only prepared the
little spare bedroom for her son, but she had washed up all her dishes
and done all her usual evening work. She carried a lighted candle in a
low, broad brass candlestick. She courtesied to the ladies and
gentleman, as was her custom, and then she said to her boy:

“And now, Sam, the room the kind master has given you is all ready, and
I will show it to you if you will come.”

And Longman arose, bade good-night to his hosts, and turned to leave the
room, when Mr. Campbell said:

“But perhaps you would like to join us in our evening service.”

Longman bowed in silence, and resumed his seat.

“Yes,” said Elspeth brightly. “Every night and morning since I have been
in this house has the minister prayed for my wandering boy’s return, and
now that he has come we will give thanks.”

Jennie arose and got the Bible and prayer book and laid them before her
father.

And the evening service began.

In the course of it Mr. Campbell did return “earnest and hearty thanks”
for the restoration of the widow’s son, and prayed that all wanderers
from the spiritual fold of the Lord might likewise be brought back.

When the service was over, Elspeth, after bidding good-night to her
friends, took up her candle and showed her boy the way to his bedroom.
And soon after the minister and his wife and daughter retired.

The next day was one of those benign autumn days that sometimes revisit
us even late in December, to encourage and help us through the winter.
The sky was radiantly clear and the sun dazzlingly bright. The many
evergreen trees around the parsonage had something like the fresh
verdure of early spring upon them. It was a day that any healthy person
might have enjoyed the outdoor air without much extra clothing.

After breakfast Longman went over to the Hall to see his friends.

Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, standing together at the door, watched him
walking down the walled road that led to the park gates.

“It is astonishing,” said the curate, “that so honest a man as Longman
should have such a respect for that villain Montgomery as he appears to
have.”

“I suppose the young fellow has never seen the villain’s cloven foot,
and men have no intuitions to guide them as we have, you know,” replied
Hetty.

And then, though the splendor of the day invited them to remain
outdoors, they went inside, each to his or her own work.

The minister went to his study to work on his next Sunday morning’s
sermon. Hetty to her linen closet to look over her stores for mending.
Jennie, well wrapped up, to take her baby, also warmly clad, through the
garden walks. Elspeth to her kitchen to wash up the breakfast service.

The minister, however, had scarcely got under way with his manuscripts
before the doorbell rang, and he sprang up to answer it.

Prowt, the bailiff of Haymore, stood there.

“Could I speak to your reverence a moment, sir?” he inquired.

“Certainly. Come in,” replied Mr. Campbell, and led the visitor into the
study.

“Well, minister,” said the bailiff, as soon as they were both seated at
the writing-table near the window, “it has come at last. I have got a
dispatch from the squire, announcing his immediate arrival with his
bride and his brother-in-law, though not with the expected party of
friends.”

The curate started, and then passed his hand across his forehead, as if
to clear away a cloud of perplexity. Had not Longman told him that the
squire and his lady had arrived the night before? And he could not have
made a mistake, because he came with them, and left them at the Hall.
And now the bailiff tells him that he has received a dispatch,
announcing the immediate arrival of the squire and his party. What did
all this mean? At length an explanation suggested itself, and he spoke
upon it.

“Has not that dispatch been delayed? Should it not have come yesterday?”
he inquired.

“Oh, no, sir! It was dated this morning, and came an hour ago!”
exclaimed the bailiff.

“Have you got it about you? Would you mind letting me see it?”

“Here it is, sir.”

The bailiff drew the paper from his vest pocket and put it into the
hands of the minister.

Mr. Campbell opened it and read:

                                          “LANGHAM’S HOTEL, LONDON,
                                                      “December 15, 18—.

  “TO MR. JOHN PROWT, Haymore Lodge, Haymore, Yorkshire: I shall arrive
  with my wife and brother-in-law, the Rev. Cassius Leegh, by the
  one-thirty train, at Chuxton. Send one comfortable carriage to meet
  us.

                                                      “RANDOLPH H. HAY.”

Mr. Campbell returned the slip of paper to the bailiff and fell into
silence. He could make nothing of it. He was dumfounded.

“So you see it is all right, sir,” said the bailiff. “I shall send the
open barouche, as the day is so fine, and with two footmen, besides the
coachman. I suppose they will enter this town about half-past two
o’clock.”

“Well,” said the dazed curate, “what do you wish me to do?”

“If you would give orders to the bell ringers, sir, to be at their post,
and also have the parish school children drawn up each side the road
leading to the park gate——”

“It is rather an unfavorable season—December—for children to be parading
outdoors,” suggested the minister.

“Of course, sir, the kids can’t wear the white frocks and pink sashes
and wreaths of flowers on their bare heads, as they could have done
three months ago; but they can wear their picturesque winter uniform of
red cloaks and hoods, and black woolen stockings and gloves; and as the
weather is so remarkably fine, and the hour just after noon, in the
warmest part of the day, I do not think the exposure will hurt them. Do
you?”

“N-oo! I do not suppose it will.”

“Then will you kindly see to it, sir, that they are drawn up in proper
array, to sing their songs of welcome and throw their flowers before the
bridal pair?”

“Where will they get flowers at this season of the year?”

“Oh!—a—from the conservatories of the Hall, if from no other place. I
will see that they are sent over to the schoolroom. I think, also, that
many of the cottagers have a few late flowers in their gardens, such as
chrysanthemums and dahlias and——”

“And do you think, Mr. Prowt, that because a newly married pair happens
to be happy and prosperous, that living and blooming flowers should be
torn from their warm conservatories and sunny gardens, to be thrown down
in the dirt to perish under carriage wheels, in their honor? I don’t.”

“Why, minister, I never heard of such an objection!” said the astonished
bailiff.

“Well, you hear it now. And it might be well for you to think of it. The
custom is a barbarous one, suitable only to prehistoric savages.”

The bailiff stared.

“And now, Mr. Prowt, I wish to say this to you—with the kindest feelings
toward yourself, and with sincere regret that I must disappoint you—that
I cannot and will not allow the church bells to be rung, or the parish
children to parade, or any single movement to be made in honor of this
incoming bridal pair which it is in my power to prevent,” said the
minister, all the more firmly because so quietly.

The bailiff stared in silence, too astonished to speak for a minute.
Then he demanded:

“But why, in the name of Heaven, reverend sir, would you put such an
affront upon the new squire and his bride?”

“I put no affront upon them. I simply decline to show them any honor
whatever, or to allow any one under my authority to do so,” emphatically
responded the minister.

“But this is most amazing, sir. Why, if you please, do you refuse to
honor them?”

“Because I cannot and must not.”

“Yet, about three months ago, when there was first a talk of the new
squire bringing home his bride, there was no one more interested than
yourself.”

“That is true. But since that date circumstances have come to my
knowledge that have changed all my views, and must change all my
actions, toward the incoming squire and his—lady; circumstances that
quite justify me in my present course of conduct.”

“May I ask your reverence what those circumstances are?”

“Not yet, Prowt. I cannot tell you. To-morrow or next day the whole
parish may know.”

“Well, I am perplexed. But, reverend sir, I must at least do my duty,
and go over to the Hall to give directions there for the proper
reception of the new squire, and send the carriage and servants to meet
them. It is nine o’clock now, and they really ought to be off. I hope
you do not blame me, sir, for doing my part.”

“Certainly not. You must do your duty by your employer,” said Mr.
Campbell kindly.

“Good-morning, sir,” said the bailiff, taking up his hat to go.

“Good-day, Mr. Prowt,” replied the minister.

Even when the visitor was gone and the curate was alone he could not
return to his manuscript sermon. It was impossible to concentrate his
thoughts on the subject.

“Ah, well,” he said at last, “I shall have to take out one of my old
Medge sermons for Sunday morning. It will be new to these parishioners
at least.” And then he closed his desk, sat back in his armchair and
gave himself up to the problem that was disturbing his mind.

The dispatch from the squire lay on the table before him.

The bailiff had inadvertently left it behind him.

Mr. Campbell took it up, again read it carefully, and again passed his
hand slowly over his forehead to clear away the thick cloud of
confusion.

The situation seemed inexplicable.

There was no doubt that this dispatch, dated this morning, signed
Randolph Hay, and announcing the arrival of the squire and of his wife
and brother-in-law on this day, was a perfectly genuine article and a
very hard fact.

There was no doubt, either, that another Randolph Hay, with his wife and
friends, had arrived at Haymore Hall in company with the indubitable
traveling companion and eyewitness who had reported the fact to the
minister’s family.

Now what on earth did it all mean?

One Squire of Haymore and his wife at Haymore Hall, and another Squire
of Haymore and his—lady on their way there!

Would the two parties meet to-day, and if so, what then?

The only possible theory of the situation, as it presented itself to the
minister’s mind, was this, upon which he finally settled—that the Mr.
and Mrs. Randolph Hay who had arrived on the preceding evening and were
now at the Hall were the real lord and lady of the manor, and that the
so-called Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay who were expected to arrive to-day
were the fraudulent claimants whom he had taken them to be.

He had not breathed a syllable of the first arrival to the bailiff,
preferring to keep the matter to himself until he should see Samson
Longman, who had walked over that morning to Haymore Hall, but would
return to the rectory by midday.

But the backwoodsman came in a little sooner than he had been expected.
He came at once to the study door and rapped.

Mr. Campbell bade him enter.

Longman’s face was radiant with merriment, and in his hand he carried a
letter, which he fondled playfully.

“Well, Longman, you have been to see your friends at the Hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please sit down and tell me all about it.”

Longman settled himself in the largest leather chair, put his fur cap
down on the floor beside him and fondled his letter.

“You found the young squire and his wife quite well after their
journey?”

“Quite well, sir. And also very much delighted with their new home,
which they saw for the first time by daylight this morning.”

“Longman, you are sparkling all over with repressed amusement. What is
the matter with you?”

“Anticipation of an entertainment at the Hall to-day, sir.”

“I think I understand. Do your friends know that there is another Mr.
Randolph Hay and his—lady expected at the Hall to-day?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” exclaimed the giant, now bursting into a storm of
laughter, which had to have its full vent before he could go on with his
words. “Yes, sir. The bailiff came there an hour ago, full of
importance, to announce the fact. He was somewhat amazed to find the
young squire and his wife already in possession. But they are quite
ready for the reception of the newcomers, sir, and that is the
entertainment I anticipate. Here, sir, is a letter the young squire has
intrusted to me to hand you.”

The minister took the missive, broke the seal and read:

                                        “HAYMORE HALL, December 15, 18—.

  “TO THE REV. JAMES CAMPBELL, Reverend and Dear Sir: Although I have
  not the honor of your personal acquaintance, yet I have heard enough
  of you to engage my sympathies and compel my respect. Therefore, I
  hope that you will forgive me for asking you to do me the favor to
  come this evening to the Hall to discuss with me the subject of the
  living of Haymore, which it is my privilege and pleasure to offer you,
  in the hope that you may do me the honor to accept it. May I presume,
  also, to ask you to waive ceremony, and bring your wife and daughter
  with you on this occasion? I have a special reason for this request,
  which, when you shall have heard from me, you will find to be
  perfectly satisfactory.

  “I have the honor to be, reverend sir,

                          “Very respectfully yours,       RANDOLPH HAY.”

The curate rushed out of the study and into the room where his wife sat
sewing in an avalanche of infirm linen and exclaimed:

“Hetty, we need never leave the rectory! I have got the Haymore living!
Read that, and thank the Lord!”




                              CHAPTER XVII
                          A MEMORABLE JOURNEY


Yes, it was true! Randolph Hay, the rightful heir, was in full
possession of Haymore. He had also entered into his estate with much
more ease than could have been anticipated either by himself, his
friends or his lawyers.

To explain how this happened, a brief summary of events is necessary.

It will be remembered that Ran Hay, with his young bride, Judy, and a
small party of friends, sailed on November the 29th from New York by the
steamship _Boadicea_, hound for Liverpool.

Ran, Judy and Will Walling had staterooms in the first cabin; Mike,
Dandy and Longman had berths in the second cabin.

This arrangement, on the part of the three last mentioned, was much
against the will of Ran, who would gladly have provided his
brother-in-law and his two friends with the best accommodations the ship
afforded, but that from very delicacy of feeling toward them he could
not offer to do so. Besides, he knew that all three of these men had
money enough to pay for a first-class passage each, had they desired it,
but that for prudential reasons Dandy and Longman did not choose to
squander their savings in that needless manner, and that Mike cast in
his lot with his two friends; and so their little party voyaged in the
plain but clean and wholesome second cabin.

There could not, however, be much communication between the three in the
first cabin and the three in the second, though they met occasionally on
the common ground of the forward deck.

Here Ran had long talks with his friends, and learned much more of the
past history of Dandy and Longman than he had ever known before.

Here, Judy, wrapped from head to heel in her heavy fur cloak, would
often join them, for the weather continued fine. “Wonderful!—just
wonderful!” was the verdict of all the ship’s passengers; the oldest
“salt” declaring that never, at this season of the year, had he known
such weather in crossing the Atlantic.

Not one of our party suffered from seasickness. The only effect the
voyage seemed to have upon them was an increase of health, vigor and
appetite.

Their ship was rather a slow one, that was all.

It was a splendid winter morning about the seventh day out. The sky, of
a clear, deep blue, without a single cloud, and on fire with a sun too
dazzling to be seen, overhung a sea whose waves were like molten
sapphires. The ship, with all her snowy sails spread and filled, was
flying on before a fresh, fair wind.

On the forward deck, grouped together, were Ran, Judy, Mike, Dandy and
Longman. The hunter had been telling his story for the first time to Ran
and Judy.

“And so you are from Chuxton! Is not that a strange coincidence? Haymore
Hall and hamlet is in the neighborhood of Chuxton, I think,” said Ran.

“About ten miles off, sir. Chuxton is the nearest market town and
railway station to Haymore,” replied Longman.

“Well, my dear fellow, as you say you would never have left your native
country if you could have obtained employment to suit you——” Ran said in
a modest and hesitating way.

“Among guns and game,” Longman interjected with a laugh.

“Exactly—’among guns and game?—I do earnestly hope that it may be in my
way to suit you. Longman, I know nearly nothing of my patrimonial
estate, but I have heard my father say that there was no such place for
game in all the North Riding. I hope and trust and pray,” added Ran,
with boyish earnestness, “that I may be able to make you head gamekeeper
at Haymore without injustice to others.”

“I would not take another man’s place to his hurt, sir,” said the
hunter.

“I know that, good fellow. Nor would I offer you such an effront. But it
will hurt no one to make you an extra keeper at a good salary.”

“There, now, Longman! D’ye moind that? Isn’t it jist what I was afther
tilling ye!” exclaimed Mike. “Didn’t I say if Ran, or bigging his
honor’s pardin, Misther Hay, hadn’t a place riddy made to shute ye, he’d
crayate one? D’ye moind?”

“Something like that,” replied the hunter, laughing. “But I really do
not wish Mr. Hay to make a place for me.”

“Friends,” said the young squire, “we will leave that question until we
get to Haymore. But in the meantime don’t distress me by calling me
Mr.—anybody! I am Ran to all my old companions.”

“Ouns! But whatever would the gintry round Haymore be thinking to hear
the squire called be his Christian name, with divil a handle to it, be
the loikes av us?” demanded Mike, with a laugh.

“I do not care what they think! They will soon know that I and my Judy
and my friends came from the mining camps in the backwoods and mountains
of North America, and that they must not expect more polish from us or
more politeness than neighborly, loving kindness inspires. And now,
Dandy, old friend, what do you intend to do when we all reach England?”
inquired Ran of the old man, who seemed to have been left out, or to
have withdrawn himself from the conversation.

“Indeed, then, I don’t know, sir! I hevn’t a living soul belonging to me
in the old country except it is my brother’s orphan child, my niece,
Julia Quin. When I left England she was a good-looking young wench, some
seventeen years old, and was at service in a parson’s family down in
Hantz. She’ll be married by this time, I reckon, with no end of kids!
But, anyways, I’ll look her up, sir, if she is to be found.”

“Have you ever heard from her since you left England?” inquired Judy,
breaking into the conversation the first time for the last half hour,
and interested the moment another woman was brought upon the tapis.

“Lor’, no, Miss Judy!—which I beg your pardon. Mistress Hay; but I do be
forgetting sometimes. Neither me nor mine was ever any great hand at
letter writing. And she was doing well at the vicarage, I knowed. And I
was wandering about, seeking of my fortin, which I never yet found,
though I might have found it the very next blow of my pick, for aught I
know, if I had had the parsaverance to stay, which I couldn’t have after
the boys here left, and so for twenty years I haven’t heard a word of my
niece. She may be dead, poor wench; for death is no respecter of
persons, though she was a fine, strapping, strong wench, too. Yes, that
is so.”

“I hope not. I hope she is alive and well for your sake. Where did you
say you left her at service?”

“At the vicarage, ma’am, in my native town, ma’am.”

“And what town was that?”

“Medge, ma’am. In Hantz, on the south coast, where I was born and riz.”

Judy had started at the first mention of Medge. Now she hastily
inquired:

“What was the name of the vicar?”

“One Rev. Mr. Campbell, ma’am; the Rev. Mr. James Campbell. He came from
Scotland, horridonally; but settled into the south coast of England.
Yes, that was so.”

By this time Ran was listening with the deepest interest to the words of
old Dandy, but leaving Judy to sustain the conversation.

“Why, Mr. Quin, we know who he is,” she gayly exclaimed.

“Do you know, ma’am? Indeed, and how, if you please?”

“Why, Mr. Quin, it is too long a story to tell you how now; and besides,
it concerns other people that I would rather not talk about; but this I
can tell you, that the Rev. Mr. Campbell is not now at Medge, but——”

“Where is he then, ma’am, if you please to tell me that I may know where
to seek for him? For I shall go to him first of all to ask after my
niece.”

“He is quite at the opposite end of England. He is at Haymore Rectory,
where we are all going.”

“The Lord be good to us! Is that so?” exclaimed Dandy joyfully.

“Indeed, yes! And now, Mr. Quin, if you wish to hear news of your niece,
Julia, you will have to go all the way to Haymore with us. And I am so
glad that we will not be separated. It will be so pleasant for us all to
go together to Haymore.”

“Yes, Dandy, old boy, and you must stop with me, you know, until you
find your niece,” added Ran.

“And will I see the Rev. Mr. James Campbell himself?” inquired Quin in
some doubt.

“Of course you will. And as servants don’t change places as often in the
old country as they do in the new, it is more than likely you will find
your niece at the rectory, unless she is married,” said Judy.

“Or—dead, poor wench!” added Dandy.

“Oh, no, indeed. She’s not dead! I’m certain of it,” exclaimed Judy,
with good-natured but inexcusable presumption.

“I’ll take that for a prophecy, anyways, ma’am, and believe into it.
Yes, that is so.”

“And you will come with us to Haymore, Dandy?” said Ran.

“I thank you kindly, sir; I will.”

“Pray, Mr. Quin, stop calling me sir. You are an old man and I am a
young one, almost a boy, and it is not fitting for you to call me sir.”

“Mr. Hay, I was brought up into the Church of England, and teached to be
content with that station of life into which the Lord had called me;
likewise, to respect my pastors and masters, and to honor my
sooperioors. And twenty years’ wandering among the mines haven’t made me
forget them airly lessons, nor yet my good manners, sir,” said Dandy,
with a ceremonious bow, as he lifted his fur cap from his bald head.

“Judy, can’t you bring them to reason?” inquired Ran, with a laugh.

“Sorrow a worrd they’ll listen to meself!” exclaimed Judy, backsliding
into dialect, as she frequently did.

“Well, do as you please, or I’ll make you!” laughed Ran.

And from that hour it was understood that the whole party should keep
together until they should reach Haymore, instead of separating at
Liverpool, as had been first intended.

The weather continued very fine, though very cold.

On the morning of the tenth they reached Queenstown.

There Mr. Walling went on shore and telegraphed to his London
correspondents, Messrs. Sothoron & Drummond, Attorneys-at-Law, Lincoln’s
Inns Fields, that his client, Mr. Randolph Hay, and himself would be in
London on the afternoon of the twelfth.

The run from Queenstown to Liverpool was as fine as any preceding part
of the voyage.

They reached port in the early dawn of the morning on the twelfth.

Without lingering longer in the city than was necessary to get their
baggage through the customhouse and fortify themselves with a
substantial early breakfast at the “Queen’s,” they took the first mail
train for London, where they arrived in the middle of the afternoon.

Mr. Will Walling, an experienced traveler, who had been in London
several times before, became the guide of the party, and took them from
Euston Square down to Morley’s Hotel, Trafalgar Square, where they
secured a comfortable suite of apartments on the second floor front.

Mike, Dandy and Longman went to find cheaper quarters. Again Ran would
gladly have entertained them at Morley’s, but could not offer to do so
without affronting their spirit of independence.

Even Mike, to whom Ran ventured an invitation, declined his
brother-in-law’s hospitality, and cast in his lot with his two old
mining friends. But he promised to look in again in the evening to let
Ran and Judy know where he and his companions had found quarters.

After a hasty dinner in the private parlor of the Hays, Mr. Will Walling
left the young pair still over their dessert and went out and called a
cab and drove to Lincoln’s Inns Fields to call on Messrs. Sothoron &
Drummond.

They had been the solicitors of the Hays, of Haymore, for many years,
and were, of course, deeply interested in all that concerned them.

Much correspondence had already passed between the London and New York
firms, bearing on the recent appearance of the undoubted lawful heir of
Haymore in opposition to the fraudulent pretender, so that there was
already a perfect understanding of the case established between them.

It was now a little after business hours, but Mr. Will Walling felt sure
that, having received his dispatch announcing his visit, one or both
members of the firm would remain at their office to receive him.

In fact, he found both gentlemen there. The case was considered much too
important to admit of neglect or indifference, and being after office
hours, they were quite at leisure to give their whole attention to the
business in hand.

Mr. Walling spent four hours with Messrs. Sothoron & Drummond, and
together the three gentlemen went through the mass of documents, all
together constituting indisputable, immovable proof of Randolph Hay’s
identity as the only lawful heir of Haymore.

I will not weary my reader with any of the lawyers’ talk, but hasten on
to its results.

It was nearly nine o’clock when the three gentlemen, having brought
their interview to an end, left the office together and separated, to
seek their several destinations—Sothoron to his home on Clapham Common,
Drummond to his club on Regent Street, and Walling to his friends at
Morley’s.

Mr. Will found Ran and Judy seated at the front window of their parlor,
in which the gas had been turned down low to enable them to see out into
the street, for they were gazing down on the panorama of the night scene
on Trafalgar Square.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Will, as he entered the room, flung his hat across
the floor and dropped into a large easy-chair near the two young people,
“are you ready to set out for Yorkshire and Haymore by the first mail
train to-morrow morning?”

“What do you mean?” inquired Ran, looking around, rather startled by the
abrupt entrance and action of his lawyer, while Judy also wheeled her
chair and raised her eyes inquiringly to the first speaker.

“Just what I asked. Are you ready to start for Haymore Hall by the first
train to-morrow morning?” repeated Mr. Will.

“What is the use of your asking that, Walling, when you know there is
ever such a law fight to go through first. And even after I have won my
suit, as of course I shall win it, there must be writs of ejectment, and
the Lord knows what all, before we can get that villain out of my house:
for ‘possession is nine points of the law,’ you know, and you may depend
he will contest the tenth point to the bitter end,” said Ran.

“Not at all!” heartily exclaimed Will Walling; “there will be no fight.
The fellow will not fight; he’ll fly. And though ‘possession is nine
points of the law,’ he has never had possession. What do you think of
that?”

“I think your words are more incomprehensible than ever. I do not
understand them in the least,” replied Ran.

“Nor do I,” added Judy.

“Well, then, listen, both of you. I have been three or four or more
hours closeted with Sothoron & Drummond.”

“Yes.”

“And we have been over, together, all the documentary proofs of your
identity as Randolph Hay, the only lawful heir of Haymore.”

“Well?”

“Well, every document connected with the case has your name, that is,
Randolph Hay, as the heir and now the owner of Haymore.”

“Of course.”

“And you, and you only, are Randolph Hay.”

“Undoubtedly. But there is another who has taken my name and estates.”

“He has taken your name and stolen and squandered a good deal of your
money during the last few months; there is no doubt about that. Nor will
you ever get a penny of that lost money back; there is no hope of that.
These moneys he has obtained by fraud from your bailiff, John Prowt, of
Haymore, and from your family solicitors, Sothoron & Drummond, at
Lincoln’s Inns Fields. But, my dear sir, for all that, he has never been
in possession of your estate.”

“Why not, when——”

“But he is not Randolph Hay, in whose name all the documents are made
out.”

“But he is at Haymore Hall now. And it will require a legal process to
get him out, for he will fight every inch of the ground.”

“Not at all! He is not at Haymore Hall, nor has he ever been there. His
fraudulent presence is not known there. If he were there now, or ever
had been there, or if his person were known there under his stolen name
of Randolph Hay, then, I grant you, in that case we might have to meet
some trouble and confusion, yet not much. And as it is, we shall have no
trouble at all.”

“But this is strange. How is it that he has never been to Haymore?”
inquired Ran.

“Because, it seems, he prefers to squander the revenues of the estate in
Paris. But let me tell you what I have this afternoon learned of the
fellow from Messrs. Sothoron & Drummond.”

“Yes, pray do,” said Judy.

“It seems, then, that when he first brought his—lady over here, he
intended to go to Haymore, and even had grand preparations made there
for their reception; but from some caprice, he changed his mind and went
to Paris, where he has been with his—lady ever since, squandering money
just as if he knew it did not belong to him, and deferring his return
from time to time, and drawing large sums from—your bankers.”

“From what I know of Gentleman Geff, I should think it hard to draw him
from the saloons of Paris to the seclusion of a Yorkshire country
house,” said Ran.

“Yes; but now it seems he is really coming with a party of friends to
spend Christmas at Haymore Hall. He has sent down orders for the house
to be prepared to receive himself and—lady and guests by the fifteenth.
Now then, the servants at the Hall are preparing to receive Mr. and Mrs.
Randolph Hay, whom they have never seen. Now you and your wife are Mr.
and Mrs. Randolph Hay.”

“Well, what do you advise?” inquired Ran.

“Why, man alive, your course is as plain as daylight. You and your wife
take the first train to-morrow and speed to Yorkshire and to Haymore
Hall, where you will arrive early in the evening, where you will, no
doubt, find everything ready for you and be joyfully received by your
servants. To be sure, you will arrive rather earlier than you were
expected; but that will not matter much, especially as it will give you
time to get well rested before you will be called upon to receive
Gentleman Geff and his distinguished party.”

“Oh, that will be the most delicious fun!” exclaimed Judy, clapping her
hands with glee; “and we will have, besides Ran and myself, Mike, Dandy
and Longman all drawn up in a line to welcome him. He will think all
Grizzly Gulch has come to Haymore Hall.”

“For his guilty soul it would seem

                  “‘Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.’”

said Will Walling.

“There would be an awful row,” exclaimed Ran.

“Not at all. There would be a surprise, a panic and a flight. That is,
if you let the villain go. I am not sure that you ought not to have a
warrant and an officer ready to arrest him. Or rather, I am sure that
you ought.”

“I would rather not, if he will leave quietly,” said Ran.

“But you must make no terms with a criminal. That would be ‘compounding
a felony,’ a serious offense against English law.”

“Well, is it settled? Shall we go to-morrow morning?” inquired Judy.

“Yes, dear; certainly,” replied Ran.

“And I will go down to the office and find a Bradshaw and see about our
train,” said Mr. Will, picking up his hat and hurrying out of the room.

He had scarcely disappeared when the door opened and Mike, Dandy and
Longman entered the parlor.

Judy ran forward to welcome them, while Ran turned up the gas.

“We have been sitting in the dark to watch the scene in the square
below,” Judy explained.

“Well, boys, have you found comfortable quarters?” inquired Ran, as soon
as they were all seated.

“Illigant; and chape enough, too, be the same token, close by in the
Strand; a very ginteel, dooble-bidded bidroom. Longman, being av a giant
fit for a circus, do hev one bid all to himsilf. And Dandy and me, being
av little fellows, do have the ithir to oursilves,” Mike explained.

While they were still talking Mr. Will Walling returned to the room with
a Bradshaw in his hand. He greeted the three visitors pleasantly,
dropped into a chair and said:

“Well, there is a train that leaves Euston Square Station at six in the
morning and reaches Chuxton at three in the afternoon. After that there
is no other parliamentary train until twelve noon, which would make it
nine in the evening when it stops at Chuxton, and would be too late to
go on to Haymore the same night.”

“Oh, then, we will leave by the earlier train, if Judy has no
objection,” said Ran.

“I? Why, I never minded getting up early!” exclaimed Judy.

“What do you say, boys?” inquired Ran.

“The sooner the better for us, sir,” replied Dandy, speaking for the
rest, who promptly assented.

And then, as the hour was late, the visitors bade good-night, and the
party left behind separated and retired to rest, to be ready for their
early rising.




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                            AT HAYMORE HALL


The whole party were up in the double darkness of a London winter
morning before sunrise. They dressed and breakfasted by gaslight, and
then entered a large carriage and drove to Euston Square Railway
Station, where they were met by Mike, Dandy and Longman.

“Had you not better telegraph to your housekeeper before we start to let
her know that we shall certainly be at Haymore to-night so that there
may be no mistake, and she will be sure to have beds aired, fires built
and dinner ready for us when we get there?” suggested Mr. Walling, who
was always directly on the lookout for his own personal comforts, and,
incidentally, for those of others.

Ran immediately acted on the suggestion, saying, when he rejoined his
friends after sending the dispatch:

“She will think the message comes from the other fellow in Paris and
that he is in London on his way to Haymore.”

“She will think, or rather she will see, that the telegram comes from
Mr. Randolph Hay, and that will be enough,” replied Mr. Walling.

“When the other fellow comes on the fifteenth with his friends and finds
us in possession——Well! I can’t help anticipating a rink, a circus, a
hippodrome, a spectacular drama, an earthquake, a conflagration and the
day of judgment all rolled into one!” said Randolph, with a laugh.

“And there will be nothing of the sort. Only at most a panic and a total
rout. Come, we must take our seats,” exclaimed Will Walling, as he led
the way to the waiting train, where a guide showed them into the middle
compartment of a first-class carriage.

Mike, Dandy and Longman had taken tickets for the second class.

“Now is it not too bad that Ran cannot get our friends in here with us,
Mr. Walling?” demanded Judy, as she settled herself in the luxurious
corner front seat of their compartment and noticed that there were just
six seats.

“My dear Judy,” muttered Ran, “your brother and his companions are able
to take these three vacant seats with us if they please, but for
prudential and very praiseworthy reasons they choose to economize and
take the second class. I could not offer them a worse offense than
invite them to take these seats at my expense.”

“Well, I do think there is a great deal of false pride in the world,”
Judy pouted.

“So there is, darling; but we cannot cure it.”

“It is a wonder their high mightinesses consent to go with you to
Haymore and be your guests there.”

“That is a different affair.”

“I don’t see that it is.”

“But they do,” laughed Ran.

The train started, and the conversation dropped.

It was still in the darkness before day that they left the station and
sped off into the open country, where the world was scarcely beginning
to wake up. In London the world seems never to go to sleep.

Our three travelers had had but little rest in the last twenty-four
hours; and so, between the darkness of the hour, the motion of the train
and their own weariness, they dozed off into dreamland, where they
lingered some hours, until they were called back by the sudden stopping
of the train, for an instant only, for before they were fully awake it
was off again, flying northward as if pursued by the furies.

Judy shook herself up and looked out of the window on her right hand to
see the eastern horizon red with the coming of the wintry sun above the
moorland.

At noon they reached Liverpool, where they left their seats, got lunch
and then changed their train for the Great Northern for York.

Late in the afternoon they entered the great cathedral city, where again
they left their seats, took tea and a little later took train for
Chuxton.

It was nearly sunset when they came to the end of their railway journey
at the little market town.

There was no carriage waiting to take them to Haymore.

And then it occurred to Ran for the first time that by some strange
oversight no carriage had been ordered by him or his attorney to come
from the Hall to meet them at the station.

There were several vehicles around the place, but all seemed to be
engaged by other parties.

Our friends walked together to the Tawny Lion Tavern, where Ran ordered
refreshment and inquired for a conveyance to Haymore.

The Tawny Lion boasted but one—a large carryall drawn by two stout
horses—but that was then engaged, and would not be available to our
travelers for perhaps two hours.

These were passed by Ran and Judy, after they had finished their meal,
in sauntering about the quaint, old-fashioned town and making
acquaintance with its streets and houses.

“Here’s where we shall have to come to do our country shopping, you
know, darling,” said Ran; “for I have been told that there is but one
general shop at Haymore, where, though they keep everything to sell,
from a second-hand pulpit to a soup dish, you can get nothing very
good.”

“But I shall encourage the home trade, and deal at Haymore all the
same,” replied Judy.

Meanwhile Mr. Will Walling spent his time of waiting over the fire in
the inn parlor, with a bottle of port wine and a stack of cigars on the
table beside him.

And Longman, accompanied by his shadows, Dandy and Mike, walked out in
the direction of the Old Heath Farm to make inquiries about his mother,
and, naturally, the nearer he came to the scene of his boyhood’s home
the keener and the more intense became his anxiety. It had never seemed
to him that his buxom, healthy, hearty mother could have sickened and
died; nor had it seemed more than, barely possible that she might have
married again. He rather hoped to find her where he had left her five
years before, living on the farm. Still, as he turned from the Chuxton
highroad and went into a narrow lane, overhung by the branches of the
leafless trees that grew on each side the path leading to the farmhouse,
all the dread possibilities of life seemed to threaten him ahead. He
could not now speak of his feelings. He hurried on. The giant was as
weak as a child when he passed through the farm yard and went up to the
house. A man was approaching from another direction.

Longman leaned against the side of the house for support as he faltered
forth a question.

“Eh?” demanded the farmer, looking fixedly at the stranger, as if he
suspected him of being top heavy through too much drink. “Is it the
Widow Longman ye’re asking about? No, she dun not bide here now. She
hasn’t been here for these five years past.”

Another faint, almost inaudible question from the weak giant, which the
farmer had to bend his quick, sharp ear to hear at all.

“Is she living, do you arsk? Oh, ay, she’s living good enough. She’s
keeping house for the parson at the rectory, Haymore, about ten miles to
the norrard of this.”

“I thank the Lord!” ejaculated Longman, lifting his cap, almost overcome
by the sudden collapse of highly strung nerves.

“See here, my man, what’s the matter with you? You look to be used up! I
thought it was drink when I first saw you. But now I see it isn’t. You
look to be faint for want of drink, not heavy from too much of it. Come
in now and take a mug o’ beer, home brewed. ’Twill do ye good,” urged
the farmer.

“No, thank you. No, really. You are very kind, but I must get on,” said
Longman, rising, and now that his tension of anxiety was relieved,
gaining life with every breath he drew.

“I wouldn’t wonder now if you was that son o’ hern who went to sea long
years ago and never was heerd on since?” said the farmer, calling after
him.

“Yes, I am her son, and I am going to Haymore now to find her. Thank
you, and good-day to you,” said Longman.

“I’m dogged glad on it! One widdy’s heart will sing for joy this night,
anyhow! Well, good-day, and good luck to you, my lad!” were the last
words of the kind-hearted farmer.

When Longman rejoined his two friends, who he had left waiting for him
at the farm gate, his happy face told the “glad tidings” before his
tongue could speak them.

“Hooray! It’s good news ye’re afther hearing!” cried Mike, throwing up
his cap and catching it.

“Yes, I thank the Lord!” replied Longman reverently.

And then, as they walked down the lane and out upon the highroad leading
to Chuxton, Longman told them all that he had heard from the farmer.

“So she’s housekeeper at the rectory itself! That’s where your niece,
Miss Julia, will be at service, Mr. Quin!” exclaimed Mike; “that is, if
she’s not married,” he added.

“Or dead, poor wench!” sighed old Dandy.

“Oh, bother that! Nobody’s dead, or going to die just yet, is there,
Samson, man?”

“I hope not, Mike.”

“Anyways, we shall hear when we get to Haymore. Yes, that is so,” said
Dandy, with an air of resignation.

He was not nearly so anxious to hear from his niece as Longman had been
to get news of his mother. He did not, indeed, care much about her now,
whatever he might come to care after he should have renewed his
acquaintance with her.

When they reached Chuxton and turned into the street leading to the
“Tawny Lion,” they saw the huge carryall drawn up before the door, with
a crowd of idlers, mostly boys, gathered around it to see it start.

Longman and his companions went into the parlor, where they found the
Hays and Will Walling waiting for them.

“Why have you stayed for us, Mr. Hay? This is really too kind!” said
Longman.

“Kind to myself, friend! I did not want to go without you. Even if I
had, Judy would not have allowed it. I see by your face that you have
good news of your mother. I congratulate you,” said Ran, offering his
hand.

“Yes, sir, thank Heaven!” replied the hunter. And then in a few words,
as they walked to the carryall, he told all he heard at the farm.

“That is splendid!” exclaimed Judy with enthusiasm, as she was lifted
into the carryall by Ran and placed in the sheltered back seat.

“Dandy must sit back there with you, darling. He is old, and then the
drive over the moor will be a very cold one. You won’t mind it, will
you, Judy?” he inquired, as he settled her among the cushions and tucked
her fur cloak well around her feet.

“Why, no, of course not. Especially if you will sit right in front of me
so I can lean my head forward on your shoulder sometimes,” Judy replied.

Then Ran helped Dandy in and made him sit by Judy. The others followed.

Ran and Will Walling sat immediately in front of Judy and Dandy.

Mike and Longman on the third seat forward. The driver, a stout
Yorkshireman, on the box.

The strong draught horses started at a moderate pace, such as might well
be kept up during the whole journey across the moor.

It was a dark, cold night, and the two glass lanterns, fixtures, on each
side above the driver’s seat, did little better than make “darkness
visible.” But the road was as safe as a road by night could be, and the
horses knew it as well as they knew the way to their own cribs.

Two hours of jog trot, safe and steady driving brought them to a great
mass of dense shadows, like black mountains and forests against a dark
gray northern sky.

The driver drew up his horses before this mystery and announced that
they had reached the great wall of Haymore Park.

“How far from the lodge gates?” inquired Ran.

“About half a mile, sir.”

“Drive on then.”

“If you please, Mr. Hay, I would like to leave the carryall at the point
nearest Haymore hamlet and rectory,” said Longman.

“Of course! Of course! Naturally you must hasten first of all to your
dear mother. But remember, friend, you are my guest at the Hall, and
bring your mother also if you can persuade her to come,” heartily
responded Ran.

“Yes, do, Mr. Longman. And I will go to see your mother just as soon as
ever I can,” warmly added Judy.

“I thank you both very much,” replied Longman, but he gave no promise.

“Remember, Longman, that you saved my life. But for you—under the Divine
Providence,” said Ran, reverently lifting his hat, “I should not be here
now.”

“No, nor I, either, for that matter,” added Judy.

“We both owe you a debt that we can never repay, Longman,” said Ran,
with emotion.

“Never, except in love and gratitude. And we would like to put ‘a body’
in our sentiments to make them ‘felt,’ Mr. Longman. You will come and
stay with us at the house, will you not?” pleaded Judy.

“You make too much of my service, a service that any man worthy of the
name would have done for any other. I do not know what my plain old
mother would say to you.”

“I am plain myself,” said Judy; “a child of the people. Less than that,
for I never knew father or mother—a child of the planet only! My only
worth is being the wife of my dear Ran here!”

“Yes, madam, you are the wife of Mr. Randolph Hay, of Haymore. You are
the lady of the manor. And in this country a social abyss divides you
and yours from me and mine as deep, as impassable as that ‘great gulf’
that lay between Dives and Lazarus,” said Longman solemnly.

“It is not so! It shall not be so! I will not have it! Nothing but the
will of Heaven shall divide us from our dear friends!” said Judy
passionately.

“No!” added Ran with earnest emphasis. “No social gulf shall separate
us, Longman, dear old boy!”

“Here we be at the lodge gates, sir. And this is the nearest point we
pass to the rectory. We turn in here to go by the elm avenue up to the
Hall. And the road continues right straight on under the park wall up to
the rectory and the church, which is on the other side of the road,” the
driver explained, drawing up.

“Well, Longman, I should like you to go on to the house and dine with
us, but I know it would be wrong to ask you,” said Ran, as the hunter
got up to leave the carryall.

“I will see you early in the morning, sir,” said the giant. And then he
shook hands all around, jumped from the carryall and strode on up the
road to the rectory on that visit to his mother which we have already
described.

A woman came out of the porter’s lodge on the right-hand side, swung
open both broad leaves of the gate and stood courtesying as the carryall
rolled through.

“The old porter’s daughter—a worthy dame,” said the driver, in answer to
a question from Ran.

The carriage rolled on through an avenue shaded by great oaks, whose
branches, however, were now bare. In the turns of this drive they caught
glimpses of the house through the trees, with lights sparkling here and
there from the many windows into the darkness.

After several sweeping turns the avenue passed in front of the house,
and the carriage drew up before a huge, oblong gray building, with
turrets at each corner, bay windows on the first floor and balconies
above.

As the carriage stopped the hall door was flung wide, and several men
and women servants appeared in the lighted hall.

The butler stood in the door. Two footmen came down the steps to attend
their master and mistress.

Ran lifted Judy from the carriage, whispering:

“Welcome home, my darling,” and led her up the steps and into the hall,
followed by his friends.

The butler, with a low bow, made way for them to pass.

The housekeeper, a very aged woman, dressed in a brown satin gown and a
lace cap, came forward to meet them.

“Welcome home, sir and madam. We have waited for you long, and greet you
gladly,” she said in a tone of exaggerated reverence and with a deep
courtesy.

Ran held out his frank hand, and Judy said:

“Thank you, Mrs.—Mrs.——”

“Basset, madam, and been in the family all my life, as mother and father
were before me. Your old butler, sir, is my son, getting older every
day, but not yet past service, either of us, I thank Heaven. Will you go
to your room now, madam?”

“Yes, if you please,” said Judy. “I would like to take off my bonnet and
cloak.”

Mrs. Basset looked all around, and then said:

“I do not think that your maid has come in yet. Shall I send one of the
men out to hurry her? I suppose she is busy with the parcels in the
carriage.”

“I—I—I—have no maid—yet,” replied Judy, blushing deeply, for she was
rather afraid of this fine ruin of an old-time housekeeper, even though
the aged woman was evidently falling a little into her second childhood.

“Oh, I see! I beg your pardon, ma’am. You will be waiting to take some
good girl from the estate. That has been the way with the ladies of Hay
from time immemorial.” She paused suddenly in her babble and looked
fixedly, though still very respectfully, at Mr. Hay.

Now Ran was just a little sensitive about his personal appearance. He
was not a handsome, soldierly blond, but a beautiful, dark brunette;
graceful as a leopard, sinuous as a serpent. He was in the habit of
humorously stigmatizing himself as “a little nigger.” So when the aged
housekeeper regarded him with her wistful gaze, he thought she was
saying to herself, how little like he was to any of the Hays. He laughed
a little and said:

“You do not find much resemblance in me to my tall and fair forefathers,
Mrs. Basset.”

“Sir,” she replied solemnly, “you are the living image of your honored
grandmother.

The young man burst out laughing, and was joined by Mike and Judy.

But their mirth ceased as the aged housekeeper added:

“She died at twenty-three years old. She was the best, the brightest and
the most beautiful being that my eyes ever beheld! And, yes, she died at
twenty-three years old! And you are her living image, as nearly as it is
possible for a gentleman to be. That was the reason why I looked at you
so, sir. I beg your pardon; I forgot myself.”

“Don’t speak of it, Mrs. Basset,” said Ran kindly.

“Thank you, sir. You can see the portrait in the picture gallery
to-morrow and judge for yourself—or even to-night if you will,” said the
housekeeper.

“Thank you; not to-night; we are too tired. To-morrow you shall show us
over the whole house, if you will.”

“That I will with pride and pleasure, sir. And now, madam, shall I
attend you to your room?”

“Thank you, yes, please,” said Judy; and she followed her conductress up
the broad staircase to a vast upper hall.

The housekeeper opened a door near the head of the stairs and admitted
her charge into a spacious, sumptuous bedchamber, upholstered in ebony
and old gold, and in which burned a fine open coal fire.

The aged woman, much against Judy’s will, insisted upon waiting upon
her; took off her heavy cloak and hat and hung them in the wardrobe,
drew a luxurious easy-chair to the fire and seated her in it, and
hovered around her with affectionate attentions until Mr. Hay came in,
when, with one of her quaint courtesies, she withdrew from the room.

Again Ran took Judy in his arms, folded her to his heart, kissed her
fondly and welcomed her home.

“And to-morrow, my darling, we shall have to prepare to welcome
Gentleman Geff and his—lady. I shall send in the morning for Mr.
Campbell and his daughter, that the villain may be confronted with his
wronged wife, as well as his betrayed friend,” said Ran, as he gave his
arm to Judy to take her down to the dining-room, where dinner waited.




                              CHAPTER XIX
                           WAITING THE ISSUE


In the morning Ran and Judy woke up to look, for the first time, by
daylight on their new home.

Ran opened the windows and let in the light of the December day upon
their bedchamber, a vast, peaceful, slumberous room, upholstered
throughout in olive green and gold, and looking out upon a park, full of
sunny glades and shady groves, even now in winter when the light of day
shone down on burnished dry grass in the glades and evergreen trees in
the groves.

The young couple, though lord and lady of the Manor of Haymore, had as
yet neither valet nor maid. So Ran rang no bell, but from a hodful of
coal at the chimney corner, with his own hand, replenished the fire in
the grate and then went to make his toilet.

Judy lay still, with her eyes looking through the large windows on two
sides of the spacious chamber, out upon the sunny and shady park until
Ran had finished dressing and left the room. Then she arose and took her
bath and opened her large sea trunk to find a dress suitable for her
morning wear.

She finally selected a plain suit of dark gray velveteen, with crimped
linen ruffles at the throat and wrists. She put it on and went
downstairs.

In the hall below she found the wide doors open in front, admitting the
winter sunshine, and a great coal fire burning in the broad fireplace in
the back; and between the two, near the front of the stairs, Ran, Will
Walling, Mike and Dandy standing in conversation.

Dandy was the spokesman.

“I did think,” he was saying, “that Longman would have come back last
night to bring me news of Julie. But, Lord, I do suppose he got so
wrapped up into his mother that he clean forgot me and mine, or else,
maybe, he could not well get away.”

“That was it, Dandy,” said Ran.

“Same time, if, as how I had thought it might be so, myself would have
gone to the rectory with him. And ’deed I’d agone, anyhow, only I didn’t
like to be intruding into a strange place.”

“I can’t understand,” said Will Walling, speaking for the first time,
“how you fortune-seekers can bear to stay away for years from your
native country without hearing a word from any of your friends at home,
and then, when you make up your mind to return, and once set foot in
your native land, you straightway get into a fever of anxiety and
impatience to meet them.”

“No more do I, but so it is!” confessed Dandy.

“Yis,” added Mike. “Sure it was the very same wid Mister Longman himself
when he was gitting nigh onto the ould farrum where he left his mother.
It is curious.”

“You see, if I only knowed she were alive and well,” said Dandy
apologetically.

“Oh, you may be sure of that,” cheerfully exclaimed Ran, “but I don’t
think she is at the rectory.”

“Why don’t you then, sir?” inquired Dandy.

“Because if she had been Longman would have seen her and told her about
you, and she would certainly have run over last night or early this
morning to see you.”

“So she would! So she would! And yet I dunno—I dunno! Even darters in
these days ain’t none too dutiful to feythers, let alone nieces to
uncles, ’specially when they’ve been parted twenty years,” said Dandy,
shaking his bald head.

“I don’t think she is at the rectory, or, under the circumstances, she
would have run over here to see you,” said Ran.

“I dunno! I dunno!”

“It is most likely she is married and away.”

“Or dead and buried, poor wench,” sighed Dandy.

“Come, come, don’t be so downhearted. Longman will be here soon. He
promised to come early this morning, and no doubt he will bring good
news of your niece. Now here is Judy, and we will go in to our
breakfast,” concluded Ran.

Judy, stepping from the bottom stair to the hall floor, greeted Will
Walling, Mike and Dandy with a cordial good-morning and led the way to
the breakfast room.

It was just under the bedchamber Judy had left, and had the same outlook
from windows on the east and north of sunny glades, of burnished dry
grass and shady groves of Scotch firs.

The table was laid for five, and the old butler was in attendance; not
that His Importance, Mr. Basset, the butler, ever waited at any other
meal except dinner, and then only at the sideboard; but on this
particular occasion of the first breakfast of the bridal pair at Haymore
he thought proper to volunteer his attendance in their honor.

The consequence was that Mike, Dandy and even Judy were almost afraid to
speak, lest they should expose their ignorance of high life to this
imposing personage.

The five sat down to table under the cloud of the butler’s greatness.

But soon the fragrant Mocha, the luscious waffles and the savory venison
steaks and other appetizing edibles combined to dispel the gloom and
enliven their spirits.

After breakfast Judy sent for the housekeeper, and claimed her promise
to show them through the building.

Mrs. Basset was only too willing to oblige. The five friends, led by
their conductress, went first up the grand staircase that led from the
lower to the upper halls on every floor to the top of the house.

“We had better go to the top first, ma’am, while we are fresh, else we
might find the stairs hard to climb,” said Mrs. Basset.

And Judy, as she knew that the old woman spoke chiefly in the interests
of her own infirmities, answered promptly:

“You know best, Mrs. Basset. Suit yourself, and you will suit us.”

They went upstairs to the low-ceiled rooms under the roof, which Mrs.
Basset described as servants’ bedrooms—storerooms for furniture out of
season, boxes, etc.

Then to the next below, all extra bedrooms, and to the next below that,
all family suites of apartments; and down to the next, on which were the
long drawing and the ballroom, which, with the broad hall between them,
took up the whole flat.

Lastly, they came down to the first floor, on which were the long
dining-room, the breakfast room, the parlor, the library and the picture
gallery, which was the last place to be inspected.

The family portraits were arranged in chronological order, beginning
with the Saxon ancestor of the eighth century, who, with rudest arms and
in rudest clothing, resisted the first invasion of the Danes, and whose
“counterfeit presentment” here was probably but the work of the rough
artist’s imagination, executed, or rather perpetrated, at a much later
date.

Then in regular order came the barons who had rallied around Hereward in
his last desperate stand against the usurper, William of Normandy; the
iron-clad knights who had followed Richard of the Lion heart to the Holy
Land; the barons who had taken up arms in support of the House of York
against that of Lancaster; the plumed cavaliers who had insanely flocked
with all their retainers to the standard of the Stuarts in every mad
attempt of that unhappy family to regain their lost throne;
periwig-pated courtiers of the Georgian dynasty; and, lastly, the
swallowtail coated and patent leather booted gentlemen of the Victorian
age, as represented by the late squire and his three sons.

The ladies of the chiefs were all there, too, each by the side of her
“lord,” and dressed in costume of her time, or in what was supposed to
be such, for there is little doubt that many of the earlier portraits
were merely fancy pictures.

Before the group of the late squire and his family Judy suddenly caught
her breath and clasped her hands and stood stock-still, gazing on the
full-length picture of a beautiful dark girl.

“It is like, isn’t it now, ma’am?” inquired the housekeeper.

“Like! Why, the picture might be taken for his portrait if it were not
for the dress!” exclaimed Judy, gazing at her husband.

“It is still more like my Cousin Palma,” said Ran.

“Why, so it is,” assented Judy; “and does not need change of dress to
make it perfect. The hair of that lady in the picture is worn exactly as
Palma wears hers, and that costume of dark blue is not unlike the dress
Palma wore to our wedding in color and make.”

“It is indeed a wonderful likeness to Mrs. Stuart,” remarked Mr.
Walling. “Who is the lady?” he demanded, turning to the housekeeper.

“The last Mrs. Hay, of Haymore, the grandmother of the young squire
here. She died at the age of twenty-three, leaving three boys, of one,
two and three years of age—to give the figures in round numbers,”
replied Mrs. Basset.

“Yes, I know she was the wife of the late squire; but whose daughter was
she?” persisted Will Walling.

The housekeeper was silent.

“Faix, Misther Walling, is it in the coorthoose ye are, with Misthress
Basset intil the witness box, that ye would be cross-examining herself?”
demanded Mike.

Will Walling turned a deprecating, apologetic glance upon Ran, who
quietly replied:

“She was the daughter of a gypsy chief. Her name was Gentyl Tuinquer.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Will. Then, feeling rather uncomfortable, he added,
to cover his confusion. “How beautiful she must have been!”

“And how much more beautiful she must be now!” exclaimed Judy.

The lawyer stared at her.

“Up there in heaven, I mean; for, of course, she is in heaven, for you
may see by her face how good she is,” added Judy.

The housekeeper sighed. All the ladies of the long line of Hays had been
“angel born” before this gypsy girl from the tents came into the family.
And though the woman could not help loving the memory of the lovely
young creature, she equally could not help suffering in her own pride at
any mention of the gypsy birth.

Ran kissed the hand of the pictured lady and then turned with his party
to leave the gallery.

On stepping out into the hall a footman met him, and with a respectful
salute said:

“If you please, sir, there is—a—person waiting to see you.”

“A person? Who? What sort of a person?” demanded Ran.

“A foreign-looking tall man, sir; might be a Patagonian, only he can
speak English.”

“Show him in here.” And with these words Ran crossed the hall and
entered a morning parlor on the same floor. Then looking back he saw
that, though his footman had gone on his errand, his friends lingered in
the hall.

“Come in, all of you. It is only Longman. You will all want to see him,
especially will Mr. Quin.”

“I do want to see him. Yes, that is so,” assented Dandy, as they all
followed Ran into the parlor, where they found quite a variety of
comfortable chairs.

They were scarcely seated when Longman entered.

Ran sprang up and met him; but Dandy pushed between them, his round,
bald head, as well as his face, glowing red with excitement as he
demanded:

“Have you seen my Juley? Is she well and happy? Is she still in the
service of the minister?”

“She is well and happy, but no longer in service anywhere. She is
married to John Legg, the greengrocer of your native village, Medge. So
I have not had the pleasure of making her acquaintance,” Longman
replied, with a laugh.

“The Lord above us! Well, I did sort of hope she was an old-maid woman
as would have been a housekeeper and a daughter to myself in my old
days. Well, and now she is married, and, I do dare say, with a baker’s
dozen of children. Yes, that is so,” said Dandy, with a heavy sigh.

“No, but it isn’t so. She only married a few months ago, when she was
over forty years old, and John Legg, the widower, who took her for his
second wife, over fifty; so she has no baker’s dozen of children as
yet.”

“Oh, I’s warrant he has a house full o’ young uns for her to be
stepmother to! And that will be a heap worse than if the wench had a
score of her own! It is as bad as if I had found her dead! Yes, that is
so,” sighed Dandy.

“No, it isn’t so. You are all out again. John Legg has no children at
home. He has a son and daughter, and gave them both a grand education
above his means, and to repay him they did all they could to break his
heart. They had worldly ambitions above their state, and despised the
calling of their father. The son took ‘holy orders,’ not for the love of
the Lord or the neighbor, but for love of self and the world. He became
a professional preacher only, not a minister of religion. Mr. Hay,” said
the speaker, suddenly turning toward Ran, “I shall presently have
something to say to you in reference to this man, in which you have an
especial interest.”

“Thank you, Longman. I will remember to remind you of it,” replied Ran.

“Now will you please go on telling me about the family my niece married
into?” said Dandy impatiently.

“Certainly!” smiled Longman, good-humoredly. “The son utterly ignores
his father and hangs on the skirts of influential people; but as yet has
had but little success. The daughter went out as a governess, less it
seems to be of service to children than to seek her own fortune, through
her beauty, among the rich and noble. She also ignores her father. Both
these hopefuls are ‘married and settled,’ to use the common phrase. And
the newly-wedded, middle-aged couple are alone.”

“And what could have tempted my gal to agone and married of a old
widdyman, whose son and darter had showed sich bad blood?”

“Well, to get out of service, perhaps; to have a house and home and a
good husband, whom she could love, in this John Legg.”

“I don’t memorize the name of no John Legg at Medge, though, to be sure,
I have been away from them parts for twenty years—yes, that is so!”

“No, you can’t remember him. He was not a Medge man. He came from the
borough in London about two years ago. After his wife died,
broken-hearted, it is said, by the conduct of his children, he sold out
his business in London and came down to Medge, where he had a married
sister and many nieces and nephews, his only relatives, except his
undutiful son and daughter. He had enough to live on in retirement, but
could not enjoy himself in idleness. So he took the first chance to go
into business again. It happened that the only greengrocer in the place,
an aged man, wanted to sell out and go to live with his married
daughter, who was the wife of a farmer in the neighborhood.”

“More fool he!” exclaimed Dandy. “I saw the play of ‘Lear’ once.”

“But there was a _Cordelia_ in it, you know, Dandy!”

“Yes; go on.”

“John Legg bought out the old greengrocer, shop, stock, house, furniture
and good will. The rectory people dealt with him, as why not when he was
the only greengrocer in the village? And so he made the acquaintance of
their servant, Julia Quin, and soon proposed to marry her, and as she
did not wish to leave Medge and go with the rector and his wife to
Haymore, she accepted honest John Legg. And I hear that they make a very
comfortable couple.”

“How do you know all this here you are a-telling me of so confident
like?”

“Because in your interests I made very minute inquiries into all the
circumstances, and Mr. Campbell was so good as to give me all the
particulars,” replied Longman. “And, Dandy, will you let me speak to my
other friends—they are waiting, you see?”

“Sartinly, Mr. Longman. Who’s a-hindering on you? I myself am going into
the town to send a telescope message to my niece,” replied the old man,
and with a low bow, intended for all the company, he turned and left the
room.

Ran hastily shook hands with Longman, then leaving him with the others,
hurried out after his old friend, whom he found on the drive.

“Dandy! Dandy, I say! Please stop!” he called.

“Well, Mr. Hay, what’s your will, sir?” the old fellow demanded, turning
to face his host.

“You must not walk into the village. Take the dogcart.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Hay, sir; but——”

“I will have my way. Come down with me to the stables. I have not seen
them yet. But I know there is a dogcart, because Mr. Walling, who is
always wide awake, took a drive in it this morning to get an appetite
for his breakfast before we were up,” said Ran, as he turned into a
footpath leading through the grounds to the rear of the hall, far behind
which were the stables.

Dandy followed him, if the truth is to be told, not unwilling to spare
his old limbs by riding instead of walking to the village.

The stable yard occupied full a square quarter acre of ground, walled in
by massive stone buildings, consisting of stables proper, carriage
houses, harness rooms, coachman’s and groom’s quarters and kennels.

It was full of activity on this morning; for all the fourlegged
creatures there, horses and hounds, seemed spoiling for a run, and were
venting their impatience of restraint—the horses by neighing and kicking
and the hounds by howling and scratching.

“Yo’ ought to have a good hunting party of gentlemen down here for a few
weeks, sir, to take the devil out of the brutes,” said the old head
groom, touching his hat to his master.

“All in good time—a——Tell me your name.”

“Hobbs, sir, at your sarvice.”

“Well, Hobbs, if you have a steady-going horse, have him put to a
dogcart, and find a careful boy to drive Mr. Quin to the village.”

“Yes, sir. Old Dick will be the hoss and Young Sandy the driver. I’ll go
and give the order.”

The groom went across the yard on his errand, while Ran and Dandy walked
off to the kennels to look at the dogs.

“Not one on ’em to be compared to your Tip or my Lion, Mr. Hay, in my
poor opinion!” said Dandy.

“These cannot excel ours in courage, or affection, or fidelity, I am
sure,” replied Ran.

And both men gave deep sighs to the memory of the faithful creatures
they had been compelled by circumstances to leave behind them at the
fort, where, it is true, the two dogs were sure of the kindest treatment
from their new owners—Surgeon Hill, who had adopted Tip, and Adjutant
Rose, who had taken Lion.

“Do you think we will ever see them again, Mr. Hay?”

“Yes, I do. In this world or the next.”

“The next! Mr. Hay, sir!”

“Why not? I believe the creature that once lives, lives forever.
Especially the creature capable of love, courage, fidelity and
self-sacrifice, as so many of the quadrupeds are, must be immortal.”

What Dandy would have said in reply was arrested on his lips by the
approach of the dogcart, driven by one of the under-grooms.

Ran helped his old friend upon the seat, tucked the rug well over his
knees and then inquired:

“Where do you wish to go?”

“To the telescope office in the village.”

“Drive this gentleman to the telegraph office,” said Ran.

“Beg pardon, sir; but there is no telegraph office in the village, and
none nearer than Chuxton,” said the young groom, touching his hat.

“Oh! Chuxton is ten miles off! Where we left the train last night you
know, Mr. Quin,” said Ran.

“Yes, I know! Well, let him drive me there, then! That is if you can
spare the carriage.”

“Of course I can! All day, if you want it.”

“’Cause, you see, I don’t feel aquil to traveling all the way back to
the south of England, after having come all the way up to the north, and
I do want to see my niece very bad. And I mean to send a telescope as
will be sartin to fetch her. Yes, that is so.”

“Very well, then. Drive to Chuxton telegraph office, and then wherever
Mr. Quin wishes to go. You are at his orders.”

The boy took the reins and drove off, and Ran turned again to question
the old groom.

“Has there been much sport about here?”

“None at all, sir. Since the young squire were killed, the old squire
never had no heart for nothing as long as he lived.”

“Ah! How are the preserves?”

“Well, sir, the game is increasing and multiplying to that degree for
the want of sporting gents among ’em to thin ’em out, that for once in a
way poachers is a blessing.”

“Poachers! Why, what is the gamekeeper about, to permit poachers to
trespass?”

“Well, sir, there ain’t no gamekeeper here, nor likewise been none since
the old squire died. The last gamekeeper went off to Australia to seek
his fortune.”

“Thank Heaven!” breathed Ran with fervency, not loud but deep, that now
he could put his friend in office without hurting any one’s feelings.

“You see, it was this a way, sir. When Kirby went to foreign parts, the
old squire was too ill to be bothered about his successor, and after he
died the place was left without one. But surely, sir, Mr. Prowt wrote to
you about all these matters, for he sartinly told me as you had wrote
back how you would wait till you come down here in person to see the
place before you would appoint aither gamekeeper or coachman.”

“What! has the coachman gone too?”

“Surely, sir, Mr. Prowt wrote and told you that, too! He left to better
himself, so he said—took sarvice along of the Duke of Ambleton.”

“What wages do you get as groom here, Hobbs?”

“Head groom, sir, and twenty pund a year and my keep, and bin in the
famberly, man and boy, fifty years, and hope to continuate in it for
fifty more, I was gwine to say, but anyways as long as I can work, and
that will be as long as I live, for I’d scorn to retire.”

“Excellent, Hobbs. Have you a family?”

“Wife, sir, keeping house for me in the cottage there,” said the old
man, pointing to a little stone cottage built in the wall next the
stable, “and one son, sir—boy that driv the dogcart. Steady lad, sir,
though his feyther says it; and one darter, sir, upper housemaid at the
Hall—good girl, sir.”

“You are blessed in your family, Hobbs.”

“Thanks be to Heaven, sir!”

“Now, then, you said your wages as head groom were twenty pound a year.
How much did the coachman get?”

“Just twice as much, sir, forty pound a year, and a good sound house
over his head, and his livery and his beer. And left all that, sir, for
ten pund more, and gold lace on his coat, and the honor of driving a
duke. May the de’il fly away with him!—begging your pardon, sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” laughed Ran. “But you would not have left Haymore
under the same circumstances?”

“Me!—why, sir, I never had the chance, so what would be the use of
boasting? But, indeed, I don’t think I would.”

“Hobbs, can you drive?”

“None better in the world, sir, though I say it.”

“Then you shall be my coachman at the same wages that your predecessor
now gets from his new master,” said Ran, smiling benignly down on the
stupefied face of the man before him.

“Oh, sir! sir! but this is too much, too much for poor me! Such a
permotion as to be coachman! I can hardly believe it, sir! I can’t,
indeed! And at a rise of wages, too! I can’t hardly believe it!” droned
Hobbs, fairly dazed by his good fortune.

“Go and tell your wife, then. And begin to see about your livery, and
fix up the coachman’s cottage—at my cost, Hobbs. All that will help you
to believe it. Good-day.”

With these words the gracious young master left the stable yard and
walked back to the Hall, happy in the feeling of having made others so,
yet grave and thoughtful in the recognition of his responsibilities for
all who were dependent on him.




                               CHAPTER XX
                             THE NEW RECTOR


When Ran entered the morning room, where he had left his friends, he
found them all there, but now gathered in a wide circle around the
glowing sea coal fire in the large open grate, listening to Longman, who
was giving a detailed account of his visit to the rectory and his
evening with his mother.

Ran drew a chair, sat down among them and made one of the audience.

When the speaker had finished his story Ran turned to him and said:

“Now, Longman, if you are ready you may tell me what you meant when you
said that you had something to report in reference to that undutiful son
of worthy John Legg,” said Ran.

“Yes, sir. He has taken ‘holy orders,’ the more effectually to serve the
devil, I fear. And he has been appointed by his brother-in-law to the
living of Haymore parish, worth six hundred pounds, besides the rectory
and glebe—all of which is in your gift, Mr. Hay.”

“Indeed! And who the mischief is the gentleman’s brother-in-law?”
demanded Ran.

“Who but the fraudulent claimant of Haymore? Gentleman Geff, or whatever
his real name may be?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ran, drawing his breath hard. “The plot seems to
thicken! So the deceived wife of our Gentleman Geff, the young lady upon
whom we have all wasted so much sympathy, is really no other than the
pretty adventuress who left her father to seek her fortune! But I think
we heard of her as Lamia Leegh.”

“Well,” said Longman, “it would appear that when brother and sister left
honest John Legg, their shopkeeping father, they must have changed the
spelling of their names from plain Legg to mystic Leegh. The latter has
a more aristocratic sound, you know. At any rate, their name was Legg;
yet you heard of the girl as Leegh, and certainly the letter of the man
to Mr. Campbell was signed Leegh—Cassius Leegh.”

“What did the fellow write to Mr. Campbell about?”

“Oh, to warn him to leave the rectory, as he himself had been appointed
to the living and should enter upon his office in January, after which
he should not require the assistance of a curate.”

“Indeed!” again exclaimed Ran. “I think the fraudulent claimant is
giving away the Haymore patronage in a very reckless way!”

Longman laughed.

“Let us see now how the case stands. The plot thickens so fast that it
requires a little clearing. The Rev. Mr. Campbell was called to Haymore
to fill the pulpit of the late Dr. Orton during the absence of the
latter at Cannes, and remains in the office at a low salary until a
rector is appointed to the living. And my substitute, the fraudulent
claimant, has appointed his unworthy brother-in-law, who has warned the
good curate to leave. Have I stated the case correctly?”

“Quite so,” said Will Walling.

“Very well, then. And we expect the three worthies, Gentleman Geff, Miss
Legg and the Rev. Mr. Legg, calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay
and the Rev. Cassius Leegh, all in full feather, here this evening! We
must be prepared for them. Gentleman Geff must be confronted with the
wife he deserted and the friend he assassinated. Oh, that Miss Legg
might be met by her forsaken father! That is barely possible if John
Legg should take the train for Chuxton immediately on the receipt of
Dandy’s telegram, and come with his wife! And the Rev. Mr. Leegh shall
be received by—the rector of Haymore! But that last item necessitates
prompt action. Longman, come into the library with me, will you?”

The hunter arose and followed Ran upstairs and into the library, where
they sat down at a table on which stood pen, ink and paper.

“Longman,” said Ran, “would it suit you to be gamekeeper of Haymore?”

“Why, Mr. Hay, it would make me the happiest man on earth! But I really
would not wish you to give me the place at another man’s expense.”

“Never fear; it will be at no man’s expense in the sense you mean. There
has been no gamekeeper at Haymore for a year past. The last one left to
seek his fortune in Australia, and no successor has yet been appointed.
The place is yours if you will have it. Indeed, you would please me much
by taking it.”

“Indeed, then, I will take it, sir, with many thanks,” exclaimed the
hunter warmly, his whole face glowing with the sincere delight he felt.

“Then that is settled. Get the keys from the bailiff and examine the
cottage and have it fitted up for yourself and your mother in the most
comfortable manner and send the bills to the bailiff.”

“I will, Mr. Hay. You have made me very happy, for my mother’s sake as
well as my own. We both owe you hearty thanks!”

“Don’t speak of thanks again, Longman. The man who saved my life can
never owe me thanks for anything that I may have the happiness of doing
for him. Now to speak of another matter. Will you kindly take a letter
for me to the Rev. Mr. Campbell?”

“Certainly, sir, with great pleasure.”

“Take a book, then, or amuse yourself in any way you please, while I
write it,” said Ran.

Longman arose and roamed about before the bookcases, reading the titles
of the imprisoned volumes until he was tired of the amusement. None of
the books attracted him. He was not a bookman.

“I have finished my letter now, Longman, if you are ready to take it,”
said Ran, folding and sealing the note in which he had invited Mr.
Campbell to come with his wife and daughter to dine with himself and
Mrs. Hay that evening and confer about the reverend gentleman’s
appointment to the living of Haymore.

“I am quite ready, sir,” said Longman, and he took the letter and put it
in his breast pocket and left the library.

He had scarcely gone when a footman entered and said:

“If you please, sir, the bailiff, Mr. Prowt, is here, asking to see
you.”

“Let him come in here,” said Ran with a smile.

A moment later the bailiff entered, took off his hat, bowed profoundly
to the young squire, and stood waiting.

“Take a seat, Mr. Prowt, if you please. You wished to see me, I am
told,” said Ran pleasantly, though hardly able to control the smile that
lurked in the corners of his eyes and lips.

“Yes, sir,” replied the bailiff, sitting down and placing his hat on the
floor between his feet.

“Well?” inquired Ran after an awkward pause.

“Well, squire, if there is anything amiss I hope you will excuse it. I
really did not expect you down last evening, and made no preparations to
meet you. I am told by the head groom that there was no carriage sent to
the station at Chuxton.”

“It does not matter in the least, Mr. Prowt,” said Ran with a boyish
twinkle in his eyes that he could not suppress.

“Oh, yes, begging your pardon, squire, but it matters very much. I wish
to set myself right with you, sir. I wish to tell you that it was all
the neglect and carelessness of them telegraph people in Chuxton not
forwarding your dispatch in time. You must, in course, sent it yesterday
morning to announce your arrival in the evening, but I never got it
until this blessed morning, when I thought that it was this evening you
were coming. And I did not know any better until I came over here and
stopped at the stable to tell Hobbs to be sure to send the chariot to
meet you. And he told me that you were already here—that you had arrived
last night. I don’t think I ever was so knocked over in my life. And no
one to meet you! And no ceremonies befitting the reception of the Squire
of Haymore and his bride!”

“It is all right. Don’t trouble yourself,” said Ran, now laughing
outright. “Come and dine with me this evening.”

Prowt stared for a moment before answering. Never in the memory of man
had a bailiff been invited to dine with a squire of Haymore. Then he
reflected that the young heir had been found in America, and that
America was a very democratic and republican part of the world, and that
would account for the free and easy ways of the new squire. Only the
bailiff was afraid Mr. Hay might be going to ask the butler and the head
groom to dine with him, also; and that the bailiff could not stand. If
he had never dined with the squire, neither had he ever dined with
butler or groom. While he hesitated, Ran, misunderstanding his
perplexity, said kindly:

“An informal dinner, Prowt. Only the clergyman and his wife and
daughter, my solicitor, my brother-in-law, two friends from America,
Mrs. Hay and myself.”

Prowt drew a deep sigh of relief.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “You do me great honor. When shall I bring my
books for your examination?”

“Not this week, Prowt. This is Thursday. No business until Monday.”

“Just as you please, sir,” said the bailiff, picking up his hat and
rising.

And without more words he bowed himself out of the library.

Ran went downstairs and rejoined his friends in the morning room, and
entertained them with an account of his interview with the bailiff.

“My chief reason for asking him to dinner,” concluded the young man,
“was that he might be present this evening to assist us in receiving Mr.
and Mrs. Gentleman Geff and their esteemed brother and brother-in-law.”

At this moment the luncheon bell rang, and the whole party went across
the hall to the small dining-room.




                              CHAPTER XXI
                               TWO SCENES


Could any member of the party gathered at Haymore Hall have been gifted
with clairvoyance, he or she might have witnessed in succession two
scenes on that morning of December the 15th, distant, indeed, in space,
but near in interest to the household.

The first scene was in a greengrocer’s shop in Holly Street, Medge.

A tall, spare, gray-haired and grave-looking man, of fifty years or
upward, stood behind his counter waiting for morning customers, for it
was still early.

A blue-coated telegraph boy hurried in, put a blue envelope in his hand,
and laid an open book on the counter, saying:

“A dispatch, Mr. Legg; please sign.”

The astonished John Legg, who had never received a telegram in the half
century of his whole life, and now feared that this one must herald some
well-merited misfortune to his unloving and undutiful but beloved son or
daughter, nervously scrawled his name in the boy’s book and tore open
the envelope and read:

                                       “HAYMORE, CHUXTON, YORKSHIRE,
                                                       December 15, 18—.

  “TO MR. JOHN LEGG, Medge, Hantz: I have just come from America; want
  to see my niece; am not able to travel. Let her come to me
  immediately. It will be to her advantage.

                                                           ANDREW QUIN.”

With a gasp of relief that this message was no herald of misfortune, but
rather possibly of good fortune, honest John hurried with it into the
back parlor, where his wife—a red-cheeked, blue-eyed, brown-haired,
buxom woman of forty or more—sat sewing, and said:

“Here, Juley! Read this! What does it mean? Who is Andrew Quin?”

And he thrust the dispatch into her hand.

Her eyes devoured it, and then she answered:

“Why, it is from my dear old Uncle Dandy. He went out to the gold fields
in California about twenty years ago, and we have never heard from him
since. And now he has just come back, and rich as Croesus, of course!
And I am the only relation he has in the whole world! And he wants to
see me. And he isn’t able to travel. And he may be at death’s door,
poor, dear old fellow. John Legg, when does the next northbound train
stop here?”

“Why, I believe there’s a parliamentary stops here at—let me see—nine
o’clock,” answered the greengrocer, slowly collecting his ideas, that
had been scattered by the intense excitement of his wife.

“Then we must go by it!” exclaimed Mrs. Legg, jumping to her feet and
beginning immediately to lock up cupboards and set back chairs.

“What!” cried John Legg, aghast at this impetuosity.

“We must go by it, or he may be dead before we get there, and his
hospital left to fortunes!” exclaimed Julia in such trepidation that she
reversed her words and never perceived that she did so, nor, in his
bewilderment, did John.

“But we haven’t half an hour to get ready in!” he pleaded.

“We must get ready in less time!” cried Mrs. Legg, turning to run up the
stairs that led from one corner of the back room.

“What’ll I do about the shop?” called John in dismay.

“Leave it to the boy a day or two,” replied Julia from the head of the
stairs.

“Everything will go to rack and ruin!” cried the greengrocer.

“John Legg!” demanded his wife, rushing down the stairs fully equipped
for the journey with bonnet and big shawl, an umbrella and bag in
hand—“do you mean for the sake of a paltry, two-penny-ha’-penny shop,
not worth fifty pounds, to risk an immense fortune, that will make you a
millionaire, or a silver or a gold king, or a brown answer (bonanza?),
or something of the sort?”

“‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,’ my dear,” said the man.

“Jedehiah Judkins, come here and bring your master’s overcoat! And, Jed,
do you mind the shop well while we are gone, and get Widow Willet’s Bob
to come and help you, and I’ll pay him and give you half a sovereign if
we find all right when we come back Saturday night,” said Mrs. Legg.

The boy, who had just come in with his empty basket from delivering
vegetables about the town, hastened with big eyes into the back room to
obey his mistress’ orders.

John Legg submitted. He always did. Julia went about fastening doors and
windows, and lastly raking out and covering up the fire.

Then leaving only the key of the front door with “the boy,” the pair
left the house and hurried to the station, where they were just in time
to buy their tickets and jump into a second-class carriage. And before
John Legg had time to recover his routed and dispersed mental faculties
they were whirled halfway to London.

“You are the most energetic woman I ever saw in my life, Julia!” he
said, trying to understand the situation.

“Need to be when there is a brown answer fortune, and a silver kingdom,
if not a gold one, in the question—yes, and a dear, dying uncle, too!”

“I wonder if the boy will remember to take that celery to the vicarage
when the market gardener brings it this afternoon?”

“Oh, bother the celery, and the vicar, too! Think of the silver and gold
kingdom—and—yes, of course, the poor, dear, dying uncle!” said Julia.
And onward they flew northward toward Yorkshire, unconscious that they
were destined to take a part in a very memorable drama to be enacted at
Haymore Hall.

The other scene connected with the same drama, and which the clairvoyant
might have looked in upon, was the elegant private parlor at Langham’s
Hotel, where the counterfeit Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay and the Rev. Mr.
Cassius Leegh sat at an early breakfast.

The personal appearance of Gentleman Geff and his “lady” are familiar to
our readers. That of the Rev. Cassius Leegh may be described. He
resembled his sister. Nature had given him a very handsome form and
face, but sin had marred both.

On this morning both men looked bad; their faces were pallid, their eyes
red, their hands shaky, their voices husky, their nerves “shattered,”
their tempers—infernal!

Gentleman Geff had plunged into the gulf of dissipation to drown
remorse. And the last two months of lawless deviltry in the French
capital had made of him a mental and physical wreck.

His “reverend” brother-in-law was not far above him in the path that
leads down to perdition.

Mrs. Gentleman Geff was as well as serene, and as beautiful as it was
possible for her to be under her adverse circumstances.

But then, being the woman that she was, she had much to console her. She
had come from Paris enriched with Indian shawls, velvet and satin
dresses, laces and jewels which might have been the envy of a duchess.

She wore her traveling suit of navy-blue poplin, for they were to take
an early train for Yorkshire immediately after breakfast. She performed
her duties as hostess at breakfast with perfect self-possession, though
often under great provocation.

“When you are settled at the rectory you will, of course, bring down
Mrs. Leegh and the children. I am quite longing to make the acquaintance
of my sweet sister-in-law and her little ones,” said Lamia softly.

“I don’t know,” sulkily replied her brother. “It’s a bad time—in
midwinter—to move children from the mild climate of Somerset to the
severe one of York.”

“Look here!” angrily and despotically exclaimed Gentleman Geff. “I won’t
have it! You’ve got to bring ’em, climate or no climate, or you’re no
parson for my parish! It was well enough when you were rollicking and
carousing ’round Paris to leave your wife and kids with your
father-in-law in Somerset, but when you’re settled in Haymore rectory
you have got to have ’em with you. It would be deuced disreputable to
have you, the pastor of a parish, living in one place and your wife and
children in another. And I don’t want any reverend reprobates around me,
I can tell you that much!”

“You shall have no cause to complain, Mr. Hay,” replied Cassius Leegh,
controlling his temper and speaking coolly, though his blood was boiling
with rage at the insult, for which he would have liked to knock his
“patron” down.

“I think it is time to go.”

Gentleman Geff arose, muttering curses at all and sundry persons and
things, flung his pocketbook at Mr. Leegh and told him to go down to the
office and settle the bill and order a cab.

Half an hour later Gentleman Geff and his companions were seated in a
compartment of a first-class carriage, flying northward as fast as the
mail train could carry them.

My gentleman’s valet and my lady’s maid traveled by the second class of
the same train.

Gentleman Geff made himself as disagreeable to his fellow travelers as
shattered nerves and bad temper could drive him to be, and as the hours
passed he became so unendurable as to tax to the utmost the forbearance
of his victims, who rejoiced when the day of torture drew to a close and
their train steamed into the station at Chuxton and stopped.

They all go out and stood on the platform. The train started again and
steamed northward. Gentleman Geff looked around for his state carriage
and four. There was none visible. He began to curse and swear.

“Come into the waiting-room, dearest,” said Lamia sweetly. “No doubt
your carriage will be here in a few moments.”

“It should be here now, waiting. I’ll be —— ——!” (with a terrible oath)
“if I don’t discharge every —— —— of them as soon as I get to Haymore!”
he added as he led the way into the building and sat down, not to please
Lamia, but to rest himself, for bodily weakness was one other of the bad
effects of his intemperance.

There were but two other passengers besides Gentleman Geff’s party who
got out at Chuxton.

These were a middle-aged couple, who walked arm in arm to the Tawny Lion
Tavern, engaged the only carriage there, and drove on to Haymore Hall.

These were, of course, Mr. and Mrs. John Legg.

Gentleman Geff and his friends waited and waited, the maid or the valet
going out at intervals to see if the carriage from Haymore Hall had
come, or was coming, Gentleman Geff cursing and swearing freely in the
interim.

At last he burst out with a fearful oath, adding:

“We can’t wait here all night, Leegh—and be —— to you! Be off with
yourself to the Black Lion, or the Brown Bear, whatever the beastly
tavern is called, and see if you can get a fly.”

The Rev. Cassius, glad enough to get out of sight and hearing of his
worthy brother-in-law and patron, hurried off to the Tawny Lion, and
made such haste that he soon returned with the fly, which had already
taken Mr. and Mrs. John Legg to Haymore Hall and had just come back to
the inn.

With many threats, sealed by terrific oaths, of extirpation of all the
domestic establishment at the Hall, Gentleman Geff entered the carriage
with his party and drove off to meet Nemesis at Haymore Hall.




                              CHAPTER XXII
                         AN ARRIVAL AT HAYMORE


When the curate burst into his wife’s sitting-room with the joyful news
that he was to be the Vicar of Haymore, his impetuous delight was not
inspired by family affection alone, although he was deeply sensible of
the benefits his beloved ones would derive from the commodious house and
grounds and the liberal income attached to the living; but he was
relieved and satisfied to know that his new flock, in whom he had
already become interested, would not be turned over to the wolf in
sheep’s clothing he knew Cassius Leegh to be.

Mrs. Campbell received his news with a stare of stupefaction.

“What do you mean?” she inquired at length.

“I mean that Mr. Randolph Hay—the real Mr. Randolph Hay—the real Squire
of Haymore—has offered me the living of Haymore, which is in his gift,
and has invited me to dine with him this evening to talk over the
affair, and begged me to waive ceremony and bring my wife and daughter
with me to meet his wife and friends. And this he asks as a particular
favor, for particular reasons which shall be explained when we meet, he
adds. Of course I shall go, and you will both accompany me,” he
concluded.

“Of course we will,” readily responded Hetty.

“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Jennie in dismay.

“What are you afraid of, my dear?”

“Nothing. But, oh, papa, if I might only remain at home!”

“Jennie, dear, would you disoblige a man who is about to confer a great
benefit upon you?”

“Not for the world, papa. I will go if you think my failure to do so
would displease Mr. Hay.”

“I do not think it would ‘displease’ him in the sense of angering him,
my dear; for, by Longman’s account, he is one of the most amiable and
considerate of men; but I do think, from the tone of his note, that it
would disappoint him, for evidently he has a very strong motive for
wanting our presence at Haymore.”

“Then certainly I will go. But have you any idea, papa, what that motive
can be?”

“I think I have, my dear. You know that he who is now in possession is
the rightful squire. But surely you have not forgotten that the
fraudulent claimant has been daily expected for a week past.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Hetty and Jennie in a breath.

“Well, he is certainly on his way to the Hall this afternoon, and
without a suspicion that the rightful owner of Haymore is in
possession.”

“Oh, Jim!”

“Oh, papa!”

These exclamations broke simultaneously from the lips of mother and
daughter.

“Yes, my dear ones; the felon, when he shall enter the Hall to take
possession, as he will think, of his stolen estate, will be confronted
by the friend he treacherously assassinated and plundered and left for
dead to be devoured by the wolves of the Black Woods in California,
eight months ago.”

“Oh, Jim!”

“Oh, papa!”

“It is a terrible story, my dear ones, as Longman has told it. But
retribution is at hand.”

“And do you think, Jim, that Mr. Hay also wants the bigamist to be
confronted by his forsaken wife?”

“Yes, dear, I think he does.”

“Oh, papa! papa!” cried Jennie, turning pale.

“My dear, you met the man on the steamer when you were alone and you
were not afraid of him. If you meet him at Haymore you will be on my
arm,” said the curate in a reassuring tone.

“And on your arm I shall fear nothing, papa, dear! And now I will not
distress you any more by my nervous fancies. I will go, papa, and behave
as well as I can.”

“That is my good, brave girl!”

“And—I know—Mrs. Longman will take good care of baby while we are gone,”
said Jennie in a tone of confidence, but with a look of doubt.

“Of course she will! There can be no mistake there! She will take better
care of little Essie than you or I could with our best endeavors.
‘Why?’—do you ask?—because she is an experienced nurse and a
conscientious woman—and a tender mother! Are those reasons enough?”
demanded Hetty, laughing.

Jennie nodded.

The proposed visit to Haymore Hall had for its suspected object a very
grave and important matter. Yet these two women began immediately to
think of the trifling items—what they should wear!

It is always so! Whether a woman is to be married or executed, her
toilet seems to be an affair of the most serious consideration.

Mary Stuart’s dress was as artistically arranged for the block as ever
it had been for her bridals.

Jennie’s big trunk was unlocked and invaded. She had several dresses,
gifts from her generous friends in New York, much handsomer than Hetty
had ever possessed; and mother and daughter were near enough of a size
to make any dress in the collection fit either.

Hetty, having her choice, selected a mazarine blue satin, trimmed with
deep flounces of Spanish lace, which very well suited her fair, rosy
face and sunny brown hair. Jennie chose a ruby silk, trimmed with fringe
of the same color, which well set off her rich brunette complexion, dark
eyes and dark hair.

On ordinary occasions of neighborly visiting for so short a distance as
that between the parsonage and the Hall the curate and his wife and
daughter would have walked, but with such—to them—grand toilets, the two
women required a carriage, which now, with his improved prospects, Mr.
Campbell could well afford.

So a passing boy was called from the road and dispatched to the Red Fox
to engage Nahum with his mare “Miss Nancy,” and the nondescript vehicle
called by the proprietor a “fly,” by the curate a “carryall,” and by the
village boys a “shandy-ray-dan.”

At precisely six o’clock this imposing conveyance was at the gate of the
parsonage waiting for the parson and his party.

Meanwhile, at Haymore Hall, preparations were completed for the
reception of the most incompatible company that ever could be gathered
together.

Let us take a look at the people in the house and at the guests they
were expecting

First, as to the inmates, there were Ran and Judy—Mr. and Mrs. Randolph
Hay—their solicitor, Mr. Will Walling; their brother, young Michael Man;
the hunter, Samson Longman, and the old miner, Andrew Quin.

The three last-mentioned men—Man, Longman and Quin—could all swear to
the identity of the squire in possession as the real Mr. Randolph Hay,
and to the fraudulent claimant as an adventurer known to them by the
name of Geoffrey Delamere and the nickname of Gentleman Geff.

To this party was coming Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and their daughter, Mrs.
Montgomery, who could all testify to the identity of the same fraudulent
claimant and bigamous bridegroom, as an ex-captain of foot in her
majesty’s service, whom they had known and who had married Jennie
Campbell under his real name of Kightly Montgomery.

And also Mr. and Mrs. John Legg, who could certainly point out the
deceived “bride,” the so-called Mrs. Randolph Hay, once called Miss
Lamia Leegh, as their daughter, Lydia Legg, and the clerical impostor,
the Rev. Cassius Leegh, as their son Clay Legg.

All these hosts and guests would make up the receiving party who, at
eight o’clock that evening, would be waiting to welcome Gentleman Geff,
his lady and her brother.

At six o’clock the resident party in the Hall were gathered in the
drawing-room in full evening dress, waiting for their guests.

Judy wore her wedding dress of cream-colored silk, trimmed with duchess
lace, but without the veil or orange flowers, and with pearl jewelry
instead. It was the prettiest, if not the only proper dress for the
occasion that she possessed, her wardrobe being but a schoolgirl’s
outfit.

Ran also wore his wedding suit, because—but will this be believed of the
young squire of Haymore?—it was the only dress suit with which the
careless young fellow had as yet thought to provide himself!

Mike, Dandy and Longman wore, also, each his “marriage garment,” which
had been provided for Ran’s and Judy’s wedding, and for the like
reason—that they had no others for full dress occasions.

Will Walling, being the dude of dudes in society, had a choice among a
score of evening suits, so much alike that none but a connoisseur could
have seen any difference between them. He wore one of these.

“Sort of ser’ous time, Mr. Walling,” said old Dandy, who found himself
seated next to Mr. Will near the great open fire.

“Don’t see why it should be for you, Mr. Quin,” said Will Walling.

“No? Don’t ee, now? Well, I allus did hate a furse.”

“Fuss? Why, there will not be any.”

Ran, Judy, Mike and Longman, who were standing in the front bay window
looking out upon the drive and chatting together, now came sauntering up
to the fire.

Ran inquired:

“What is the matter with Dandy?”

“He is afraid there will be a ‘furse,’” gravely replied Will Walling.

Ran burst out laughing.

Before the peals of his mirth subsided, heavy, rumbling, tumbling wheels
were heard on the drive, and the “shandy-ray-dan” drew up before the
Hall door.

The mirthful group composed themselves to receive their first guests.

The door was opened by a footman, who announced:

“The Rev. Mr. Campbell, Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. Montgomery.”

And the party from the parsonage entered the drawing-room.

Ran and Judy went to meet them.

“The Rev. Mr. Campbell?” said Ran interrogatively as he offered his hand
to the curate.

Mr. Campbell bowed assent.

“I am very glad to see you, sir. Mrs. Campbell, I presume? And Mrs.
Montgomery, also? Ladies, I am very happy to make your acquaintance.
Permit me to present you to Mrs. Hay,” said Ran.

And when this and all the other introductions were over and they were
seated near the great open fire that the chill of the December evening
made so welcome as well as so necessary, Mrs. Campbell, observing Judy’s
painful, blushing shyness, and attributing it all only to her extreme
youth and inexperience, and not at all to the conscious ignorance that
she did not expect in the young bride, addressed conversation to her and
tried to draw her out.

But Judy blushed and fidgeted and answered only in monosyllables. She
was so absurdly afraid of falling into that dialect which some of her
friends thought one of the quaintest, sweetest charms about her.

“You have lived most of your life in America?” said Mrs. Campbell,
rather as stating a fact than putting a question.

“Yes, ma’am,” breathed Judy.

“I have never seen America, but my daughter here spent several months
over there, and I think she was very much pleased with the country and
the people—eh, Jennie?” inquired Mrs. Campbell with the intention of
drawing Mrs. Montgomery into the conversation.

“Yes, I was, indeed. Everybody was so kind to me,” replied the young
woman so heartily that Judy felt immediately drawn toward her, and
thenceforth the intercourse of the three became easier.

Mr. Campbell, to promote a good, social understanding, also contrived to
introduce the subject of mining in the gold fields of California. And
here all his companions were, so to speak, at home. Every one, except
the curate’s party, had something to contribute of instruction upon this
matter. Even Judy forgot her fear of falling into dialect, and was led
to speak freely of home life in the mining camps and woman’s work and
mission there.

The whole company was on a full flow of conversation when the butler
opened the door and announced dinner.

Ran immediately arose, offered his arm to Mrs. Campbell, and begged Mr.
Campbell to take in Mrs. Hay.

Mr. Will Walling, with one of his most lady-killing glances, offered his
arm to Mrs. Montgomery.

And they all went to the dining-room.

But neither in the drawing-room nor at the dinner table was the
slightest allusion made to the real motive of their gathering.

An hour later, when the whole party had returned to the drawing-room and
the talk had wandered from the silver mines of Colorado to those of
Siberia, a footman entered the room and spoke to his master apart, and
in a low voice.

“‘Two persons to see Mr. Andrew Quin?’ Show them in here, Basset. Or,
stay!—Mr. Quin!” exclaimed Ran, turning to his old friend.

Dandy came up in a moment.

“Here are two people inquiring for you. They may come upon private
business with you. I don’t know, of course. So, shall they come in here,
or should you prefer to meet them first?” inquired Ran.

“Oh! I know who they are! They are my niece and nevvy from Hantz. I’ll
go and meet them!” said Dandy in a delighted tone.

“And then bring them in here and introduce them to me,” said Ran.

And Dandy followed the footman out into the hall.

There he found a tall, thin, gray-haired man clothed in an ulster from
head to heel, holding in his left hand a warm cap, and on his right arm
a stout, rosy, handsome woman in a black velvet bonnet and a gray plaid
shawl that nearly covered the whole of her black silk dress.

“You—you—you are—my niece—Julia Quin—as was?” inquired old Dandy, moving
doubtfully toward the smiling woman and holding out his hand.

“Yes, indeed; that is, you are Uncle Andrew,” the visitor exclaimed,
taking the offered hand.

“Why, to be sure I am!” he cried, drawing her up and kissing her
heartily. “And would you believe it, my wench, but this is the first
time I have kissed a ’oman for more than twenty years! And now
interdooce me to your hubby.”

“There is hardly need; he knows who you are! Shake hands long o’ your
nephy,” she answered, laughing.

The two men simultaneously advanced and met.

“I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir,” said John Legg.

“So am I yours,” answered Dandy, cordially, if a little incoherently.

“And you didn’t know me, Juley, did you, now?”

“Not by sight, Uncle Andrew. You have changed some,” replied Mrs. Legg,
smiling and showing all her fine teeth.

“So have you! So have you! And a deal more ’n I have! I left you a tall,
slim, fair wench under twenty, and I find you a broad, stout, rosy woman
over forty. If that ain’t a change I’d like to know what a change is!”
said Dandy triumphantly.

“Why, your change! When you left us to seek your fortune in the gold
fields of California you were a stout, broad-shouldered, red-faced and
red-headed man of forty. Now you are a thin, pale, silver-haired old
gentleman over sixty,” retorted Julia, artfully mingling flattery with
truth.

“Yes, that is so; that is so,” meekly assented old Dandy; and then,
meditatively, he added: “And I like it to be so. I like to think a good
deal of my body wasting away in the sweet, sunshiny air while still I am
able to walk about in it; so as when, I leave it there’ll be only skin
and bone to lay in the ground—or very little more.”

“Oh, Uncle Dandy, don’t talk that a way! You can’t be much over sixty,
and you may live to be over eighty or ninety—that is twenty or thirty
years for you to live in this world.”

“What for?”

“‘What for?’ Why—why, to be a comfort to your dear niece who loves you,”
replied Mrs. Legg, not consciously hypocritical, but self-deceived into
the notion that she was sincere.

“Ah!” grunted Dandy in a tone which left his niece in doubt whether he
disbelieved her or not.

Suddenly the old man, feeling himself fatigued by standing a few
minutes, remembered that he had impolitely, even if unintentionally,
kept his relatives in the same position.

“Oh, excuse me! Take seats! take seats!” he said, waving his hands
wildly around the hall among the oaken and leather-cushioned chairs with
which it was furnished.

Mr. and Mrs. Legg seated themselves on two of the nearest.

Dandy drew a third up before then and dropped into it.

“You’ll come home ’long of us and stop for good, Uncle Andrew, I hope,”
said Mrs. Legg.

Before the old man could reply Mr. Legg took up the word.

“Yes, sir, we should be proud to have you a member of our family for the
rest of your life! And may it be a long and happy one!”

“I do thank ye, niece and nephy! I do, indeed! But I don’t know ’bout
going home ’long of you now! You see, I’m stopping here ’long o’ my
young friend, Mr. Randolph Hay, and wisiting of him, am sort o’ at his
orders——” began Dandy, but his niece interrupted him hastily, almost
indignantly, with:

“You don’t mean to say, Uncle Andrew Quin, that while ever you have got
a ’fectionate niece and nephy ready to share their last crust ’long o’
you as you have gone at your age and tuk service at the Hall?”

“Lord! No, wench! What are ye talking on? Didn’t I tell ’ee that Mr.
Randolph Hay was a friend of mine? And didn’t I tell ’ee I was
a-visiting on him? What be ye a-thinking on?”

“Well, then, what did you mean by being at his orders?”

“Oh! just to give my testimony onto a certain matter in case of need.
And I say I can’t give you any answer to your invitation until I see how
things be gwine to turn out at the Hall!”

“Ah! how long will that be?” demanded Mrs. Legg.

“Maybe a few hours, if it don’t go into court; maybe a few centuries if
it do. And in the last case, I sha’n’t be here so long.”

“Uncle Dandy, you speak in riddles.”

“I must do that at the present moment, my dear. But in a few hours, or a
few centuries, if you haven’t guessed them in that time, I will give you
the answers to them riddles.”

“Uncle Andrew, we thought by your sending a telegram to us to ‘come at
once,’ that you were very ill.”

“Well, my wench, I thank you and him for coming so very prompt. I do,
indeed! So much prompter than I could expect! Really, I didn’t think you
would get here until some time to-morrow. But I’m glad and thankful as
you’re here to-night.”

“But you are not ill, Uncle Dandy. You are very well, thank the Lord!”

“I never said I was ill, Juley. I said I wasn’t able to travel. No more
I ain’t. And no more I wasn’t. I’m a feeble old man, wench.”

“Tut! tut! ‘Feeble old man,’ indeed! You are a ‘fine old English
gentleman,’ as the song says. And now you have come home to old England
so well off and so well-looking you will be getting married and putting
some blooming young aunt-in-law over our heads!”

“‘Blooming young’ fiddlesticks!” giggled old Dandy, not displeased at
the words of his niece.

“But what made you telegraph us in such hot haste?”

“’Cause, after being away so long and coming so far, I got into a sort
of fever to see my kin.”

“And we were in a fever to see you, you dear uncle, from the moment we
got your dispatch. And we thank you now for sending it, although it did
frighten us nearly to death on your account.”

“Isn’t it strange you should have cared so much for an old uncle you
hadn’t seen nor heerd tell on for twenty years or more?” demanded Dandy
with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Strange or not, it was so. But is it stranger than that you should have
cared so much for me as to send a telegram and be in a fever to see me?
Come, Uncle Dandy! You know ‘blood is thicker than water.’”

“That is so! Yes, that is so!” muttered the old man meditatively.

“Come, Julia! I think that we must go. You see, Mr. Quin——Or may I call
you Uncle Quin?” inquired John Legg, interrupting his own speech.

“Uncle Quin, Uncle Andrew, Uncle Dandy—whichever you please,” cordially
replied the old man.

“Then, Uncle Quin, I must tell you that we are very glad to find you in
such good health. We are sorry, though, that you cannot go home with us
at once. We shall have to return to Medge to-morrow. To-night, however,
we shall have to find quarters in the village here, and will see you
again in the morning before we leave. Shall we say good-night now?” said
John Legg, offering his hand.

“Oh, stay! stop! I forgot! Mr. Randolph Hay wishes to see you both—wants
to make your acquaintance—and made me promise to bring you into the
drawing-room. Come!” said Dandy, taking the offered hand of his nephew
and trying to draw him toward a door.

John Legg hesitated, looked at his wife, and then inquired:

“Who’s in there?”

“Squire and wife, and brother-in-law and lawyer, parson and wife and
daughter, and a backwoodsman—all plain people as you needn’t be afraid
on; I ain’t.”

“We would rather not go in. We are not exactly dressed for company,
right off a railway journey, and a very long one at that, as we are.
Can’t you step in and persuade the young squire to come out and speak to
us? You can tell him how it is.”

“Well, I’ll go and try,” said Dandy.

And he returned to the drawing-room, went up to Ran, and whispered:

“Mr. Hay, my niece and nephy be plain folk and a bit shy. They want to
pay their respects to you, but don’t like to face the company in the
drawing-room. Will you please come and speak to them in the hall?”

“Certainly,” replied Ran, rising; and then turning to his friends he
added:

“I am called out for a moment. Will you excuse me?”

Smiles and nods from every one answered him.

He followed Dandy to the hall.

“Mr. Randolph Hay, sir,” said the old man with solemn formality, “will
you have the goodness to allow me to interdooce to your honor my niece
and nephy, Juley and John Legg?”

Julia stood up and dropped her rustic, housemaid’s courtesy. John took
off his hat and bowed.

Ran held out a hand to each, saying cordially:

“I am very glad to see you. Your uncle is one of my oldest and most
esteemed friends; so that any friends of his own shall always be most
heartily welcome. You are just from Hantz?”

“Straight, sir. Arrived by the train that reached Chuxton at six o’clock
this evening,” answered John Legg.




                             CHAPTER XXIII
                            ANOTHER ARRIVAL


Now that was the train by which Ran had expected Gentleman Geff and his
suit, and this was about an hour beyond the time when they were due at
Haymore. So his next question was the inevitable one:

“Did any other passengers leave that train for Haymore?”

Then John Legg stopped to laugh a little before he answered:

“Oh! yes, sir. There were two gentlemen and a lady. I didn’t see their
faces nor hear their names, but they seemed to belong to some seat in
the neighborhood, for the tallest of the gentlemen seemed to have
expected the family carriage to be there on the spot to meet the party.
And when he found that it was not, well, sir, I don’t think as in all my
long life I ever heard such a vast amount and choice variety of
cursing.”

“Gentleman Geff all over!” muttered Dandy to himself.

“What became of them?” inquired Ran.

“Don’t know, sir. We left him there cursing land and water, sun, moon
and stars, so to speak, and threatening the destruction of the earth, or
words to that effect, if his carriage and servants failed to appear
within the next five minutes. We walked to the Tawny Lion Inn and
secured the only conveyance to be found and came on here while the
gentleman waited for his coach and four, or whatever it might have
been.”

“And is waiting there still, probably, and will have to wait until your
‘conveyance’ returns.”

“Well, sir, that will not be long. Julia and myself are about to say
good-night,” said John Legg respectfully.

“‘Good-night,’ indeed! By no means! What do you mean? Come two hundred
miles or so to see your uncle here at Haymore Hall, and after an hour’s
visit say good-night? Not at all! You and Mrs. Legg will, I hope, give
us the pleasure of remaining with us during your stay in Yorkshire,”
said Ran heartily.

“You are very kind, sir, and we thank you very much, but——”

John Legg paused and looked at his wife, who did not help him by a word
or a glance.

“But I will take no denial. Where shall I send for your luggage?”
inquired Ran.

“We have nothing but hand-bags, sir, and they are in the carryall
outside. You see, we came directly from the Chuxton station to this
house, and have all we carried in the vehicle with us. We intended to
return in it, and to put up at the Red Fox Inn in your village here.”

“But you will do no such thing. You will get your hand-bags out of the
carriage, send it back to Chuxton—where the swearing gentleman is
waiting, swearing harder than ever, no doubt—and you will remain here
with us.”

“What do you say, Juley?” said John Legg, appealing to his wife. “Come,
woman, can’t you help a fellow a little?”

“What do you say, Uncle Dandy?” inquired Julia, appealing in turn to her
old relative.

“You stop here! Both on you stop! You take Mr. Hay at his word! Ran Hay
means every word that he speaks. If he says he wants you to stop here he
does want you to stop here! And as he does, you ought to do it to please
him as well as yourselves, which you will be sure to do, I know. That’s
all I have got to say!”

While Dandy was speaking and his niece and nephew listening, Ran
beckoned a footman to follow him, and stepped out of the front door and
went up to the driver of the carryall, who stood by the horses’ heads,
clapping his thickly gloved hands and stamping his heavily shod feet to
keep warm.

“You came from Chuxton?”

“Yes, sir, and been waiting here for more’n an hour for the parties I
fotch, and myself near frozen, spite of my piles of clothes and——”

“Charles,” said Hay, turning his head and speaking in a low voice to the
footman, “go in and get a large mug of strong ale and bring it out to
this man.”

The footman vanished on his errand.

The driver continued as if he had not been interrupted:

“Horses like to catch their death of cold, spite o’ two heavy blankets
apiece laid o’ top of them.”

“I am sorry I can do nothing for your horses, but if you think any of
the grooms might, just let them do it,” said Ran.

“No, sir. There can’t nobody do nothing for ’em here. And nothing will
help them but a brisk trot back to Chuxton and a warm mash and good bed
when they get there.”

The footman came out with a pewter quart measure of strong, foaming ale
and handed it to the driver.

The latter took it with a “thanky” to the server and a bow to the
master, and said:

“Thank you, sir. This saves my life. Here’s to a long and happy one for
you and yours. Is the party inside ready to go back, if you please,
sir?” inquired the driver after he had taken one long draught of the ale
and stopped to draw a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“They are not going back. Charles, get the bags and other effects out of
the carriage and carry them into the house.”

The footman obeyed, loading himself with two heavy bags, two rugs and a
large umbrella, and took them into the hall while the driver was taking
his second long pull at the ale.

“How much is your fare?” inquired Hay.

The man stopped to recover breath with another devout inhalation of
enjoyment, and then answered:

“Ten shillings, sir.”

Ran took out his purse and gave the man half a sovereign and half a
crown.

“Thank you, sir,” said the driver, touching his hat, not for the fare,
but for the “tip.”

Then he took the blankets off his horses, folded and put them under his
box and mounted to his seat.

“You had better drive as fast as you can, not only for the sake of
warming the blood of the horses, but for that of cooling the temper of
the gentleman who is waiting for you with his party at the station.”

“Another fare to-night, sir?”

“Yes, so I hear from the people you have just brought.”

“Then the master won’t only have to find fresh horses, but a fresh
driver, sir; for I’m just dead beat. Any more commands, sir?”

“Not any.”

“Good-night, then, sir.”

“Good-night.”

The driver took up his “ribbons” and started his horses in a brisk trot.

Ran turned to re-enter the house.

He was met by John Legg running out bareheaded.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Ran.

“The man has gone off without his fare.”

“Well, go in the house—you will catch your death of cold; but you can’t
stop him now. He is through the lodge gates by this time,” said Ran,
playfully taking John Legg by the shoulders and turning him “right face
forward” to the ascending steps.

They re-entered the house together.

Mrs. Legg had already taken off her heavy shawl and bonnet, and had
arranged her hair before the hall mirror, and stood in her neat plain
dress, with fresh _crêpe lis_ ruches—which she had taken from the flap
pocket outside her bag—around neck and wrists, and her only ornaments a
gold watch and chain and a set of pearls, consisting of brooch and
earrings, which had been her husband’s wedding present to herself and
which she always carried about her when traveling for fear, if left at
home, they might be stolen. These she had now taken from her pocket and
put on.

Altogether she was quite presentable in that drawing-room. And as, with
all, she was a “comely” matron, her husband looked upon her with
pardonable pride as well as love.

But while furtively glancing at his wife he was putting off his ulster
and speaking to his host all at the same time.

“I hadn’t a notion what you were about,” he was saying, “until your man
came in loaded down with our luggage. As soon as I saw that and found
out what you had done I hurried out to pay the fare, but the carryall
had gone.”

“It is all right,” said Ran. “Come in now and let me introduce you to my
friends.”

“Please, Mr. Hay, let me brush his hair and put a clean collar and bosom
on him first. I won’t be two minutes,” pleaded Mrs. Legg.

Ran yielded, and the man’s toilet was made in the hall, as the woman’s
had been a few minutes previous.

Then Ran took Mrs. Legg on his arm and led the way into the
drawing-room, followed by old Dandy and John Legg.

Hay presented his new visitor first to his wife and then to all his
guests. And the plain pair, it is almost needless to say, were as
cordially received by the cultured people from the English rectory as
they were by the border men from the Californian mining camp.

When this little ripple in the circle had subsided all settled again
into small groups.

The four women found themselves temporarily together, and fell to
talking of the weather, servants, children and the approaching Christmas
holidays.

Mrs. Campbell and her daughter sat one on each side of Julia and made
much of her. No word from Hetty or Jennie revealed the fact that Mrs.
John Legg had once been in their service.

But Julia made no secret of it.

“I was housekeeper at the rectory of Medge, ma’am, in the old lady’s
time, three years before his reverence was married.”

“She means in my grandmother’s days,” put in Mr. Campbell.

“And for eighteen years afterward; making twenty-one years in all that I
lived with the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell. I held that child, Miss
Jennie—Mrs. Montgomery that now is—on my lap when she wasn’t twenty-four
hours old. And nursed her and took care of her from the time of her
birth until that of her marriage,” said Julia.

And Jennie, who was holding her hand, raised and pressed it to her own
breast.

“Yes; and I have lived with them ever since, up to the time when they
left to come up here to Yorkshire. Then I took Mr. Legg’s offer and
married him.”

“I hope you have been very happy,” said Jennie.

“I am as happy, dear, as I can be parted from you all. We came to
Haymore to see Uncle Dandy. And we intended to go to-morrow and see you.
We little expected to find you here. I haven’t seen his reverence since
the day he married John and me.”

“That was the last ceremony he ever performed in Medge parish church,”
said Mrs. Campbell.

While they talked in this manner of strictly personal and domestic
matters, the rector himself was one of a group gathered around Mr. Will
Walling, who was another Gulliver or Munchausen for telling fabulous
adventures of which he himself was the hero.

The inevitable subject of mining had suggested to Mr. Will the story of
the horrors of penal serviture in the silver mines of the Ural
Mountains, and he was telling it as if the false charge, the secret
conviction, the exile, the journey, the life in the mines, the escape
and flight through the snow and ice of Siberia, and all the attendant
awful sufferings had been in his own personal experience. And all his
audience listened with the fullest faith and deepest interest—that is,
all except two—Ran, who had heard the story told before to-night, and
John Legg, who had very recently read it in a dilapidated old volume
bought for threepence at a second-hand book stand.

Ran was bored, and could hardly repress the rudeness of a yawn; and he
saw, besides, that John Legg looked incredulous and sarcastic.

Then he thought of the party of sinners who were by this time on their
way to Haymore and to judgment. And then that their coming would bring
pain and shame to more than one of that party. But all—even poor
Jennie—had been prepared for the event except John Legg. Then it
occurred to him that he must warn the poor father of the shock that
might otherwise overwhelm him.

He stopped and said:

“Mr. Legg, will you favor me with a few minutes’ conversation in the
library?”

“Surely, sir,” replied the greengrocer with alacrity as he arose to
accompany his host.

“Friends, will you excuse us for a few moments?”

“Yes, if we must,” replied Will Walling, answering for the company;
“but, really, you know, it is a shame to go before you have heard the
end of the story.”

“Oh, I have heard you tell it many times,” said Ran.

“Yes; but Mr. Legg hasn’t.”

“Oh, I have done better than that. I have been through it. Why, man, I
was the very Enokoff who helped Wallingski to make good his flight
across the frontier. Only my real name was not Enokoff, but Legginoff,
or Legenough, if you like it better,” said the greengrocer as he
followed Ran from the drawing-room.

Will Walling started, but could make nothing of the answer; yet to his
circle of listeners he said in explanation:

“Too bad of Hay to have anticipated me and told that old fellow the end
of the story while they were pretending to listen.”

Meanwhile Ran had led his companion to the library, where both sat down
on a leathern armchair, on opposite sides of a narrow table, on which
they leaned their arms, facing each other.

“Now, then, sir, I am at your service,” said Legg.

“Do you smoke?” inquired Ran.

“Only occasionally; when I need a sedative and philosophy.”

“Exactly. I smoke semi-occasionally for the same reasons. Will you take
an exceptionally fine cigar now? It is an Isabella Regina.”

“Thank you.”

Ran produced a case and matches. They lighted their weeds and began to
smoke.

Ran let a few minutes elapse to allow the sedative to take some effect
upon his guest, and then broke the subject for which he had brought the
old man there.

“Mr. Legg, I hope you will pardon me for asking a question that may seem
to be an unpardonable liberty,” he said in a low voice.

“Ask me what you please, sir. I am sure it will not be an offensive
liberty, since you could not possibly take one,” gravely replied the old
man.

“Then, when did you hear from your son and your daughter?”

“I have no son or daughter, sir. The young man and woman to whom you may
allude forsook our humble way of life as soon as we had finished
educating them above their position, each taking his or her way. Yet I
am often sorry for them and anxious about them, for they were once my
children, though they discard and despise me, for I know that for that
very reason they must come to grief and shame in this world as well as
in the next, if they do not repent and reform. For, look you, Mr. Hay, I
am an old man, and all my long life I have noticed this one thing—that a
man may break every commandment in the decalogue, except one, and he may
escape punishment in this world, whatever becomes of him in the next. I
say he may, and he often does. But if he breaks the Fifth
Commandment—called the Commandment with Promise—his punishment, or his
discipline of pain and failure, comes in this world. However, upon
repentance, he may be forgiven in the next. This is the fruit of my
observation and experience of men. I cannot answer for those of other
people.”

“Well, Mr. Legg, I fear your opinion is about to be sustained in the
fate of the young people. They are both about to come to grief; and I am
glad for the girl’s sake that you are here to-night, for I am sure you
would stand by your daughter in her trouble,” said Ran.

The old man stared at the earnest young speaker and then said:

“So it was for this, Mr. Hay, that you made old Andrew Quin bring me
here by telegraph.”

“No! Heaven knows I had nothing whatever to do with bringing you to
Haymore. That was entirely Mr. Quin’s own idea.”

“Then it was old Andrew that worked to bring about my visit here in the
interest of my undutiful daughter.”

“No! Again you are wrong. Andrew Quin knew nothing whatever of your
chance of meeting your son or daughter at Haymore.”

“Then the present crisis is accidental.”

“Providential, rather.”

“I stand corrected. Where are these people now?”

“They are on their way to this house. They will be here in one hour from
this time.”

“My wretched son and daughter?”

“Yes, Mr. Legg. Your son and daughter, and the man that she believes to
be her husband.”

“The man that she believes to be her husband! Believes only! Heaven and
earth! has she fallen as low as that?” groaned the father.

“Not knowingly. Not guiltily. Neither state, church nor society will
hold her guilty of a deep wrong that she has suffered, not committed.
Hers was not an elopement. Not a clandestine marriage. Her courtship was
open. Her engagements approved by all her friends. Her wedding was
public, and the reception that followed was the social event of the
season.”

“Yet the man is not her husband?”

“No.”

“How so?”

“Because he was and had been a married man for two years previous to his
meeting with your daughter. Because he was and is a bigamist. More than
that, he is a forger, a perjurer, a swindler, a highway robber and a
midnight assassin!”

“Great Heaven! Great Heaven!” groaned the wretched father, covering his
face with his hands.

“In a word, this man may be called the champion criminal of his age,”
continued Ran, unmercifully “piling up the agonies.”

“And how is it that he is at large?”

“Because his crimes have only recently been brought to light.”

“And this man has betrayed my poor girl!”

“It was not her fault.”

“Yes—ah, me!—it was. Her pride, beauty and ambition have brought her to
ruin.”

“No! You may still help and save her.”

“I doubt it. But tell me all about it,” said poor John Legg, sinking
back in his chair and covering his working features with his open palms.

Ran began and told the whole story of the connection of Gentleman Geff,
Lamia Leegh, Jennie Campbell and himself, comprised within the last
year.

“And in the room there,” he concluded, “gathered to meet and confound
the great criminal are the witnesses of his crimes, the testifiers to
his identity, and, more terrible than all, his victims, raised as it
were from the dead against him. Among them Jennie Montgomery, the
daughter of James Campbell, the girl who was nursed and brought up for
sixteen years by your good wife, and who was married, then deserted, and
finally stabbed by that felon. Among them, too, myself, Ran Hay, the
friend who shared his cabin and his crust—nay, his heart and soul—with
him, and yet whom he shot down from behind at midnight in the Black
Woods of California. Among them, too, will be the wronged father of that
unhappy girl——”

“No! no! No! no! Oh, Mr. Hay! I cannot be present at that scene! The
sight of me would add to her suffering. No! When it is all over, and the
man who has spoiled her life has been exposed, then take care of her for
a few hours and afterward let her know of her father; that, however his
heart may have been hardened against his vain, haughty, disdainful
daughter, it is softened by his humbled, grieved and suffering child.
Let her know that her father’s arms and her father’s home are ever
opened to his daughter. But I cannot see her to-night, Mr. Hay. I am
very grateful to you, sir. I understand you now. But please leave me and
send Julia to me. She knows how to deal with me better than any one
else.”

“I will do so at once. And, Mr. Legg, please use this house and the
servants just as if they were entirely your own. Call for anything you
may like, and do exactly as you choose,” said Ran as he took the old
man’s hand, pressed it kindly, and left the library.

Then John Legg dropped his head upon his folded arms on the table and
burst into tears.

Other arms were soon around him.

He looked up.

Julia stood there.

He told her all in fewer words than Ran had taken to tell the story.

She drew a chair and sat down beside him, took his hand and held it
while she said:

“Well, don’t cry no more. The girl has had her lesson; but the shame of
her marriage is not hern or ourn. We will take her home and give her
love and comfort and peace, if we cannot give her happiness. I will be
as true and tender a mother to her as if she were my own hurt child. And
her own mother looking down from heaven will see no cause to blame me.
At Medge her story need never be known. She will be the Liddy Legg of
her youth. She went for to be a governess in a rich American family—she
has come home now for good. That is true, and it’s all of the truth that
need be known at Medge. The writing between the lines need not be read
there. And there is Uncle Dandy, who is just as kind as he is rich. He
will surely be good to the poor gal.”

Suddenly Julia paused and fell into deep thought.

While she had been comforting her husband in his sorrow over his
miserable daughter her own better nature was aroused, and when finally
she had occasion to allude to her old uncle she felt ashamed of the
selfish and avaricious spirit that had inspired her to run after him for
his imaginary wealth and to covet its inheritance, and she secretly
resolved to try, with the Lord’s help, to put away the evil influence
and think of the old relative as a lonely old man whose age and
infirmities it should be not only her duty but her pleasure to cherish
and support.

And then the spirit of avarice departed for the time being, at least;
for a devil cannot endure the presence of an angel.

While this change was silently passing within her she still held her
husband’s hand.

At length she spoke again, slightly varying the subject.

“What about the boy?” she inquired, referring to his son.

“The man, you mean; for he is twenty-eight years old. I don’t know! I
hope he will never get a pulpit, for I know this much, that he is
totally unfit for one; yes, and the bishops, whose boots he is always
licking in the hope of preferment, know it, too! He got the promise of
the living here at Haymore from the fraudulent claimant who has ruined
us all, or tried to do so; but that goes for nothing at all, for Mr.
Randolph Hay has already given it to the Rev. Mr. Campbell, a good man
and worthy minister. So my vagabond will also have to meet with
humiliating disappointment along with his felonious patron and wretched
sister.”

“Think no more on it, except to do the best you can and leave the rest
to the Lord,” said Julia.

At this moment the door opened and a footman entered with a large tray
laden with tea, bread and butter, game pie, cakes, sweetmeats and other
edibles. He put it down on the tables between the two people and said:

“My mistress thought, sir, that you might like refreshments after your
journey. And would you prefer a bottle of wine, sir?”

“No, thank you; nothing more whatever. You need not wait,” replied Mr.
Legg.

The man touched his forehead and left the room.

Judy had remembered what Ran, with all his goodness of heart, had
forgotten.

But, then, it is almost always Eve, and seldom or never Adam, who is

                    “On hospitable thoughts intent,”

in the way of feeding at least.

Julia poured out tea for her husband and filled his plate with game pie
and bread and butter, and made him eat and drink and set him a good
example in that agreeable duty.

In the meantime the company in the drawing-room were getting a little
weary of waiting.

Mr. Hay had contrived to draw the curate aside, where they could settle
the affair of the living. It was but a short conference, for Mr.
Campbell was glad and grateful to accept it. At the end of their talk
the minister said very sincerely:

“The utmost that I dared to hope for was the curacy under the new
rector, whoever he should be! But the living! It is more than I ever
dreamed of or deserved! Yet will I, with the Lord’s help, do my utmost
for the parish.”

What Ran might have replied was cut short with some sudden violence.

First by the heavy rumbling and tumbling of some clumsy carryall over
the rough drive as it drew up to the front of the Hall and stopped; then
by loud and angry tones of voice; then by a resounding peal of knocks on
the door which seemed to reverberate through the entire building.

The arrival was an embodied storm that threatened to dash in the entire
front of the house.

In the library John Legg sprang up and bolted the door against the
uproar, and then sat down by his trembling wife.

In the drawing-room all was excitement and expectation.

“It’s him!” exclaimed old Dandy, with his few spikes of white hair
rising on end around his bald crown. “It’s him! Straight from the pit of
fire and brimstone, and possessed of the devil and all his demons!”

In the hall the frightened footmen hastened to throw open the front
door.

Gentleman Geff burst in, cursing and swearing in the most appalling
manner, and threatening every one in his house with instant discharge,
death and destruction, for having kept him waiting at Chuxton so many
hours and not having sent his coach and four and mounted servants to
meet him!

So, raving like a madman whose frenzy is heightened by _mania a potu_,
he broke into the drawing-room in the midst of the assembled company.

Ran Hay arose and advanced down the room to meet him.




                              CHAPTER XXIV
                                 AT BAY


Randolph Hay advanced to meet the violent intruder.

Gentleman Geff was still raging and threatening.

“How do you do, Mr. Geoffrey Delamere?” coolly inquired Ran, calling the
man of many aliases by the name by which he had known him in California.

Gentleman Geff stopped suddenly and drew himself up with drunken
arrogance.

In the quiet, low-voiced, well-dressed young gentleman who stood before
him, with clear, pale complexion, neatly trimmed hair and mustache, who
wore light kid gloves, and had a rosebud in his buttonhole, he did not
recognize the rough, rollicking, sunburned and shock-headed lad who had
befriended him at Grizzly Gulch, and whom he himself had shot down,
robbed and left for dead, to be devoured by wolves in the Black Woods of
the gold State, and whose name and inheritance he had stolen.

“Who in thunder and lightning are you, you villain? And what the fire
and brimstone are you doing here, in my house, you rascal?” he fiercely
demanded, and without waiting for an answer he fell to cursing and
swearing in the most furious manner, ending with: “If you don’t get out
of this in double-quick I’ll have you kicked out of doors and into the
horse pond, you scoundrel!”

“Perhaps if you give yourself the trouble to look up in my face you may
recognize me, as well as my right to be here,” said Ran calmly.

Gentleman Geff stared.

“You should remember me. It has not been so long; only since the second
of last April that we parted company in the Black Woods of California,”
continued Ran.

Then the criminal’s face blanched, his jaw fell, his eyes started, he
stared with growing horror for a moment, then reeled, and must have
fallen but that he was caught in the strong arms of Longman, who
supported him to a high-backed armchair and sat him down in it, where he
seemed to fall into a state of stupefaction. The awful shock of this
meeting had not sobered him—he was too far gone in drunkenness for that;
but it had reduced him to a state of imbecility.

Meanwhile Mr. Cassius Leegh, who had been engaged outside doing all the
duties of his patron, seeing to the luggage, paying off the carryall,
and even taking care of his sister, now strutted into the room with the
lady on his arm, his head thrown back, his nose in the air, and
altogether with a fine manner of scorn.

He was not so drunk as his patron; he was only drunk enough to be a very
great man, indeed; but not to be a very violent one.

“What is the meaning of this irregularity?” he loftily demanded. “We did
not expect company!”

“We did,” said Ran with a touch of humor in his tone.

“Pray, who are you, sir?” demanded Leegh, throwing up his head.

“Ask your companion there,” replied Ran with a wave of his hand toward
the panic-stricken object in the armchair.

“Hay!” exclaimed Leegh, turning to his patron. “What in the dev—what on
earth does all this mean? Who are all these people?”

Gentleman Geff opened his mouth, gasped, rolled his eyes and sank into
silence.

“Can’t you speak, man? What the dev—what is the matter with you? And
what is all this infer—this confusion about?” angrily demanded Leegh.

Gentleman Geff gasped two or three times, rolled his eyes frightfully
and replied:

“It is the day of judgment! And the dead—the murdered dead—have risen to
bear witness against me!—have left their graves to cry ‘blood for
blood’!” he shrieked; and then his eyes stared and became fixed, his jaw
fell and his face blanched.

“Poor idiot!” exclaimed Mr. Leegh in extreme disgust. “I never saw his
so drunk as this. If he goes it at this pace he will soon come to the
end of life. I find I must take command here and clear the house. Have I
your authority to act for you, sister?” he inquired in a whisper of the
woman on his arm.

“Yes—yes,” she faltered faintly; “but take me first to a chair or sofa.
I feel as if about to faint. Oh, what does is all mean?”

“It means that our friend here,” he replied, pointing to the collapsed
criminal in the chair, “has delirium tremens. And ‘has ’em bad,’ as the
old costermonger used to say of his cousin,” he added as he placed his
sister in a large, cushioned armchair, into which she sank exhausted.

Then he glanced over the scene, taking stock of the company preparatory
to his work of clearing the room.

Nearest to him, on his right hand, stood the young colossus, Samson
Longman, leaning over the chair of poor old Dandy, who sat with his bald
head dropped and his withered face hidden in the palms of his hands.

These two men were both strangers to Mr. Leegh, who did not feel
inclined to commence his work of expulsion with the giant or his
immediate protégé.

A little further off, on his left, stood a group of three—Ran, Mike and
Will Walling—talking together. These were also strangers to Mr. Leegh,
who did not feel disposed to begin with them either.

Still further off, straight before him, at the other end of the room,
was another group, each individual of which he recognized. These were
the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, and their daughter, Jennie, whom he had
often visited at their parsonage in Medge; and to Mr. Campbell he had
but lately written, as the reader may remember, warning him to leave the
rectory, to which he himself—Leegh—had been appointed.

Here, then, was his opportunity. He would begin with these.

The rector—as we must call him now, since his induction into the Haymore
living by Mr. Randolph Hay—was seated on a corner sofa with his wife and
daughter, the latter sitting between her father and her mother, with her
distressed face hidden in that mother’s bosom. Yet Leegh had
instinctively recognized her as well as her parents.

He went up, nodded to Mr. Campbell and offered his hand.

The rector bowed in return, but did not take Leegh’s hand.

“I am surprised to see you here this evening, sir. How do you do, Mrs.
Campbell? I hope Miss Jennie is quite well,” said Leegh in an offhand
way, not choosing to notice the rector’s coolness, not knowing or
suspecting that he was the rector.

“I am here at the invitation of Mr. Randolph Hay,” said Mr. Campbell.

“My daughter is quite well, thank you, Mr. Leegh,” said Mrs. Campbell.

Both the husband and the wife answering his careless greeting
simultaneously.

“I am glad to hear of Miss Jennie’s good health. She is only tired,
then, perhaps, or sleepy? Did you say you were here at the invitation of
the squire, Mr. Campbell?”

“Yes, sir; of Mr. Randolph Hay,” calmly replied the rector.

“Then he must have been even drun—I mean, more incomprehensible than he
is now. Pray, did he also invite all these other people I see here?”

“I think not. He did not invite you, or your sister, or Capt.
Montgomery,” replied Mr. Campbell.

“Didn’t invite me or my sister! Why, my sister is his wife, man, and I
am his brother-in-law! And he brought us down with him to-night.”

“I think not,” said the rector.

“You think not! Why, here we are, anyway. Here am I. There is my sister
in that armchair, somewhat prostrated and disgusted, to be sure. And
there is her husband on that high-back throne, somewhat ‘disguised,’ as
one might say.”

“I think you are mistaken in all that you have said,” quietly remarked
Mr. Campbell.

“I think that everybody in the room, except myself, is drunk or
demented, or most likely both!” exclaimed Leegh, losing his temper and
now speaking recklessly, for he was not yet quite sober.

Mr. Campbell made no reply to these words.

“Will you be good enough to explain yourself?” rudely demanded Leegh.

“I have no explanation to make about myself. For any other questions you
would like to ask I must refer you to Mr. Randolph Hay himself.”

“He is in a fine condition to answer questions, is he not, now? Look at
him!” said Leegh, pointing to the abject creature in the chair.

The rector looked and sighed to see the human wreck.

“Now, then, will you explain?”

“No; I must still refer you to Mr. Randolph Hay.”

“Confound your insolence!” between his grinding teeth. And then, aloud:
“You got my letter, I presume?”

“Warning me to vacate the rectory?”

“Of course. What else should I have written to you about?”

“I got your letter.”

“Well, I hope you are ready to go. Because I shall certainly enter into
possession on the first of January,” said Leegh rudely.

“The rectory is even now quite ready for the new incumbent.”

“I am glad to hear it, though I shall not care to take possession until
the first of January. And now, Mr. Campbell, excuse me for reminding you
that the hour is late, and suggesting that, as this is the evening of
Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay’s arrival, it would be in good form for
visitors to retire.”

“Thank you: but I must speak to my host and hostess first.”

At this moment Judy came up from some obscure part of the big room in
which she had been lurking like a frightened kitten.

Mr. Campbell made room for her, and Judy sat down beside her friends.

“Who is this young lady? Will you introduce me to her?” said Leegh with
one of his lady-killing smiles.

“Excuse me, sir. I would rather not do so,” said Mr. Campbell.

And then turning to Judy, who had looked up with surprise and pity, for
she could not bear to see any one pained or mortified, he added in
explanation:

“No, my dear; I cannot do it.”

Then, with a smothered imprecation, Leegh turned on his heel and
sauntered down the room to rejoin his sister, and feeling as if he were
in a very weird and ugly dream.

In the meanwhile, however, Ran, Mike and Will Walling had been taking
counsel together, and often glancing from the stupefied figure of
Gentleman Geff, who still sat with blanched face, dropped jaw and
starting eyes, staring into vacancy, to that of Lamia Leegh, who
reclined on her chair with closed eyes and in a half-fainting condition.

At length Ran from the pity of his heart said:

“Walling, I cannot bear to expose that poor woman to the awful
humiliation of hearing the whole of that fellow’s villainies exposed. I
will go into the library and persuade her poor father to receive her in
there and save her from this trial. And do you go to her and break the
news of Mr. Legg’s presence in the house. You need tell her no more as
yet. The worst need not be told until later.”

“Very well, I will do as you say. There is her precious brother talking
to Mr. Campbell. I wonder what he is saying,” said Will Walling as he
went up and stood beside the chair of Lamia Leegh.

She never moved or opened her eyes. She did not seem to have perceived
his presence. He wished to address her, but hardly knew what name to
call her. If he should call her by her real name, or even by the name
she bore in New York before her marriage, it would startle and offend
her. It would seem a deliberate insult. If he should call her by Ran’s
name it would be by a false one.

The last alternative, however, was the one on which he decided to act.
It could do no harm, he thought, to humor her delusion by calling her by
the name she honestly supposed to be hers by right of marriage.

He laid his hand lightly on the back of her chair, stooped, and said
softly:

“Mrs. Hay!”

She started, opened her eyes, sat up and gazed at him.

“I have startled you. I am sorry,” he said.

“Mr. Walling! You here! In England! At Haymore!” she exclaimed, gazing
at him as if she could not turn away her eyes.

“Yes, as you see!” he answered.

“And we did not know you were coming. At least, I did not. And, oh! what
brought you here? I don’t mean to be rude, though the question seems a
rude one.”

“It is a most natural one. I came—for a change,” replied Will Walling
evasively.

“And when did you arrive?”

“In England? Tuesday.”

“And when did you come to Haymore?”

“Late last night.”

“You came straight here, then, expecting to find us at home, and found
no one to receive you—except the servants, of course. I hope they made
you comfortable. And, of course they told you that we were to be home
to-night.”

“Yes, of course, thank you.”

“I am so glad you are here. And, oh, Mr. Walling, since you are here,
will you please to tell me who all these strangers are and why they are
here, and what, oh! what has reduced my husband to that condition? He
looks as if he were struck with idiocy,” said Lamia with ill-concealed
scorn and hatred.

Will Walling thought within himself that she would have little to suffer
from wounded affections, whatever she might have to endure from humbled
pride. Still, he pitied her, and answered gently:

“That group on the sofa, to whom your brother is speaking, consists of
the Rev. Mr. Campbell, his wife and daughter, who are quite old friends
of Mr. Leegh.”

Lamia had never heard the name of Jennie Montgomery’s parents. She
scrutinized the group, and then remarked:

“That girl who is leaning on the elder woman’s shoulder reminds me
strongly of some one whom I have seen somewhere, but I cannot remember
where, for I cannot quite see her clearly at this distance. And who are
the other people in the room?”

“They are all friends of Mr. Randolph Hay who knew him in California,
before he came into his estate.”

“Oh, how interesting! And they came here to see him?”

“Yes, and to give him a reception in his own house,” said Will Walling,
not quite truly.

“Oh, how interesting! And, Mr. Walling, who is that pretty young woman
who has just gone up to the clergyman’s party?”

“Some friend of the family. Here comes your brother. He has just left
the group. And before he comes, my dear Mrs. Hay, I must tell you that
there are others, or rather, there is one other person in this house in
whom you are more intimately interested than in all the rest,” said Will
Walling very gravely.

Lamia looked a little disturbed.

“Who can that be?” she inquired in a low, faltering voice.

“Can you not surmise? Think what near relatives you have living.”

“I—have no near relatives living—except my brother, and—my father.”

“Your father is here, longing to see his only daughter.”

“My father here? What has he come for?” demanded this Goneril in so
sharp a tone of displeasure and annoyance that Will Walling lost all
pity for her and spoke near his purpose when he answered:

“He is waiting here in fatherly love and compassion, to be a shelter to
his only daughter in the hour of her utmost need.”

Lamia turned deadly pale and sick. The words of the lawyer, taken
together with the awful exclamation of her husband before he fell into
his stupor, warned her that some terrible revelation was at hand.

“Oh! this is some horrid nightmare!” she muttered.

At this crisis the sauntering and unsteady steps of Mr. Leegh brought
him up to his sister’s side.

“And now!” he exclaimed, “what is all this? And who the
dev—deuce—mischief are you, sir?”

“Oh, Cassius!” cried Lamia in great excitement. “This is Mr. Walling, of
the firm of Walling & Walling, New York, of whom you have heard us
speak. There is something dreadful the matter that has gathered all
these people here. He tells me that our father is here also——”

“The old man! What is the—what has brought him here?” demanded Leegh in
as sharp a tone as his sister had used.

Will Walling was as much disgusted with the one as with the other. He
answered the question:

“Your father is here, Mr. Leegh, to succor his daughter in her distress.
Presently I shall ask you, her brother, to lead her to your father’s
presence.”

“It is my husband. My beast of a husband! What has he been doing! Oh,
Heaven! I heard him say something about murder, and I thought it was
only his drunken raving. Has he committed murder, then, and will he be
hanged? If so, I will never show my face in England or New York again!”
exclaimed Lamia, losing all decent self-control and becoming hysterical,
not from anxious affection, but from alarmed pride.

“Compose yourself, madam. There is no murder on his hands. There is
nothing but what you may get over in the peace of your father’s house,”
said Will Walling.

“Why cannot you tell me what it is, then?” demanded Lamia, breaking into
sobs and tears.

“Yes! why the mischief can’t you speak out?”

“Because I gave my word not to do so. Because, in any case, I would not
do so. Because it is not even proper that I should. And, finally,
because it is best that your sister should hear what she must from her
father.”

“It is a nightmare! A horrid, hideous nightmare!” cried Lamia, sobbing
violently.

“When are we to hear this news, whatever it may be—this mystery, this
calamity—from the old gentleman?” roughly demanded Leegh.

“When the gentleman who is with him now comes out to tell us that your
father is ready to receive you,” replied Will Walling.

“By ——! Upon my honor, you are very cool, sir,” sneered Leegh.

“It is a nightmare! A ghastly, deadly nightmare!” wailed Lamia.

“It it the day of doom, and the quick and the dead rise in judgment!”
groaned a deep, hollow voice.

It was that of Gentleman Geff. His rolling eyes had fallen upon a group
composed of Mike, Dandy and Longman, and he sat staring in horror upon
them.

“That drunken idiot ought to be carried up to bed, Lamia,” said Leegh in
strong disgust.

“I will not have him touched,” replied the woman, with a shudder.

In the meantime Randolph Hay had crossed the hall and turned the knob of
the library door. He found it locked. Then he rapped.

“Who is there?” inquired the quavering voice of John Legg.

“It is I, your friend, Hay,” replied Ran.

The door was instantly opened by Julia Legg.

“Please excuse us and come in, Mr. Hay. We only locked the door to keep
that terrible man from bursting in upon us,” said Julia apologetically.

“Quite right,” replied Ran, good-humoredly, as he entered the room.

He found John Legg still sitting at the narrow table from which the
little supper had not yet been removed. The poor man looked pale,
haggard, anxious and many years older than he had seemed a few hours
before.

Ran also took the precaution to lock the door before he came and seated
himself at the table opposite John Legg. Julia drew a chair to the side
of her husband, sat down and took his hands in hers.

“You look troubled, Mr. Hay. You have something more to tell me about my
poor girl, and you shrink from telling it. But speak out, sir. I can
bear it,” said John Legg, with stoical resignation.

“No, indeed, my friend, it is nothing more that I have to communicate of
her; at least, nothing ill. I came in here only, to plead for a little
change in our plans,” said Ran soothingly.

“What is it, dear sir? Your kind will should be our law.”

“By no means!” earnestly exclaimed Ran. “But the change I wished to make
is this: You remember that you proposed to keep out of your daughter’s
way until she should have heard the worst that she must hear of her real
position?”

“Yes. I shrank, and still shrink, from adding to her pain and
mortification by my presence,” sighed the unhappy father.

“But, my dear Mr. Legg, consider for one moment. She has not yet heard
the humiliating facts, but it is absolutely necessary that she should
hear them to-night. Now is it not better that she should hear them from
your lips than from mine or from my lawyer’s? Would she not suffer less
to have the truth told her gently here, in private, by the lips of her
father, than out there, in public, by the lips of a stranger?”

While Ran spoke John Legg sat with his gray head bowed upon his hands in
deep, sorrowful reflection, and when Ran ceased to speak the poor father
made no reply.

“What do you think about this, Mr. Legg?” gently persisted Ran.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” moaned the old man in a heartbroken tone.
“What do you say, Julia?” he piteously inquired, raising his head and
appealing to his wife.

She took his hand again, and looking tenderly in his troubled face,
answered gravely:

“I think, John, indeed, I think, that you had better do as Mr. Hay
advises. It would be dreadful for that poor girl to hear of her
misfortune facing all those people in there! And you know the man who
betrayed her and committed countless other crimes must be exposed in
public and then expelled from the house.”

Julia Legg spoke as she thought, but, in fact, Ran had no intention of
turning the wretch in question out of doors in this freezing winter
night.

“Julia, my dear, I have such confidence in your judgment that I will do
as you say,” replied John Legg in a low voice. Then turning to Ran, he
said:

“Mr. Hay, I am deeply grateful to you for all the aid and comfort and
counsel you give me. You may, sir, if you please, bring or send my poor
child to me.”

“I will do so at once,” said Ran, and he arose and left the room.

“And I will stand by you through all, John. I will be as good a mother
to your unhappy girl as I am a true wife to you,” said Julia, still
holding his hand in hers.




                              CHAPTER XXV
                          FATHER AND DAUGHTER


And so they waited in suspense for a few moments until the door opened
and Mr. Leegh entered, as usual, with his head thrown back, his nose in
the air, and his sister on his arm. His head was bowed upon her breast,
and her face was pale and her eyes red and swollen.

John Legg arose and went to meet her with trembling nerves and
outstretched arms. He was but a little over fifty years of age, yet for
the last few hours he looked to be over seventy.

“My dear, dear Lyddy! My own poor child!” he said, drawing her to his
breast and holding her there, while he put out his hand to his son and
said:

“How do you do, Clay?”

“I am well, sir, thank you. How do you do yourself?” inquired the
dutiful son in an offhand, nonchalant manner.

“As you see me, Clay. Not very well,” replied the grieved father, as he
sank into a large cushioned chair that his wife had pushed up to him,
and drew his daughter down upon his lap with her head against his
shoulder, where she lay sobbing her soul forth in pride and anger—not in
love or sorrow. She had not spoken one word as yet since she entered the
room.

Clay Legg, as we must henceforth call him, because it is his only right
name, threw himself into another armchair and said:

“I am told, sir, that you have something to communicate to us.”

“Yes, I have, Clay. Do not cry so. Lyddy, my dear. I will stand by you.
Your father will stand by his daughter, and love her and comfort her,
and shelter and protect her against all the world,” he said, turning
away from his insolent son and bending over his wildly hysterical
daughter.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Clay Legg, “since you have something to
communicate, hadn’t you better communicate it?”

“Yes,” replied his father, with a sigh.

“But first,” exclaimed Clay Legg, “here is a stranger present. Are we to
discuss private family affairs before a stranger? And who is that
person, anyway?” he demanded, jerking his thumb in the direction of Mrs.
Legg, who had retired to a short distance and where she sat down.

“Oh, I ought to beg her pardon! For the moment I forgot. Julia, my love,
will you step this way?”

Mrs. Legg came promptly at her husband’s request, and stood before the
group.

“My dear Julia, this young man here is my son, Clay, whom you have never
seen before. Clay, this is Mrs. Legg, my wife, your new mother. I hope
you will be the best of friends!” pleaded the husband and father.

“Indeed, I hope so, too!” earnestly responded the new wife, as she held
out her hand with hearty good will to her stepson.

He drew himself up stiffly and bowed, ignoring her offered hand.

John Legg noticed his manner and frowned with pain, not anger, and to
cover the awkwardness, said:

“And this weeping girl on my bosom is my daughter, Lydia! She cannot
speak to you yet, my dear. She has not even spoken to me, her father,
whom she has not seen before for the last three years! But she will be
better presently, and then I feel sure that you and she at least will be
good friends.”

“Yes, indeed, John! I know we shall!” heartily responded Julia.

“Now sit down, my dear, and make yourself comfortable. You already know
that I have a painful revelation to make to my son and daughter here;
but as the misfortune to be spoken of was caused by no conscious
complicity of theirs, it should not cause either of them too much grief,
I think.”

“No, indeed! It was not their fault, so they should not mourn over it,”
warmly assented Julia.

“See here, sir! Are you going to discuss private family matters in the
presence of this person?” demanded Clay Legg.

“‘This person,’ sir, is my beloved wife. I have no secrets from her. She
already knows as much as I do myself, and as much as I have to tell
you,” replied John Legg, speaking for the first time with some severity.

“Tell me one thing, if you please, sir.”

“What is that?”

“Am I personally concerned in what you are about to communicate in the
presence of a stranger?”

“No, not personally—not at all interested except through your sister.”

“Then that is her concern. If she choose——” And he turned on his heel
and left his sentence unfinished.

“You had better let me go, John, dear, if the young people object to my
presence during this interview,” said Julia gently.

“My daughter, do you object to my wife’s presence here while I make the
revelation of which she knows the whole nature?” whispered John Legg to
the agonized girl on his bosom.

“Oh! why should I object to anything? I know—before you tell me—that
your dreadful news—concerns some crime of my wretched husband! If not a
murder, that would hang him, then a forgery or some other felony that
will send him to penal servitude, and will, in any case, be known all
over England to-morrow. Let whom you like hear the horrid story,”
replied the woman.

When she first began to speak she gasped and panted, but as she went on
she gained more command over her voice.

Julia Legg was full of pity for this ungracious creature, and she came
and knelt down beside her husband’s chair, and took his daughter’s hand
in hers and kissed it, murmuring softly:

“Believe me, oh! believe me! I will do all in my power to lighten any
trouble you may have, and to make you comfortable and contented, if not
happy.”

Lamia—as we must continue to call her because that is the name by which
the reader has known her from the first—Lamia drew her hand away from
the kindly hands that clasped it, and Julia Legg, with a sigh, arose and
resumed her seat.

“My own dear daughter, before I tell you anything more I must remind you
again that in my heart and in my home you have a haven of peace and
love, of rest and safety from all the storms of life. Do you not know
and feel this, my daughter?”

“Oh, yes; you are my father, and that is understood,” she answered
coldly, as if a parent’s boundless love, pity and forgiveness were such
mere matters of course that they needed no recognition. “But I wish you
would tell me at once, and be done with it. What has my miserable
husband, Randolph Hay, done?” she demanded.

John Legg sighed deeply. He did not think “how sharper than a serpent’s
tooth it is to have a thankless child,” because he had never seen the
lines, but he sighed more than once as he answered:

“In the first place, my daughter, your miserable husband, as you call
him, is not Randolph Hay, and has not a shadow of a right to that name
or to the estate of Haymore.”

Lamia started up and looked her father in the face.

“Who and what is he, then?” she fiercely demanded.

“An adventurer with many aliases; a fraudulent claimant of the Haymore
estates, who has sustained his false position by robbery, forgery and
perjury, but who has been recently detected, and who is about to be
exposed and punished.”

“I am not surprised! I am not surprised! I expected something like this!
I did! I did! Tell me, does Mr. Will Walling know anything about it?”

“He knows all about it. His business in England is to bring that man to
justice.”

Lamia sprang from her father’s arms, throwing him suddenly back by the
violence of her motion, and began to walk wildly up and down the floor,
exclaiming and gesticulating like a maniac, and thinking only of herself
and of her own interests, and of no one and nothing else under the sun.

“To bring me to this! Oh, the villain! the villain! But I will have
nothing more to do with him! I will never speak to him again! I will
never look on his face again! Do you hear me, papa?” she cried, suddenly
pausing, with flashing eyes, before her father’s chair. “Do you hear me,
I say? I will never live with that felon again—never speak to him—never
look at him!”

“My child, you are quite right in your resolution. It would be wrong and
even criminal in you to do otherwise,” said John Legg, gently drawing
his daughter into his arms again and adding sorrowfully, “for I have
something more to tell you.”

“You could not tell me anything more shameful than you have already told
me! Even if you should prove that that villain had been a murderer, as
well as a robber, forger and perjurer, it would not be worse, since
hanging is no more disgraceful than penal servitude. To be the wife of a
felon—the wife of a convict! But I will not be! I will be separated by
law! I will be divorced!”

This she repeated over so often and with so much excitement that at last
her father said to her:

“My poor child, you will not need to appeal to the law.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, impressed by the solemnity of his
manner.

“You will not require a divorce,” he replied.

“That is just, in effect, what you said before. Why will I not require a
divorce? The man is not dead, nor going to die! He will not commit
suicide. No, indeed, trust him for that! He is too great a coward! And
he is in no danger of being hanged. How, then, should you say that I
will not require a divorce, since death is not likely to relieve me of
my felon husband—ugh!” she exclaimed in strong disgust.

“My dear, the man has never been your husband,” he said slowly and
distinctly.

“What?” she cried, aghast.

“The man has never been your husband!” he repeated firmly and solemnly.

“You are mad! We are all mad together, I think! What—under—heaven—do you
mean?” she cried, staring at him with starting eyes.

“This man, under his true name of Kightly Montgomery, married Jennie
Campbell, the daughter of the curate of Medge, in Hantz, more than two
years before he ever saw your face. His wife is living now. She is in
the drawing-room across the hall. My wife Julia here knows all about
this first marriage.”

While John Legg spoke his daughter stared as if her eyes would have
started from out their sockets. Then suddenly she sprang up and rushed
across the room to the side where her brother sat with one leg crossed
over the other, his head thrown back, and his hands clasped above it,
his face wearing a cynical expression.

She paused before him, her eyes flaming.

“Cassius!” she said in a voice half choked with raging hatred and
longing revenge. “Cassius, do you hear what papa has said? Do you hear
that your sister has been deceived, betrayed by the basest of dastards
and criminals! Cassius, kill that man! kill him! kill him! kill him!”

Clay Legg burst into a low, cynical laugh.

“Don’t let us be tragic, whatever we are, Lyddy. It is a pity you have
been such a fool as to be so easily taken in. A greater pity that you
should have brought discredit on your family. But you are not the first
woman who has ever been fooled and laughed at. But as for me getting
into a broil with the fellow on your account—no, thank you! It would be
unbecoming to the cloth, and get me into trouble with the bishop. And as
to killing him! Do you really think I propose to do murder and get
myself hanged for your folly? No, thank you, I say again! You had better
go and hide yourself down in the greengrocer’s shop at Medge along with
papa and stepmamma, while I shall leave the country where my sister’s
conduct has made it impossible for me to hold up my head and look
honorable men in the face.”

While this brutal brother spoke his sister stood before him pallid,
staring and biting her lip until the blood flowed.

“Shame on you, dastard, to speak to the unhappy girl in such a manner!
Leave the room, sir!” said John Legg, rising and opening the library
door.

“I did not want to come in here at first, and I am very glad to get
out,” retorted Clay Legg, with an insulting laugh, as he walked off.

John Legg shut the door after him and then turned to his miserable
daughter. She had thrown herself down on a sofa, where she lay with her
face in her hands.

He kneeled beside her and laid his hand on her head, murmuring softly:

“You must content yourself with our love and our poor home. These are
yours forever. You have tried other love and found it fail you. Paternal
love never fails,” he continued, and while he spoke he did not cease to
smooth and caress her head with his hand.

“And to think,” she moaned in a muffled voice, with her face downward
and hidden with her hands; “to think it was his deserted wife that I
shopped for in the last days before my marriage with him—that it was his
deserted wife with her child—his child—that came over in the same
steamer with him and myself on our bridal trip! Ah! now I know why he
got off the ship at Queenstown! It was to get out of her sight and to
avoid encountering her father who was to meet her at Liverpool. She was
his lawful wife, and knew it, and she knew then that I was—what was
I?—what am I? Oh! I shall go mad! mad! mad!” she shrieked, flinging off
her fathers hand, springing from the sofa, clasping her head between her
palms and walking wildly up and down the floor.

“My dear, dear child, don’t go on like this! Come and sit down. Try to
compose yourself,” pleaded poor John Legg, walking after his daughter.

“Oh, hold your tongue! Let me alone! Don’t I know what you are thinking
in your heart all this time? You are saying to yourself that this is
just what you always expected! Just what I deserved! You are glad of it
in your heart! Glad to see me punished! Glad to see me mortified!” she
cried fiercely, angry with her father because she was angry with
herself, her betrayer and all the world.

“My dear Lyddy! My darling girl! I know you are not accountable for what
you say now. I blame you for nothing, child, not even for your words. I
could not have the cruelty to do it. But try to compose yourself and
believe that we love you and will serve you and comfort you! Lyddy, my
daughter, we cannot offer you the wealth and grandeur and luxuries that
you have been lately used to, but, my dear, a safe home and solid
comforts, and peaceful days and family affection you shall not lack, my
girl—you shall never lack,” pleaded her father; and while he spoke he
followed her up and down with outstretched arms ready to infold her, up
and down, pleading with her, turning when she turned until at length she
whirled around upon him and hissed at him through her set teeth, her
hard words dropping like leaden bullets from the mold:

“Will—you—mind—your—own—business? I am of age! I thought I was Mrs.
Randolph Hay, of Haymore! Lady of the manor here! I entered this house
as its lawful mistress! For what? To find myself deceived, betrayed,
entrapped! Now what am I! Something that must not even be named to
respectable ears like yours!”

“Oh, my dear child! To me you are my wronged and blameless daughter!
Well, rave on! I cannot help it, though it cuts my heart like a sword!
Maybe it relieves you to talk like this. But presently I hope you will
take thought and come home with me to be comforted,” pleaded John Legg.

Lamia burst into a cruel, sarcastic laugh.

“The greengrocer’s house on Market Street, Medge, of course, would be a
perfect paradise to me! I can imagine the back parlor full of the
fragrance of onions, leeks and other garden stuff from the shop, and
enlivened with the music of the bell every time a customer opened the
door! Not any for me, please! I may go on the stage, or on the
street—why should I care where I go, what I do, or how I end—after
this—so that I enjoy the pride of life in my prime?” she demanded,
looking at the plain, good man before her with a cruel, sarcastic sneer.

He held out his arm to her, with a prayer in every look and gesture. He
even ventured to lay his hand on her in tender compassion, but she broke
away from him and resumed her wild walk.

Then he sank into an armchair beside him—he could follow her no
further—and dropped his head upon his hands.

His wife Julia came to his side.

She has longed to go to him while he was following and pleading with his
daughter, and getting nothing from her but insult for love. She had
longed to lead him away from the ungracious and unseemly strife with
evil and to say to him: “Leave the thankless and reckless woman to
herself to recover her senses, if she ever had any, and come with me and
rest.” But—she was a stepmother only to the willful girl, and she must
not interfere between father and daughter.

But now that he sat alone in the collapse of despair after fruitless
effort, bowed down, down with sorrow and wounded affection, she came to
him, put her hand on his shoulder, laid her cheek lightly on his gray
head and murmured words of comfort.

“You have been very, very patient with her, dear, and you were so right!
She has had a terrible blow to her pride, such as even the best of women
could not bear with patience. How then should she?”

“Cruel words from one’s child, my dear! Cruel words!” said the suffering
father, shaking his head without lifting it.

“She was crazed by grief and shame. She did not mean what she said. She
did not even know what she said—did not know it rightly, I mean! When
she comes to her senses, John, she will be more sorry and ashamed of her
conduct to you than she is now of her downfall, and she will be grateful
for your love and Christ-like patience with her. Her present mood is
hysteria—frenzy! Give her time!”

“She threatened to go on the stage or on the street!” exclaimed John,
uttering the last three words with a deep groan.

“She does rave worse than any other hysterical woman I ever heard, to be
sure, for, as a rule, they only threaten to ‘go mad’ or to ‘kill’; but
it is all raving! there’s nothing in it! You have been very patient and
forbearing with your willful and provoking girl in this time of her
suffering and excitement. Continue to be so, and you will have your
reward in her penitence and affection. Believe it, dear.”

“‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’” quoted John Legg. “Come and draw a
chair and sit by me, Julia, my dear. Your presence alone is very
calming, even when you do not speak, though your words are always good
and comforting and your voice sweet and pleasant.”

Julia Legg seated herself beside her husband and took his hand in hers.

Lamia, having exhausted herself by her fury, fell down again upon the
sofa and buried her face in the cushions.

And now in the silence that ensued John Legg became conscious of a
growing disturbance in the drawing-room.

This might have been going on some time unnoticed by the three persons
in the library, who were absorbed in their own trouble; but now the
disturbance on the opposite side of the hall was too evident to be
ignored.

The sound of angry voices, hurrying steps and struggling forms reached
their ears.

Lamia started up from her sofa and sat with her head bent forward,
staring in the direction of the noise and listening intently, with a
look of demoniacal satisfaction and expectancy on her face.

Julia cowered and clung for protection to the husband whom she herself
had just been comforting.

He patted her head to reassure her, and then said:

“There, let me go, dear, and see what is the matter in there,” gently
trying to release himself from her clasp.

“Oh, no, no!” cried Julia, clinging closer than before. “Pray, don’t
leave us, John! Don’t go into that room! Something dreadful is going on
there.”

At that moment a piercing shriek rang through the air, followed by a
heavy fall that shook the house.

“I cannot stand this! Julia, I cannot stand it! I tell you I must run
and prevent mischief if I can!” he urged earnestly, trying to free
himself from her strong arms, but finding that he could not do so
without using force and violence that must hurt her.

The confusion arose to uproar. A loud crash shivered on the floor, and a
peal of fiendish laughter resounded through the building, and a woman’s
agonized cry went up to heaven for help!

Lamia, sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, listening intently, now
broke into a low, demoniacal chuckle.

“Julia!” exclaimed John Legg, breathing hard through excitement. “I hate
to hurt you, but I must prevent murder.”

And he wrenched her arms from around his neck, threw her back in the
armchair and rushed from the library to the drawing-room.




                              CHAPTER XXVI
                            A TERRIBLE SCENE


We must now explain the cause of the parlor storm. It came on in this
way:

All the guests of Haymore Hall—with the exception of the Legg family in
the library—were still assembled in the drawing-room.

The Campbell party, father, mother and daughter, still occupied the
obscure sofa against the rear wall of the back division.

Judy and Will Walling were seated near, talking with them.

Dandy, Mike and Longman were standing on the rug before the fire,
exchanging confidences on the affairs of the evening.

Gentleman Geff reclined, stupidly staring, on a divan in the recess of
the front bay window, and occasionally drew from his pocket a large
flask, which, with trembling hands, he uncorked and put to his lips.

Ran walked about from one group of friends to another, trying to seem at
ease, but too surely in a state of intense anxiety.

Presently he took heart of grace and went up to the group on the sofa,
touched the Rev. James Campbell on the shoulder and said:

“Come with me, please, reverend sir; I wish to consult you.”

The rector arose and drew the arm of his host within his own and walked
away with him. They did not leave the drawing-room, but went slowly up
and down its length for the first few minutes in silence.

Ran did not seem to know how to open the subject he had on his mind. So
it was the rector, after all, who, probably divining the nature of his
friend’s difficulty, was the first to speak and to speak to the point.

“The hour is late, and something should be done with that——” He paused,
unwilling to use the words that arose to his lips, and he indicated the
inebriate by a movement of his thumb.

“Yes,” said Ran, “that is what puzzles me. It was of that I wished to
talk with you.”

“Go on then! Let me have your views. It is late, as I remarked before,
and I should have taken my wife and daughter home an hour ago, but that
I did not wish to leave you until something should be settled in regard
to this man.”

“But you will not leave us to-night? Rooms have already been prepared
for you!” exclaimed Ran.

“My dear young friend, I thank you heartily, for myself and my
womenkind, but we must return to the rectory to-night. My daughter has
left her young babe there,” replied the rector.

“But it is so late.”

“But the distance is so short.”

“Do oblige us by staying, Mr. Campbell.”

“My dear Mr. Hay, don’t you see it is impossible, much as I thank you?”

“Well, I am sorry. So will Judy be.”

“And now about the disposition of this—Montgomery?”

“Yes,” sighed Randolph Hay.

“What do you intend to do?”

“I do not know, sir. I want you to tell me, if you please. I might send
for a constable to take him to the lockup house, as they call it here;
but I do not like to do that. I might send him in a carriage to the
village tavern, but I think he would drink himself to death there; or I
might give him a bed here for the present, and indeed this is what I
would rather do.”

“Eh—what? Keep the fellow here?”

“For the present, yes.”

“And in the name of common sense—why?”

“Well, to keep him out of harm’s way.”

“My good young friend, you did well to take counsel with me. You would
have done well to take counsel of any sane man on such a subject.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I begin to suspect that you need a trustee for your estate and a
guardian for your person!”

“I don’t understand you!”

“Listen, then! That fellow deserves to go to prison. He might be sent to
the village inn. But, my friend, he must not be allowed to spend so much
as one night under your roof. To let him do so would be an act of
insanity.”

“But why?”

“For more reasons than one. In the first place, he is the fraudulent
claimant of your name and estate, though his claim will not bear an
instant of light, a ray of truth, let in upon it; yet your allowing him
to remain in the house to which he came as its pretended master, would
seem, to him at least, to be giving some color to his pretensions. Do
you see?”

“I see what you mean, but I am not afraid of anything he, poor wretch,
may think or say or do. Is there any other reason why he should not be
sheltered here?”

“Yes—not so strong a reason, to be sure; but a most decent one.”

“Well?”

“He is a bigamist. He came here bringing a cruelly deceived, falsely
married woman, who was never, therefore, wife or bride. She, not ‘Mrs.’
anybody, but Miss Legg, is here in your house under the charge of her
parents, who are your guests. Therefore it would be unseemly—to use the
mildest term—for him to remain under the same roof. Do you see now?”

“Oh, yes, I see. How oblique one’s vision is at times, however. Well,
Mr. Campbell, you have told me what I must not do with him; will you now
tell me what I may?”

“Certainly. If your merciful spirit shrinks from passing him over into
the hands of the law, you can have him put into a carriage and taken to
the village inn—‘The Red Fox,’ Giles Scroggins, host.”

“I will do so, and hold myself responsible for his expenses there,” said
Randolph Hay.

And then both men looked toward the divan in the front bay window, on
which lolled Gentleman Geff, very drunk and getting drunker every
instant, for he now had the big flask turned up to his mouth, with his
head thrown so far back that he was evidently draining the last drop of
its contents. When he had done so, he made a futile attempt to restore
the empty flask to his pocket, but instead let it fall to the floor,
while he dropped back into his lolling position.

It was at this moment that Clay Legg strode into the drawing-room, fresh
from his humiliating interview with his father, smarting under the
disclosure of his sister’s dishonor.

He strode past all the guests in his way, and straight up to the side of
his late friend and patron, Gentleman Geff, struck his hand heavily on
the drunkard’s shoulder, shook him roughly and said:

“Do you know, you brute! you devil! what is before you?”

Gentleman Geff opened his heavy red eyes and stared in a deep stupor,
through which fury began to kindle slowly, like flame from under a thick
smoke.

“Answer me, you beast!” demanded Legg, with another and rougher shake of
the wretch under his grasp. “Do you know what is before you?”

“No! nor care!” roared the madman, with a perfect stream of profanity
and obscenity.

“Then listen to me!” said Legg, when at length the torrent from Tartarus
was stayed. “What is before you is first a trial for bigamy, with
fourteen years of penal serviture, with hard labor, bread and water,
ball and chain, dark cell and frequent flogging thrown in!”

Gentleman Geff answered this by a glare of hatred and defiance and
another inundation from the River of Styx.

Legg waited until that flood was exhausted and then added:

“Nor is that all! For when your first term of penal servitude shall be
served out, another indictment will await you for conspiracy, perjury,
forgery and fraud, by which you sought to gain possession of the Haymore
estate, and another fourteen years, at least, of imprisonment, hard
labor, stripes, chains and the rest!”

Again Gentleman Geff opened his lips in a way that made his mouth seem
the opening of the pit of fire and brimstone for the blasting curses
that issued from it.

And again Legg waited in sarcastic silence until the smoke and flame had
sunk down, and then he added:

“If you should live through your second term you will have served
twenty-eight years and you will be near sixty years of age—a very
hoary-headed sinner, indeed! And yet, at the end of that time, the
United States will want you on a charge of highway robbery and attempted
murder, and will get you under the international extradition treaty. And
you will pass the remainder of your guilty life in an American prison,
where not only are the strong and rebellious criminals compelled to
labor, but the aged, the infirm, and the invalids are scourged and
driven to hard work, until they drop dead (if all tales be true). ‘Do
you like the picture?’”

A blast of fury, profanity and indecency, more diabolical than all that
bad preceded it, stormed from the mouth of the madman, and raved like a
whirlwind around the ears of the listener.

When this had died of its own frenzy, Legg spoke again and for the last
time.

“Do you know, you fiend, who are here? I will tell you! The witnesses
who will convict you of every crime known to mankind. There on the sofa,
at the opposite end of this room, a little in the shadow, sits your
wife, Jennie Montgomery, whom you married, deserted and afterward
stabbed, and left for dead in the streets in New York. There she sits
between her mother and father, all three bent on prosecuting you to the
full extent of the law! Look attentively and you will see them! There,
talking with Lawyer Walling, is Randolph Hay, your benefactor, who saved
you from starving and shared his hut with you in the mining camp of
Grizzly Gulch, and whom you robbed, tried to murder and left for dead in
the Black Woods of California so that you might claim his name and place
with impunity! He will be compelled to prosecute you! And across the
hall, in the library with her father, is the woman you deceived into a
false marriage. She will prosecute you with all the vim, venom and
virulence of a proud, outraged and revengeful woman. That is, if she
does not prefer to execute you with her own hands.”

Clay Legg should have known the dangerous wild beast he was goading to
madness, yet he went on with a strange fatuity.

Gentleman Geff had followed with his eyes the index of Clay Legg to the
distant sofa, on which sat the wronged wife, Jennie Montgomery, between
her father and her mother. He had slowly but surely recognized her,
stared at her in stupid dismay until he was again stung to fury by the
insulting words of Clay Legg, when he turned his kindling eyes on the
face of the man who was drawing such a degrading picture of his fate. It
seemed then that it only needed the cessation of the sound of the
speaker’s voice to break the spell that held the demoniac; for no sooner
had it ceased than he sprang to his feet with a terrible roar and hurled
himself toward Legg.

But the latter saw his peril with the speed of lightning and fled away,
leaving others to brave the storm he himself had raised.

In an instant the maniac was raging in the midst of “the goodlie
company,” and all was fear, panic and confusion.

Little Mike, unhappily, was nearest to the madman and first to attempt
to pacify him. But the demon caught up a heavy astral lamp from the
table nearest to him and shivered it upon the head of the willing
peacemaker, who fell like a slaughtered sheep.

Judy’s shrieks of agony rang out upon the air, and brought the terrified
servants to the drawing-room doors.

The demoniac sprang upon the table and seized a heavy chair, which he
whirled around his head, threatening all who approached.

Ran and Longman sprang upon the table and threw themselves upon him.

It was at this moment that John Legg, startled by the screams of the
women, entered the drawing-room, through the side door leading from the
hall.

Yes, it was pandemonium that met the horror-stricken eyes of the man.
Can I possibly show you the scene as he beheld it?

As he stood in the doorway, on his left, near the bay window in the
upper end of the room, high on the table stood the athletic form of the
demoniac, raging and foaming, cursing and threatening in the frenzy of
_mania a potu_, swinging aloft the heavy chair which he whirled around
his head with the swiftness and velocity of a windmill. On the same
table stood Samson Longman and Randolph Hay, struggling to master the
maniac, who seemed possessed of the strength of seven devils.

On the floor, near the middle of the room, lay Michael Man, stunned by a
wound in his head, prostrate and insensible. Near him were scattered the
fragments of the astral lamp that had evidently been the instrument by
which his skull had been fractured. Beside him sat Judith Hay, with his
wounded head on her lap. She was weeping and wailing, giving full vent
to her grief and horror after the manner of her warm-hearted, impulsive
race. Beside him on the opposite side knelt the Rev. Mr. Campbell, with
a bowl of water and a napkin, washing the blood from the cut.

Away back in the lower end of the long room, on a shady sofa, sat Mrs.
Campbell and her daughter, Jennie Montgomery, clasped in each other’s
arms, with their heads hidden on each other’s shoulders, too much
shocked, horror-stricken, terrified to help, to speak or even to move.
From under the same sofa peered the pallid face and staring eyes of
Dandy Quin, who had evidently sought that lowly refuge “as the safest
place at the crack of doom” for a poor little old man.

Neither Clay Legg nor Will Walling were to be seen anywhere.

All this, which has required some time to describe, was taken in at one
view by John Legg. And for one instant he stood in doubt where first to
offer help; whether to jump—but no; honest John’s jumping days were
over—whether to scramble up on the table and help to subdue the maniac
possessed of a legion of devils, or to kneel down by the side of the
minister to serve if he could the wounded man. In another moment the
doubt was decided for him.

Ran succeeded in getting both his hands around the throat of the
demoniac, which he held as in the grip of death, while Longman wrenched
and twisted the heavy, murderous missile from his hands and dropped it
on the floor and then closed with him in a conquering clasp. But it took
all his strength, as well as all of Ran’s, to hold the infuriate, now
that his arms were free.

Feeling sure that the maniac was conquered, John Legg turned his
attention from the scene of conquest on the table to the scene of
suffering on the carpet.

“Is the young man dangerously wounded?” he inquired in a low tone of Mr.
Campbell.

“We hope not. We hope this may be only a scalp wound. But it will be
impossible to tell until there is a surgical examination,” replied the
minister.

“Has a doctor been sent for?”

“Yes; Mr. Walling has gone out to dispatch a servant for Mr. Hobbs, the
village practitioner.”

“Oh, me poor Mike!” cried Judy, breaking afresh into sobs and tears and
dialect. “Me poor, dear, darlint bhoy! Sure he was born to have the head
av him broke. Sure, it’s not the first time, though it’s the worst. But,
afther all, it is not so bad broke as me own dear Ran’s was, be the same
token, and be the hands av that same murthering thaif av the wurruld!
Oh! wirra! wirra! It was not enough that he kilt me dear Ran intirely,
but now he must kill me poor Mike!” wailed Judy until her words were
drowned in a flood of tears.

Mr. Campbell gazed in astonishment for a moment. In this wild Irish
girl, giving full swing to her emotions and her brogue, he could
scarcely recognize the quiet gentlewoman he had known now for some hours
as Mrs. Randolph Hay. But he quickly recovered himself, and atoned for
his involuntary rudeness by withdrawing his gaze and offering the
gentlest words of consolation.

In the meantime the struggle on the table was continued in grim silence.
The opponents saving all their wind for their strife until, as they
swayed back and forth, the equilibrium of the board was overbalanced,
and table and men fell together to the floor with a loud crash that
called forth shrieks from the women.

For one moment the three men rolled together in a knot on the carpet,
and the next Gentleman Geff lay flat on his back, with Longman’s knees
on his chest and hands around his throat.

“Ran!” exclaimed the hunter, “take my handkerchief out of my coat pocket
and tie the feet of this wild beast!”

Ran immediately tried to obey. He drew the large red bandanna from
Longman’s pocket, found it strong enough for its purpose, and went
around and took hold of the feet of the prostrate madman, but he
immediately received a shower of kicks upon his chest that knocked him
breathless.

Seeing that, Longman raised his voice again.

“Mr. Legg, come here! We haven’t got a man to deal with, but a devil,
and a rum-maddened devil at that!”

Legg immediately rushed to the rescue.

“Have you got a scarf or a handkerchief? A good strong one. All right!
Tie this brute’s fore paws together while I hold him down. Samson, my
namesake, what amazing strength rum and madness gives a brute!” panted
Longman, when he had finished his labor and arose to his feet.

The conquered demoniac lay bound and gagged on the floor, his murderous
limbs helpless, his blasphemous tongue speechless. Yet still he writhed,
tossed and floundered like some huge, stranded sea monster.

The distressed group gathered around Michael Man were obliged to wait in
quietness for the arrival of the doctor, for they dared not even move
the wounded man lest they should do him a fatal injury.

Dr. Hobbs came at last, and being a country practitioner, he brought his
medicine chest as well as his surgical case with him.

He was a tall, lank, red-haired young Yorkshireman, fresh from the
London colleges, who had lately succeeded to the practice of his father,
an aged, retired physician of the place.

He found two patients to be treated, one in as dire need as the other.

But after hearing a brief account of the occurrence from Mr. Randolph
Hay, he gave his first services to the youth, Michael Man.

The bleeding wound in his head was of itself bringing back the
consciousness of the wounded lad.

Dr. Hobbs knelt by his side and made a careful examination of his
injuries, and then he told the anxious friends that they were not
dangerous, only a deep scalp wound and a very slight fracture of the
skull.

He washed and dressed the wound there on the spot, and then directed
that the youth should be taken to his room, undressed and put to bed.

A narrow mattress was brought by two menservants, who laid it on the
carpet, lifted the wounded youth tenderly, laid him on it and so bore
him out of the drawing-room and up the grand staircase to his chamber on
the third floor, followed by Dr. Hobbs and Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay.

By the time Michael Man was carefully undressed and comfortably settled
in bed he recovered his faculties sufficiently to recognize the
situation and speak to those around him.

“Don’t ye be frighted, Judy, darlint,” he murmured feebly to his pallid,
distressed sister, who was bending anxiously over him.

“Sure, and I’m not, Mike, dear. Yourself will be all right soon,” she
replied, putting much constraint upon herself.

“Troth, and I’m all right now. So the redskins did come and attack the
fort, afther all. But the colonel was aquil to the blackguards,” he
added.

And then the doctor perceived that he was becoming delirious, and he
administered a sedative. When the patient had grown quiet again the
doctor left him, with his sister Judy sitting by his bed, and went
downstairs to the drawing-room to attend to the other case waiting for
his treatment.

There he found the demoniac still lying on the floor, bound hand and
foot. Longman, Dandy and Mr. Campbell were standing around him. They had
taken the gag from his mouth, but he was breathing heavily. He had
suffered the usual reaction in _mania a potu_, from violent frenzy to
deep coma.

The men around him made way for the young doctor, who knelt down beside
him, looked into his face, felt his pulse and his heart, and even lifted
the heavy, half-closed lids of his swollen eyes. Then he rose and said:

“I think you may unbind him with safety now; he will not be in a
condition to assault any one or do any harm for many days to come, if he
ever should.”

At this moment Ran re-entered the drawing-room and reported Mike as
sleeping quietly.

Then, in the kindness of his heart toward his fallen foe, he stooped and
examined the condition of Gentleman Geff, whom Longman had just unbound
and straightened out, and who was now lying relaxed and limp on the
carpet.

“Now, Mr. Campbell,” said Ran, standing up, “you see that we have no
alternative than to put this poor wretch to bed in the house here.”

“Not so,” said the rector. Then turning to the doctor, he inquired:
“Will it be safe to remove this man immediately to my house—to the
rectory, that is? The distance is short, you know.”

“It will be perfectly safe, sir,” replied the physician.

“Then, Mr. Hay, I shall be much obliged to you for the use of a spring
wagon or cart and a mattress with pillows and proper covering to convey
this man to the rectory,” said Mr. Campbell, turning to his host.

“But, my dear sir, do you think of what you are about to do?” demanded
Ran.

“Yes; my duty.”

“But your daughter?”

“She need never see or speak to him or be troubled by him. Jennie is a
very sensible, practical young woman; always was so, like her dear
mother. And her misfortunes—the result of her one act of imprudence—have
made her even more so. Jennie will be no hindrance.”

“But why should you take so much trouble, make such a sacrifice, assume
such a responsibility as to carry this stupefied madman to your quiet
house?”

“Because, as I said before, it is my duty. I am a minister of the
merciful Gospel, however much below that sacred calling, and must set an
example of charity—practice some little of what I preach. The man is my
daughter’s husband, however unworthy of her; my own son-in-law, however
discreditable to me; and I must do my duty by him, however disagreeable
to us all. My dear wife and daughter will give no trouble. There will be
no scenes, no hysterics. They are good, true, strong women, and will
sustain me in my action. But they need not go near the man. Longman, his
mother and myself can take care of him. And now, my friend, will you
order the conveyance?”

With a sigh and a gesture of deprecation, Ran went out to give the
necessary directions.

There had been some delay caused by this discussion; but it did not
matter to the unworthy subject of it; he was lying on the carpet in a
dead stupor, and for himself was as well there as anywhere else: so
there was no hurry.

In less than half an hour a light spring cart, such as is used by
expressmen, was brought around from the stables. It was drawn by two
horses and furnished with comfortable bedding, and to this receptacle
Gentleman Geff was conveyed in the arms of four men.

The rector and the doctor rode on the seat with the driver, and they
took the road to the rectory.

Mrs. Campbell and her daughter, declining all Mr. and Mrs. Hay’s
pressing invitations, set out in one of the Hall carriages for their
home. Longman rode on the box with the coachman.

Mr. Walling, old Dandy and the Legg family were the only remaining
guests at the Hall, and these declined to retire to bed.




                             CHAPTER XXVII
                             CLEARING SKIES


It was of no use to go to bed. The sun was rising.

Judy, leaving Mike fast asleep, came downstairs, summoned the
housekeeper and gave directions for an early and ample breakfast.

Then she went into the library to look after the Leggs.

She found Lamia lying on the sofa with her face buried in the cushions.
She lay perfectly still, so that she might be asleep, ashamed or only
sulky.

Mrs. Legg lay back in her easy-chair, fast asleep.

John Legg sat in the great leathern armchair, with his hands clasped
upon his knees and his chin bent upon his chest; he was awake, as deep
sighs showed him to be.

Clay Legg was nowhere to be seen.

Judy was so calm and reassured now that, without once falling into
dialect, she addressed herself to the old man.

“Mr. Legg, there have been bedrooms at the disposal of yourself and
family all last night. I hope the servant, whose duty it was to do so,
has not failed to let you know this or to offer to show you to your
apartments?”

“No, madam, thank you. No one has failed to execute your hospitable
orders; but who could go to bed in such a night as has been passed? No,
madam; just as soon as my wife and daughter are a little rested we shall
bid you good-by and take our leave of your hospitable home.”

“I am sorry that such is your resolution; but as soon as Mrs. and Miss
Legg shall awaken I hope you will ring a bell and a servant shall show
you to your rooms, where, at least, you may have the refreshment of the
toilet service before breakfast,” concluded Judy, pleased with her
victory over the brogue.

“You are very kind, madam, and we will avail ourselves of your offer,”
said John Legg, with a bow.

Judy smiled and left the library.

No sooner had the door closed behind her than Lamia reared her head like
a serpent from the sofa and said:

“Well, then, ring the bell now. I am awake, at any rate, and I should
like a bath and then breakfast to my room. I shall not go down to the
breakfast table to face a sneering pack of hypocrites.”

John Legg sighed and rang the bell.

The commotion waked up Mrs. Legg, who yawned, rubbed her eyes and looked
about her.

“Where are we? What place is this? How came we here?” she muttered.

And then she suddenly recollected the situation and circumstances and
added:

“It’s well I’m strong. John Legg, how have you stood it?”

“As well as man could, Julia, I hope. But here is a young woman come to
show us to our rooms, where we can wash our faces before breakfast,” he
added, as a housemaid appeared at the door.

The three arose and prepared to follow the girl, who led them up the
first flight of stairs to one of the best suites of rooms in the house.

When John Legg and Julia Legg had made their simple and hasty toilet,
they went downstairs and into the drawing-room, where they found Mr. and
Mrs. Randolph Hay, Mr. Will Walling and Dandy Quin awaiting them.

They greeted the party, and then John Legg apologized for the absence of
his daughter as best he could.

Judy excused herself for a moment and went out immediately to speak to
the housekeeper and order an excellent breakfast sent up to Miss Legg in
her room.

Then she returned to her guests and conducted them to the breakfast
parlor, where the morning meal was already laid.

After breakfast Mr. and Mrs. Legg took leave, and with old Dandy, who
wept at parting with his friends, and with their daughter, closely
veiled and silent, left Haymore Hall in a carriage proffered by Ran and
drove to Chuxton, where they took the train for London, en route for
Medge.

Clay Legg had not been seen since he had fled from before the face of
the frenzied Gentleman Geff. He was afterward heard of in Wales, as a
hanger-on to his father-in-law, under whose protection his wife and
children had lived for some time past.

Michael Man’s good constitution, excellent health and temperate habits
were all so much in his favor that in a few days he began to get well,
and before the week was out he came downstairs and joined the family at
their meals.

The rector came over every day to inquire after Mike and to bring
reports of Gentleman Geff, who was at death’s door with brain fever and
not expected to recover. Longman, the colossus, was established in the
sick-room as his constant attendant. Elspeth remained at the rectory for
the present. She would not leave the family under present circumstances.
Meanwhile Randolph Hay had given orders to his bailiff, Prowt, to have
the gamekeeper’s cottage put in complete repair and refurnished for the
Longmans.

Christmas came, and the young couple at the Hall sent invitations to
their few intimate friends to come and spend the sacred festival with
them. They were loyal to the humblest among these. They really invited
not only Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Montgomery and Dr. Hobbs, but
old Dandy from Medge and Longman and Elspeth from the rectory. Will
Walling and Michael Man were still staying in the house.

The young doctor, the rector and his wife and daughter accepted the
invitation, but Elspeth and Longman declined it on the ground that she
would have to stay at home to mind the baby and he to attend to the sick
man; but these were not the only reasons; they both felt that their
presence, as even Christmas guests at the Hall, would be a social
solecism; for as Elspeth said to her son:

“These generous young people from the woods of a foreign country don’t
know what they are a-doing of when they invite you and me to dinner,
Samson! It might do well enough in the mines of the backwoods. But here!
Why, bless ’em, if they go on in this way not a single soul among the
country families will have a thing to do with ’em, if they are the lord
and lady of the manor! But they’ll find out better.”

Longman fully agreed with his mother, and so he wrote his excuses for
both.

Old Dandy Quin also wrote from Medge and begged to be excused on two
pleas: the first that he was not able to make the long journey from one
end of England to the other twice in ten days; and the second was that
he wanted to eat his Christmas dinner with his new-found relatives. He
added the information that he did not mean to carry out his first
intention of buying an annuity with his savings, but that he should go
into partnership with his nephew, and that in the spring they should
move into a larger house and increase their business.

He concluded with a piece of news that made Ran, Judy and Mike break
into one of their shouting Grizzly Gulch laughs.

He wrote that poor Miss Lyddy Legg—and just think of the queenly and
beautiful Lamia Leegh being called “poor Miss Lyddy Legg!”—was very
broken-hearted, though she need not be, for it was not her fault that
she had been taken in by a false marriage; and that everybody was as
kind to her as kind could be, and that he himself—Dandy Quin—had so much
respect and sympathy for her that he offered to marry her out of hand
and make an honest woman of her and leave her all his property at his
death! but that the poor, misguided and demented young woman, who did
not know what was for her own good, had refused him with scorn and
insolence. There!

Think of the vain and haughty Lamia Leegh receiving an offer of marriage
from Dandy Quin!

Notwithstanding, or perhaps because of these “regrets,” Mr. and Mrs.
Randolph Hay enjoyed their Christmas with the few friends who gathered
around them.

In the morning they walked to the village church in company with Will
Walling and Mike. They heard a good Christmas sermon from the Rev. Mr.
Campbell and listened to some really fine music from the organ and grand
anthems from the choristers.

After the service they shook hands with the rector and his wife and
daughter and with Elspeth.

Longman was at the rectory keeping guard over the dying man.

That evening Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay entertained at dinner the Rev.
Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. Montgomery, Dr. Hobbs, Mr. Will Walling and
Mr. Michael Man. And the festival passed off pleasantly, nor did Judy,
nor even Mike, once fall into dialect.

When the Christmas holidays were over, Mr. Will Walling, having seen his
friend and client, Mr. Randolph Hay, in quiet and undisputed possession
of Haymore, prepared to take leave of the Hall and return to New York.

A few days before his expected departure he called Ran and said:

“Well, what are your plans?”

“We shall not leave Haymore until the spring,” replied Hay.

“Well, give me half an hour in the library alone with you. I have
something to talk about.”

Ran followed his guest to the room of books and gave him a chair and
took another.

Then, however, instead of seating himself, Mr. Will Walling went to one
of the book shelves and took down a large, heavy volume bound in red
cloth and gold.

“This,” he said, as he laid it on the table and turned over the leaves,
“is the last year’s edition of ‘Burke’s Landed Gentry of Great Britain
and Ireland.’”

“Well?” carelessly inquired Ran.

“And this,” continued the lawyer, as he paused at an open page, “is the
genealogy of the Hays, of Haymore.”

“Well?” again inquired Ran.

“I want you to look at it with me. I don’t wish to bore you to go over
the whole history, with its marriages, births and deaths, but only to
notice this fact that runs through the whole, from your first known
ancestor, Arthur Hei, who married Edda, a daughter of Seebold, Earl of
Northumberland, down to your grandfather, the late squire, who married
Gentil, daughter of Pharoah Cooper, of Esling. Moor, Yorkshire.”

“She was a gypsy, and the child of a gypsy,” said Ran.

“Yes; still she is set down here as the daughter of a certain somebody.
All your ‘forebyes’ have married the daughters of certain somebodies,
from dukes down to gypsies.”

“Well, but what does all this talk tend to?” demanded Ran.

“To this: It is too late for your name as Squire of Haymore to appear in
this year’s edition of the ‘Landed Gentry’; the volume is probably
already issued. But before long the _Herald College_ will be getting up
next year’s edition, and you will receive letters or messengers
inquiring for authentic statistics concerning your succession, marriage
and so on.”

“Well, they can have them,” said Ran indifferently.

“Yes, but I am afraid there will be some awkwardness for you on one
point.”

“Which point?”

“That of your marriage.”

“How should that be?”

“Why, in this way—listen. The items of entry in your case will be
something like this:

“‘Hay, Randolph; born July 15, 184—; succeeded his grandfather as tenth
squire, March 1, 186—,’ (for you know that your succession will date
from the day of his death); ‘married December 2, 186—, Judith, daughter
of ——’ Whom? There’s where the awkwardness would come in.”

“I would say simply—Judith Man,” replied Ran Hay.

“Very well—Judith Man, daughter of—whom? The _Herald’s College_ are very
precise in these matters. You will have to find a father for her.”

“Mr. Walling! If you were not my friend and my guest, I should be very
angry with you. My sweet wife is a child of the Heavenly Father! but for
an earthly parent of either sex I do not know where to look.”

“Look here then, Hay, to me. I didn’t mention the difficulty without
having a remedy for it. I am a childless widower, as you know. And
though it would be straining a point of probability to represent a man
of thirty-seven as the lawful father of a woman of nineteen, still I
would like to adopt your wife as my daughter, that she may be entered in
the Red Book as Judith, daughter of William Walling, Esq.,
attorney-at-law, New York City. Come, Hay, my friend, you know I mean
the best by you and by her. Now what do you say to accepting me as your
father-in-law?” inquired Will Walling, with a laugh.

Randolph Hay paused before he replied. He was more pained than pleased.
Yet he appreciated the lawyer’s good intentions, and was grateful for
them.

At length he answered:

“I thank you from my heart, Mr. Walling, for your intended kindness; and
I feel grieved that I cannot accept your gracious proposal, since not to
do so must seem so very ungracious as well as ungrateful to a friend
whom I love and esteem as much as I do you. And yet I cannot accept it.”

“But why not?” inquired the lawyer.

“I—do not know. I cannot tell. I have a feeling against it which I am
unable to define or analyze.”

“But I am not. I know the cause of your reluctance. It is because it
would not be strictly true. That is it. You need not answer, Ran, my
boy. But you must allow me to tell you that you are a little too
scrupulous for a practical world, though I do not like you the less on
that account,” said Will Walling, with his usual little laugh.

“And I hope my scruples, as you call them, will not affect our
friendship?”

“I have just told you that they will not. There, let the matter drop!”
concluded the lawyer.

Judy never heard of the offer Mr. Will Walling had made to adopt her as
his daughter for the sake of giving her a good antenuptial position, nor
did she ever guess that there would be any awkwardness in the record of
her marriage in the Hay, of Haymore, item of “The Landed Gentry of Great
Britain and Ireland.” She was not troubled on that subject.

All the affairs of the Hays were so satisfactorily settled now that the
young couple were only waiting for the departure of Will Walling to
leave Haymore for London, where they might live in retirement in that
great city until they should have fitted themselves to mingle with the
more critical of their Yorkshire neighbors.

Early in the new year pleasant letters came from America. They were from
Cleve and Palma Stuart, and brought news of the change of fortune that
would take them to the mountain farm of West Virginia.

Ran and Judy were pleased, yet puzzled.

“I should have thought, if they left New York, they would have gone to
that fine plantation in Mississippi,” said Judy.

“So should I, and not to what must be a poor farm on the mountain,”
added Ran. And then turning to Walling, he added:

“You see you will have to take the documents, putting Palma in
possession of the property I have made over to her, all the way to West
Virginia.”

“I will do that with pleasure. I have never yet seen the Alleghany
Mountains,” replied Will Walling, who was always ready to travel over
any new ground.

It was nearly the first of February that Will Walling at length
reluctantly made up his mind to take leave of his friends at Haymore.

In bidding them farewell he said:

“I cannot help regretting that you would not accept me for your
father-in-law, Hay.”

Ran only laughed in reply.

“What did he mean by asking you to be his father-in-law?” inquired Judy,
after the dogcart that was taking Will Walling to the station had rolled
away from the door.

“Oh, only his nonsense. You know, of course, that, as I have no mother
nor he any daughter, he could never have been my father-in-law,” replied
Ran.

So Judy never suspected how it was.

But before many months Judy and Mike were claimed by a father with a
pedigree which the most heathenish worshiper of rank might have been
proud to acknowledge.




                             CHAPTER XXVIII
                             HOPE AND LIFE


“Poley, dear darling, will you go with Cleve and me to West Virginia to
live?” exclaimed Palma, running into the cabinet kitchen of her flat,
where good Mrs. Pole was busy over the fire, baking those very muffins
in which she so excelled.

Cleve had gone out to change the bonanza check to pay the rent and to
give up the flat.

Poley paused, with a spoonful of batter held in her hand, halfway
between the bowl on the table and the muffin rings in the pan on the
range.

“What is that you said, my dear?”

Palma repeated her question.

“Will I go with you to Vest Wirginny? That’s the furrin nation we was to
war with, ain’t it?” inquired Mrs. Pole, going on to fill her muffin
rings.

“Don’t mention the war, Poley. I cannot bear to talk of it.”

“Well, I won’t. But that Vest Wirginny—where is it? In New Orleenes?”
inquired Mrs. Pole, whose ideas of geography were so vague that she once
asked Palma if Africa was in the United States. And Palma, to spare the
good woman’s self-esteem, answered that Africans, or their descendants,
had been in America for a couple of centuries. Whereupon Mrs. Pole had
added that, of course, she knew that America was in the United States.
Palma had not set her right, but ruminated in her own mind on the fact
of the future when our national New Jerusalem would not make a part of
the Western continent, but the Western continent would be only a part of
the grand republic of the planet Earth. But this is a digression. Now to
return.

“West Virginia is much nearer than New Orleans,” replied Palma.

Mrs. Pole filled the last of her muffin rings and set the pan containing
them on the range before she spoke again.

“And you and Mr. Stuart be going there to live, ma’am, you say?”

“Indeed, yes—and very soon, too.”

Mrs. Pole put the bowl of batter in the cupboard, covered it over with a
clean napkin and sat down, “to save her back,” while her muffins were
baking.

“For good?” she inquired.

“Yes, indeed, for good in every sense of the word, I do hope and
believe. I will tell you all about it.”

Mrs. Pole jumped up and ran into her little bedroom adjoining the
kitchen, and brought out a small, low-backed rocker, saying to her
little lady:

“There! Sit ye down while you talk. You have often enough told me to
‘spare my back’ whenever I could lawfully do so. And now I tell you to
spare your own.”

Palma laughed and dropped into her chair, and when Mrs. Pole had looked
at her muffins and seen that they were doing well, and taken her own
seat on a cane chair, Palma began:

“I will tell it to you as Cleve told it to me, for it is like a story,
Poley. Here goes!

“Once upon a time there was an old man—a very rich old man—who lived in
an old stone house at the foot of a mountain, called Wolfscliff, and the
woods that clothed the side of the mountain were called Wolfswalk,
because, when the land was surveyed and the first house was built there
was neither sleep by night nor safety by day, for the wolves. They
carried off hens and geese and sheep and calves, and—horror to
relate!—even the little negro babies. This was how the place received
its name. The wolves were worse than the Indians. They could neither be
fought off nor bought off, but had gradually to die off, like the
Indians.

“So the name came down the generations to the time of Jeremiah Cleve,
the old man with whom my story commenced, and who lived in an old stone
farmhouse in the woods at the foot of the mountain—a house many times
larger than the log cabin of his first American ancestor.

“This Jeremiah had married an heiress in his own neighborhood, and so
had doubled his fortune.

“They had three sons.

“John, the eldest, was, according to the law of primogeniture then
prevailing in Virginia, heir to the landed estate of his father. This
John, when he was but twenty years of age, became engaged to be married
to the beautiful daughter of the man who owned the nearest plantation to
Wolfswalk. It was a long engagement, on account of the young fiancée’s
extreme youth; but just when they were going to be married, when he was
twenty-five and she was eighteen, she caught a severe cold while out
sleighing with him, and died within a week of inflammation of the lungs.
She was buried in her bridal dress, on her wedding day. It is said that
on her deathbed he solemnly vowed himself to her, lover and husband, for
time and eternity. That was seventy years ago, and he has kept his
faith. He is now a lonely old man of ninety-five, the solitary master of
Wolfscliff, waiting for the Lord to call him to join his bride in
heaven.

“The younger sons, Charles and James, were, by the terms of the marriage
settlements of their parents, co-heirs of their mother’s estate; and if
there had been ten, they would have all been equal co-heirs, and each
portion small; as there were but two, each portion was considerable.

“Charles was the first of the family to marry. He wedded a young woman
of family and fortune, and went to live on his mother’s plantation. They
had two sons. When these boys were old enough to be sent to college
their mother sickened and died of typhoid fever, how contracted no one
ever could tell. Their father never married. His house was well managed
by a capable young mulatto woman, who made it homelike to the boys when
they came there to spend the vacation. At length, when the young men
were relatively twenty-two and twenty-four years old, their father also
died, and the young men lived on the farm like true brothers until the
Civil War broke out, when they entered the Southern army. Ah! poor,
dear, brave boys! One fell at Fredericksburg, the other at Cold Harbor.
Truly ‘The glory of this world passeth away.’

“I come now to the youngest of old Jeremiah’s sons—James, who was
Cleve’s grandfather—his mother’s father. He had a passion for the
military life, and he entered the army. When he had gained his
commission as second lieutenant of infantry, he married Molly Jefferson,
a relation of the illustrious Thomas.

“By this time the aged couple, Jeremiah and Josephine Cleve, had passed
on to a higher life, and John, their eldest son, a man passed middle
age, reigned at Wolfscliff in their stead.

“John, a lonely man, invited the young couple to make their permanent
home with him, and they did so until the Mexican War broke out, when the
young lieutenant had to follow Gen. Scott to Mexico. His young wife
would gladly have accompanied him ‘even to the battlefield,’ but she was
then nursing her first—and only—child, a baby girl not a month old, when
the young husband and father went away to the war, from which he never
came back again.

“The tidings of his death in the battle of Chepultepec came to
Wolfscliff as a death blow to the youthful widow. She pined and died
within the year, leaving her infant daughter, Cara, to the charge, yes,
rather to the heart of John Cleve. He brought up and educated the orphan
and, when she was grown, went out into the world for her sake.

“In a winter they passed in Washington they met young Mr. Stuart, of the
Cypresses, Mississippi. A mutual attachment between the young people was
approved by John Cleve. And the next summer Mr. Stuart, of Mississippi,
and Miss Cleve, of Virginia, were married at Wolfscliff. They went on an
extended wedding tour which filled up all the summer and autumn months,
and only returned to the husband’s home in Mississippi in time for the
Christmas holidays, when they were joined by John Cleve, of Wolfscliff,
who came at their—not invitation only, but prayer—to spend the winter
with them.

“That was his first and last visit—not that he had not enjoyed it, nor
that he ceased to love his dear niece, but that after her marriage he
grew more and more of a recluse, a student and a dreamer.

“And she visited him all the more frequently that she could not induce
him to leave his home. Instead of going to a gay summer resort when she
migrated to the North every summer, she would go to Wolfscliff, until at
length, when years passed and children came every year, and sickened
every year, and she had to take them to the seaside, her annual visits
to Wolfscliff were discontinued.

“Cleve, the youngest child, and the only one who survived his parents,
was taken to Wolfscliff when he was about three years old. That was the
first and last time he ever saw his grand-uncle. Of the tragic fate of
Cleve’s father and mother you have heard me tell, Poley.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Mrs. Pole; “they were fatally hurt on the wreck of
the _Lucy Lee_, I remember.”

“And after that, do you know that the aged John Cleve, of Wolfscliff,
who sank deeper and deeper into solitary study and reverie, utterly lost
sight of his grand-nephew, whom he was contented to think of as at
school under the supervision of his guardian, Judge Barrn, or at
college, or traveling in Europe, or on his Mississippi plantation, not
knowing that the latter was a charred and blasted ruin and desert until
the death, in battle, of his last nephew left him without an heir
bearing the name of Cleve. Then he instituted inquiries for his
grand-nephew, Cleve Stuart, but without the least effect.

“Accident at last revealed Cleve’s residence in New York. Mr. Sam
Walling went to Washington on legal business and fell in with a Mr.
Steele, of Wolfswalk, the nearest town to Wolfscliff, and, in the course
of conversation, mentioned the sage of Wolfscliff and his vain quest for
his nephew and heir, Cleve Stuart. Then Mr. Walling gave information,
and the West Virginian went back to the mountains with the news the
hermit was pining to hear.

“John Cleve immediately wrote the letter inviting Mr. Stuart and myself
to come and make our home with him.”

“And you are going?”

“Yes, I told you so. Will you come with us?”

“To the end of the world. To the jumping-off place. And even there, if
you should take the leap in the dark, I’ll jump down after you.”

“Dear Poley, I am so glad!”

“And why should I stay behind? And why should I not go? I have nieces
and cousins here, to be sure; but they are all doing well. And though I
love them, I think I love you more, for you do seem more like a child of
my own than any of them do; and you seem to want me more than they can.”

“I do want you more, Poley, darling. And Cleve is so anxious for you to
go with us for me. Though I am now in excellent health, he seems to
think I require a nurse to look after me as much as if I were a sick
baby.”

“And so you be, my dear, for this present time, and will be for some
time to come,” Mrs. Pole replied, nodding wisely.

“Oh, I am so glad you will come, Poley, dear. And listen. When I get
settled at Wolfscliff next summer you can invite any of your relations,
or all of them, as many as the house will hold, to come and stay with
you. It will be such a pleasant, healthful change for them, from the
crowded city to the fine, open mountains.”

“It would be heaven for them to see it only for a day. Why, we all went
up the North River and saw the hills only from the deck of the steamer,
and they thought that was paradise, and longed to be in it. What would
they say to staying a week among the mountains?” exclaimed Poley.

“Then they shall come. They shall all come,” responded Palma
delightedly.

“But, my dear child, what would the old gentleman say?” demurred Mrs.
Pole.

“Oh, Poley, you don’t know the Southern people. Neither do I, for that
matter, except upon Cleve’s showing. But I am sure I can guarantee you
and yours a welcome at Wolfscliff. And mind, we won’t have to send to
market for meat, poultry and vegetables, nor to the grocer’s for flour,
and meal, and lard, and eggs, and such things. Nearly everything, except
tea and sugar, pepper and salt, and such, are produced on the farm, and
cost next to nothing,” said Palma, speaking as she believed and proving
how little she knew of the cost of labor or the worth of time on a farm.

But Mrs. Pole, who was as ignorant of such a life as was her youthful
friend, received every statement in good faith, and anticipated good
days to come.

She looked once more at her muffins, made the tea, and then went into
the parlor to set the table for luncheon.

Palma went into her bedroom to overhaul trunks and bureau drawers, to
see what she could make of her scant wardrobe, in view of appearing
among strangers in West Virginia. She had but three suits—the superb
velvet dress given her by Mrs. Walling, which she thought could only be
worn on grand occasions, and must be quite useless in the mountain
farmhouse; the well-worn crimson cashmere now on her back, and in its
very last days; the fine India muslin, now fairly embroidered, not with
unnecessary fancy work, but with needful darns. These were all the
dresses Palma owned, if we except the old, faded blue gingham wrapper in
which Cleve had first found her in her garret.

“I must get Poley to sponge and press the crimson cashmere, and then
that will do to travel in, and with care it may last the rest of the
winter,” she said patiently, as she locked her trunk and her bureau
drawers and returned to her little parlor, where she sat down to work on
a doll’s dress, or what might have passed for such.

While thus engaged she sang a sweet nursery song that was a reminiscence
of her own infancy.

Presently Cleve came in, smiling.

“Well, dear,” he said, “I have paid the rent and given up the rooms,
though I had to pay another month’s rent in lieu of a month’s warning;
and I have settled every other outstanding bill except the milkman’s. I
could not find man or bill if I tried, I suppose.”

“No; there is no bill. We buy tickets, and pay cash, and we have seven
tickets left.”

“Then the man can have the benefit, for we go away to-day.”

“From the city?”

“No; from the flat. We will go to a hotel to-night, and go to Washington
to-morrow, en route for West Virginia. Can you pack up in that time?”

“I can pack up in an hour,” replied Palma.

As she spoke the hall boy knocked and entered the room, showing in a man
with a bundle.

“Ah! that is all right, thank you—that will do,” said Stuart as the man
set down the box and went away.

“It is my new business suit for winter wear in the mountain farmhouse.
What do you think of it, Palma?” he inquired, cutting the twine and
unpacking the box and shaking out a suit of brown beaver cloth,
consisting of double-breasted coat, vest and pantaloons.

“Oh! I think it is excellent. Such a rich, deep color, and such soft,
thick, warm material,” said the young wife appreciatingly.

“Yes, so it is—all that,” added Mrs. Pole, who was setting the tea urn
on the table. “But, la! what a blessing it is that women’s clothes grows
on ’em, like feathers do on to a bird, so they never has no trouble nor
expense to buy any.”

Stuart dropped his suit on the floor and looked at his wife in dismay,
noticed her faded, shabby cashmere dress, and became contrite for his
thoughtlessness.

Mrs. Pole said:

“Lunch is ready, ma’am,” and hurried out of the room.

“Don’t mind Poley, Cleve, dear. She is full of queer sayings, you know,”
said Palma conciliatingly. “Come now, and sit down to luncheon. Here are
some of her nice muffins.” And she took her seat at the table and began
to pour out the tea.

“I have been an idiot, and a very selfish idiot at that! providing
myself with a first-rate suit of clothes, and even displaying them to
your admiration, without once remembering that you also would require
raiment. I am obliged to the woman for bringing me to my senses,” said
Stuart as he took his seat opposite his wife and helped himself to a
muffin.

“Nonsense, Cleve! I have got a tongue in my head, and if I had wanted
anything would have asked you for it without hesitation,” replied Palma.

“I fear you would not have recognized any want, my dear; and I fear it
is true that some men are so thoughtless that they act as if women’s
clothes grew on them like the petals of a flower, and cost neither money
nor effort to renew. But I see now. Yes, dear rose of my life, I see
your petals are fading.”

No more was said until after luncheon, when Cleve put a fifty-dollar
note in Palma’s hand and said:

“Go out and get what is necessary for your comfort, my dear; and take
some lady friend with you, for I fear you have very little experience in
shopping.”

“Thank you, Cleve,” replied Palma, laughing; “but I shall take Poley.
She will be a better judge of what I need than any of our fine lady
friends.”

“Well, perhaps you are right,” admitted Stuart, and the discussion
ended.

When Mrs. Pole had cleared away the table and taken her own luncheon
Palma invited her to go on a shopping expedition; and they put on their
bonnets and outer garments and started. Palma’s was only the plush
jacket that belonged to her cashmere suit, and she shivered so much as
she walked that Mrs. Pole said:

“The very first thing that you must buy must be a heavy cloth coat. You
can get one for twenty dollars. I should prefer a Scotch plaid shawl,
but young people don’t wear such things now, only neat-fitting coats, or
sacques, or dolmans.”

They went down on Broadway and into store after store, trying where they
could find at once the cheapest and the best.

At length Palma was suited with a close-fitting heavy cloth coat that
not only satisfied herself but also Mrs. Pole.

“Now, then, as you like it so well, keep it on, child, and have your
plush jacket done up in a parcel and I will take it home,” said the good
woman.

And this was done.

But then they went to the suit department, where Palma selected an
olive-green pressed flannel dress for herself, and had to take off her
coat to try it on. Then she bought a beaver bonnet and a leather
hand-bag, and her shopping was complete.

Mrs. Pole, who had saved up the wages she had received, bought a very
heavy tartan shawl, two pairs of thick yarn stockings, a pair of stout
goat-skin boots, a pair of warm woolen gloves, and a thick green berege
veil, and felt herself provided for defense against the winter on the
mountain farm.

When they reached home they found Stuart waiting for them. He said:

“Pray do not trouble to get dinner this evening, as we can dine at the
hotel where we are to spend the night.”

“I am very glad of that, on Poley’s account for she is very tired. She
insisted on bringing home all our purchases herself, and just look how
she has loaded herself down!” said Palma, laughing, though, in fact, the
two heaviest items of the purchases, namely, Palma’s beaver cloth coat
and Poley’s tartan shawl, were worn home on the shoulders of the
respective owners.

“But I must beg you to pack up as soon as possible, and I will help you,
if you will show me how,” he answered.

“That would be an awful hindrance, sir! Just let me get my breath for a
minute and I’ll be all right. I am not tired one bit. And we’ll get
through the packing in a jiffy! It’s very easy to move when there’s no
furnitur’, and nothing but one’s clothes and things to pack,” said Mrs.
Pole, sitting down on the first chair, dropping her bundles on the
floor, and untying the broad plaid ribbon strings of her big black straw
bonnet.

She kept her word, for in five minutes she was on her feet again, and in
less than an hour the trunks were packed, locked and strapped.

Stuart wrote the labels and pasted them on the tops, and they stood
ready for the expressman.

Then the three put on their outer garments and turned to leave their
flat.

Palma paused and looked back half regretfully.

“Good-by, pretty little home,” she said. “We have been very happy in
you, but you must not mind our going away. We shall have to go away from
our bodies some of these days! But I hope you will have very pleasant
tenants always. Good-by.”

Stuart did not laugh at her, but Mrs. Pole did, and said as they went to
the elevator:

“If I didn’t know you as well as I do, child, I should really sometimes
think you were crazy!”

“Oh, Poley! don’t you know there is a soul in places and in things, as
well as there is in all other living creatures?” she answered.

Mrs. Pole did not reply, but thought within herself: “I do suppose as
there be some of the sensiblest people crazy in spots.”

They went down in the elevator; and what a misfit of words there is in
that sentence!

They found the janitor waiting in the office to see them off. Mr. Stuart
gave him the key of the vacated apartments, and they all shook hands
with him and left, with the request that he would see to the delivery of
their trunks to the expressman.

Then they walked down the street to the corner of the avenue where the
cars passed. Mr. Stuart hailed the first down one, and they boarded it.
They rode about the length of twenty blocks, got off and walked across
town to Broadway, and entered the office of the hotel that Stuart had
chosen for their sojourning place that night.

They were easily provided with rooms.

When Palma had taken off her bonnet in her chamber Mrs. Pole, who still
stood up in her street costume, said:

“Now, ma’am, if you please, I must leave you for a little while.”

“What, Poley dear! Is there any more shopping to do? Have you forgotten
anything?” demanded Palma.

“No, my child! But as we are to start to-morrow morning I must go and
take leave of my kinfolks to-night.”

“Oh, Poley! And they live away downtown somewhere! And—you can never go
alone!”

“Why not, child? I have been used to go alone all about the city all the
days of my life, even when I was a young woman, and nothing ever
happened to me, or even threatened to happen to me! And if nothing
didn’t in my youth, nothing ain’t like to do it in my age! Don’t be
uneasy, child! I’ll be back by ten o’clock, and one o’ my nephies will
see me here safe.”

“But won’t you wait until after dinner? Cleve says they keep a sumptuous
table here.”

“Then I hope you will get the good of it, my dear, but as for me, I must
hurry away. I’ll make up for missing of my dinner by eating a hearty
supper when I come back.”

“Take care, you must not risk a return of those horrid nights you had at
Lull’s, you know,” said Palma, with a sudden recollection of the
sleep-walking and magpie-hiding propensities that had been features of
those disturbed nights, though features that happily Mrs. Pole had never
suspected.

“Oh, don’t you be afraid! It was the cold, heavy pastry that did it at
Lull’s! There was no basket beggars to carry off the cold pie crusts and
puddin’s, and me and the girls used to eat ’em all up at night to keep
’em from being wasted on. And I never heard of their hurting anybody but
me, either. But don’t you be afraid. I shall eat nothing but the very
best of nutericious and digesterable food, like stewed oysters and
sich.”

“Very well, Poley. Eat what you will, so it shall agree with you. And
now don’t fail to invite your relations in my name as well as in your
own to come to Wolfscliff to see you next summer.”

“Thank you, ma’am, for reminding me again. Now I know you are in airnest
and I’ll be sure to invite them.”

“Why, Poley, I am always in earnest.”

“To be sure, I know you are, ma’am, dear child,” answered Mrs. Pole,
divided in her style of address, between her respect for her mistress
and her tenderness of her pet.

And then again she took leave and went out.

Cleve came out and escorted Palma down to dinner, where the many and
slow courses occupied them for more than an hour.

At ten o’clock Poley punctually made her appearance, and ate a hearty
supper of stewed oysters and brown stout with her nephew.

At eleven o’clock the whole party retired to rest.




                              CHAPTER XXIX
                          TO THE MOUNTAIN FARM


They rose early in the morning, breakfasted and drove down to Cortlandt
Street ferry to take the boat for Jersey City.

They caught the eight-thirty train in good time and without hurry.

Stuart found their baggage all right, waiting for them, checked it to
Washington, and then entered with his companions into the ladies’ car,
and the express train started on its Southern flight. Their journey was
quick, pleasant and uneventful.

Early in the evening of that day they reached Washington.

Leaving their trunks in the baggage room at the depot, and taking only
their hand-bags, they went to one of the best hotels, where they dined
and engaged rooms for the night and the next day.

This was Palma’s first sight of the capital of her country, and Cleve
determined to linger a few hours to show her the public buildings.

The next morning Stuart engaged a hack and took his two companions for a
long, circuitous drive, which should include visits to the White House,
the State, War, Navy and Treasury Departments and the Capitol. But these
visits were necessarily short. There was no time to pay their respects
to the President in the Executive Mansion, or to listen to the debates
in the Senate Chamber or in the House of Representatives, or to the
cases in the Supreme Court. They had to get back to lunch and then to
take the train for West Virginia.

Two o’clock in the afternoon found them again seated in the cars and
flying westward.

Up to this hour the day had been clear and mild, but now the sky began
to cloud over, and when they reached Alexandria the snow began to fall,
and as they left the old town behind them and the short winter afternoon
drew to a close, the storm thickened, if that could be called a storm in
which there was no wind, but a cataclysm of snow falling directly,
silently and continuously upon the earth.

Strange scenes were traced on the window panes without, weird,
beautiful, fantastic scenes—cities, palaces, gardens, trees—all drawn in
frosted silver. They fascinated the imagination of Palma, who was never
tired of gazing and dreaming. Little or nothing could be seen through
the storm of the country over which they were flying.

They reached Oaklands, on the Alleghanies, late at night. They had taken
through tickets to the end of their railway journey, and the train was
going on that night; yet, as the storm continued, they determined to lay
over until the next morning. Leaving their trunks on the baggage car to
go on to their destination, they took their hand-bags and walked through
the thickly falling snow to the hotel, where they were comforted by
clean rooms, glorious hickory wood fires, and a delicious supper of
venison steaks, broiled ham, buckwheat cakes, hot rolls, tea, coffee,
and rich cream, and butter, and honey such as is seldom found anywhere.

It had been a fatiguing day, and as they could see nothing of the
country for the snowstorm, they all went to bed and slept the sleep of
the just.

The next morning they rose to a new life.

The storm had ceased. The sky was clear, and the sun was shining over a
splendid, a magnificent, a dazzling world of mountains, valleys, fields
and forests, all arrayed in white and decked with diamonds.

“Oh! Cleve,” cried Palma, looking out from the upper window of her
bedroom, “does it seem possible that only yesterday we were in a crowded
city, not two hundred miles away, and that now we find ourselves in this
magnificent scene? Why, Cleve, yesterday seems to be a thousand years
behind, and this to be another planet!”

Her rhapsodies were interrupted by the breakfast bell.

And for all answer Cleve smiled, drew her arm within his own and led her
down to the breakfast table.

There were some few other wayfarers present in the room, and these men
were standing around the great, roaring wood fire and talking politics
or crops. But they soon left their position and sat down at the board.
Mrs. Pole was there, too, ready to join her friends.

“Did you ever dream of such a world as this, Poley?” whispered Palma as
the three sat down in a row, Palma being in the middle.

“No, never in all my life! I never even ’magined as there could be such
a place as this! And, oh! ain’t it cold, neither?”

“Cold, but such a fine, pure, healthy cold. And the hot coffee will warm
you, Poley.”

The breakfast was in many respects a repetition of the supper, and in
all respects equal to it.

“Seems to me I eat twice as much at every meal as I ever eat before in
my life, and yet I feel hungry in an hour after I have finished. I do
believe if I was to live up in these regions I should have such an
appetite I should think of nothing but eating and drinking from morning
till night, and dreaming of nothing but eating and drinking from night
till morning!”

“I wonder how long that would last?” queried Palma, but Mrs. Pole did
not answer. She had turned her attention the the venison steaks.

As soon as breakfast was over the three put on their outer garments and
walked through the main street of the mountain town to the railway
station, where they had to wait for nearly half an hour for the Eastern
train to come in. Then they took their seats on board of it, and were
once more flying westward through the magnificent mountain world in its
splendid winter garb of ice and snow.

All day long our travelers reveled in the glorious panorama that flew
past the windows of their car, until night closed in and hid the scene
from their vision.

It was quite dark when they reached the little way station of Wolfswalk,
where they left the train, which stopped half a minute and then sped on
westward.

It was too dark for our party to see anything but the few glimmering
lights at the station and in the stable yard of the village tavern on
the opposite side of the road, and the ghostly forms of the mountains
looming through the obscurity.

“It is now seven o’clock, and we are three miles from Wolfscliff Hall. I
shouldn’t wonder if we have to spend the night at the inn here,” said
Cleve Stuart as he drew the arm of his wife within his own and prepared
to cross the country road, or village street, as you may prefer to call
it.

“If the inn is anything like that of Oaklands I shall not be very sorry.
Come on, Poley. Keep close behind us,” said Palma.

“’Scuse me, marster; is you Marse Cleve Stuart?” inquired a voice from
the darkness at his elbow.

“Yes. Who are you?” demanded Stuart.

“’Sias, sah, old Marse John Clebe’s man f’om Wolfskif; yas, sah, dat’s
me,” replied the invisible.

“And you have been sent to meet us, eh? Come in here. Let us take a look
at one another,” said Cleve with a laugh, as he led the way into the
lighted station.

The negro was a man of middle age, tall, stout, strong and very black,
and clothed in a warm suit of thick, heavy homespun cloth.

“You have been sent to meet us?” again suggested Stuart.

“Yas, sah! along wid de ox cart, to fetch you an’—de ladies, do’ I did’n
know as dere wasn’t no more’n one lady; but, laws! de more de better, I
say, marster, and my name’s ’Sias, old Marse John Clebe’s man f’m
Wolfskif Hall—yas, sah.”

“Did you say you had brought the ox cart for us?” inquired Stuart in
some dismay as he thought of his dainty wife.

“Yas, sah! I has fetched the ox cart, wid Baron an’ Markiss yoked on,
an’ dey is de best beasts on de plantation, kind and gentle as new milk,
’specially Baron, to fetch you an’ de ladies and de luggage, all at de
same time, an’ dere’s a-plenty o’ hay for de ladies to sit on jes’ as
clean an’ as dry n’s sweet as wiolits.”

“But was there no carriage in my uncle’s stables?” inquired Cleve.

“Plenty. But, Lor’, marster, dey was one an’ all so ole an’ rusty, an’
flip-floppy, an’ ramshakelly, dat dey couldn’t be trusted on good roads
in good wedder by daylight, let alone bad roads in bad wedder by night.
An’ wot is true ob de kerridges mought be said ob de hosses, likewise.
Dey wouldn’ be sho-futted on sich roads in sich wedder at night. De ox
cart is de mos’ safes’ an’ de oxes is de mos’ sho-futtedes’. An’ yo’
wouldn’ like to hab de ladies’ necks broke for de sake ob pomps an’
wanities in kerridges! Would yo’ now?”

Cleve laughed, but Palma put in her word:

“Oh, Cleve, I’m delighted! It is so new! such fun! to ride on the hay in
an ox cart! It seems so of a piece with all our strange experiences!
Yes! this is some new planet! Not our old familiar earth!”

“How did you happen to be here to meet us? We are a day and a half
behind time,” inquired Stuart.

“Ole Marse John Clebe, ob Wolfskif Hall—an’ I am his own man ’Sias, wot
nebber would ’mancipate him in de ole ages ob his onnerrubble life fur
all de President an’ Con’gess might say—telled me to come yere to meet
yer an’ stay for de las’ train till you ’rove, an’ dis is de mos’
secondes’ day as I hab been yere to meet yo’! An’ now, young marse, ef
yo’ll listen to me, yo’ll put de ladies in de cart an’ we’ll jog off.”

“All right, ’Sias. Show us the way to the chariot,” laughed Cleve.

The negro set his lantern down in a chair, took from it a bit of candle,
which he lighted by a match and replaced, and said:

“Now I shows the way, young marster,” and walked out of the station,
followed by Stuart, Palma and Poley.

He led them to the lower end of the platform near which the ox cart
stood, with its floor thickly carpeted with layers of hay, and with its
yoke of oxen standing and pawing in the cold night air. Their heads were
turned away from the town, as if all ready for their jog across the
country.

Stuart put Palma upon the cart, and she settled herself in the hay with
childish delight.

Then he helped Mrs. Pole to a seat beside her.

“And now, Marse Glebe, ef yo’ will jes’ git up dar on dat bench, in
front ob de two ladies, yo’ll obleege dis compinny! ’Caze, yo’ see, I’s
got to walk at the head ob de creeturs to keep ’em straight on to de
road.”

“Is that necessary?” inquired Stuart as he climbed to his place and
settled himself comfortably.

“‘N’essary?’” exclaimed ’Sias. “Why, la, bress yer soul, Marse Clebe!
dere’s places ’long dis road w’ere ef dis yere nigh beast was to make a
misstep, we’d all go ober down free fo’ hunderd feet to the rocks below.
No, sah! I’s gwine walk at dis creetur’s head and carry my lantern,
too,” concluded ’Sias as the oxen moved slowly and heavily onward as was
their manner.

The lantern might have been, and probably was, a help to the vision of
’Sias and so to the safety of his party, but it could show only a small
section of the road immediately under the feet of the conductor.

Nothing could be seen of the surrounding country except that it
consisted of densely wooded mountains, whose skeleton trees were faintly
outlined against the ground of snow.

When their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness the travelers in the
cart could see, to their horror, that they were plodding along a rough
and narrow road between a high rise of rocks on their right and a deep
fall on their left; but the cautious negro guide with his lantern walked
by the heads of the oxen between them and the precipice, keeping them
out of the terrible danger. For an hour their way lay along this road,
and then began slowly to descend a gradual slope, and finally turned to
the right and entered a thick wood.

’Sias heaved a deep sigh of relief and said:

“Peoples sez, w’en dey gits out’n dif’culty an’ danger, as dey’s ‘out’n
de woods.’ But, la! I allers feels as if I wasn’t safe until I was offen
dat dar debbil’s shelf, up dar, an’ got down yere in dese woods.”

“How far are we from the house, ’Sias?” inquired Stuart.

“On’y ’bout a mile, young marster. Get dere werry soon now. Dis yere is
all ole Marse John Clebe’s lan’.”

“Oh! is it?”

“Yas, sah. An’ dis woods usen to be called Wolfswalk in de ollen times,
I’s heern says, ‘cause dar was mos’ as many wolfs as trees, an’ de
station ober yonder was just named arter dese yer woods, an’ dats de
trufe for a fac’.”

They jogged through the dark, mysterious-looking woods for some time in
silence, Palma only once murmuring:

“It is like a dream, or a scene in a fairy tale. I feel as if we should
come upon something soon—an ogre’s castle, an enchanted beauty’s palace,
or something. Don’t wake me up, please, anybody.”

What they did come upon very soon was a glimmering light, that seemed to
shoot here and there through the thick, leafless trees like a firefly,
had it been summer instead of winter.

“It’s a lamp in de big hall; it shines right froo de fanlight ober de
front do’, an’ it seems to flit about so ’caze sometimes de trees sho’
it an’ sometimes dey doan’t,” ’Sias explained. And as he spoke the ox
cart slowly and clumsily drew up before a large, oblong building of the
simplest and plainest style of architecture common among the wealthier
class of that region at the time the house was planned.

Though the travelers could not, at that time of night, discern its
features, yet this seems the best time for their historian to describe
it.

The house was built in the rude, strong, plain style of the best old
colonial mansions, of rough-hewn gray rocks of every variegated shade of
red, blue, green, yellow, purple and orange, which gave a mosaic aspect
to the walls. It was an oblong double house, with a broad double door,
having two long windows on each side of the first floor, and five
windows on the second floor, surmounted by a steep roof, with five
dormer windows, and buttressed by four huge chimneys, two at each gable
end. There were many old oak, elm and chestnut trees around the
dwelling, and there were smaller houses, of rude construction, in the
rear.

When the ox cart stopped before the door Stuart got off his seat and
lifted down his wife and her attendant. He tucked Palma’s hand under his
arm and led her up the few steps that went up to the front door. That
door was open and full of light from a large lamp that hung from the
ceiling of the spacious hall, and within the door stood the master of
the house to welcome his coming relatives.

He was a man of middle height—the thinnest, whitest, most shadowy living
man they had ever seen.

“You are welcome to Wolfscliff, my dears,” he said, giving a hand each
to Palma and to Cleve.

“We are very glad to see you, uncle,” said the two in one breath.

“And this lady?” said the old-fashioned gentleman, with native courtesy
as he held out his hand to Mrs. Pole, of whom he had just caught sight.

“Our friend, Mrs. Pole, who never leaves Palma, uncle,” explained Cleve.

“Ah! I am glad to see you, ma’am,” said Mr. Cleve.

“Thank you, sir. I am only Mrs. Cleve Stuart’s housekeeper and
attendant,” said Mrs. Pole, who would not consent to seem a half an inch
above her real social position.

“Ah! And a very trusted and esteemed friend, also, I have no doubt,”
replied the old gentleman.

“She is, indeed, sir, like a mother to my delicate Palma,” assented
Stuart.

“I am very glad she consented to accompany you here,” said Mr. Cleve.

In the moment they stood there talking Palma took in with her eyes the
whole of the spacious hall. It ran from front to back through the middle
of the house, with double doors at each end, four doors on either side
and a broad staircase going up from the midst. A hat rack and half a
dozen heavy oak chairs were the only furniture. There was no carpet on
the polished oak floor, no pictures on the paneled wall.

“Will you come into the parlor, or would you prefer, first, to go to
your rooms?” inquired the old gentleman, opening a door on his right.

“Which would you rather do, Palma?” inquired Cleve.

“Oh, go into the parlor! You see, uncle, we have not come through dust,
but through snow, and we are as clean as when we had washed this
morning,” replied Palma.

The old man led the way into a large, square room, with paneled walls,
polished floor, heavy walnut chairs and tables, and a broad, open
fireplace, with brass andirons, on which was piled about an eighth of a
cord of blazing hickory logs. Around this was a brass fender; above it,
on the wall, a handsome carved oak mantelpiece surmounted by a broad
mirror, and down before it on the floor a rich old Turkey rug. Two large
armchairs stood in each chimney corner.

“Now, my dears, and you, ma’am, make yourselves comfortable and be quite
at home. Supper will be ready in a few minutes,” said Mr. Cleve as he
sank into one of the armchairs.

Then Palma saw how fragile he really was—his transparent face was as
white as ashes, his thin hair and thin whiskers were like floss of
silver, his hands were the longest, thinnest, fairest hands ever seen.
He was clothed in a dark blue dressing-gown which he folded double over
his knees, and the bald spot on the top of his head was covered with a
much worn old blue velvet skullcap. His aspect suggested frost, cobweb,
chrysalis. Only his deep-set, soft brown eyes shone warm and bright with
the fire of life, light and love from the true soul, so slightly held by
the fragile frame and almost ready to fly.




                              CHAPTER XXX
                           THE MOUNTAIN HOME


Mr. Cleve stretched out his hand and pulled the bell.

An elderly colored woman came in.

“Serve the supper in here, Polly. The dining-room is too cold, I think,”
he said.

“Yes, marster,” the woman replied and went out.

“It is in the northwest angle of the house, and has four large
windows—two north and two west—which shake and rattle, and let in the
wind when it blows, as it does now, from that quarter; and also sends
the smoke in volumes down the chimney. So I think it will be more
comfortable for us to eat supper here,” Mr. Cleve explained as he bent
forward and spread his thin, fair hands to the fire.

“I am sure there could not be a pleasanter room than this,” said Palma
from her low rocker as she basked in the warm glow.

“Ah-h-h!” added Stuart with a sigh of deep satisfaction as he rubbed his
hands.

The woman soon came back with faded felt crumb cloth in her arms, which
she went on to lay down on the shining oak floor.

She was followed by a colored girl with the table damask in her hands.
Between them they set the table, adorning it with rare old china and
antique silver. And then a good supper, in honor of the new arrivals, as
well as in consideration of the weary and hungry travelers. There was
tea, coffee and chocolate, milk, cream and butter, rolls, waffles and
cakes, ham, poultry and game, eggs, cheese and fruit—variety, without
superabundance.

Mr. Cleve arose and invited his relatives to take their seats, and
himself led Palma to the head of the table, saying pleasantly:

“This is your place henceforth, my child—a place that has not been
filled since my dear niece, your husband’s mother, married and left me.”

Palma raised and kissed the pale hand that led her, and then sat down
before the tea tray.

The old gentleman sat opposite to her at the foot, Stuart on the right
and Mrs. Pole on the left side.

The venerable master of the house asked the blessing, and the feast
began. The two colored women waited on the table—the elder one stood
beside Palma to hand the cups; the younger beside Mr. Cleve, to pass the
plates. Varied and appetizing as was the supper, the host partook but
daintily, contenting himself with a cup of cocoa and a wafer. But Cleve
and Palma had healthy young appetites, and so delighted the hearts of
the waiting women with their appreciation of the good things set before
them.

When the meal was over and the table cleared of the service the elder
woman set a lamp upon it; then brought the family Bible and laid it open
where the place was kept by her master’s spectacles as a book mark.

“Come, my dear children, let us draw near to Our Father,” said the
patriarch. And once more they gathered around the table, on this
occasion for worship.

John Cleve read the first chapter of the Sermon on the Mount; then made
a pause, that all might reflect on the divine lesson; next led in the
evening thanksgiving and prayer, offering up on this occasion especially
grateful acknowledgments for the dear children sent to be a comfort to
his declining days, and prayers for their spiritual and eternal welfare.
Then he pronounced the benediction, and the evening service was over.

As soon as they arose from their knees the elder colored woman, whom her
master had called Polly, came up to Palma and said:

“Please, ma’am, if you would like to go to your room now I am ready to
wait on you.”

“Thank you. I should like to retire,” replied wearied Palma.

“An’ de oder lady, likewise,” added the woman, nodding toward Mrs. Pole.

“Yes, I’m sure she would. She is even more fatigued than I am—than
either of us,” replied Palma.

“W’ich it is her age-able years, ma’am, of coorse. She can’t be as young
as she used to be,” said the woman gravely.

“Probably not,” admitted Palma with a smile.

The waiting woman lighted two short sperm candles, in short brackets,
and, with one in each hand, prepared to lead the way.

“Shall we bid you good-night, uncle, dear?” inquired Palma, going to the
side of his easy-chair and bending over him.

“You may, my dear, and your friend; but I must have ten minutes’ talk
with your husband here before I let him go. I will not keep him longer
than that,” replied the old gentleman benignly.

“Good-night, then, uncle, dear,” she said, raising his delicate hands to
her lips.

“God bless you, my love,” he responded, drawing her to him and leaving a
kiss on her forehead.

“Good-night, sir,” said Mrs. Pole with a formal bow.

“Good-night, ma’am,” replied Mr. Cleve, lifting his skullcap and bending
his head.

Palma and Poley followed the colored woman out of the parlor into the
big, bare hall, up the broad stairs to the upper hall, which was quite
as big and as bare.

It was bitterly cold. With a heavily wooded country, with forests of
pine, oak, cedar, hickory, chestnut, poplar and other timber, on the
slopes and in the valleys, and with mines of coal among the rocks and
caverns, it seemed yet impossible to keep a country house of that region
warm in winter. You might keep certain rooms within it warm, but not the
halls and passages, not the whole house, for the reason that they had no
system of furnaces, registers, heat pipes and so forth; but then they
were considered all the more wholesome on that account.

Nevertheless, Palma shivered and shook as with an ague when she stepped
upon the upper landing of the second floor hall. It was almost exactly
like the hall below; four bedroom doors flanked it on each side, and
there was a large window at each end, corresponding to the front and
back door of the under one.

Polly led them about halfway up the hall toward the front of the house,
and paused before a door on the right hand, about midway, saying:

“Here is yer room, ma’am, and the most comfortablest one in the whole
house, ’ceps ’tis ole marster’s, which is downstairs, on t’other side ob
de hall, behine de parlor, an’ befo’ de kitchen, and ‘tween ’em bofe, is
sort o’ fended an’ warmed, and purtected by bofe sides habbin’ ob a big
fire into it, bofe day an’ night.”

She opened a door and showed them into a spacious chamber, warmed and
lighted by a great fire of hickory logs in the ample chimney, which was
directly opposite the door by which they had entered. Tall brass
andirons supported the blazing logs, an antique brass fender and crossed
fire-irons secured the rich Turkey rug and the polished oak floor from
danger by falling brands or flying sparks; a carved oak mantelshelf
surmounted the fireplace and supported an oblong mirror, with a tall
silver candlestick at each end. There was a high window on each side of
the fireplace, but both were closed now, sash and shutter, and the snowy
dimity curtains were dropped. At the end of the room nearest the front
of the house stood a large, four-post bedstead, with high-tented tester,
from which hung full, white dimity curtains festooned and looped from
ceiling to floor. Beside this white “marquee” lay a small Turkey rug.

A chest of drawers, a walnut press, a corner washstand and two
easy-chairs draped with white dimity completed the furniture.

“That little door, ma’am,” said Polly, pointing to one in the wall
opposite the foot of the bed, though a good distance from it, “leads
into a d’essin’-yoom, where you can also keep yer extry clothes and
fings as yer wouldn’t like to clutter up yer bedroom wid.”

“Thank you,” said Palma, dropping into one of the easy-chairs and
beginning to unbutton her own boots.

“Wait, ma’am. Let me. Please let me. I’ll just show this lady here to
her yoom, and then come and take off your shoes for you!” exclaimed
Polly.

Then she put one of her candles on the chest of drawers, and retaining
the other, turned to Mrs. Pole and said:

“Now, ma’am, please I’ll take yer to your yoom. It’s just across the
hall yere, right opposide to dis.”

“Thanky,” replied Mrs. Pole. “I’ll go and find out where it is, and much
obleeged to you. But then, dear, I will come back and stay long o’ you
until Mr. Stuart comes up.”

“Quite right, Poley, dear,” replied Palma, who by this time had got her
boots off and her slippers out of her hand-bag and onto her feet, and
was sitting before the fire with her toes on the top of the fender.

Polly took Mrs. Pole across the hall to the opposite room, which as to
size, windows and fireplace, was exactly like that of Palma’s, except
that it had a northern instead of a southern aspect, and was, therefore,
somewhat colder. It was also upholstered in curtain calico instead of
white dimity, and had a picture of the Washington family, instead of a
handsome mirror over the mantelpiece. But there was a fine fire burning
which filled the room with light and warmth.

“Now, ma’am, if yer want anything as I can get you——” began Polly; but
Mrs. Pole interrupted and dismissed her.

“No; thank you. Good-night,” she said.

And Polly left the room.

Pretty soon Mrs. Pole recrossed the hall and re-entered Palma’s
apartment.

“Has the colored woman gone at last?” she inquired.

“Yes, Poley. But what is the matter, dear? I do believe you are jealous
of that poor creature,” said Palma.

“No, I am not; but I don’t like to be waited on and fussed over so much.
I don’t myself! It is all wrong and on false grounds. They treat me here
just as if I was a lady and——” began Mrs. Pole, but she in her turn was
interrupted by Palma, who said:

“Poley, dear, they treat you as a respectable woman, and as they treat
all respectable women—that is, all respectable white women. You are to
be our housekeeper and, as such, one of the family. Don’t ‘kick against
the pricks,’ Poley, dear.”

“I kick against anything? If you knew the stiffness of my joints through
sitting so long in the cars you wouldn’t be talking of me and kicking in
the same breath,” said Mrs. Pole with an injured air.

Ringing steps, attended by shuffling feet, were heard coming along the
hall, and then the voice of Cleve Stuart saying:

“That will do, ’Sias! Thank you. Good-night.”

And the shuffling feet went back and the ringing steps came on, and the
door opened and Cleve Stuart entered the room.

“Well, good-night, dearie, I’m gone. Good-night, Mr. Stuart,” said Mrs.
Pole. And rising from the second easy-chair into which she had thrown
herself she nodded and left them, regardless of Stuart’s good-natured
protestations that she must not let him drive her away.

All our tired travelers “slept the sleep of the just” that night.

As for Palma, she knew nothing from the time her head touched her pillow
until she opened her eyes the next morning.

The room was dark, or lighted only by the red glow of the hickory wood
fire, and it was silent but for an occasional crackle of some brand that
was not of hickory, but of some more resinous wood that had found its
way in among the harder sort.

Stuart was not by her side, nor anywhere in the room. Evidently he had
got up and dressed and left while she still slept soundly.

Palma crept out of bed and crossed the floor to open the window, but as
she did so the chamber door was opened and the younger of the two negro
women came in.

“‘Mornin’, ma’am,” she said brightly, smiling and showing her teeth. “I
was jes’ waitin’ outside o’ de do’ fo’ yo’ to wake up, to come in an’
wait on yo’.”

“You must have good ears,” said Palma.

“Middlin’. But w’en I heerd de planks in de flo’ creak, den I knowed yo’
was walkin’ across. I did brung up a pitcher o’ hot water fo’ yo’ an’
put it on de ha’rf—dar it is, ma’am,” said the girl, and she stooped and
took up the pitcher and carried it over to the washstand.

“Tell me your name,” said Palma softly.

“Hatty, ma’am,” replied the girl, smiling brightly. And when she smiled
it was with a brilliancy unequaled in Palma’s experience of faces.
Hatty’s face was of the pure African type. There was not a drop of
Caucasian blood in her veins; but she was of the finest African type,
with fine crinkling, silky, black hair, with glowing black eyes, so
large, soft and shining that, with varying phases they might be called
black diamonds, black stars, or—when half closed with smiles or
laughter, and veiled with their long, thick, curled, black
lashes—sunlit, reed-shaded pools. Her nose was flat; her lips large and
red, and her teeth white as ivory. And when she laughed she seemed to be
a natural spring of mirth all by herself. And she was almost always
laughing, often silently. Few could look on the happy face of the child
without smiling in response.

“Well, then, Hatty, I am afraid I am late. I hope I have not kept
anybody waiting.”

The girl, who had gone to open the windows, turned and answered shortly:

“Oh, Lor’, no, ma’am! De birds deirselves—w’ich it is de snowbirds, I
mean—ain’t been long up, an’ de sun hese’f hasn’ showed ’bove de
mount’in, dough he’s riz. See, ma’am!”

She had drawn back the curtains and pulled up the shade, and now she
threw open the shutters.

Palma came to the window and looked out.

Oh! what a glorious sight! Yet, to be graphic, I must compare great
things to small, or at least illustrate the former by the latter. The
house from which she looked seemed now to be situated in the bottom of a
vast, deep, bowl-shaped valley, its colors now, in midwinter, dark
green, with gleams of snow-white, the whole canopied by deep blue,
flushed in the east by opal shades of rose, gold, violet, and emerald.
The mountains loomed all around in a circle of irregular peaks, all
thickly covered with pines, cedars, spruce and other evergreen trees,
which grew closest at the base and thinnest near the tops, which were
mostly bare, and now, in December, covered, with snow.

Looking from the front window of her room Palma could see but half the
circle—the eastern half, made beautiful now by the rising sun. The sun
had not yet come in sight; but even as Palma gazed he suddenly sparkled
up from behind the cliffs, gilding all the opal hues of morning with
dazzling splendor.

“Oh, what a happiness to live in a home like this!” she said to herself;
“how good one ought to be to become half worthy of it! Oh, my! oh, my!”

She heard voices speaking below her window. In the clearness of the
atmosphere she recognized them as her husband’s and his uncle’s.

The former was saying:

“Why, they are not a bit afraid of you! They seem to know you.”

“Oh, yes! they do.”

And the speakers became silent.

“It’s ole marse, a-feedin’ ob de snowbirds,” Hatty explained. “Ole marse
is jes’ a angel, ma’am! He’s good to eberybody an’ eberyfing.”

“You love your master very much, then, Hatty?” said Palma.

“Lub him? Dat ain’t no word for it! ’Cause, yo’ see, ma’am, I lubs so
many bodies an’ so many fings, too, even down to red ribbins an’ cakes!
But I puffickly ’dores ole marse!” said the girl, smiling until her eyes
closed and all the lines of her features were horizontal.

Palma had gone to the washstand, where now the sound of splashing water
prevented the hearing of any talk. Then, while she was drying her face
and neck, she said:

“Run, Hatty, and take my traveling dress from the hook in the closet,
and carry it out and shake it, and brush it, and bring it back to me. I
won’t take time now to unpack my trunks to get another.”

Almost before she ceased to speak the girl, glad to serve her, had
darted into the closet, seized the dress, and was running off with it.

By the time Palma had dried her skin and dressed her hair Hatty was back
with the dark blue flannel suit, looking as fresh as when it came out of
Lovelace & Silkman’s establishment.

As soon as Palma finished her toilet she hurried downstairs and was met
at the foot by the aged master of the house, who had just come in from
his bird feeding.

He wore a faded, dark blue dressing-gown, thickly wadded, and wrapped
closely about his fragile form. He looked, if possible, fairer, frailer
and more of a mere chrysalis than ever.

“Good-morning, my dear,” he said. “You have slept well, I know, and have
risen to a beautiful day.”

“Yes, dear uncle, and opened my eyes upon a beautiful scene! Ah! what a
happiness it is to live in such a lovely place! How much I thank you for
bringing us to such a heavenly place!” said Palma, taking and kissing
the pale hand that he had laid in silent blessing on her head.

“How much I thank you for coming, dear child!”

“Thank us for coming into paradise?”

“Not paradise even in summer, when it is almost a Garden of Eden in the
dip of the mountains! But I hope it will be a very happy home to you and
yours. Remember that you are mistress here, of a house that has not had
a mistress for more than thirty years, when my dear niece, your
husband’s mother, married and left it.”

“No, but I am your servant, uncle—your servant and daughter, whose duty
and delight will be to wait on you and minister to your comfort,”
murmured Palma.

“Breakfast is ready, ma’am,” said Polly, the elderly negro woman,
opening the parlor door.

“Come, my dear,” said Mr. Cleve, drawing Palma’s arm within his own and
leading her to the room, where the table was waiting and a splendid fire
was burning.

“Where is Mr. Stuart and Mrs. Pole?” inquired Palma, looking around.

“Go find them, Hatty,” ordered the master. But as he spoke Cleve entered
the room by the side door and laughingly greeted his wife with the
ironical question whether she was really “up for all day?”

“You should have waked me,” said Palma.

“No, no, he should not. I hold with the Koran and ‘never awaken a
sleeper’ unless, indeed, the occasion is sufficiently important, which
it was not this morning,” said Mr. Cleve as they all sat down to
breakfast.

Mrs. Pole came in, convoyed by Hatty, who had found her upstairs setting
Palma’s room in order, and had taken upon herself to instruct the good
old woman that “age-able ole white ladies didn’t make up no beds when
there was colored young girls to do it for ’em.”

When Mrs. Pole had greeted the company and taken her seat the master of
the house asked the blessing and breakfast went on.

After the morning meal was ended and the table cleared away Mr. Cleve
said to Palma:

“Now, my dear, when you feel disposed call Polly to show you all over
the house. And you will make any alterations you see fit, choose any
rooms that you may prefer for your private apartments, and make a list
of any furniture or household utensils that you may need or may like,
and they shall be bought. There is a good sleigh in the carriage house.
If you would like to take a drive, send Hatty to the stables to tell
Josias to clean it out and harness the horses. Do whatever you like, my
child.”

“Thank you, dear uncle. I wish I knew what you would like, and that I
would do.”

“I would like you to be happy, my child.”

“Very well, then; thank you, uncle, I will,” exclaimed Palma with a
light laugh as she danced out of the room and tripped upstairs to her
own chamber to begin the work of unpacking and putting away her own and
her husband’s wardrobe, in which she was to be assisted by Mrs. Pole,
who soon entered the room.

Never in her life had Palma been so happy, so lighthearted, so contented
with the present, so careless of the future. Even in her bridal days,
sickness and the shadow of death had been about her and had sobered, if
it had not darkened her delight. But now every cloud was lifted; the
present was full of joy, the future full of glad promise, and her own
soul overflowing with thankfulness to the Lord.

Mrs. Pole was almost equally enchanted.

“Now, Poley, we have both reached a haven of peace and safety that is
like a heavenly rest. Let us be good and obedient children to our Father
and Lord. That is all we can do to show our gratitude,” said Palma, who
was kneeling by the side of her great sea trunk, taking out clothing
piece by piece and handing them to her attendant, who was standing
before the bureau and who folded each article in turn and put it away.

“Darling,” answered Mrs. Pole, “I do not think as ever I did such a good
and altogether profitable day’s work as I did that precious day when I
found you too ill to get out of bed and not a single soul to take care
of you; and when I said to myself as the week’s washing at Wilton’s
would have to go with my week’s wages into the bargin, and to-morrow
would have to take thought for itself, according to Scripture, for once,
for I was bound to stop long o’ you an’ nuss you. Lor’, child! I haven’t
too often walked by faith instead o’ by sight, but I did it that once,
and lo and behold! what’s come outen it! We have never parted from that
day to this, and here I am in my old age not only comfortable, but
luxurious pervided for.”

“You ‘cast your bread upon the waters and after many days it has
returned to you,’” said Palma.

“And, please the Lord, for the futur’ I do mean to try to be a better
woman,” said Mrs. Pole very earnestly.

When their task was completed and everything was in order, Palma dropped
into an easy-chair, drew a deep breath, and said:

“Now, Poley, it is but eleven o’clock, and there are three hours before
Uncle Cleve’s early dinner at two, so, if you like, we will send for
Aunt Polly—all the colored women who are past their youth are aunts, you
know; everybody’s aunts, Cleve says—we will send for Aunt Polly and get
her to show us all over our new little kingdom, this big, old house—its
dining-room, kitchen and pantry, its storerooms, china and linen
closets, its chambers, attics and cuddies, and all. Will you come,
Poley, dear?”

“And you tired to death and out of breath now? No, my dear. No. You must
not exert yourself one bit more to-day. Now mind what I tell you, honey.
It is for your good and Its!” replied Mrs. Pole, with a solemn warning
shake of her head.

“Very well, Poley, I will obey you. Cleve and uncle are shut up in the
parlor, talking business, I suppose, so I will sit here and sew until
dinner time, or until I am called,” said Palma.

Mrs. Pole got up and went to the shelf in the closet and returned with
Palma’s workbasket, in which her sewing was already neatly arranged, and
set it down on the floor beside its owner.

And Palma selected a tiny, half-finished garment that might have fitted
a medium doll, and began to sew some lace edging on it. And soon, in the
gayety of her heart, she began to sing at her work.

Mrs. Pole got her own basket of infirm socks and stockings and began to
darn.




                              CHAPTER XXXI
                            UNCLE AND NEPHEW


While they were so occupied Mr. Cleve had closed the parlor door,
shutting himself in with his nephew for a long talk over their past and
present lives and future arrangements—though the earthly future of the
aged man would necessarily be very brief.

The old gentleman wished rather to hear than to talk, and so he only
briefly reverted to the main events of his own life—his early
disappointment in love when his betrothed bride was taken ill and died a
few days before their intended marriage, and was buried in her bridal
dress on her wedding day.

“Yet, no; she was not buried, only her left-off body was buried. She
lived! Oh! how vividly! how blessedly! how potently she lives! And I
shall soon see her again! After seventy years, my boy! after seventy
years! But what are they, in view of the life everlasting?” said the
aged man in conclusion of this reminiscence.

Cleve Stuart made no reply, but pressed his uncle’s hand in reverential
silence.

Then the old man spoke of the nephews who had borne his own name and
expected to inherit his estate, but who had both died, unmarried, of
wounds received in battle. Then he spoke of his long, vain search of his
niece’s son, Cleve Stuart, and of the chance by which he found him.

“And now, my boy, that I have found you, let me say that I find you all
that I could wish, and your young wife—charming! But tell me about her,
Cleve. Who is she?” he inquired.

“Palma is the daughter of the late James Jordan Hay and the
granddaughter of the late John Hayward Hay, of Haymore, in the North
Biding of Yorkshire, England,” replied Stuart.

“Why—indeed! I knew the old squire. When I went to Europe in my young
manhood I reached England in the autumn, and through a letter of
introduction got an invitation to Mr. Storr’s, of Hoxton, where I stayed
for the Melton hunts and met Mr. Hay, of Haymore. Yes, the Hays, of
Haymore, are an ancient, historical, almost, I might say, an illustrious
family. I congratulate you, my boy, but more on the personal merit of
your young wife than on her family connections. Who represents the house
now at Haymore? Which of the three lads I found there?”

Stuart, as briefly as possible, gave him the later family history.

“What a fatality! All these fine boys to pass away in early manhood! And
the son of Cuthbert, the second brother, you say, inherits the manor. I
remember Cuthbert well. He was intended for the church. They called him
Cuddie. Now, tell me how you came to meet Palma. She was the daughter of
the youngest brother, James, you say.”

“Yes; and after the death of her parents she was adopted by Judge and
Mrs. Barrn, who were my guardians. I met Palma in their house when I
first went there to live, and so knew her from her infancy up. I won her
pure affection then, and never afterward lost it, thank Heaven.”

“An excellent knowledge and a blessed beginning. Now, tell me how it was
you lost your Mississippi plantation.”

“I have not lost it. It is legally mine, but of no more use to me than
would be so many acres of waste land in the Sahara. The land is, indeed,
a desert, and the buildings a mass of charred ruins.”

“Through the war?”

“Yes, of course. Mansion house, stables, barns, mills, negroes’ quarters
fired and burned to the ground; stock all driven off; negroes
conscripted. The place is a ruin and a wilderness; it would take many
thousand dollars to reclaim it.”

The old man sighed, but made no reply.

Then Stuart told him frankly of the desperate straits to which he had
been reduced at the time when his uncle’s letter came to him so
opportunely.

Mr. Cleve was shocked.

“If I had known! If I had only known!” he said.

But in all his narrative Stuart never mentioned the name or existence of
either Lamia Leegh or Gentleman Geff. It was bad enough, he thought, to
trouble the old gentleman’s calm spirit with the tale of want; but it
would have been far worse to have darkened and depressed it with the
story of falsehood and treachery.

The early dinner bell brought the family together, and around the table
were only happy faces. All the painful past was for the time forgotten.

The afternoon was beautiful.

The large old sleigh was brushed out, lined with buffalo skins and
blankets, and brought around to the front door by two swift horses. And
the four—Mr. Cleve, Mrs. Pole, Stuart and Palma—took a ride; the first
pair seated on the back seat, the second on the front seat, and Josias,
the coachman, on the box.

They took the road that skirted the base of the mountains, on the
inside, and went in a circle around the plantation. On this road, under
the shelter of the mountains, stood the negroes’ quarters—log huts,
large and small, from one room to two, three or even four, according to
the necessities of the occupants. The men and boys were all away at such
farm work as the season permitted, and the women were engaged in
washing, ironing, cooking, or carding and spinning wool. Their open
doors showed their occupations, and showed also the bright pine wood
fires that so warmed their huts as to permit these open doors.

The sleigh passed too swiftly for the party in it to return half the
nods and smiles with which their passage was greeted.

“Uncle,” said Palma, “you appear to me like a patriarch of old living
among his tribe.”

“Yes, dear child, with this exception—the patriarchs were men of large
families, with many sons and daughters, and sons-in-law and
daughters-in-law, and innumerable grandchildren and great-grandchildren
to the third and fourth generation, to rise up and call them blessed.
And I—have none.”

“Oh! uncle, dear, you have us. We love you; indeed, we do. And we will
serve you as tenderly and devotedly as any children could.”

“I know it, my dear; I know it. And I thank the Lord for sending you to
me.”

“And I thank the Lord that you let us come. And, oh! uncle, I wish we
could multiply ourselves into a tribe of many generations to serve and
bless you.”

“All in good time, my little love; all in good time,” said the old man
with a twinkle in his glowing brown eyes.

The three miles’ circuit of the road was completed, and they reached the
house just as the winter sun was winking out of sight behind the western
peak.

“The first day the ground will admit of walking I shall go on foot to
make the acquaintance of all your interesting people, Uncle Cleve. I
liked the glimpses I got of them as we flew by,” said Palma as she gave
her hand to her husband and sprang out of the sleigh.

“Yes, my child, so you shall,” replied the old man as he in his turn
alighted with the assistance of both Stuart and Palma. “So you shall, my
dear. And there are some few neighbors and some distant relatives of
ours with whom you must soon make acquaintance.”

“Who are they, uncle, dear?” inquired Palma as she entered the house on
the old man’s arm, followed by Stuart and Mrs. Pole, while ’Sias drove
the sleigh around to the stables.

“I will tell you presently, dear,” replied Mr. Cleve.

In the hall Palma laid off her fur cloak and hood and gave them to Hatty
to take upstairs. Stuart helped his uncle off with his overcoat and
muffler.

When they had all returned to the oak parlor, where the great fire had
been replenished, and were seated around the hearth enjoying the glow,
and while Polly was passing in and out setting the tea table, Mr. Cleve
said:

“We have no very near relations left in this world. We who sit here are
the nearest of kin to each other. Still, you know, Virginians are as
clannish as highlanders.”

“Yes, indeed. I remember that much of my beloved mother. No matter how
distant the relationship or how humble or even unworthy the individual,
my dear mother always held sacred the claims of kindred. My poor father,
who was not so clannish, used to laugh at her a little and ask:

“‘Why do you not take in all the human race at once, since all are Sons
and daughters of our first parents, and brothers and sisters of
ourselves?’”

“Well, he was right,” commented the old man.

“But excuse me for interrupting you, uncle. You were speaking of our
kindred in this country, and we are anxious to hear of them.”

“Well, my boy, there are the Gordons, of Gordondell; they are our third
cousins, and live about seven miles south of this on the Staunton road.
They are a large family of three generations, living in one house; but
they are all Gordons. Then there are the Bells, of the Elms; only two, a
bachelor brother and maiden sister, living on their little place just
beyond Wolfswalk. And the Clydes, my dears, who live in the village, and
keep a general store. There is a young father and mother and half a
dozen children. That is all. They are all more or less injured by the
war, and are poor, and—some of them—somewhat embittered by their losses;
but they are our kindred, and we must have them all here to meet you in
the coming Christmas holidays.”

“Tea is on the table, ma’am,” said Polly.

And the party left the fireside and gathered around the table.

The sleigh ride had given them all fine appetites, and they enjoyed
their repast.

After it was over, and the evening worship was offered up, the little
family separated and retired to rest.

And so ended the first day at Wolfscliff; the first, also, of many happy
days.

The cousins did not wait to be invited. The news of the new arrival at
the Hall was soon spread through the neighborhood by the negroes, and
neighbors and relatives lost no time in calling on the young pair.

And yet these were not so truly calls as visits, for when any one came
to the house they arrived in the morning to stay all day and take dinner
and tea. They expected this, and it was also expected of them.

The very first to come were the Gordons, who arrived early in the
morning a few days before Christmas. They came in a big ox cart, and
filled it. There was old Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, an ancient couple nearly
ninety years of age, bowed, shriveled and white-haired, yet, withal,
right merry; and their bachelor brother and maiden sister, Mr. Tommy and
Miss Nancy Gordon, as aged and as merry as themselves; then there was
the son and daughter, Col. and Mrs. George Gordon, both stout, rosy and
full of the enjoyment of this life, and their middle-aged bachelor
brother and maiden sister, Mr. Henry and Miss Rebecca Gordon. And there
were seven young men and three young women between the ages of fifteen
and twenty-seven. But, really, it would take up too much time and space
to tell you all their names and ages and characters. They were a happy,
rollicking set of young people.

They had not been much hurt either in mind, body or estate by the war,
and were neither depressed nor embittered.

Then came the two old folks from the Elms. And, finally, the Clydes,
from the village.

And besides these, neighbors came; old families who had been in the
land, as the Cleves had, from the first settlement by the English—the
Hills, the Ords, and the Balls—all of whom lived within ten miles of
Wolfscliff.

And all of these kinsfolks and neighbors were warmly welcomed at
Wolfscliff, and well liked by Cleve and Palma.

Christmas brought its usual festivities at the home, but also a
snowstorm that commenced on the morning of Christmas Eve and continued
all day and all night and all the next day, covering the ground two feet
deep, and toward the close of the second day, when the wind rose,
drifting in places several yards deep.

This made it impossible for the families at Wolfscliff to leave the
house; but Mr. Cleve held service in the large drawing-room, where all
his people from the plantation, as well as the members of his household,
were collected.

And when the service was over Christmas gifts were distributed, mostly
in articles of clothing, to the servants. To Palma he gave a casket of
pearls and rubies that had been his mother’s; to Stuart he gave a fine
horse, with new saddle and bridle, that he had within a few days past
purchased from a neighbor.

Cleve and Palma gave to him an olive-green velveteen dressing-grown and
skullcap to match, which they had purchased for this very purpose; and
to the servants each they gave a piece of gold coin, having nothing else
to offer them. And then the congregation dispersed joyfully.

The snowstorm continued, with a high wind. The contemplated dinner party
for the twenty-seventh had to be given up. The state of the road made
travel impossible for several days.

One of the first expeditions abroad was made by Josias, who, mounted on
a stout mule, tried to reach the post office at Wolfswalk. It took him
all day to go and come, but he succeeded, and late in the evening
brought back letters and parcels that had been forwarded from New York
to the Stuarts—letters and parcels that bore the London and the Haymore
postmarks. The first were from the London solicitors of the Hays, of
Haymore, and contained the information that certain railway, mining and
manufacturing shares had been transferred from the name of Randolph Hay
to that of Palma Hay Stuart, and were at her disposal, and included the
bonds—for, after all, self-indulgent Will Walling had decided not to
take the long journey to the mountains of Virginia in the midst of
winter, but to forward the documents by mail, and without even an
explanatory letter from himself.

“I think you will have no trouble in finding the funds for the
reclamation of your Mississippi estate,” said John Cleve with a smile as
he received the information which Stuart seemed proud and glad to give
him. “Your wife’s cousin is a noble, generous fellow. Whom did he
marry?”

Cleve Stuart was for a moment dumfounded by the question. He had not so
far risen above conventionality as not to feel much embarrassment in
replying.

“Miss Judith Man, of California,” answered Palma, on seeing that Stuart
had found nothing to say.

“Ah! Who was she?” next inquired Mr. Cleve.

“The best, the noblest, the loveliest girl I ever met with in my life!”
warmly responded Palma.

“Ah! that is well, very well! Of what family was she?” persevered the
old gentleman, who was completely unconscious of the embarrassment his
questions were causing.

“I really do not know, uncle, dear,” answered Palma.

“I do not think we ever inquired,” replied Stuart, speaking at last.

“Ah! well, it does not matter, so that she is a good, true girl, worthy
of the noble young fellow,” said Mr. Cleve.

“She is all that, uncle,” said Stuart.

Palma and Stuart then opened their letters. They were from Ran and Judy,
telling them of their arrival at Haymore, their reception of Gentleman
Geff and his “lady,” and, indeed, of all the events that transpired in
the first few days of their stay at the Hall, and of which our readers
are already informed; making no mention of the transfer of stocks from
Ran to Palma; but renewing and pressing their invitation that the
Stuarts would visit them in England during the next summer. Of course,
Ran and Judy at the time of writing their letter had not heard of Cleve
and Palma’s removal to West Virginia.

Palma was so little a worshiper of Mammon that she was much more
delighted with the faithful affection revealed in these letters than
with the accession of fortune that accompanied them.

She flew upstairs to answer them. She was earnest in her thanks for
Ran’s magnanimity in giving her so noble a share in their grandfather’s
fortune; but she was even more earnest in her appreciation of Judy’s
friendship and their mutual invitation to herself and Cleve. She had,
however, to explain why neither of them could take advantage of the
offered opportunity of visiting their friends in England, by telling
them of her own and her husband’s change of residence and new-found
happiness in the country home of their aged uncle, and of the
impossibility that they should leave him while his presence on earth
should be spared to them.

Cleve Stuart also answered Ran’s letters in very much the same strain,
giving the same thanks with much deprecation, and offering the same
explanations.

These letters were all taken to the post office the next morning.

In another week the weather moderated and the snow melted. But traveling
was, if possible, more difficult than before, for the roads were sloughs
of mud.

But within doors, at Wolfscliff, all was pleasant, comfortable and
happy.

Only Mrs. Pole complained of having too little to do. But her special
grievance did not last very long, for——

On the morning of the fourteenth of February Palma Stuart received from
Above, in trust for earth and heaven, a most precious valentine, in the
form of a pair of twins, a fine boy and girl. And no more grateful and
delighted mother dwelling on the “footstool” that day raised her heart
in prayer and thanksgiving to the Throne.

No prouder father lived than Stuart, no happier uncle than John Cleve,
nor more important nurse than Mary Pole. She had enough to do now, both
day and night, to nurse mother and babes.

On the very first visit Stuart was allowed to make at the bedside of his
wife, when he had kissed her with deep feeling, and had admired the
twins to his heart’s content, she said to him:

“Cleve, dear, of course our boy must be named John Cleve, after dear
uncle and yourself. But our little girl? Will you please ask uncle if he
will let us call her Clarice, after his own dear angel love?”

“Well thought of, darling. I know he will be pleased. I will ask him as
soon as I go downstairs,” warmly responded Cleve Stuart.

“And you must go now, sir, if you please. She must be quiet and go to
sleep if she can,” said Mrs. Pole from the eminence of her new
authority.

Stuart meekly bowed his head and obeyed.

The result of Palma’s proposal was this: Early in the afternoon, when
she had had a good sleep, had awakened and taken refreshment, and was
resting in peace and bliss, the old gentleman came quietly into the
room, sat down beside her, and said softly:

“I thank you, my dear. May the Lord bless you, and may He bless your
dear babes—little Clarice and John.”




                             CHAPTER XXXII
                          AN EARTHLY PARADISE


Spring opens early on the southwestern section of Virginia, and leaves,
flowers and birds come soon.

Palma and her babies were out with the violets and the bluebirds. And no
one could have more enjoyed the beautiful weather in this glorious scene
than the city-bred girl.

Even in April, the cup-shaped vale, shut in by green-wooded mountains,
seemed a Garden of Eden, or the fairy “Valley of Calm Delights.”

Stuart had taken to agricultural life as to his native element, and
often declared his delight in it, and expressed his wonder how he, the
descendant of a hundred generations of farmers, could have been
contented to live in a city.

Directly after breakfast every morning he mounted his horse and rode out
afield to look after the laborers. Certainly, much of the theory and
practice of farming he had to learn from his uncle; but he was an apt
pupil. So apt, he said to Palma, that his learning seemed to him more
like the recollection of forgotten knowledge than the acquisition of new
ideas.

Palma, for her part, loved to put her two babies in the double
perambulator that had been brought from the nearest town for their use,
and, attended by Hatty, wheel them out to the road that ran around the
vale and was dotted with the log huts and little gardens of the negroes
on the side next to the mountain. This was like a royal progress.
Everywhere the young mother and children were greeted with joy by the
colored women and girls in the cabins.

On week days none but women and children could be found there; all the
men were afield.

On Sunday they would all, or nearly all, go to church; and it was a
strange thing that a little community, numbering less than one hundred,
men, women and children all counted, should include so many religious
sects; for here were to be found Catholics, Episcopalians,
Presbyterians, Methodists and Baptists. I think that was all; for of
finer sub-divisions of doctrine or opinion they knew nothing, and a more
Christian community than the people of this plantation, notwithstanding
their sectarian differences, could scarcely be found anywhere. And this
was owing, in a great measure, to the teachings and example of their
master—a pure Christian.

He was accustomed to say to them:

“By whatever sectarian name you choose to call yourselves matters
little; be Christian. ‘The disciples were called Christians first at
Antioch.’ ‘For there is no other name under heaven given among men
whereby we must be saved but that of Christ.’”

Old ’Sias being asked one day by a stranger as to his religious faith
and experience answered that he was Christian, and his law of life was
love of God and his neighbor.

The people loved their master well. Not one left him when emancipation
was proclaimed. Even the young men, who longed to see life, would not
leave old master while he should live on earth.

Old Cleve was the friend, teacher and patriarch of his people.

Never in his life, however, had the old man been so happy as at present.
The society of Stuart, Palma and their babies opened new springs of joy
in his heart and home. He loved to spend hours reclining in his
easy-chair on the piazza, with the young mother seated near him and the
infants in their pretty basket cradle beside her, while Mrs. Pole would
be looking after household affairs within, and Stuart would be
supervising agricultural matters afield.

The twins were little more than two months old when John Cleve saw, or
thought he saw, a growing likeness between the tiny Clarice and the
angel for whom she was named. As for him, he was waiting the call to
come and rejoin his own Clarice in one of the many mansions of our
Father’s house.

Nor was the summons long delayed.

It was a lovely morning in May.

The vale was more like than ever to a Garden of Eden. It was a chalice
full of bloom, fragrance and music lifted up in offering to Heaven.

Stuart was absent on horseback, riding from field to field, overlooking
the workmen.

All the other members of the family were gathered on the front porch.

Mrs. Pole, with a pair of shears in her hands, was walking about the
place, carefully clipping a few dead leaves from the rose vines that
climbed about the pillars. She had taken to gardening with as much
enthusiasm as Stuart had taken to farming.

Palma sat on a little, low chair, busy with her needlework. At her feet
stood the pretty basket cradle in which lay the twin babes, sleeping.

Near them sat John Cleve, reclining in a large resting-chair. His hands
were folded before him, and he was gazing out upon the scene with a face
illumined by reverence and serene rapture. Not a word had he spoken
since the babies went to sleep. Now he murmured:

“Oh! the beauty and the glory of Thy sunlit earth and heavens, our
Father.”

The words seemed to issue involuntarily from the lips of the speaker in
the midst of the deep silence.

“Oh! the loveliness of Thy celestial angels!” he murmured in a lower and
a slower tone.

Palma looked up from her sewing.

He did not speak again.

She turned around to look at him.

He had sunk back in his chair and shrunken together. His hands lay
folded on his knees, his head bowed on his chest, and his silver hair
shining in the morning sunlight. His face could not possibly be whiter
than it had always been since she had known him, but something else in
his aspect startled and alarmed her.

She sprang up and went to him, bent over him, and laid her hand on his
shoulder.

“Uncle! Uncle!” she said softly but eagerly, anxiously—“Uncle!”

“Don’t distress—yourself, dear—it is all right—bless you.”

These were his last words. His whole slight frame seemed to collapse and
shrink closer together, his head sank lower, his hands slipped apart and
dropped down by his sides.

When Mrs. Pole, startled by some sound, hurried to the spot, she found
Palma in a panic of grief and amazement too deep for utterance, standing
over the lifeless body of the good old man.

Mrs. Pole in great emergencies had but little self-possession.

She threw up her hands in horror, and then ran wildly in and out of the
house, shrieking:

“Polly! Hatty! ’Sias!”

And as the frightened servants came running at her call, the women from
the kitchen, the man from the lawn, they found the young mistress down
on the floor at the feet of the dead master, with her hands clasped
around his knees and her head bowed upon them, sobbing as if her heart
must break. Tears had come and broken the trance of sorrow.

“Run for the doctor! Run for Mr. Stuart! Run all of you!” cried Mrs.
Pole.

And the servants ran in all directions to spread the news or to bring
efficient help.

Mrs. Pole went to Palma.

“Get up, my dear child! Let me help you up.”

“Don’t—don’t,” gasped Palma in a smothered tone.

“Come, come with me,” persisted the woman, taking hold of her arm and
trying to lift her.

“Leave me! Leave me!” cried the mourner, clinging the closer to her
dead, and continuing obdurate to all entreaty.

Cleve Stuart, found and summoned by ’Sias, soon came galloping up to the
house, threw himself off his horse and hurried up on the porch.

One look of awe, sorrow and reverence to the changed face of his uncle
showed him what had happened. Then he looked on his wife.

“Make her get up, sir. Do make her get up. I can’t get her to move from
that!” sobbed Mrs. Pole.

“When did this happen?” inquired Stuart in a low tone.

“Not twenty minutes ago, I reckon, though I’m not sure. It was as quick
as lightning. One moment he was talking bright and cheerful, and the
next moment he was gone like a flash! Oh! make her get up, sir. She will
kill herself.”

“Palma, dear, you must let me take you in,” he said, laying his hand
gently on the bowed head of his wife.

But sobs were her only reply.

“Palma, we will have to take him in and lay him on his bed. Come with me
first.”

But she only wept and sobbed.

With gentle force he took her arms from around the dead, lifted her,
bore her into the parlor, laid her on the sofa and called Polly to
attend her.

He returned to the porch, told Mrs. Pole to look after the babies and
leave everything else to him, and called the grief-stricken ’Sias to
help him to carry the dead into the house.

It was a very light weight for so tall and broad-shouldered a man, but,
then, it was but little more than skin and bone, a human chrysalis.

They bore it to the chamber in the rear of the parlor on the ground
floor, that had been John Cleve’s sleeping-room. Here they laid it on
the bed to await the arrival of the family physician. The latter could
do no good, but all the same he must come.

Not until afternoon could the busy country doctor, whose practice
extended over many miles, be found and brought to Wolfscliff.

He was conducted by Stuart to the room of death.

“A death from old age, pure and simple,” was the verdict of science.

“Did you ever see a body more thoroughly consumed by the life of the
spirit? I have known Mr. Cleve all my life, as my father and my
grandfather knew him before me, and I never knew of, or heard of, his
having a day’s illness,” concluded Dr. Osborne as they sat together
beside the bed.

“He was a saint prepared for heaven,” reverently replied the young man.

Then they arose, and standing on each side of the bed, drew the sheet up
over the calm, cold face and left the room together.

The doctor went away, kindly offering to transact any business that was
now required for the family and for the deceased at Wolfswalk.

Stuart went to inquire about the condition of his wife.

Polly had put her to bed, and Mrs. Pole had laid her sleeping infants in
with her, the one on her right side and the other on her left. They were
the best sedatives, for the tender mother was obliged to control herself
for fear of disturbing them.

Mrs. Pole, now as quiet and decorous as in the morning she had been
noisy and turbulent, sat in a large easy-chair, watching the three.

As Stuart softly opened the door she raised her finger in warning, and
then silently arose and went to him.

“She has just fallen asleep herself. I wouldn’t speak to her now, if I
was you. She is sleeping very quiet,” she said in a low tone.

“Thank Heaven! Take care of her, Mrs. Pole,” murmured Cleve in a low
tone as he withdrew.

Mrs. Pole closed the door and went back to resume her watch.

Three days later the mortal body of John Cleve, of Wolfscliff, was borne
to the family burial ground on the plateau on one of the hills that
looked up to the sky. It was followed by a great concourse of people,
consisting of kindred, friends, servants and neighbors from far and
near.

The services were concluded there, with these few words of such divine
love and truth that I quote them here for the comfort they may give to
all sorrowing souls who grieve because they think, and think wrongly,
that they have laid their loved ones in the grave.

The minister said:

“‘And now, having performed the last service of love to our dear brother
by laying his body in the earth from which it came, we leave it there,
as he has left it, to follow him by faith to his eternal home.’”

Will my readers note the use of the pronouns there? There is deep
meaning in that.

After the obsequies, life went on very calmly at Wolfscliff.

Stuart and Palma wrote every week to their friends in England, and quite
as often got letters from them.

Again Ran and Judy urged Stuart and Palma to come and visit them, as
there was nothing now to keep the latter at Wolfscliff. They wrote that
they had given up their plan of leaving Haymore Hall to study in London.
That the attractions of the country and the home were so great that they
could not tear themselves away from it. That they had formed attachments
not only to the place, but to the people. That they should remain there,
and that the Rev. James Campbell had undertaken to direct their studies,
and they expected to derive quite as much—if not more—benefit from his
instructions as they could from professional teachers.

The correspondence resulted in a promise from the Stuarts to run over to
England after the wheat harvest should be gathered.

It was while Stuart was thinking of setting a certain day for their
embarkation and purchasing their tickets that a strange visitor arrived
at Wolfscliff.

It was a glorious day in the latter part of June.

Stuart was afield, looking after the wheat.

Palma was seated on the front piazza, with her babies placed face to
face in their cradle on her right hand, and her workbasket, overflowing
with work, on her left.

She was singing to herself in a low key when she heard the sound of
wheels on the gravel walk.

Looking up, she saw the hack from the Wolfshead tavern, at Wolfswalk,
approaching. It drew up before the porch.

The coachman got off his box and went to the carriage door and opened
it.

A gentleman got out—a tall, thin man of about forty years of age, with
dark, reddish-brown hair and beard.

Palma laid aside her work and stood up to receive the visitor.

He came up the steps of the piazza, stopped, raised his hat, and as he
looked at the childlike young matron before him, said with some
hesitation:

“Mrs.—Stuart? Have I the honor of speaking to Mrs. Stuart?”

“That is my name, sir,” replied Palma politely.

He bowed and handed her a card, on which she read: “The O’Melaghlin,
Carrick Arghalee, Antrim, Ireland.”

“Will you come into the house, sir? Mr. Stuart is not here at present,
but he is not far off, and I will send for him at once,” said Palma,
leading the way into the hall and touching a call-bell as she passed a
stand.

“Thank you, madam,” said the stranger, following her.

She conducted him into the drawing-room, gave him a seat and turned to
speak to Hatty, who had come in answer to the bell.

“Ask Mrs. Pole, please, to go to the children on the piazza. Then send
’Sias to look for Mr. Stuart, to tell him that there is a gentleman here
waiting to see him, and give him this card,” said Palma, putting the
slip of pasteboard into the girl’s hands.

“Is ’Sias for to gib dis to young marster?” inquired Hatty, dubiously.

“Yes, certainly. Go away now and do your errands. Go to Mrs. Pole
first,” said the anxious young mother. And then she sat down near the
front window, through which, from time to time, she could glance out and
see that no harm should come to the babies until the arrival of her
relief sentinel, Mrs. Pole.

Palma was not very well versed in the ways of the world, yet she felt it
incumbent on her to entertain the stranger, but she did not exactly know
how to do it.

“You are recently from Ireland. I have some very dear friends of that
country. Indeed, my nearest kinsman married a young girl of that
nation.”

“Yes; I am aware of that fact. Mr. Randolph Hay married Miss Judith
Man—that brings me here to-day. But as for myself, I have not seen
Ireland for twenty-one years,” said the stranger.

Palma looked up in surprise.

“I have been in California, Colorado, Australia, Tasmania, Cape
Colony—everywhere else but in my native land,” continued the visitor.

Palma looked up inquiringly.

“And I came last from California,” concluded the stranger.

Palma suddenly remembered that it was rude to stare in silence at any
one, especially at a visitor in one’s own house; so she dropped her eyes
and said demurely:

“I am glad you knew Judith Man, Mrs. Randolph Hay, of Haymore, my cousin
by marriage.”

“I don’t know her at all. All the same, she is my daughter—my only
daughter—and I hope to find her soon, with your assistance, and to make
her acquaintance. It is for that purpose that I am here,” said the
stranger.

Now Palma stared in right good earnest, without once thinking whether
she was rude or not. Moreover, she committed another breach of good
manners—she echoed his words:

“Your daughter!” she exclaimed in astonishment and incredulity. “I never
did hear of such a thing!”

“Perhaps not,” said the visitor, laughing good-humoredly; “but it is
true, nevertheless. And, besides, there are a great many million

                   “‘More things in heaven and earth’

than you ever did hear of, or ever will hear of, my dear young lady.”

“I beg your pardon, sir; but indeed I was so taken by surprise!” said
Palma, apologetically, and with a pretty blush.

“Not at all!” exclaimed the stranger, rather irrelevantly. “Say no more
about it; but tell me something of my son and my daughter. You said
nothing about my son, yet I have been told that they are both equally
and intimately well known to you and to your excellent husband. What are
these young people like, madam, if you please?”

“Mike and Judy? They are both lovely! Just lovely!” warmly responded
Palma.

“That is exceedingly complimentary, and would be highly satisfactory,
only it is not quite exact enough. A rose is lovely, so is a pearl, so
is a fawn, so is a baby.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the young mother.

“So many things are lovely, you see, that to say they are lovely gives
me no clear idea of them. Be more precise, dear lady.”

“Oh, then, they are so good, so sweet—but I think I had better show you
their photographs,” said Palma, with sudden inspiration.

“The very thing!” exclaimed the visitor.

Palma sprang up and ran like an eager child to the other end of the
drawing-room and to an _etagere_ that stood in the corner, and took from
it a large-paged but thin photograph album, with which she returned to
her visitor.

“This book,” she said, “contains only the pictures of our dearest
friends. There are not more than thirty-three pictures in the
collection; but then there are in some cases several of each person. I
will show you Mike’s and Judy’s.”

“No!” exclaimed the visitor. “Pray let me have the book and see if I can
find them for myself. I have never seen them. You are naturally amazed
to hear me say that, but you shall know the reason of the fact in good
time,” said The O’Melaghlin, as he received the book from Palma, who,
having placed it in his hands, resumed her seat, watched him as he
turned over the leaves, and speculated with much interest whether he
would be able to identify the pictures of his son and daughter, whom he
had never seen.

Presently his face lighted up.

“Here they are!” he exclaimed, pointing to the open pages that presented
full-length cabinet photographs of Mike and Judy—the former being on the
left-hand page and the latter on the right.

“Yes, you are right,” replied Palma in surprise; “but how could you
tell?”

“Because this,” he replied, laying his finger on Judy’s picture, “is a
perfect likeness of my dear lost Moira; and this,” he added, indicating
Mike’s, “is as like her as a youth can be like his mother.”

“They are faithful likenesses of the twin brother and sister,” replied
Palma.

“Now tell me, my dear young lady, about my boy and girl.”

“Your daughter, I have said, is sweet and good and very dear to us all
who know her. To say that she is married to one of the wealthiest land
owners of one of the oldest families in Yorkshire would be true, but it
would not be so much as to say that her husband is one of the best, the
truest, the most generous and most magnanimous of men.”

“Your praise is enthusiastic, therefore extravagant.”

“It could not be. Ask Judy herself.”

“Ask a young woman still in love! She would be a very impartial witness,
no doubt,” laughed The O’Melaghlin. “But now about my boy?”

“He is altogether worthy of his sister and his brother-in-law. I could
not say any more for him than that.”

“Which is to say that he is good, true and brave.”

“Yes, he is all that.”

“But his objects in life?”

“To be of the best use to any whom he may serve; and the better to do
this, he wishes to get a good education.”

“Quite right! And he is young enough still to go to college, not being
quite twenty years of age.”

“Oh, I am so glad for his sake that you have come forward; because
Michael has that spirit of independence that he shrinks from being
indebted to his good brother-in-law for his college fees.”

“Quite right is that also. He is a true O’Melaghlin, and I am proud of
him! And now, my dear young lady, you may be wondering how I discovered
yourself and your husband and your connection—happy connection for
them—with my children.”

“It has been equally happy for us, sir, indeed. Michael and Judith are
among our most esteemed friends.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, dear madam.”




                             CHAPTER XXXIII
                        THE KINGLY O’MELAGHLINS


At this moment Cleve Stuart so quietly entered the room that Palma was
not aware of his entrance until he stood before her.

“Mr. O’Melaghlin—Mr. Stuart,” she said, presenting the gentlemen to each
other.

The visitor arose and both bowed.

“I bring a letter of introduction for you, sir, from the Messrs.
Walling, of New York,” said The O’Melaghlin, drawing from his breast a
neat, open envelope and handing it to Mr. Stuart.

Cleve took it with a bow.

On the envelope, besides the superscription—“To Cleve Stuart, Esq.,
Wolfscliff, W. V.,”—there was written between brackets, in the corner:
“To introduce The O’Melaghlin, Carrick Arghalee, Antrim.”

Now, the use of the definite article as the prefix of a man’s surname
had been a puzzle to Palma, and even a surprise to Cleve, though he
remembered that in the north of Ireland, as well as in Scotland, it was
affected by certain heads of families among the landed gentry of ancient
lineage, and considered to outrank either plain “Mr.” or “Squire.”
O’Melaghlin, therefore, must be recognized as The O’Melaghlin.

“With your permission,” said Stuart, with a bow, as he opened the
letter, which was as follows—and rather more than sarcastic in its
peculiar style, as Cleve thought when he read it, though he hoped and
believed that the bearer of the letter had not—if he had read the
words—perceived the sarcasm:

                              “OFFICE OF WALLING & WALLING, Att’ys, Etc.
                                              “New York, May 8, 187—.

  “CLEVE STUART, ESQ., Wolfscliff, W. V.: I have the great honor to
  present—you—to The O’Melaghlin, of Carrick Arghalee, Antrim, Ireland.

  “The O’Melaghlin is of the most ancient Irish, royal lineage, being
  directly descended from the O’Melaghlins, monarchs of Meath, whose
  kingdom was ravaged by Henry the Second, A. D. 1173, and given to one
  of his thievish followers, a disreputable carpet-bagger, called Hugh
  de Lacy.

  “The O’Melaghlin hails now from Antrim because his ancestor,
  Patricious O’Melaghlin, in the reign of Edward the First, 1285,
  married Mona, sole child and heiress of Fergus of Arghalee, and
  subsequently became lord of Carrick Arghalee, in right of his wife.
  From this illustrious pair, representing a royal and a noble family
  united, The O’Melaghlin is directly descended.

  “It would be highly impertinent in so humble an individual as myself
  to write of this gentleman’s merits and accomplishments. Should he
  honor you with his acquaintance, you will discover them for yourself.
  You will also hear from him in what manner you can have the
  distinction of serving him.

  “With compliments and congratulations to yourself and Mrs. Stuart on
  the present proud occasion, I remain, your faithful servant,

                                                       WILLIAM WALLING.”

“Will Walling is a scamp, and merits a kicking for his impudence,” was
Stuart’s half-earnest, half-jesting mental criticism on this letter and
its writer. He thought he knew the reason for Will Walling’s sneers; he
thought it was more than likely that The O’Melaghlin had repelled the
genial Will and “kept him at a distance.” He folded the letter, put it
in his pocket, and once more offered his hand to the visitor, saying:

“I am very happy to see you here, sir, and shall be very much pleased if
I can serve you.”

“I thank you, Wolfscliff!” exclaimed The O’Melaghlin, giving his host
his territorial title as if they had been in Antrim. “I thank you, sir.
You have given me the hand of a friend, and although you may not at this
moment recall the fact, you have given me the hand of a kinsman! Yes,
sir, I am proud to say of a kinsman!” and he gave that hand a grip that
crippled it for a week.

“A kinsman, O’Melaghlin!” exclaimed Cleve—he would have given great
offense if he had addressed his guest as Mr. O’Melaghlin—“I am very much
flattered, but I do not understand!”

“Ah, then, Wolfscliff, is not your family name Stuart?”

“Certainly.”

“And have you not a lawful right to that name?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And do you not spell it S-t-u-a-r-t?”

“I do.”

“Then you are my kinsman on the distaff side! Yes, there is but one root
of the tree of Stuart, and that is the old royal root that grew fast in
Scottish ground, and every one who lawfully bears the name of Stuart is
a leaf of that same tree.”

“Granted,” said Cleve, with perhaps a faint leaven of sinful pride,
“granted that my ancestor seven generations back was Charles Stuart,
called the Young Pretender, how should that make us kinsmen?”

“I am afraid, young Wolfscliff, that you do not keep yourself well
posted up in your family genealogy,” said The O’Melaghlin.

“Indeed I do not,” replied Stuart, with a laugh. “I fear I know little
or nothing with certainty of my family on either side the house previous
to their emigration to America. Why, O’Melaghlin, do you know if I could
become a candidate for the highest office in this country, and knew who
was my grandfather, it would be a grave objection to me in the minds of
this democratic and republican people—unless, indeed, I could prove that
he was a tramp, a gypsy, or, at the very best, a day laborer!”

The O’Melaghlin stroked his long, rusty red beard and slowly shook his
head.

“The human race is going to ruin,” he said.

“But will you kindly explain how it is that we are of kin, sir?” said
Palma hesitatingly.

“Surely, my dear young lady—surely. The facts are these: From
prehistoric ages, in the dark before the dawn of time or of its record,
to which the memory of mankind goeth not back. The O’Melaghlins were
monarchs of Munster.”

“And lived in caves, and dressed in skins, and when a young king wanted
a wife he walked into the next kingdom with his club on his shoulders,
knocked down the first young girl he saw and brought her away on his
back. Was it not so?” archly suggested Palma.

“Faith! I think you are right, ma’am. Since the O’Melaghlins go back to
the darkest of days, they must have had the manners of the same,” said
the chieftain, good-humoredly.

“Well, please go on. I will try not to interrupt you again.”

“The O’Melaghlins were monarchs of Meath for unnumbered generations
before the Christian era, and for eleven centuries and a half after.
Somewhere about the year 1160 Henry the Second—bad luck to the
beast!—made the conquest of Ireland, ravaged the kingdom of Meath, and
gave the land to a thieving carpet-bagger of his own, Hugh de Lacy by
name. Ah! but The O’Melaghlins, turned out of their own, made short work
of the usurper and murdered him in his stolen castle of Thrim. It was of
no avail. His successors came after him, backed up by the power of the
Saxon. The O’Melaghlins were scattered far and wide.”

“One of the tragedies of history,” said Stuart.

“True for you, O’Wolfscliff! The next memorable apoch in the history of
that r’yal family fell in the reign of Edward the First, in the year
1270, more than a century after the conquest of Meath. Then the young
head of the family—The O’Melaghlin of that apoch—married the Lady Mona,
sole child and heiress of Fergus of Arghalee, surnamed the Tiger, and in
due time, in right of his wife, succeeded to the chieftainship and
became The O’Melaghlin of Carrick Arghalee! That, sir and madam, was the
first step taken toward a union with the r’yal house of Scotland, from
which you, sir, descinded.”

(The chieftain, when interested or excited, sometimes slipped into
dialect.)

“Indeed!” exclaimed Stuart, rather mystified, for he did not as yet see
the road to the royal alliance.

“Now then,” continued The O’Melaghlin, “that marriage was the first
step, as I said. Nearly two centuries passed before the second step was
taken. But then, centuries don’t count for much with old historic
families whose origin is only lost in the ancient, prehistoric ages. It
was in the year 1380, in the reign of Robert the Second, King of
Scotland, that Randolph of Arghalee married the Lady Grauch, daughter of
the Earl of Fife, who was the second son of the reigning monarch. D’ye
moind, that’s where the r’yal blood comes in, and our kinship, more
betoken! So shake hands upon it, Wolfscliff.”

Stuart good-humoredly put out his hand, already half crippled by
O’Melaghlin’s first clasp, and received a second crushing grip.

“And now will you kindly inform me how I can be of service to you?”
inquired the host.

“Thank you, sir, certainly. I wish to find my children, Michael and
Judith. I was told by Mr. Walling that you would be able to give me
their exact address, which he said was in London somewhere, but he could
not tell where.”

While The O’Melaghlin spoke Stuart stared and Palma laughed. She felt a
child’s delight at his astonishment in discovering that The O’Melaghlin
was the father of Michael Man and Judith Hay.

“Oh!” said the visitor, “you are surprised, sure, to hear me say this,
but they are my children, for all that I have never set eyes on them in
my life. It was not my fault, but the fate made by circumstances, that
kept us apart. It is a painful story, sir, that I may tell you later at
your convenience. Now I wish to ask you where, in all the great
wilderness of London, I may find my children.”

“Nowhere in London. They are not there. They have changed their plans,
and will remain for some time to come at Haymore Hall.”

“Surely I thought they were going to London for private tuition.”

“They can obtain that better, perhaps, at Haymore.”

“Ay?”

“Perhaps, O’Melaghlin, you would like to see your daughter’s last letter
to my wife,” kindly suggested Stuart.

“Ay, that I would, if Mrs. Stuart has no objections, and it is very kind
of you to offer to show it to me, and I thank you, Wolfscliff,” heartily
responded the visitor.

And before he had finished speaking Palma had darted away in search of
her letter box. She soon returned with it, sat down, placed it on her
lap, opened it and took out a bundle of letters, from which she selected
one to hand it to the visitor.

He quickly snatched it, and with an almost greedy look, so eager was the
father to read the words of his unknown daughter.

He “devoured” the contents of that letter, though none of its words
could speak of him, who was equally unknown to his daughter, and
although they only told of household and neighborhood news, and of their
changed plans in regard to the scene of their studies and the person of
their tutor.

When he had dwelt on the letter as long as possible he returned it to
its owner with manifest reluctance and cast covetous glances at the pile
of letters from which it had been drawn.

“Would you like to read all your daughter’s letters? You can, of course,
if you wish it, sir,” said Palma kindly.

“Oh, madam, if you would be so good as to let me do so,” gratefully
replied the father.

“Here they are, then, about twenty of them in all, and they are long
letters. Take them and read them at your leisure. Now there is the
dinner bell. You will join us, I hope.”

“Thank you, my dear madam; but I am just off a long journey, and hardly
presentable in a sitting-room, much less at a dinner table,” said The
O’Melaghlin, glancing down at his dusty garments.

“Oh, never mind. We are plain country people,” said Palma, with a smile;
for having lived in a crowded city all her life, with the exception of
one short season at “Lull’s,” she took pride in thinking of herself as a
country woman.

“If you would like to go to a room to brush off a little, I should be
pleased to show you the way,” said Stuart.

“Thank you, Wolfscliff, I think I would if it will not delay your dinner
or spoil your soup. Now speak frankly. There should be candor among
kinsmen.”

“It will spoil nothing,” put in Palma, knowing that Cleve could not
answer that question, “so, Mr. Stuart, please show The O’Melaghlin to
the oak room.”

Cleve turned with a bow to his guest and led the way out.

Palma rang the bell and gave orders that the soup should be kept back
for fifteen minutes.

In due time The O’Melaghlin reappeared in the drawing-room, and the
small party went in to dinner.

In the course of that meal Stuart said to Palma:

“My dear, The O’Melaghlin has kindly promised to remain with us a few
days, and has sent back his chaise to the Wolfshead to fetch his
baggage.”

“I am very much pleased to hear this,” said Palma, turning with a bright
smile to the visitor.

“Thank you, madam! You may wonder, perhaps, why I should have chosen to
travel all the way down from New York to West Virginia to get from you
the London address of my children, when I might have written to you and
got it by return mail.”

“No; indeed, I never once thought of it in that manner.”

“Well, I may as well tell you how it was. When I learned from Mr.
Walling that my children were in London, I determined to go there as
soon as possible. And knowing what a rush there is across the big pond
at this season of the year, I went to get my passage secured in the
first available steamer. But, bless you! though I went to every office
of ocean steamers in New York, and wrote to every one in Boston, I could
get no sort of a passage in any one for the next six weeks. The first
one I could engage was for the first of July, in the steamer _Leviathan_
for Southampton.”

“Why! Are you going by the _Leviathan_? We are going by that ship!”
impulsively exclaimed Palma.

“You are!” cried The O’Melaghlin, appealing to Stuart.

“Indeed we are!” responded the latter.

“Delight upon delight! That is almost too good to be true! Well, I am
overjoyed to hear this! Now to resume my explanation why I came to you
instead of writing: Finding that I had three weeks upon my hands I said
to myself: ‘I will not write to get meager news. I will go down to West
Virginia and see these near connections of my unknown children, and I
will talk with them and get from them every detail of my son’s and
daughter’s lives and characters.’ And so here I am.”

“And now that you are here, O’Melaghlin, we hope that you will stay with
us until the day comes when we must all leave Wolfscliff for New York to
embark on our voyage,” said Stuart.

The visitor turned and looked inquiringly on the lady’s face.

“Oh, yes, do, Mr. O’Melaghlin. We should be so happy to have you!” she
exclaimed, in response to that mute appeal.

“You do me much honor, sir and madam. And to be frank with you, there is
nothing on my part to prevent my acceptance and enjoyment of your
kindness and hospitality,” replied The O’Melaghlin in modest words, but
with a pompous manner.

Palma then withdrew and left the two men over their claret, and went to
put her babies to bed. When this sweet duty was done she returned to the
drawing-room, where she was soon joined by Stuart and O’Melaghlin.

And there, later in the evening, the latter told his story. It was the
common story of a race of men and a fine estate falling into decadence
from generation to generation. This The O’Melaghlin, in telling the
tale, attributed to the misfortunes of the family, and the persecutions
of the Saxon. But to those who could read between the lines, even of his
version, it was self-evident that the downfall of the house was due to
the vice and folly of its representatives.

Few men in the position of The O’Melaghlin would tell such a story with
perfect frankness. Certainly he did not so tell his. And therefore it
seems necessary, in the interests of truth, that it should be told by
me.

With the exception of those absurd traditions of the prehistoric period
of which no one can know anything, the proud family record of The
O’Melaghlins, previous to their degradation, was in the main true, as
every student of Irish history knows. But for a century past The
O’Melaghlins of Arghalee had been fast livers, hard drinkers and
reckless sinners. In every generation, every succeeding heir had come
into his patrimony poorer in purse, prouder in spirit, and weaker in
will to resist evil than any of his predecessors.

At length, about twenty-five years before the period of which I write,
young Michael O’Melaghlin, at the age of twenty-one, came into the
remnant of the grand old estate, consisting then of the half-ruined
castle of Arghalee and a few acres of sterile land immediately around
it.

He was the last of his family, and would have been alone in the world
but that he loved and was beloved by a good and beautiful girl, well
born, like himself; an orphan, like himself; poor, like himself, and
even poorer, since she had not so much as a ruinous house and an acre of
ground.

Moira MacDuinheld lived with distant relatives in the neighborhood of
Arghalee.

They were not kind to her; they grudged her the cost of her maintenance;
and when young Michael O’Melaghlin came courting her, they encouraged
his suit that they might get rid of their burden; and they let him marry
her, although they knew they were delivering her to poverty and
privation, if to nothing worse.

Michael then married Moira with the full consent of her kindred, and
took her home to his dilapidated, rat-infested, raven-haunted,
storm-beaten old donjon keep, which was all that was left of the castle
of Arghalee.

But soon the young pair began to suffer the bitterest pangs of poverty.
We cannot go into detail here. Let it be sufficient to say that often
they had not enough to eat, even of the plainest food. But, although
“poverty had come in at the door, love did not fly out of the window,”
for they loved each other more faithfully, because more pitifully, for
all their privations and sufferings. And here comes in the insanity of
pride. Both Michael and Moira were strong, healthy, able-bodied young
people, and could each have obtained work in the neighborhood; Michael
as a farm laborer, if nothing more—and he could have done little more,
for he had but very little education, and Moira might have become a
laundress—a trade easily acquired. But for an O’Melaghlin—a descendant
of the ancient monarchs of Meath—to work! No! In the narrow, one-idea
mind of the impoverished chieftain it was more noble to starve and to
see his young wife starve, or to accept alms, and deem the bestower to
be highly honored in being permitted to minister to the needs of The
O’Melaghlin.

But hunger is a mighty factor in the affairs of life. It is said to have
civilized the world. At least it exercised a very powerful influence
upon these two healthy young people, who were almost always hungry,
seldom having enough of oatmeal or potatoes on any day to satisfy their
robust appetites. And when they had suffered this hunger for several
months, and saw nothing but hunger in all the future, The O’Melaghlin
suddenly resolved to sell all the remainder of his land, except one acre
upon which his ruined tower stood—the oldest, as it was also the only
part of the great castle now in existence—and with the money he might
get for them go with his young wife to the gold fields of California.
There, in the far-off foreign land, where he would not be known, he
would seek for the gold that should restore the fortunes of his family.
Upon whomsoever the gold fever fastens it fills with a furore.

Gold was The O’Melaghlin’s thought by day and his dream by night. Gold
seeking, he persuaded himself, was not work—or at least it was not work
for hire; and, besides, he would be a stranger in a strange land; and no
one at home here in Antrim should ever be able to say that The
O’Melaghlin had ever soiled his hands or blotted his ‘scutcheon with
labor!

He sold four acres of his land for little more than enough money to take
himself and his wife, by way of Glasgow, to San Francisco. He was
offered nearly twice as much money if he would sell the remaining acre
with the ancient tower upon it.

But at the proposal The O’Melaghlin grew furious and insolent.

What! Sell the very donjon keep, the last stronghold of The O’Melaghlins
of Arghalee? Many a time had the Saxons besieged the castle, and
sometimes they had taken the outworks, but never the donjon keep. And
now he would see their island scuttled in the midst and sunk between its
four seas, like the rotten old craft that it was, before he would sell
his tower and the last acre of ground on which it stood.

Though why this jeremiad should have been uttered against “the Saxon,”
when it was an Irishman and a near relative who wanted to buy his old
owl roost, no one but The O’Melaghlin himself could have explained.

His dream was to realize a fabulous fortune from the gold fields and
come back and restore the tower, rebuild the castle and repurchase all
the land sold by his forefathers for generations past. To do all this
would require a vast fortune; but would he not make that fortune?

Heaven and earth! Did not many a common bit of human clay without family
or name of the least value make a large fortune in the gold fields?
When, then, The O’Melaghlin stooped to seek the ore, would not the earth
open wide her bosom of uncounted treasures and lavish gold upon him?

The O’Melaghlin never doubted for an instant that she would.

So in due time The O’Melaghlin and his wife sailed from Glasgow, bound
for San Francisco.

They went in the first cabin of the _Golden Glory_. Do you think The
O’Melaghlin would take second place in any circumstances? No, he would
die first!

When they reached San Francisco he took a room for himself and wife at
one of the very best hotels, which was also, of course, one of the most
expensive in the city.

He gave his name to the office clerk as:

“The O’Melaghlin,” which that hurried and distracted individual
incontinently put down as:

T. O. Mannikin.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV
                       PARENTAGE OF MIKE AND JUDY


The young pair had been in the city only a few days when, after diligent
inquiries in all possible directions, O’Melaghlin heard a rumor of a
rich new field of gold in the Black Rock Ridges, some fifty miles from
the city, and of a party of adventurers about forming to start for that
point.

O’Melaghlin determined to join that expedition.

His young wife, Moira, was much too delicate just at this time to
accompany him.

He left her at the hotel with nearly all the little money he had to bear
her expenses during his absence, which he promised should be as short as
possible.

He said he would come back to see her about the time she might be able
to return with him.

Then he went away, and Moira remained at the hotel.

It seemed a cruel act so to leave a young wife, who was expecting within
four or five weeks to become a mother; but The O’Melaghlin had the gold
fever in its most malignant form, and had even infected her with the
fell disease.

She also had feverish and delirious hallucinations concerning the
imaginary golden days that were dawning upon them, of which, indeed, her
present elegant and luxurious surroundings in this palace hotel seemed a
prophecy and a foretaste. Never in her life had Moira seen, dreamed or
imagined such magnificence as this public house presented to her. And to
make such a superb style of living their own for life was worth some
present sacrifice of each other’s society for a little while. So she
willingly let her husband depart with the gold-seekers, and whenever she
felt very lonesome without him she just shut her eyes and called up the
inward vision of the gorgeous future.

Yet there were moods in which she grew too deeply impressed to look
beyond the immediate, impending trial, bringing certain pain and danger
and possible death before giving her, if it should ever give her, the
crown of a woman’s life—maternity.

She had made some few pleasant acquaintances among the ladies who were
boarding at the hotel, and who were charmed by the artless and confiding
manners of this beautiful wild Irish girl—or child-woman. And when they
discovered her fears they laughed her into courage again, telling her
that such dark forebodings as hers were quite an indispensable part of
the program, and every mother among them all had been through it. And
they spoke the truth, as every doctor knows.

But this hotel was a house patronized by travelers and transient
boarders only.

The ladies who had made Moira’s acquaintance and become her friends one
after another went their way, and she was left alone.

True, others came. Every day they came and went. Some stayed a few
hours; some stayed a few days. Among these were women who would have
been very kind to the lonely young stranger if they had had the chance.
But they had not. They never saw her, or saw to notice her.

With her increasing infirmities, the young wife, when daily expecting to
become a mother, grew very shy and timid. She seldom went down into the
ladies’ parlor—that neutral ground upon which acquaintances are
sometimes made, and even friendships occasionally formed; and when she
did go for a little change, she would conceal herself between the
curtain and sash of some front window, and so, hidden from the company,
look out upon the brilliant life of Sacramento Street until the utter
weariness that now so frequently overcame her strength compelled her to
creep away to the repose of her own private apartment.

Toward the last of her life she gave up entirely going to the ladies’
parlor, and confined her walk to the stairs and halls between her
bedchamber and the public dining-room.

This walk was her only exercise, her only change of scene, and she
continued it daily to the last day of her life.

She made no new acquaintances in place of those who had gone away. She
had no friend except an humble one in the chambermaid who attended to
her room. In many respects she was worse off in this elegant and
luxurious house than she would have been in the rudest log cabin of a
mining camp, for here, though she had everything else, she lacked what
she would have got there—human companionship and sympathy.

Often she longed—wildly longed—to see or hear from her husband, but knew
that it was impossible for her to do so.

Yet she had one great stay and comfort—her Christian faith. She was
devoutly religious and spent much time in her room in reading the Bible,
or some book of devotion, or in prayer, or in singing in a low tone some
favorite hymn.

So the time passed until about six weeks after The O’Melaghlin had gone
away to seek his fortune, when there came a change. She fell too ill to
go down to dinner that evening.

The friendly chambermaid, who volunteered to bring her a cup of tea,
also offered to spend the night with her.

Moira gratefully accepted these services.

Before midnight the girl had to call the night watchman and get him to
send a messenger out for the nearest physician, who came promptly in
answer to the call.

Moira saw the sun rise once more for the last time. Then she died,
leaving behind her a pair of healthy twins—a boy and a girl.

Her death was so sudden, so unexpected, that it seemed as if a bright,
strong torch had been instantly inverted and extinguished.

Then there was a commotion and a sensation in the hotel.

Where was the husband of the dead woman, the father of the motherless
babes?

The office book was searched to see who was the party who had taken Room
777 seven weeks previous, and the register showed the name of T. O.
Mannikin and wife, Ogly, Ireland. This was the manner in which the
hurried clerk of the hotel had heard and entered the name and address of
The O’Melaghlin.

The attendant physician gave his certificate as to the natural cause of
death, so that there was no need of a coroner’s inquest.

But there had to be a thorough search made through the effects of the
dead woman for clews to friends or relatives, who should be notified of
her decease.

Nothing was found; not a letter, not even a line of writing except those
of the receipts, for she had paid punctually every week up to the
Saturday before her fatal illness. The poor young pair had no
correspondents anywhere.

Nor was there any money found. Her very last dollar had been paid away
for her last week’s board, and there was nothing left to satisfy the
claims of the doctor or the nurse, to pay the funeral expenses or to
provide for the orphan twins.

There was no end of gossip in the house. Dress, fashion, operas, even
mining stocks were temporarily forgotten in the discussion of this sad
and strange event. It was then decided among the worldly wise that the
name Mannikin was only an assumed one, that the husband had deserted the
wife, or more probably, the destroyer had abandoned his prey.

Human nature, sinful as it is called, is nowhere quite heartless.

A purse was made up among the people of the house to defray the expenses
of the young stranger’s funeral. And on the fifth day after her death
her remains were laid in the Lone Mountain Cemetery.

The motherless babes were taken in charge by the monthly nurse, a Mrs.
Mally, who, in a fit of benevolence that did not last long, adopted them
and carried them to her own home.

The personal effects of the poor dead young mother, which were not of
much value indeed, but which might have been detained by the proprietors
of the hotel for the last few days of unpaid board, were given by them
into the keeping of Nurse Mally, either for the benefit of the babes or
of any claimant who might prove to have the best right to them.

As for the ministering physician, like most of the men of his humane
profession, he waived all claim to remuneration for his services.

Mrs. Mally soon found the pursuit of her own regular calling and the
care of the orphaned infants too much for her “nerves.”

Sin is the outcome of so many causes—hereditary, taint, faulty training,
temptation and opportunity.

Mrs. Mally was affected by all these. She slowly made up her mind to
keep the dead mother’s wardrobe, trinkets and books and to dispose of
the babies. She would not hurt them; not for the world! But she would
put them in a haven where, in truth, they would be much better taken
care of than by any poor, hard-working woman like herself.

So one evening she dressed them in their very best clothes and gave them
each a dose of paregoric, not enough to endanger their little lives—she
knew her business too well for that—but to put them into a deep sleep.

When it was dark she got a large market basket with a strong handle,
folded a clean cradle blanket and laid it in the bottom of it, took
another little blanket and laid it in loose so that its edges came up
over those of the receptacle.

Then she wrapped the sleeping babies up carefully, put them in the
bottom, laid comfortably at each end with their feet passing each other
in the middle, covered them over with the double folds of the upper
blanket, and so done up like a pastry cook’s turn-over pie, she took
them in the basket on her arm and carried them out into the dimly
lighted back streets and off into the country to the infant asylum of
the Holy Maternity. She had not far to go. When she reached the gate,
which stood always open for the reception of such piteous little human
waifs as infant outcasts, she went in and up to the gable end of the
building, where stood the cage to receive the poor, naked, fatherless,
motherless human birdlings. It was a large oriel window, about breast
high from the ground.

She rang the bell at the side of the window. It swung open and around,
bearing attached on its inner side a soft, warm nest, or small cradle.

Mrs. Mally took the sleeping infants from the basket, one by one, and
placed them in the nest, tucked them snugly in, put the two cradle
blankets, folded, over them, and then rang the bell again. The
window-sash with the nest swung round and inward, and so the abandoned
babes were received within the sheltering arm of the “Holy Maternity,”
and no questions asked. We know the rest of their lives so far as they
have yet lived.

Mrs. Mally went home with her empty basket, and that night missed the
babes so much that she wept with contrition and loneliness.

The next day she hunted up every article of infant wear belonging to the
twins, washed and ironed all that was soiled, then packed them into the
basket, and when night came she went once more to the asylum and rang at
the receiving window. Again the nest swung outward, and she put into it,
no baby, but a quantity of babies’ clothing, then rang the bell again
and the offering was swung inward.

Then Mrs. Mally went home with the empty basket, relieved.

During all this time The O’Melaghlin lay ill of a long, lingering fever
in the mining camp under the shadow of the great Black Rock Ridges.

He had not been utterly unsuccessful during the first days of trial
before he succumbed to the fierce onset of his disease. He was as kindly
cared for by his companions as circumstances would permit. He had no
orthodox medical attendance. A Mexican Indian, an herb doctress, came
and nursed him. Her simple ministrations, with the aid of pure air, pure
water, nature and a good constitution, saved his life.

But his great mental trouble of anxiety to see or hear from his young
wife, left alone in the city hotel, tended to retard his recovery, which
was very tedious.

His mates had prospered in their search for gold. The mine promised to
hold out, and not run out as so many did. So, finding that the sick
man’s anxiety to see his young wife far outweighed his craving for the
gold mine, they made up a liberal purse among themselves to send him on
his way rejoicing.

As soon as he was able to walk he set out on foot from the mining camp.
He was accompanied half a day’s journey by a couple of his companions,
who brought him as far as a friendly Indian’s hut and there bade him
good-by, leaving him to rest for the afternoon and spend the night,
while they retraced their steps to the mining camp.

Early the next morning The O’Melaghlin resumed his journey and dragged
himself by slow stages of ten or fifteen miles a day, stopping at night
in miner’s, hunter’s or Indian’s hut, according as either offered
shelter near the close of evening.

And so at length he reached the city late one autumn night, and went
straight to the hotel where he had left his young wife.

There he learned that she had been dead and buried for more than a month
past, and that the twins to which she had given birth were in the care
of the professional nurse, Mrs. Mandy Mally, of Cyprus Lane.

But he scarcely heard this last item of intelligence.

The shock of the first fatal news, coming as it did after the wasting of
his long illness and the weariness of his long tramp, quite overwhelmed
The O’Melaghlin.

He fell senseless to the floor.

He was taken up and sent to the casual ward of a public hospital, where
he suffered a severe relapse that confined him to his bed for many
weeks.

Upon his second recovery, as soon as he was discharged from the hospital
he went in search of the monthly nurse who had taken charge of poor
Moira’s babes.

He found the woman in a very small house in a very narrow back street.

She looked scared when she was confronted with the father of the
children whom she had sent away.

But she soon recovered her self-control. She told him how she had
disposed of the children, and excused herself by calling his attention
to the poverty of herself, her house and her surroundings, and to the
necessity of her going out to work.

The O’Melaghlin accepted all her apologies. He did not blame her in the
least. He thought it best for the children to be under the care of the
Sisterhood of the Holy Maternity; and he told her so.

He left the nurse, and went out to find some cheap lodgings where he
could hide himself and his misery for a few days until he should be able
to come to some understanding with himself and strike out some plan for
the future.

He wished to go and see his children at the asylum, and yet he dreaded
the trial; he could not get up resolution to do so. They had been the
cause—though the innocent one—of their mother’s death, and so he shrank
from looking upon their infant faces.

Besides, the pride of The O’Melaghlin winced at the thought of going and
facing the Sisters of that house and owning himself the father of those
destitute infants, without either taking them away at once or making
some provision for their support in the institution; and he could
neither take charge of them himself nor provide for them anywhere. He
was at this time too bitterly poor.

No, he said to himself, he could do no better for the children than to
leave them there in that safe, happy and Christian home. He would keep
track of them, he told himself, and if ever he should be able he would
take them away.

And without ever having looked upon the faces of his children he left
California for Australia, shipping himself as a man before the mast on a
large merchantman bound from San Francisco to Sydney.

I must hasten over the remainder of The O’Melaghlin’s story.

From the day of his embarkation for Australia he became a wanderer over
the face of the earth, chiefly among the mines. His gold fever,
suspended for a time by his grief for the loss of his wife, revived with
tenfold force, so that “the last state of that man was worse than the
first.”

He visited Australia, Tasmania, the Sandwich Islands, New Zealand, Cape
Colony and other places, but finally returned to Australia, where at
last he found fortune.

By the mere accident of idly poking his staff in the ground one day
while sitting down to rest, on his way through the bush, he struck
ore—rich gold—that turned out one of the greatest mines in that region.

It would be tedious to tell all the processes by which he realized a
colossal fortune, or by what slow degrees he returned to the worthy
ambition of his youth to restore the fortunes of his family by
repurchasing, at any advance of price, their lost land, and rebuilding,
at any cost, their ruined castle.

When he had renewed his resolution to do all this, he first thought of
getting married to perpetuate the house of O’Melaghlin—although at this
period of his life he was not at all a marrying man, preferring “the
free, unhoused condition” of a bachelor. Then suddenly he recalled to
mind his deserted and almost forgotten children. If these were living he
had a son and a daughter to carry down his name to the future; for
should his son be dead and his girl living, whoever should marry the
heiress of The O’Melaghlin must take the name of O’Melaghlin.

So, should either of his long neglected children be living, he need not
be driven to get married at all—which would be a great relief.

He settled up all his affairs in Australia and sailed for California.

When he reached San Francisco he went immediately to the asylum where
his children had been received.

I need not follow the father in every step of the weary search he had in
tracing them from the asylum to their places of apprenticeship; from
these places—with the aid of skilful detectives—to the mining camp of
Grizzly Gulch, from that to the fort and thence to New York.

In New York, from the Wallings, he heard the most satisfactory news of
both, but especially of the daughter, who, he was told, had married a
wealthy young Englishman of ancient family and of large landed estate,
and who had gone to England with her husband, taking her brother along
with them.

Mr. Walling could not give the inquiring father the address of the young
people, whom he believed to be somewhere in London, living quietly, and
pursuing their studies to make up for their long neglected education.

But he referred The O’Melaghlin to Mr. Cleve Stuart, of Wolfscliff, West
Virginia, who would be able to satisfy him on every point.

The O’Melaghlin, having nearly four weeks of time on hand before the
sailing of the steamer, which was the first on which he could secure a
passage to Liverpool, resolved, instead of writing for information from
Mr. Stuart, to go down to Wolfscliff and have a personal interview with
the parties who had been intimate with his son and daughter, and who
would be able to give him every particular of their character, personal
appearance and history.

And so, as has been seen, he came to Wolfscliff.

The O’Melaghlin was deeply pleased with every circumstance of his
reception there; with the cordial welcome of the young master and
mistress of the house, with the discovery which he honestly thought he
had made of a worthy kinsman in the person of Cleve Stuart, a
descendant, as O’Melaghlin himself claimed to be, on his mother’s side,
of the royal house of Scotland.

But more than all was he pleased with the account he heard from his host
and hostess of his long neglected son and daughter.

“You will be hearing from these young people every week, will ye not,
Wolfscliff?” he inquired that evening, after having finished his story.

“My wife hears from her cousin Judith by almost every English mail,”
answered Cleve.

“And you’ll be getting a letter in a day or so?”

“Yes, most likely.”

“And, of course, answering it?”

“Of course! That is, my wife will! As I hinted before, the
correspondence of the two families is kept up by Palma and Judith.”

“Ah! So then you are the scribe, Mistress Stuart?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Palma, smiling.

“And you are thinking, ma’am, what a grand piece of news you will have
to tell your friend in your very next letter.”

“Indeed, I am thinking of just such a delight!” exclaimed Palma, her
eyes fairly dancing with anticipation.

“Then I am almost sorry to debar you from such a pleasure, ma’am, but I
must beseech you not to make known my existence to my son and daughter
until we meet them in England face to face,” said O’Melaghlin solemnly.

“Oh!” exclaimed Palma, with a look of great disappointment.

“I have good reasons for my request, and I will tell them to you. Your
husband, my friend Wolfscliff there, will understand them. I wish to be
introduced to the young ones simply as The O’Melaghlin. They have
probably never heard that name before in all their lives. They can never
suspect its connection with themselves——”

“Do I understand you really, O’Melaghlin? Do you wish to be presented as
a stranger to your own son and daughter?” inquired Stuart in perplexity.

“That is just exactly what I do wish,” replied the Irishman.

“But why?” inquired Stuart, while Palma looked the same question with
great, dilated eyes.

“In the first place, I wish to make a quiet observation of them while
yet they consider me a mere ordinary, uninteresting stranger, with whom
they can be at perfect ease, and show themselves as they really are with
perfect freedom.”

“But don’t you suppose they could do that with their own father, knowing
him to be their father who had come to seek them out, to find them, to
make up to them—and to himself as well—for their long separation from
him—don’t you suppose they could feel at ease and act with freedom in
the presence of such a father?” demanded Stuart.

“No, I don’t!” emphatically retorted The O’Melaghlin. “Under the
circumstances, I don’t believe they could either feel easy or behave
naturally. They would be so surprised, so amazed——”

“But if they were carefully prepared for the meeting beforehand,”
suggested Stuart.

“I doubt if you could prepare them for so strange a meeting. But
granting that you could, still they would be so filled with wonder and
curiosity, so anxious to do their duty, so eager to make a good
impression, that, as I said before, it would be impossible for them to
feel comfortably or behave naturally. No, you must present me to your
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay, simply as your kinsman, The
O’Melaghlin of Arghalee. You may write and ask permission to bring your
kinsman to Haymore Hall,” concluded the chieftain.

“It would not be necessary to ask permission. Indeed, it would hurt my
friend Ran for me to do so. He would have us all treat his house as our
own and bring whom we pleased, without ceremony, taking much more than
his permission for granted, even taking his delight to welcome any of
our friends, for granted,” replied Stuart.

“Ah, then, sure he is a whole-souled, great-hearted fellow, this husband
of my Judy! This son-in-law of my own! And I shall be proud to make his
acquaintance. Troth, he should have been an Irishman!” warmly exclaimed
The O’Melaghlin. “And now,” he added, turning suddenly around to Palma,
“do you understand, ma’am, why I wish to meet my son and daughter as a
stranger, and to observe them for a whole day or an evening before
making myself known to them?”

“Perfectly, Mr. O’Melaghlin. And I think you are quite right,” warmly
responded Palma.

“I thank you, ma’am, for your indorsement of my judgment. And now, my
dear young lady, will you oblige me in one small matter?” he gravely
inquired.

“In anything, great or small, that lies within my power, Mr.
O’Melaghlin,” smiled Palma.

“Then, my dear young lady, will you graciously drop the ‘mister’ before
my name?”

Palma looked up in questioning surprise.

“I will explain, my dear madam. The O’Melaghlins have been The
O’Melaghlins from time immemorial, as I had the honor to tell you
before. They were monarchs of Meath for many centuries; but they were
never ‘mister,’ like any ordinary Smith, Jones, or Brown, or Anybody.
So, my fair kinswoman, you will please to oblige me by dropping that
little prefix to my old historic name.”

“But, Mr.—I beg pardon. But, sir, if I must not call you ‘mister,’ how
shall I address you or speak of you?” inquired the bewildered young
woman.

“Simply as O’Melaghlin, or The O’Melaghlin. My dear, how would you speak
of or address Julius Cæsar, Marc Antony, or Alexander the Great? Would
you say ‘Mr.’ Julius Cæsar? ‘Mr.’ Marc Antony? No, you would not. And no
more should you say Mr. O’Melaghlin. There are family names, my dear
lady, that outrank not only the little prefix of ‘mister,’ but all
titles, and such a name is that of The O’Melaghlin,” solemnly concluded
the chieftain.

“Very well, O’Melaghlin,” laughed Palma, “I will hereafter always
remember to call you O’Melaghlin, though, indeed, it will make me feel
like a very fast young woman, and just as if I had a jockey cap on my
head and a cigar in my mouth.”

“I wish to be enlightened,” said Stuart, with a smile. “You call me
‘Wolfscliff.’ Why, upon the same principle, do you not call yourself
Arghalee?”

The chieftain drew himself up with a royal air and replied majestically:

“Because, sir, The O’Melaghlin ranks the territorial title of Arghalee,
as it ranks every other title!”

“Does not the royal name of Stuart rank Wolfscliff?”

“It would; but there are thousands of Stuarts, and you are only one of
them, and derive your individual distinction from your manor. You are
Stuart, of Wolfscliff. There is but one O’Melaghlin. I am The
O’Melaghlin.”

“And your son?”

“He is Michael O’Melaghlin. When he succeeds me he will be The
O’Melaghlin.”

“I see!” said Stuart, with a smile.

But I doubt if he did see.




                              CHAPTER XXXV
                            AN ANGEL’S WORK


The nest day Palma had a final and decisive talk with Mrs. Pole.

In such high esteem was this good woman held by the young Stuarts that
they regarded her almost as a mother.

When the question of going to England that summer was first mooted, the
alternative was placed before Mrs. Pole, and the choice given, her to
accompany the young pair on their voyage and foreign tour or to remain
at Wolfscliff in charge of the house.

And the woman, on her part, had entreated Mr. and Mrs. Stuart to tell
her which they would prefer to have her do.

To which they replied that they wished her to do just as she pleased.

This morning Palma came into the nursery, where Mrs. Pole sat beside the
cradle, watching the sleeping babies, while she sewed on some plain
needlework.

How for the last fortnight Mrs. Pole had been halting between two
opinions, divided between the affections for Cleve and Palma and their
children, that drew to go with them, and her dread of the long voyage
and love of quiet that bound her to her home. Therefore, she wished them
to make the decision for her that she was incapable of making for
herself. And they would not.

But within a day or two it had been “borne in” upon the mind of Poley
that, although Mr. and Mrs. Stuart really wished her to do as she
pleased in this matter of going or staying, yet that they would be
better satisfied that she should please to stay at Wolfscliff to take
care of the house than to go to Europe with them. Mrs. Pole and her
young friends were really secretly of one mind in this matter.

So when Palma sat down beside her she was prepared to meet the question.

Palma said:

“Poley, dear, it is really time now that you should make up your mind as
to what you are going to do about going to Europe with us or staying
here. Because, if you should decide to go with us, Poley, dear, we must
begin at once to look out for some good and reliable woman to come and
take care of the house while we are away.”

“Oh, my dear child, you needn’t trouble yourself to look out for nobody.
If it is all the same to you, I will my own self stay here and look
after the place while you are gone. Will that suit you, ma’am?”

“Perfectly, Poley, dear. We would rather leave you in charge of our home
than any one else, if you are satisfied to stay.”

“Yes, I am, dearie. I’m over elderly to be sailing on the high seas, and
nothing but my love for you all would ever a-made me think of such a
thing. And now, as I find I can serve you better by staying here than
going ’long o’ you, why, ’deed, I’d heap liefer stay here.”

“Then it is all right, Poley. And now tell me, when did you hear from
your niece?”

“Jane Morgan, you mean, ma’am?”

“Of course, Jane Morgan. I did not know you had any other niece.”

“No more I hadn’t, ma’am. Well, I heard from her ’bout two weeks ago. He
have been out of work near all the latter part o’ the winter, and
they’ve been a-having of a very hard time, ma’am, and that is a fact,
with all the mouves they’ve got to feed, too.”

“How many children have they, Poley?”

“Six, ma’am. The oldest nine years old, and the youngest nine months.
And he out of work so long, poor fellow!”

“You should have told me, Poley.”

“What for, ma’am? You couldn’t have helped it. I sent ’em a good part of
my wages, and that kept ’em a-going.”

“Poley, do you remember that I told you your niece should come here and
bring all her babies this summer to see you and to get the benefit of
this pure mountain air?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, indeed I do remember!” exclaimed Mrs. Pole, brightening
up.

“And have you written to your niece about it?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. As you never mentioned the subject again after that
first time, I didn’t know but what you had forgotten it or changed your
mind.”

“Oh, Poley! How could you? Well, now, look here. Write to your niece and
tell her to come and bring all her children down here to spend the
summer with you while we are gone to Europe. And I hope they will come,
Poley. It would do the little children so much good. And, oh! is Mr.
Morgan out of work now, Poley?”

“He was two weeks ago, ma’am, with no prospect of getting any.”

“What is his trade?”

“He is a carpenter and builder, ma’am?”

“Oh, then I do think we shall be able to do a good thing for him. Such a
good thing for him!” exclaimed Palma.

Mrs. Pole looked up in mute surprise and inquiry.

“Why, this is it. You know there is ever so much carpenter’s work
wanting to be done on the place. I have heard Cleve talking about it.
The barn is to be almost rebuilt, and the house here wants repairs.
Cleve thought of getting a carpenter down from Staunton. But now, you
see, I shall just ask him to send for Mr. Morgan. And then they can all
come down here—husband, wife and children! Won’t that be glorious,
Poley? And he will not lose his time, and they will not be under
expenses!” cried Palma in delight.

“That will be very fine indeed, ma’am, if so be it can be managed,”
replied Mrs. Pole.

And then she began to compute how much it would cost to bring Joseph and
Jane Morgan and their family from New York to West Virginia, and to
count up her own savings from her wages.

“I can do it,” she said to herself. “I can do it! And they can pay me
afterward as they get on, and if they don’t they needn’t bother about
it.”

Palma went straight to Cleve and unfolded her views.

“You see, dear,” she said, after she had duly introduced the subject, “I
did give Poley leave to ask her niece and the children to come down here
and stay with her while we should be away in Europe; for, oh! only think
how much good it will do those poor little children! And now since the
husband and father is a carpenter and a skilled workman, as Poley says
he is, what could happen better for all parties? You can engage him to
do the work here that is so much wanted. And it will be such a good
thing for him and his family as well as for us.”

“My dear quixotic Palma, your benevolence carries you into wild
extravagance, I fear,” said Stuart, with a smile.

“I was only thinking of the poor man—a skilled mechanic, too, out of
employment—and of his poor, overtasked wife and their poor little
children. I know it is an unusual thing to do to bring down a whole
family when one only wants a carpenter. But then, you see, the
circumstances are also unusual, and——”

“And the little woman who plans the arrangements is not only unusual,
but—phenomenal!” Stuart said, interrupting her, with a smile.

“Oh, Cleve, listen to me, dear, and be serious, for I am. I said the
circumstances were unusual, and so they are. We are going to Europe, and
this old house among the hills would be nearly empty while we are gone,
and Mrs. Pole would be alone except for the negro servants on the place
unless we should let her have some one to stay with her. Now these
people are her nearest relations. I promised her that they should come
and visit her. They are in bitter want of all that the change would
bring them—and, oh, dear me, Cleve!” she suddenly broke off, “we are not
living in this world all for ourselves! And don’t you think it would be
a sin, and we should be worse than the dog in the manger to leave this
big old house among the hills almost empty when we go away instead of
opening it to that poor, half-starved and half-stifled tenement family
whose children would here have fresh air, pure water and good food, and
who would get health and strength and delight in this beautiful place?”

“Why, Palma, dear, you talk to me as if I had to be argued into
consenting to this arrangement. It is enough, love, that you wish to
have it made,” said Stuart.

“That is very kind of you, Cleve; but I wished to convince, not to coax
you.”

“A distinction without a difference in this case, dear. Well, I will see
to this.”

The only hesitation Stuart felt was as to the character of the man
Morgan, of whom neither Palma nor himself knew anything. But Mrs. Pole
did know, and Stuart resolved to have a talk with the woman, in whose
honesty and judgment he had equal and entire confidence.

Later in the day he questioned Mrs. Pole, and when she assured Mr.
Stuart that “he”—she always referred to her nephew-in-law by the pronoun
instead of his name—“he” was honest, temperate and industrious as a man
could be, and his only fault was carelessness about saving money when he
had it, though he never wasted it on himself, but on the young ones,
even to the extravagance of an excursion sometimes. But for that, “he”
was as good and trusty a man as ever wore shoe leather.

Upon this information Stuart acted, and wrote a letter to Mr. Morgan
offering him work for the summer, with good wages and his expenses paid
to West Virginia if he should accept the terms. This business letter
inclosed two others, one from Palma to Mrs. Morgan, explaining
circumstances and asking her as a favor to come with Mr. Morgan and
bring all their children and stay at Wolfscliff with Mrs. Pole for the
whole summer and part of the autumn, while Mr. Stuart and she (the
writer) should be in Europe. The last letter was from Mrs. Pole to her
niece, imploring her not to be “backward” in accepting the lady’s
invitation, which was made in good faith and in the earnest desire to do
them service.

These letters, inclosed in one envelope, were sent off by that day’s
mail.

Within seven days the answer came. One from Morgan to Mr. Stuart,
gratefully accepting the liberal terms offered him; one from Jane Morgan
to Mrs. Stuart, overflowing with delight and thankfulness, and telling
the lady, what Palma appreciated best of all, that her children were
“fairly standing on their heads in delight at the thought of their going
into the country,” and one from the niece to her aunt, breathing of
gratitude to the Giver of all good gifts for this blessing.

Stuart sent on his check to Morgan.

Mrs. Pole began active preparations for the reception of her niece and
the children.

The large bedroom on the ground floor which had once been the private
apartment of old Mr. Cleve, and two smaller rooms in the rear of that
were fitted up for the family.

“Because,” said Palma, “these rooms all open upon the back porch and the
end porch, and will be so convenient for the little children to run in
and out without danger of falling from any height or hurting
themselves.”

Mrs. Pole was ready to cry with the feeling of the young woman’s tender,
thoughtful kindness.

Palma was busy also with her own preparations. It was no very easy
matter to pack trunks for her husband, her children and herself for a
voyage to Europe. It would have been a much harder task but that Cleve
continually reminded her that she really needed to take no more than
they might require on their voyage.

“To carry clothes to Europe is to ‘carry coals to Newcastle,’” he said,
quoting an old proverb.

Hatty, to her great delight, was selected from all the other servants to
go with them as lady’s maid and children’s nurse.

The last week of their stay at Wolfscliff came. And the program for that
week was all laid out.

On Sunday they all went to church together.

On Monday Mr. and Mrs. Cleve Stuart gave a dinner party at Wolfscliff in
honor of their guest, The O’Melaghlin, and for which the invitations had
been given out several days previous. This was a great success. All the
family connections of the Stuarts and the Cleves were on hand, and The
O’Melaghlin was in great force, notwithstanding, or perhaps just
because, he had taken a great deal more wine than was good for him. But
in this respect he was kept well in countenance by the elders of that
dinner table; for up to this time the total abstinence movement had not
reached that neighborhood, where the heads of old families kept up the
convivial habits of their forefathers.

On Tuesday, by appointment, Mr. Stuart sent the large carryall and also
the ox cart to Wolfswalk to meet the Morgans, who were expected to
arrive that afternoon.

After their dispatch the whole household of Wolfscliff was in a state of
expectancy much more delightful at the anticipation of meeting the poor
workman’s family of small children who would be in such ecstasies at
their visit than they would have been in looking forward to the arrival
of the most distinguished party this country could afford.

But it was quite late at night when the two lumbering vehicles drew up
before the door.

The O’Melaghlin had retired to rest.

Stuart had remained in the drawing-room under silent protest, until
Palma entreated, exhorted and commanded, using all the forms of the
potential mood in order to make him go to bed. Then he laughed and
yielded, and Palma and Mrs. Pole “stayed up” to receive the travelers.

They had a nice supper, also, ready for them.

So when they heard the wheels grate on the pebbles before the house both
rushed out of the room just in time to see old ’Sias, who alone of all
the servants shared their watch, unbolt and unbar the great double front
door.

Then the door was opened and the large party filed in.

Palma withdrew to the background to let Mrs. Pole offer the first
greetings to her relatives. First came Joe, with one child fast asleep
on his shoulder, and another, half asleep, holding his hand by his side.

Then came Jane, with the baby in her arms and two little girls clinging
to her skirts, and the eldest boy close behind her.

Mrs. Pole received them one by one, kissing them in tears of joy, and
with disconnected, inarticulate words of welcome.

In the midst of this little hubbub the carryall and ox cart were heard
to start again and roll away in the direction of the barnyard.

Mrs. Pole presented them all, one by one, to Palma, who received each
with great kindness, and took the baby to hold in her arms, while its
mother, father and all the other children followed Mrs. Pole into the
bedrooms to take off their wraps and wash for supper.

Then came the comfortable supper and the chat that accompanied it.

Palma felt fully compensated for her “quixotism.”

When they all bade her good-night and went to their rooms on the ground
floor Palma felt too joyful to retire; so she stayed up talking to Mrs.
Pole until midnight, and then—even then—when she retired to bed, she was
too happy to sleep—too happy in the thought of the happiness she
witnessed.

The next morning must have reconciled a more hard-headed man that Cleve
Stuart to the quixotism of his wife.

The lawn resounded with the shouts and laughter of the little children,
who might have thought, if young children ever think, that they had died
in their tenement house and waked up in heaven.

Stuart was as much pleased with the frank, honest face and manner of
Joseph Morgan as Palma was with the true, tender, motherly countenance
and conversation of Jane Morgan.

On Thursday morning the Stuarts, with The O’Melaghlin and their
servants, started for New York, en route for England.

They reached the city on Friday morning.

They spent the day in making calls on the Wallings and other friends.

On Saturday the whole party sailed for Liverpool.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI
                         GENTLEMAN GEFF’S FATE


Gentleman Geff was in a profound stupor when he was taken to the rectory
and put to bed in the best chamber of the house—the parlor bedroom on
the ground floor.

He continued in this state for several days, faithfully watched by
Elspeth and Longman, and frequently visited by Mr. and Mrs. Campbell,
and daily attended by Dr. Hobbs.

Jennie shrank from even going to look at him.

But he recognized no one, noticed nothing.

Medicine and highly concentrated nourishment were regularly administered
to him by his nurses.

These he sometimes swallowed instinctively, mechanically, and at other
times choked over, and had to be raised in bed and have his throat
relieved and his mouth wiped like a helpless baby; but all unconsciously
on his part. He never knew, or seemed to know, what he himself was
suffering, or other people were doing.

His spirit was away, away.

Where?

In Hades, most probably, judging from his antecedents.

“Will he die in this stupor, or come out of it, do you think, sir?”
inquired the rector of the doctor one morning as the two men stood by
the bedside of the patient.

Dr. Hobbs never “shook his head;” doctors never do such stupidly
disheartening things over a case, however serious—story writers to the
contrary notwithstanding.

This physician also had the courage to confess that he was not
omniscient, for he answered:

“I do not know.”

“But if he should come out of this stupor, will he be likely to live?”
inquired the rector.

“I do not know,” again replied the doctor. “I shall be better able to
judge when he recovers consciousness, if he should ever recover it.”

And the physician wrote his prescriptions and instructions for the
treatment of the ill man and retired.

Not one word of this talk entered the consciousness of Gentleman Geff.

Nine days he lay in this condition, and then there passed over him a
change.

He seemed to himself to be groping feebly out of nothingness into vague
consciousness of horror; but what the horror was, or what he himself
was, he did not even think. The first effort to do so sent him back into
the state from which he had come.

After a few hours he came again out of utter oblivion into some faint
consciousness of himself.

But who was he? Where was he?

All was dark and still around him. Then came faint intelligence, with
imperfect memory, which mingled dreams with distorted facts. He
remembered faintly what he would have called “a row,” but where, or
under what circumstances, he could not find; he thought it was a drunken
brawl over cards in a gambling saloon, and some one had crushed in his
brain and killed him.

Yes, that was it! He had been killed last night in a drunken brawl over
cards, in a gambling saloon, and now he had come to life——

Where?

In that dark lower world, without sun, moon or stars; without air, water
or vegetation; that world of horror and despair of which he had heard in
childhood, but in which he had never believed, and where he must wait
with thieves and murderers and miscreants like himself until the general
judgment day; and after that——

What?

The eternal life of torture in the lake of fire and brimstone in which
he had never believed, either in its literal or in its metaphorical
meaning.

And now he was too utterly debilitated in mind and body to know or to
feel anything very clearly or deeply.

He relapsed into unconsciousness.

When he came to himself the next time he was able to think with a little
more clearness, and to recollect with more correctness.

He remembered now that it was at Haymore Hall the “row” had occurred, in
which he still believed he had been knocked down and had succumbed to
his injuries, and had now waked up in the world of darkness, horror and
despair, to wait for his final doom.

His final doom?

He moaned in his helplessness, not altogether from fear of future hell,
but from a feeling of present thirst, intolerable even as the rich man
suffered when he cried to Father Abraham to send Lazarus to dip his
finger in water and cool his parched tongue.

When he had moaned a second time he felt the approach of some huge, dark
form. It stood by him, it bent over him, put out a strong arm under his
shoulders and lifted him, and placed a glassful of a refreshing beverage
to his lips.

He drank and breathed more freely.

Ah! how delicious it was!

The attendant replaced his head on the pillow, smoothed his bedclothes
and withdrew to take away the glass.

In a moment he came back, bent over the still half-comatose man and
inquired softly:

“How do you feel, Capt. Montgomery?”

“I—I—I—feel——” muttered Gentleman Geff, and then swooned into the
slumber of weakness.

Some one silently opened the door and came in. It was the rector.

“How is your patient, Longman?” he inquired.

“Sir, he has just swallowed more liquid than he has since he has been
ill; and he has spoken for the first time,” replied the nurse.

“Coherently?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, not much. I asked him how he felt, as an experiment, you see,
sir, and to find out whether he could understand anything; and he did
understand, for he began to tell me, and he dropped off to sleep. You
see he is sleeping naturally, sir.”

“Yes, I see. Well, Longman, it is one o’clock. Go to bed. I will relieve
your watch,” said the rector, sinking into the large easy-chair beside
the patient.

Longman made some resistance to this proposal, but Mr. Campbell was
firm, and sent off the wearied nurse to take his much needed rest.

The ill man rested well for some hours, and then moaned in his sleep.

The watcher gave him a cooling and strengthening beverage, just as
Longman had done, and the patient sank again into sleep, muttering:

“I can’t be in hell, after all, for in hell no one comes from heaven to
put a cool——” Then his words became inaudible until he dropped into
unconsciousness with the last word—“purgatory”—on his failing tongue.

All the remainder of the night he slept well, only occasionally
muttering in his sleep:

“Not in hell, after all—only in purgatory—not such a bad place.”

In the morning when the doctor came to make his daily visit he found the
ill man sleeping quietly and Mr. Campbell and Longman sitting by his
bed.

He examined the patient’s pulse and temperature without waking him, and
then took the two watchers’ report.

“Took nourishment with a relish and spoke consciously—both good signs,
excellent signs! but I can say no more at present.”

The doctor wrote out the formulas for the day and took leave.

All that day Gentleman Geff remained in the same condition without a
sign of further improvement. All the following night Longman had a
repetition of the experience of the preceding night. At dawn his mother,
Elspeth, relieved him and sent him to bed.

After the family breakfast Mr. Campbell came in and sent Elspeth out to
get her own coffee and muffins. The sick-room was still kept very dark
by the doctor’s orders. Darkness, he said, was the best sedative for
nerves and brain in the condition of Capt. Montgomery.

When the sick man showed by moaning and moving uneasily that he was
awake, the rector took some beef tea that was kept hot over a spirit
lamp, poured it into an invalid’s feeding-glass and administered it to
the patient.

Gentleman Geff sucked it in with a relish, and then sank back on his
pillow with a sigh of satisfaction.

When Mr. Campbell had put away the cup and returned to his seat by the
bedside he was startled by hearing the patient inquire:

“Who the devil are you, I wonder?”

He answered calmly, however:

“One whom you should know, Capt. Montgomery. I am James Campbell, rector
of——”

But he was interrupted by an exclamation from Gentleman Geff.

“The devil you say! The curate of Medge in purgatory! a parson in
purgatory! When did your reverence die?”

The rector paused a few moments before he replied, and then he spoke
very quietly:

“I am not dead, nor likely to die; nor are you in purgatory as you seem
to think.”

“What! are you living?”

“Yes, I thank Heaven.”

“And—I living also?”

“Yes! And I say thank Heaven for you also.”

“Where are we, then?” questioned the man in a quavering voice.

But before the rector could answer his question, and even while the
question was on his lips, Gentleman Geff had fainted into forgetfulness.

In his struggling soul, striving back to consciousness from his long
stupor, the wretched man had been the victim of three several
hallucinations.

First, that he was dead and buried, and while in that state he made no
sign.

Second, that he was in hell, and then his wail for water and the drink
that was given him dispelled the illusion, which was replaced by the
fancy that he was in purgatory.

Now the meeting with the living James Campbell had cured him of that
delusion also, and left him to one more natural but not the less
painful.

When next he awoke from temporary oblivion his brain was clearer and his
memory more accurate than either had yet been since his illness; still,
both were somewhat clouded, so that they mixed up time and space, and
dreams and realities in weird phantasmagoria.

For instance, he remembered every detail of the two murders he thought
he had committed, but not an item of the meeting with his two intended
victims living to accuse him, not of murder, but of attempted murder.

And without reflecting, or being now able to reflect, that he could not
possibly be hung in England for murders committed in America, he now
thought that he was in the condemned cell of an English prison, waiting
for speedy execution; that the huge giant who loomed through the shadows
of the prison was his death watch, and that James Campbell had come to
him in his clerical capacity to prepare him for death.

“But I will not allow him to worm any confession out of me. I have been
convicted on the frailest circumstantial evidence, and they dare not
hang me at the last. I will have nothing to do with the parson. I won’t
even know him.”

This was the most coherent thought that Gentleman Geff had formed since
he sank into stupor in the drawing-room of Haymore Hall. But the
instinct of self-preservation is a wonderful stimulant to the brain.

So when James Campbell came next to him he turned his face to the wall
and would not notice him.

When Longman came and gave him food and asked how he felt he answered:

“I want to see my lawyer. Send him here.”

Longman, who had been directed to humor all his whims, replied:

“Very well, sir. He shall be summoned immediately.”

“And don’t let that parson come near me again. I hate parsons. And if he
thinks he is going to nag me into confessing crimes I never even dreamed
of committing he must be a much bigger fool than ever I took him to be.
Send my lawyer to me, do you hear?”

“All right, sir.”

“Well, then, why the devil don’t you do it? You needn’t keep such an
infernal sharp lookout on me. I am not going to commit suicide, I tell
you.”

Longman laughed and left the room.

Gentleman Geff turned with his face to the wall and tried to remember
the details of his supposed trial—what the lawyers had said, what “his
honor” said, how he, the prisoner at the bar, had behaved; and then,
failing to remember anything of what had never occurred, his diseased
brain took to imagining a whole drama, in which he formed the central
figure.

The doctor came in the same morning, felt his pulse and asked him how he
had slept.

“None the better for you and your quackeries,” was the reply. “And if I
am supposed to be sick enough to have a physician, why the devil am I
not sent to a hospital, and not kept in this wretched hole?” he added,
still believing himself to be in the condemned cell of the Chuxton jail.

“Why, don’t they treat you well here?” pleasantly inquired Dr. Hobbs.

But Gentleman Geff disdained to reply and turned his face to the wall.

The doctor rose to take leave.

“I think the man is getting along very well; much better than I ever
thought that he would.”

“I think he is an ungrateful beast!” exclaimed Longman.

“Oh, you must not judge him harshly. His head is not clear yet. He does
not know friends from foes,” replied the doctor, who knew nothing
whatever of Gentleman Geff’s criminal career, so well had the secret
been kept by those who possessed it.

Longman did not answer in words; but his grim silence was sufficiently
expressive.

“And now you may let a little more light in the room and give him a more
varied diet,” was the parting instruction of the physician.

As soon as the latter had gone and the door closed behind him Longman
returned to the bedside of his charge.

Gentleman Geff was sleeping, or seemed to be so.

Longman went and opened the shutters of one window, but drew down the
white linen shade and let fall the white lace curtains. This filled the
chamber with a soft, subdued light.

Longman was getting to be an experienced nurse, and knew that it would
not be well to startle the patient, who had lived so long in shadows,
with too bright a light.

When he had arranged the room to his satisfaction he resumed his seat at
the bedside, and fell into the reflection that, notwithstanding all the
unbelief and hardness of heart that degrade this age of the world, there
were still some good Christian people who lived by the golden rule.

In the midst of these reflections he was startled by seeing Gentleman
Geff turn over to the front of the bed and stare out through the opening
of his festooned white curtains. His eyes took in the soft, dim outlines
of a moonlight-looking room, though it was now really midday, and the
white window shade and the white lace curtains produced the lunar
effect.

By this soft effulgence he saw that the room was very spacious, and had
four lace-curtained windows, and a lovely lace-draped dressing-table,
soft, white, dimity-covered chairs and sofa, and pretty Turkey rugs upon
a polished yellow oak floor.

The richly carved marble mantelpiece, with its large mirror, Sèvres
vases and terra cotta statuettes, and the polished steel stove, with its
glowing but flameless fire of hard coal, was hidden from his sight by a
tall Japan screen.

Everything in the apartment bespoke wealth, culture and luxury.

Gentleman Geff stared until his eyes stood out from their sockets. Then
he muttered to himself:

“This is not a prison cell, nor yet any hospital ward; yet this man
sitting here must be the same Giant Despair who was with me in jail.
There can’t be two of that size in the same country.”

Longman stood up and stooped over him, saying:

“Can I do anything for you, Capt. Montgomery?”

“Oh, it is you! I thought there couldn’t be two of you in the same
century, on the same planet.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Confound you! you can explain things, I suppose. You can tell we where
the devil I am now!”

“You are at the rectory of Haymore parish, sir, where you were brought
on the night of that unfortunate”—Longman paused a moment for an
inoffensive word, and then added—“disturbance at Haymore Hall.”

“Disturbance—at Haymore Hall!” muttered the criminal, growing pale as
ashes and sinking back upon his pillow.

No revelation yet had struck him so heavily as this. And it brought back
a more exact memory, though not yet a perfect one, of the recent past.

Longman hurried to the other end of the room and returned with a
powerful restorative.

He held Gentleman Geff up on his left arm while he put the draught to
his lips with his right hand.

The criminal drained the last drop, and then sank down upon his pillow,
while Longman withdrew his arm and replaced the empty glass.

Gentleman Geff did not speak again.

He was possessed of a fear of talking, lest he should “commit” himself.

But he now reflected the more, though his deductions were still
confused.

“No wonder I could not remember the details of my trial—a trial that
never occurred, but was only a dream of fever. But all the same, if it
has not yet come off, it is to come, unless I go!”

He laughed a little to himself at this poor joke, and then he tried to
recall the incidents of that “disturbance” at Haymore Hall.

But he could not think consecutively for many minutes before his
thoughts became entangled, and dreams were mingled with realities, and
false inferences deduced from the union.

“I remember now,” he said to himself, “something about that row at
Haymore Hall, though my illness must have made some things seem vague to
me on first recovering my senses. But I remember now!”

Even as he spoke the words and tried to marshal the facts in their
proper sequence, memory and imagination fled, and left his mind a vacuum
again.

Some hours later, after Longman had given him a bowl of strong beef tea
and a glass of fine old port wine, his mental faculties rallied again,
though feebly, and he thought he could form a correct theory; he would
not try to get help in doing this by asking any question. He was too
much afraid of compromising himself in some way.

“I do recall now,” he told himself, “the cause of that row at Haymore
Hall. Let me see——

“I had just arrived with my wife and my brother-in-law at Haymore, to
take possession, when I was met by officers with a warrant for my arrest
on the charge of murder——

“How was that, now? Let’s see—oh, yes! I was arrested upon a warrant,
issued under the extradition treaty with the United States, charged with
the murder of Randolph Hay in California, and of Jennie Montgomery in
New York——”

Here the wretched man paused, shuddered and covered his face with his
hands. The horror of his crime overcame him, as it had so often done,
when it drove him to seek oblivion in strong drink, and finally made him
a drunkard.

It was some time before he could resume his line of thought.

“I know,” he mused at length, “that I denied the charge and resisted the
arrest, and that there was a fight. One of the officers clubbed me—on
the head—and I fell like an ox, and knew no more. When I came to myself
I was lying here.”

He paused again, and seemed to labor to understand his present position.

“How came I to be here?” he inquired of himself; and after a few minutes
exclaimed:

“Oh, I know! I see it all now! I had given the living of Haymore to my
brother-in-law, Cassius Leegh—the scoundrel! When I was brained by the
club of that constable, of course I was more a dead than a living man,
and in no condition to be carted off ten miles to the Chuxton jail! So I
was placed under arrest and brought here in charge of constables. And
here I am in my brother-in-law’s rectory, guarded by officers, and
particularly by that Giant Gerion, who never leaves me, night or day—set
fire to him!”

Gentleman Geff moaned and groaned and tossed until Longman brought him a
glass of milk punch, which seemed to soothe him.

Then he resumed his self-communings:

“I wonder, since I am in his rectory, which was also my gift to him, why
I never see Cassius Leegh? And I wonder where his sister, my bogus wife,
is? And, more than all, I wonder now—what brings James Campbell here?”

He paused in distress, and then moaned to himself:

“I give it up! I give it up! It is all past me! ‘Chaos has come again.’
But one thing is clear, even in chaos—that is, I must escape from this
house. I must not wait to be taken to jail, as I should be as soon as
the doctor has pronounced me well enough to be removed.”

He thought as intensely as he was capable of thinking, and then suddenly
formed a plan.

“I will not get well enough to be removed while I stay here, and I will
escape from the house at the first opportunity.”

From this day the patient became a puzzle to his physician as well as to
his attendants. He did not seem to gain in strength, but to grow weaker
and more helpless every day; notwithstanding that his appetite was good.
At night he was restless and delirious.

“I confess that this case perplexes me,” Dr. Hobbs admitted to Mr.
Campbell.

But the case grew out of a misunderstanding between the patient and his
attendants.

Gentleman Geff, not quite in his right mind yet, believed himself to be
under arrest with the prospect of a prison, a trial and conviction
before him; whereas there was no intention on any one’s part of even
making an accusation against him.

His physician and watchers, not knowing the delusion under which he
silently and fearfully suffered, could not suspect him of playing a part
to prolong his sojourn at the rectory and postpone his transfer to the
prison.

This state of things continued for a week. There had been in this time
two opportunities for Gentleman Geff to escape—for, after all, he was
not watched as a criminal, but only as an invalid. There had been two
occasions on which he had been left alone for an hour or two; but on
both these the weather had been terrific with wind, snow and sleet, and
he waited for weather and opportunity both to favor him together.

But one morning, after he had eaten a good breakfast, lain back on his
pillow, and pretended to fall into a stupor, as usual, when the doctor
was expected, something occurred that frightened him and hurried his
operations.

The doctor came, accompanied on this occasion by Mr. Campbell, who did
not often intrude his unwelcome presence into the sick-room.

The doctor leaned over the bed and inquired:

“How are you, Capt. Montgomery?”

There was no response.

The doctor then laid his hand gently on the man’s shoulder to enforce
his attention and inquired:

“How are you, sir?”

Still there was no answer.

Then the doctor examined his pulse, temperature and respiration, and
even lifted the eyelids and looked at the eyes.

Then he turned to Mr. Campbell and said:

“I feel like giving up the case. I honestly confess I can make nothing
of it. The man’s appetite, digestion and assimilation are excellent. His
pulse is strong, his temperature normal, his respiration perfect, and
yet he seems too weak to leave his bed, and he falls into delirium or
stupor day and night.”

“Pray do not give up the case, doctor. If there is any one you would
like to have called in consultation now——”

The rector paused.

“Well, yes, sir, there is. Sir Ichabod Ingoldsby, the great authority on
the diseases of the brain and nervous system. And to get him from London
to the North Riding of Yorkshire would cost at least two hundred pounds,
even should his engagements permit him to come.”

“Never mind what it costs, we will send for him. The young squire has
specially enjoined me to spare no expense, as he insists on footing all
the bills. Give me Sir Ichabod Ingoldsby’s address. I will telegraph him
at once. If his engagements will permit he may be here this afternoon.”

“Scarcely this afternoon. He will have to make arrangements. Besides, he
always travels in the middle of the night to save time. If all should go
well we may see him to-morrow morning. Here is his address,” said Dr.
Hobbs, and he tore a leaf from his tablets and handed it to the rector.
Then both gentlemen left the room.




                             CHAPTER XXXVII
                          A FLIGHT FOR FREEDOM


Gentleman Geff had heard every word spoken by the doctor and the rector.
He dared not wait the inspection of the skilled London specialist, the
great court physician, who would be sure to detect the deception so
successfully imposed upon the simple country practitioner.

The eminent Sir Ichabod Ingoldsby might arrive the next morning. Then
he—Montgomery—must escape this very day or night, let the weather be
what it might. Any risk rather than the certainty of detection and of
all the horrors that must follow.

And the weather was simply awful—“Ragnarok”—“the darkness of the gods.”
The snow had fallen all the preceding night and all that day. Although
there were four windows in the sick-room, and all the shutters were
open, yet such was the obscurity that the lamps had been lighted.

Gentleman Geff was not alone until evening, when Longman, having served
an excellent supper to his charge and left the latter comfortably laid
back on his pillow, in what the nurse supposed to be a safe and sound
sleep, withdrew from the room to take his meal and refresh himself by a
walk up and down the covered front piazza, and no one took the watcher’s
place.

This was Gentleman Geff’s golden opportunity, not to be lost.

He got out of bed on tiptoes and went and bolted the door.

Then he went to the closet to search for clothes to put on, if perchance
he might find any.

He found his own suit that had been taken off him on the night he was
brought to the rectory and put to bed, and in the pocket of his coat his
_portemonnaie_, well filled as it had been.

They were all there, even to his boots, his socks, his ulster and his
hat. He began to dress himself in great haste, but suddenly grew very
tired, for though not nearly so weak as he pretended to be, he was not
strong.

He went to the buffet, where he knew Longman kept his wine and medicine,
and found a bottle of good old port. He unstopped it, put the mouth to
his lips and took a long draught, then a deep breath and another long
draught, repeated the process, and—thought he would take the bottle
along with him in his flight.

He finished dressing himself without further fatigue, put the bottle of
wine in the pocket of his ulster, and went to the window overlooking the
back garden of the rectory.

Escape from the room was safe and easy, as this was the parlor chamber
on the ground floor of the house.

The window opened, but with a sudden thought he turned back and put out
the lights and locked as well as bolted the door. These precautions he
thought were necessary to delay the discovery of his flight.

Then he went back to the window and stepped through it, closing it
behind him.

Where now?

To the Chuxton railway station and on to London, to lose himself in that
great wilderness of human beings until he could take ship to some
foreign country with which there was no extradition treaty.

But what a night it was! Dark as pitch but for the spectral light of the
snow. The snow was still falling heavily as ever, but the wind had risen
in mighty strength and was driving not only the falling but the fallen
snow into drifts.

If he had but a lantern! But that was an impossible convenience to him.

He drew the bottle from his pocket, took another long draught from it,
replaced it, and set out through “night and storm and darkness” and
bitterest cold on his flight for life.

More by instinct or accident than by light and knowledge he found his
way around the back wall of the rectory garden to that country road
which ran in front of the church, the rectory and Haymore Park, and
crossed the highroad at about a mile distant.

The snow fell thicker and faster, the wind rose higher and stronger, and
the night grew colder and darker.

He plunged onward through the deepening snow, sometimes almost smothered
in the drifts, and requiring all the strength he could muster to
struggle out of them.

He lost his way, as it was inevitable he should. Even had it been day,
instead of the darkest night that ever fell upon the earth, the highroad
could not have been distinguished from the meadows except by certain
tall landmarks. Now it was impossible to distinguish it.

Gentleman Geff knew that he had lost his way, had hopelessly lost it,
yet he floundered on through the black chaos on the chance of coming to
some place where he could find shelter from the bitter cold, the beating
wind, the bottomless drifts and the tempest of driving snow that seemed
to be turned to a shower of ice spikes and stung like the sting of
wasps.

On and on he floundered and struggled, not daring to stop, for to stop
would be to die.

Again and again he applied himself to his bottle until it was empty.
Then he let it fall, for indeed his numbed hands could scarcely hold it.

He grew weaker and weaker; his limbs seemed too heavy to lift,
especially through deep snow; his brain grew dizzy, his mind confused.
He tried to keep his senses and his feet; he felt that if he sank to the
ground it must be into his grave.

At length the crisis came; his brain reeled, his limbs gave way, he lost
consciousness and fell to the earth.

Meanwhile, at the rectory, Longman took his supper with his mother in
their warm, bright sitting-room adjoining the kitchen, everything around
them looking so much more comfortable in contrast to the storm raging
without.

“I pity any poor wayfarer abroad to-night,” said Elspeth as she took the
steaming coffee pot from the hob of the glowing grate and set it on the
table, little guessing that the poor wretch they had been taking care of
for two months was just setting out to brave it at its worst.

“Oh, this is bad enough, but it is nothing at all to the awful storms
among the Sierra Nevadas,” said Longman as he sat down to the table and
took the cup of coffee his mother had poured out for him.

And on her expressing her surprise and wonder, he began to entertain her
with marrow-freezing stories of overwhelmed trains of emigrant wagons
and buried villages of settlers among the snow mountains.

This delayed him at the supper table so much longer than usual that he
had but little time to take his “constitutional” on the covered front
piazza.

So after a turn or two up and down he went into the house and up to the
door of the sick-room.

He turned the knob and pushed the door, but found it was locked within.

“What whim is this, I wonder?” he said. “I hope the London doctor will
order the beast to an idiot asylum. I suppose they wouldn’t take him in
with the apes at the Zoo. Captain! Capt. Montgomery!” he exclaimed,
rapping loudly.

Not a sound from within.

Then he went around to the back piazza and looked through the windows.

All as dark as pitch in the room.

“What’s up now, I wonder?” he asked himself, and then went back to the
door and tried once more by rapping and calling to bring some response
from the room.

But now the noise reached the rector, who was seated at his desk in his
study writing his sermon.

He laid down his pen and came into the hall, where he found Longman
still hammering and calling.

“What is the matter now, Longman?” inquired the rector.

“This door is fastened from within, sir, and I can neither get into the
room nor make him hear me,” replied the man.

Of course, unreasonable as it was to try the experiment in which the
giant had failed, the rector said:

“Let me try!”

Longman gave way.

The rector rapped a little cannonade upon the door and shouted:

“Capt. Montgomery!”

He might as well have shouted:

“Jupiter Tonnerres!” to the snowstorm for any good effect.

“Shall I burst the door open, sir?” inquired Longman.

“No.”

“I wonder what the fellow is up to now!” said Longman.

“Heaven knows!” sighed the rector.

“Will I break the door open, sir?” again asked Longman.

“No, you may bring me a common table knife with the thinnest blade you
can find, and come with me to the back piazza.”

They left the door, and a few minutes later met under the very window by
which the fugitive had made his escape, after re-closing the shutters
that fastened with a spring catch behind him.

“Now with this knife I know how to loosen the catches,” said the rector;
and he laid the blade of the knife flat on the stone sill, slipped it
under the catch, and so opened the shutters. Then he slipped the knife
between the upper and lower sash of the window and turned the button and
so raised the sash.

“That is a very badly secured window in case of burglars,” remarked
Longman.

“Yes, but you see there are no burglars around Haymore. However, I do
intend to have a bolt put on these shutters,” said the rector, and he
stepped through the window into the room, closely followed by Longman.

All was dark as pitch but for the dull glow of the coal fire in the
grate.

They knew it was utterly useless to call, yet both at the same moment
cried out:

“Capt. Montgomery! Where are you?”

No answer came.

Longman took a match from the safe on the mantelpiece, kindled it at the
fire and lighted the astral.

The room was illuminated in an instant, and every nook and cranny
clearly visible. Yet no sign of the missing man. Longman hastened to the
bed, from which he drew the curtains. It was vacant.

“He has run away, sir. The fraud, who pretended to be so helpless that
he couldn’t hold a glass to his lips, has been playing it on us all this
time, as I suspected him of doing all along, and now he has run away!”
said Longman.

“Oh, I think not. Why should he deceive us? Why should he run off? No
one was going to harm him,” said the rector, still peering around the
room as if he expected to find Gentleman Geff in some nook or corner.

“He mightn’t have felt so sure of that, sir. A guilty conscience, you
know.”

“I cannot think but what he has gone off in a fit of violent mania.”

“Then, in that case, he would have gone in his night clothes, just as he
jumped out of bed; but here are the empty shelves and pegs, with every
article of his wearing apparel gone,” said Longman, coming out of the
closet which he had been examining. “And why should he take pains to
lock and bolt the door, and put out the light so as to retard the
discovery of his flight as long as possible?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lunatics are well known to be very cunning. But,
Longman, he must be instantly followed and found, if possible. Oh,
heavens! Think of the man being out on such a night as this! He will
surely perish,” said the rector. And he hurriedly unfastened the door,
rushed out into the passage, took his storm cloak from the rack and his
hat from its peg, and while he nervously prepared himself to brave the
tempest he called out again to the hunter:

“Longman! For Heaven’s sake get on your coat and find a lantern and come
with me. There is no one but you and me to go in search of this wretched
man, whom we must not leave to perish in the snow.”

Almost as soon as the rector had ceased to speak, Longman was by his
side, prepared for the expedition.

“He must have escaped by that back window, which is the only one that
will close with springs. We must search the road leading for the back
gate of the garden. Come,” said the rector, going before with the
lighted lantern, which he had taken from the hand of Longman.

They issued through the rear door, passed through the garden and out of
the rear gate.

Holding the lantern near the ground the rector moved slowly and
carefully through the white chaos.

The searchers had not groped many yards from the rectory gate when Mr.
Campbell saw something black upon the white ground.

He stooped to examine it, and cried out:

“Here he is, Longman; but whether dear or alive, poor wretch, I do not
know. Come and help me to lift him.”

“He has not been lying here five minutes, or he would be covered with
snow. So he may not be dead.”

Yes, they had found the body of Gentleman Geff within fifty yards of the
rectory wall.

Through the dark night and blinding snow and distracting wind he had
lost his reckoning and wandered in a circle until he had fallen down
where they found him.

They lifted him up and bore him into the rectory to his own room,
undressed him, wrapped him in blankets, and put him to bed.

He was in the deep sleep that precedes death by freezing. He only
partially awoke while they were working over him; but he did not speak.

They gave him warm spiced brandy and water, which he swallowed
mechanically.

All night long they watched and worked over him.

In the morning, when James Campbell left the sick-room to make his
toilet before going to breakfast, he left Gentleman Geff in what seemed
a good sleep.

But, while he sat at table explaining to his wife and daughter why he
had been out of his room all night, Longman suddenly burst in upon them
and said:

“Come in, for Heaven’s sake! He is taken with a hemorrhage that I think
will carry him off!”

“Longman, run and fetch Dr. Hobbs. Mrs. Campbell and myself will attend
to Montgomery.”

The hunter fled out of the front door to fetch the physician, while Mr.
and Mrs. Campbell rushed to the help of the sufferer.

It was an appalling spectacle!

The blood driven by the freezing cold to the lungs had congested there,
and notwithstanding all the means that had been taken to restore his
consciousness and save his life, though these means had been thus far
successful, yet the congestion of the lungs had increased until it burst
an artery and the hemorrhage followed. It was not fatal all at once, for
Mr. and Mrs. Campbell called all their skill and experience into service
and succeeded in stopping the flow before the arrival of the doctor.

When the latter came to the bedside of the patient he found him laid
back on his bed, as pale as death, as weak as a new-born infant, and
scarcely breathing, his pulse scarcely beating.

Dr. Hobbs approved all the rector had done, and then inquired:

“Did you get an answer from Sir Ichabod Ingoldsby?”

“Yes, by telegram. He cannot leave London at this crisis.”

“Well, it does not matter now. This is a case that any country doctor or
any old woman might understand and treat.”

“What do you think of his chance of life?” whispered the rector.

“It is a poorer one than he has yet had,” replied the doctor, looking at
the pallid, wizen face, that seemed to have shrunken to half its size
since his terrible loss of blood.

Hetty cried for pity.

“If he has any relatives they should be informed, for I do not think he
will ever rise from that bed again,” said Dr. Hobbs.

“I know of none, except the Earl of Engelmeed and the Viscount
Stoors—his uncle and his cousin. I will write to the earl to-day,” said
Mr. Campbell.

“Engelmeed, of Engelwode, in Cumberland? That is where typhoid fever is
raging so fiercely,” remarked Dr. Hobbs.

Here followed some talk of that pestilence, and finally the doctor arose
and took his leave, promising to return in the afternoon.

Mr. Campbell wrote to the Earl of Engelmeed, advising him of his
nephew’s dangerous illness, and posted the letter that forenoon.

Two days later he got a reply, not from the earl, but from the latter’s
steward, announcing the death of the Viscount Stoors and the extreme
illness of Lord Engelmeed, whose death was hourly expected.

Over this letter the rector fell into deep thought.

Then he put on his coat and hat, and taking the letter with him, walked
over to Haymore Hall.

He was shown into the library, where he found Ran reading.

“Good-morning, Mr. Hay. Will you let me look at your ‘Burke’s Peerage’
for a moment?”

“Certainly. How do you do, Mr. Campbell? And how is your family—and your
patient?” inquired Ran as he arose and shook hands with the rector, and
then went to the bookcase and took down the “Peerage.”

“The family is well. The invalid very low. I received a letter from the
steward of Engelwode this morning, in answer to the one I wrote to the
earl, informing me of the death of the Viscount Stoors and the extreme
illness of Lord Engelmeed, whose demise was then hourly expected.”

“Indeed! Had they taken the fever?”

“Yes. It was madness for them to remain at Engelwode during its
prevalence. It is from hearing of these occurrences that I wish to
consult Burke. I think that since the death of Lord Stoors, our wretch,
Montgomery, is heir presumptive to the title and estate,” said the
rector as he took the heavy red volume from the hands of the young
squire, laid it on the library table, and sat down to examine it.

Ran resumed his seat.

“It is as I thought. There is no other son. And Kightly Montgomery, as
the eldest son of the next brother, the late Gen. Montgomery, is heir
presumptive to the earldom, and may even now be Earl of Engelmeed. Think
of it!” exclaimed the rector as he closed the book. “Wealth and rank,
for which the wretched man periled his soul and fatally wrecked his life
to obtain feloniously, now come to him lawfully and honorably, but on
his deathbed!”

“Yes, it is terrible. If he had but waited! Now it seems the iron of
fate—this useless accession to fortune!” sighed Ran.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII
                               WINDING UP


Ran and Judy had planned to go to London in the spring, to live in
retirement and to pursue their studies under private tutors. But as the
season opened in all its beauty they became so enchanted with their
delightful country home that they could not bear the thought of leaving
it.

“Couldn’t we have a resident tutor?” inquired Ran with some hesitation
as he and Judy were discussing the question one morning, seated on a
rustic bench under an old oak tree in their lovely lawn.

“‘A resident tutor?’” repeated Judy dubiously.

“Yes, such as the gentry have for their children.”

“For their children,’ of course, but not for grown people; not for
themselves. No, Ran, dear, we could not have a resident tutor for you
and me. That would set the servants to talking and the neighbors to
gossiping; and they would wonder where we had been brought up, perhaps
laugh at us, perhaps scorn us. I should not mind it for myself, Ran, but
I should mind it a great deal for you.”

“That is not the way I feel, Judy, dear, for I do not care a fig what
they say of me, but I could not bear to have them criticise you.”

“So, you see, Ran, we could not have a resident tutor.”

“I suppose we shall have to go and hide ourselves in London to pursue
our studies, Judy, dear.”

“Yes,” said the young woman with a deep sigh, “but mightn’t we put off
going until winter? Oh, it is so hard to leave this lovely place in the
glory of the spring.”

“Judy, love, time is passing quickly, and our education is very
backward.”

“Especially mine,” sighed Judy.

“But I tell you what I will do!” exclaimed Ran with sudden inspiration.
“I will confide the whole matter to Mr. Campbell, and take counsel with
him.”

“The very thing! And, oh, Ran!” exclaimed Judy, catching inspiration in
her turn, “might he not become our tutor? Give us an hour three or four
times a week?”

Ran fell into thought, but did not reply.

“I have so often heard of clergymen taking pupils. Even taking them in
their houses. But he need not do that. Could he not come to us or let us
go to him a few times every week?”

“I declare, Judy, darling, that is a splendid idea of yours, and I will
ask him, and if he should consent to do as we wish, why, then, we need
not bother ourselves about going to London to hide ourselves and look
for teachers!” exclaimed Ran in delight.

“And then there need be no gossip. No one need know what brings the
rector to our library or takes us to his study,” concluded Judy.

“I will go and see Mr. Campbell at once,” exclaimed Ran, with boyish
eagerness, as he sprang up, seized his hat from the ground and set off
in a brisk walk for the rectory.

But he met the rector full tilt at the lodge gate, as Mr. Campbell was
on his way to make a call at the house.

They both burst out laughing as they came into collision, and the
minister took Ran’s arm, turned him about and walked with him back to
the rustic seat where Judy sat.

She rose to welcome the visitor and to make room for him beside her on
the bench.

“Good-morning, ma’am,” he said, lifting his hat and taking the offered
seat. “We have lovely weather just now. It must be lovely even in
London. In fact, there is always delightful weather in London during
May, when the season is at its height. Do you leave for town soon?”

“Oh, I hope not. I never, never, never wish to leave for town,” said
Judy, with a genuine pout.

“I am sure I wish you never would,” laughed Mr. Campbell. “But I thought
you were daily expecting to start,” he added, turning to Ran.

“So we have been; but we have postponed our departure from day to day,
from reluctance to leave the country,” replied the young man.

“But the height of the season will soon be over. The weather will grow
warm and London intolerable. Much as I should desire for my own sake to
detain you here, I should advise you not to delay your departure.”

“But we don’t want to go at all! And we were not going for the sake of
the season, anyhow. And it depends on you, Mr. Campbell, whether we go
or not!” exclaimed Judy, taking the initiative and breaking right into
the midst of the matter.

“On me, Mrs. Hay!” inquired Mr. Campbell, with a puzzled air.

“Ran, tell him!” commanded Judy.

And then Randolph Hay confided to James Campbell the story of his own
and Judy’s neglected education, and their plans for remedying their
defects, and ended by diffidently proposing that the minister should, if
he pleased, become the director of their studies.

“I fear that my petition is a most presumptuous one, sir; but I hope and
trust that you will not consider it offensive. If so, I pray you to
pardon me.”

“My young friend, on the contrary, your proposal is both flattering and
agreeable. I shall gladly and gratefully undertake the task for which
circumstances as well as, I hope, college training, have fitted me.”

“I thank you with all my heart, Mr. Campbell. You have made everything
smooth and pleasant for us,” heartily responded Ran.

Judy caught the minister’s hand, pressed it between both hers, and so
expressed her gratitude.

Later all the details of the engagement were arranged between the
minister and his pupils.

On Ran’s pressing entreaty, Mr. Campbell consented to stay and dine with
them that day. And it was during his visit that the evening mail brought
them foreign letters from Cleve Stuart, with the news of his Uncle John
Cleve’s death.

“A good man gone to his rest,” was the comment of the clergyman.

The news of death—even of the death of a stranger whom we only knew by
report—always casts a shadow, for a longer or a shorter time, over the
circle into which it is brought.

Bright Judy was the first to smile and dispel the cloud.

“And now, Mr. Campbell, it is so well that you have consented to take
pity on us, for under present circumstances we could not leave Haymore,”
she said.

The minister raised his brows interrogatively.

“Because we must write and ask our friends to come and spend the summer
with us here.”

“Ah! I understand,” said the rector.

“Your patient lingers longer than any of us expected,” remarked Ran.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Campbell, “his tenacity of life is really wonderful,
poor soul!”

And he arose and bade his hosts good-night.

Gentleman Geff lay slowly sinking at the rectory of Haymore.

The cold contracted on that fatal winter night of his attempted flight
had settled on his lungs, and in the deeply inflamed condition of the
whole system from alcoholism, had fastened with fatal tenacity upon his
system.

But with the change in the seat of the disease—which, while it slowly
destroyed his lungs, completely relieved his brain—his mental faculties
were perfectly restored, with clear recollection of all that had
transpired, so that he knew his antecedents and his present surroundings
quite as well as our readers do. He knew also that he had no reason to
fear prosecution. His only fear—a secret one—was of death, “and after
death the judgment.”

He had not been prosecuted for any of his felonies, which, indeed, were
surrounded by such circumstances as admitted of their being ignored
rather than compounded.

All the documents by which he had seemed to secure a merely nominal
possession of the Haymore estate concerned the name of Randolph Hay, and
for all the law or the public knew, or need know, that name had been
claimed only by its real owner, the gentleman now in peaceable
possession of the Haymore estate, and never by the impostor who had
tried to take it.

So there was no legal obligation upon any one to bring a criminal
prosecution for fraud and forgery upon the dying malefactor.

And as to his heavier crimes of bigamy, robbery and attempted murder
which had been committed in the United States, there was not the least
likelihood that his surrender under the extradition treaty would ever be
demanded by that government to answer for them before an American
tribunal.

All whom he had so deeply injured, or tried to injure, had freely
forgiven him—all, that is to say, except Lamia Leegh, who in her bitter
humiliation was incapable of forgiving him.

The rector had to strive and pray for grace before he could pardon the
man who had wronged his daughter. But after this grace was given, James
Campbell spent many hours beside the bed of the dying man, reading to
him, praying with him, persuading him to repentance, exhorting him to
faith.

Gentleman Geff was despairing, and at times defiant in his despair.

“You needn’t talk to me, Mr. Campbell. I am as the devil made me. As I
‘have sown’ I ‘must reap.’ If there is anything that can give me
satisfaction now, it is that, after all, I have no blood on my
conscience. Bad as you may think me, I was never cut out for a murderer.
No, nor for a drunkard. Circumstances, temptation, opportunity—these
make destiny. I took to drink to drown remorse. I was a fool for feeling
it. Bah! how can a creature of destiny be responsible for anything he
does? Yet I am glad there is no blood on my hands.”

Mr. Campbell had spoken to Jennie, asking her if she could not overcome
her repugnance so far as to go in and speak to Montgomery, now that he
was in his senses.

But Jennie shuddered, as she replied:

“Papa, he has never even asked to see me, and I am glad he has not. I
have forgiven him. Indeed, indeed I have! And I pray for him. Indeed,
indeed I do! Not only night and morning, at the regular prayers, but
through the day, whenever I think of him, I pray for him earnestly,
fervently. I do! But, papa, I cannot even endure the thought of seeing
him.”

“Then, my child, you have not truly forgiven him. You must pray for
yourself, dear—for the gift of the grace of charity,” gravely replied
the rector.

No, Gentleman Geff had never asked to see his wife or child: never even
referred to either. Mr. Campbell was not sure that the man knew they
were in the house.

But one morning, when the rector was sitting beside him, Montgomery
suddenly said:

“I think it is a confounded shame that a sick man cannot be permitted to
see his wife and child.”

“But you can be permitted to see them. Do you wish to do so?” gently
inquired the minister.

“I should think I did. I have never even set eyes on the boy, and he
must be about nine months old by this time.”

“Your child is not a boy, but a girl,” said the rector.

“Now there! I did not even know the sex of my own child, who is nearly a
year old, and has been under the same roof with me for several weeks.
And this a Christian household!”

“If you feel equal to the interview, I will go and call my daughter now
and ask her to come and bring the little girl.”

“No. Let her come alone the first time. One at a time is all I can
stand.”

James Campbell went down to the back parlor, where he found his wife and
daughter seated at their needlework.

“Jennie, my darling,” he said, gently laying his hand upon her head,
“Montgomery has just asked to see you. Will you come to him?”

“Oh, papa! I cannot! I cannot!” she replied, with a shiver.

“Not come to a dying—yes, I must say it,” he added, after a painful
hesitation—“husband, when he sends for you?”

“He has forfeited that name, papa,” very firmly replied the wronged
wife.

“But you must forgive him, my child.”

“I do forgive him.”

“Well, then, you must come with me to him.”

“Oh, papa, I cannot! Indeed I cannot!”

“Then you do not forgive him, although he is dying?”

“Is he dying, papa?” she inquired in a pitiful voice.

“Not this moment, my dear. But Dr. Hobbs declares that he cannot live
many days in any case, and may not live an hour if another hemorrhage
should come on. Will you come with me, my dear?”

“Oh, papa, I cannot!”

“Jennie, how can you be so hard-hearted?” demanded her mother, now
entering into the conversation for the first time. “I am ashamed of you,
and afraid for you lest you be punished. After the man is dead and gone,
and you can never be kind to him again, you will be sorry. Go, at least,
and speak to him if you only stay one minute.”

“Come, Jennie,” said her father.

And then the young woman arose and followed the clergyman to the
sick-room.

She entered that room under protest; but when she saw the ghastly,
death-stricken face, the skeleton hand stretched out to her, the hollow,
sunken, unearthly eyes fixed upon her, she uttered a low cry of horror
and pity, and sank down on her knees beside the bed, took his hand and
dropped her face upon it.

The rector turned and left the room, closing the door after him.

“There, there, don’t cry! What is the use? Jennie, I am sorry that I
ever hurt you in any way. That is what I wanted to say to you, and that
is why I sent for you,” he said, speaking in a rather faint and
faltering voice.

She did not reply, but sobbed in silence.

“Jennie, did you hear what I said to you?” he inquired.

“Yes, I heard,” she sighed.

“Well, I said I was sorry I hurt you. Well, Jennie?” he asked, and then
paused as if expecting some definite answer.

“I, too, am sorry that you hurt me, or anybody else, or yourself worse
than all, Kightly. I am very sorry, and I pray to the Lord for you
daily, almost hourly. Do you pray for yourself, Kightly?”

“No, I don’t! What would be the use? ‘God is not mocked.’”

“But ‘He is full of compassion,’ Kightly. He——”

“There, that will do!” said the sick man, interrupting her. “You know
nothing about it! Go now. I have said what I sent for you to say to you.
Now go, please. I can’t stand much of this sort of thing,” he muttered
in a weak, petulant voice.

“I will come again to you when you want me, Kightly,” she said, rising.

“All right. And bring the youngster—but not to-day. There, there—go
along with you,” said the man, turning his face to the wall and closing
his eyes. Jennie left the room.

The next day she took the baby in to see its father.

She sat down in a chair beside the bed, and sat the baby on the top of
the bed near its father’s head.

And there she watched it.

The man showed but very little interest in his child.

“I thought, of course, it was a boy,” he said; “but, poor little devil,
it is better that it should be a girl, for I have no money to leave it,
but being a girl, it can marry some of these days and live on some other
fellow’s money. Take it away now, Jennie. I can’t stand much of it,” he
said.

And the mortified young mother took away the dazed and depressed baby
and afterward said to her own mamma:

“I never knew Essie to behave so stupidly. You might have thought she
was a little idiot.”

“Poor baby! The dark room and the haggard man subdued her spirits. It is
a wonder she had not cried,” replied the grandmother.

“I am very glad she did not—that would have made him worse,” said
Jennie.

After this the sinking man declined daily.

Jennie spent hours at his bedside, often having the baby with her when
he could bear it.

Mrs. Campbell had been a daily visitor and an occasional nurse from the
time he was first brought to the house.

Mrs. Longman never left him except for necessary rest and refreshment.

The gamekeeper’s cottage was ready for occupancy, but neither the mother
nor the son would leave the suffering sinner to take possession of its
comforts and emoluments.

And Ran heartily excused them both under the circumstances and paid the
man’s salary.

Gentleman Geff had never been told of the death of his cousin, the
Viscount Stoors. It was thought by his attendants that the news of the
decease of a relative that left him, the dying sinner, heir presumptive
of an earldom, would be, if not too sorrowful, certainly too startling,
too exciting for the safety of an invalid, whose pulse must not be
hurried in the slightest degree lest it should bring on a hemorrhage
that must carry off the patient.

One day, about this time, Montgomery rallied, and seemed so much better
that the doctor allowed him to sit up in bed, propped by pillows.

Mr. Campbell sat by him, reading aloud the morning’s paper, when Longman
came in bringing a letter, which he placed in the hands of the rector.

It was in a deep, black-bordered envelope, sealed with a broad black
seal and directed to

                                     THE REV. JAMES CAMPBELL,
                                             Haymore Rectory,
                                                     Haymore, Yorkshire.

“Excuse me!” he said, and stepped quickly to the furthest window lest
the sick man should see the herald of death.

He opened and read the letter, which was from Abel Stout, the steward of
Engelwode, and was as follows:

                                                  “ENGELWODE CASTLE,
                                                          “May 28, 187—.

  “REV. AND DEAR SIR: It is my painful duty to announce to you the
  decease of Charles-George-Francis-Henry, tenth earl of Engelmeed, who
  expired at one-fifteen this A. M., and of the succession of Capt. the
  Hon. Kightly Montgomery as eleventh earl. I inclose a letter, which I
  beg you to be so kind as to hand to his lordship, if my lord is still
  in your house, or to forward to his address if he should have left, as
  the presence of his lordship here is imperatively necessary. I have
  the honor to remain, reverend sir,

                                                 “Your obedient servant,
                                                     “ABEL STOUT.”

The inclosed letter was superscribed very formally in full title to

                                              The Right Honorable
                                                  THE EARL OF ENGELMEED.

James Campbell stared at this superscription and then glanced at the
wreck on the bed, who now bore the dignity of an earldom.

He could not hesitate to deliver this letter, however it might affect
his patient. He must deliver it! He had no choice.

But what a shock! what a revelation! what a mockery it would now be to
him!—to him who had sinned for wealth and rank, who had sold his
birthright for a mess of pottage and found the dish—poisoned!

The Earl of Engelmeed was dead. His son and heir-apparent had died
before him, and now—their next of kin, their worthless relative, Kightly
Montgomery, the penniless adventurer, who had been driven by greed of
gold and love of luxury to crime and to death—the sinful, dying Kightly
Montgomery, was now master of Engelwode, with a rent roll of twenty
thousand pounds a year!

Ah, if he had only been good and true, he would have lived to enjoy the
old title and the rich estate—more honors than he could possibly have
gained by all his crimes, even though each one of them had been a
complete success!

But now, what a cruel mockery of fate!

Mr. Campbell, reflecting on all these matters, felt really sorry for the
wretched criminal, to whom the unexpected news of his succession to the
earldom, coming to him in his last hours, must truly seem the bitterest
irony of fortune.

“You have bad news there,” said the dying man, glancing at the broad,
black-edged envelope.

“Yes, I fear so. It comes from Engelwode, in Cumberland, where you have
relatives, I think,” replied the rector gravely.

“Oh, yes, relatives!” sneered the new earl, who did not even suspect
that he was one.

             “‘A little more than kin, and less than kind.’

There is no love lost between us, believe me.”

Hearing this, the rector did not consider it necessary to be very
cautious in breaking this news. Nevertheless, he said:

“Let me give you your restorative before we say anything more about the
letter.”

And he arose and poured out the draught, some powerful tonic, compounded
of beef, coca and brandy, and administered it. Then he replaced the
glass on the table and said:

“The letter is for you, my lord.”

“What the devil do you mean?” demanded the new earl.

“Will you take the letter and look at it? Have you light enough? Shall I
draw up the shades?”

“No,” said the patient, taking the letter and squinting at it. “This is
for my uncle, not for me. Though how it should have come here I can’t
imagine.”

“Your lordship’s uncle, the late earl, is dead, my lord,” quietly
replied the rector.

“Dead!”

“Yes.”

“Dead! But there is Stoors.”

“He died before his father. But read your letter, my lord,” said the
rector, purposely ringing the changes on the title that he would have
too much good taste to bestow on the heir of an earldom under ordinary
circumstances, but on this impenitent sinner, on this unpunished felon,
on this dying peer, he lavished the honor with unction in the very
bitterness of irony.

“Read your letter, my lord.”

“I cannot! Oh, this is too terrible!” groaned the dying earl, covering
his face with his hands.

Did he mean, or did the rector for one moment believe that he meant, the
sudden death of his relatives, so near together, was too terrible?

No, indeed. The man meant, and the rector knew that he meant, to receive
this rich and august inheritance just at the hour of death was indeed
“too terrible”—was insupportable.

Poor wretch! he burst into tears and sobbed aloud, dropping back on his
pillow and turning his face to the wall.

“Pray try to be calm, my lord. This emotion will do you a mischief,”
pleaded Mr. Campbell.

“Go and bring my wife and child to me. Let me tell them the news,” he
exclaimed, and then burst into the most sarcastic peal of laughter the
rector thought he had ever heard. He left the room and went to find his
daughter, whom he came upon, as usual, seated beside her mother and
engaged in needlework over the baby’s cradle.

“Come, my dear. Montgomery wants you. Bring the little one along with
you. And, Hetty, dear, you had better come also,” he said.

Both women looked up anxiously, half expecting that this was their final
summons to the sick-room; that now “the end of earth” for Kightly
Montgomery was at hand.

“Is anything the matter, Jim?” inquired Hetty, while Jennie’s eyes asked
the same question.

“News of Montgomery’s relatives in Cumberland, that is all,” replied the
rector.

“What news?” demanded Hetty.

“He prefers to announce it in person.”

“Dear me! How mysterious we are! Come on, Jennie!” said Mrs. Campbell,
taking her husband’s arm and leading the way.

Jennie picked up her baby and followed.

They entered the sick-room.

The sick man held out his hand to his wife, saying:

“Come here, Jennie, my girl! You are Countess of Engelmeed! Did you know
it? And that doll in your arms is Lady Esther Montgomery!—for a few
hours only while I draw the breath of life. Afterward you will only be
countess dowager, while she will be countess in her own right. For the
earldom of Engelmeed is not a male feoff exclusively, but failing the
male line which fails in me, will ‘fall to the distaff,’ as represented
by that rag baby of yours. So I think—you are com——” He paused in sudden
pain and prostration.

“Do not speak again for the present, my lord. You will hurt yourself.
Rest a while,” said the rector, while Jennie looked at her mother in
helpless dismay.

“He is delirious again, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Campbell in reply to
that look.

“Stoop down——” muttered the dying man in a low, faint, husky voice.

Jennie bent over him to catch his failing words.

“You will be—compensated—for all—you have gone through—by being made—a
countess—you ought——”

His voice suddenly ceased. A spasm of pain traversed his face.

“My lord! my lord! Have mercy on yourself and keep still,” pleaded the
rector.

It was too late. A wild look flew into the eyes of the dying man and
fixed them on the rector’s face. A torrent of blood gushed from his
mouth. Gentleman Geff had spoken his last words, and in a very few
minutes he had drawn his last breath.

Jennie threw herself sobbing into the arms of her father. She was too
young to have much self-control, but whether now she wept from grief,
horror or compassion, or all three combined, she could not herself have
told.

Her father took her babe to his bosom and led her to her own room, where
he made her lie down on her bed and placed the child beside her.

The rector went to his study and wrote a letter to the steward at
Engelwode, telling him what had happened.

Then he walked over to Haymore Hall to carry the news to Mr. Randolph
Hay and to confer with him on what was next to be done.

Ran and Judy were both shocked and grieved at the fate of their
enemy—their enemy, however, only in so far as he tried to wrong them
primarily with the wish to benefit himself rather than to injure them.

“The remains should be taken to Engelwode Castle and placed in the
family vault, of course,” said the rector. “And as the last earl died
without having had time to make a will between his succession and his
death, my granddaughter, the little countess, will be a ward in
chancery.”

“And no doubt the lord chancellor will constitute you, sir, the guardian
of her person and a trustee of her estate,” added Ran.

“Perhaps—most likely, indeed; in which case they will associate some
other reliable man with me in the onerous charge. And I should like you
to be that man, Hay,” pleaded the parson.

“With pleasure; if the lord chancellor will appoint me,” answered Ran.

“Is Jennie much distressed, sir?” inquired Judy, sympathetically.

“Yes, madam. She is very much agitated.”

“May I go to her? Could I do her any good?”

“I feel sure you could. I should feel very grateful to you.”

Judy hurried into the house and got her wraps, and came out to join the
rector in his walk homeward.

At the rectory door they were met by Mrs. Campbell, who, after very
gravely saluting Judy and thanking her for coming, turned to the rector
and inquired:

“What was all that the wretched man was rambling about in his last hour?
Was there any foundation of truth in it?”

“It was all truth, Hetty, from foundation rock—to carry out your
simile—to capping stone; and baby Essie is now Countess of Engelmeed in
her own right and a ward in chancery.”

“Well, well, well! She doesn’t know it—Jennie, I mean, of course. She
thinks he was out of his head.”

“Yes, I saw she did; but it is true,” said the rector, as they entered
the house.

A week later the remains of the last Earl of Engelmeed were laid in the
vault of his forefathers, amid all

                   “The pride, pomp and circumstance”

of funeral parade.

After the ceremonies the rector, with his wife, daughter and grandchild,
returned to the rectory, where they were all to live during the minority
of the infant countess.

Ran and Judy came back to their beloved home, but had scarcely got
settled there when they received letters announcing the speedy arrival
of Mr. and Mrs. Cleve Stuart, with their children and a friend—Mr.
O’Melaghlin, of Arghalee, in Antrim.

“I wonder who he is,” pondered Ran, as he took the letter over to the
rectory to show it to Mr. Campbell.

“Why, I know the name and the place, but not the man. I have been to
Arghalee. All except the very ground on which the ancient castle stands,
and which the impoverished O’Melaghlin would not sell under any stress
of fortune, forms a part of the duke’s estate. The castle is one of the
show places of the neighborhood; not for its parks, plantations or
picture galleries, by any means—for there are none—but for the great
antiquity of the ruins. The owner was supposed to be traveling abroad.
He is The O’Melaghlin in question, of course. The guidebook to the
ancient castle shows the family to be lineal descendants from Roderick
O’Melaghlin, monarch of Meath, and more remotely from Konn, a somewhat
mythical king of prehistoric Ireland. So, you see, you will have an
illustrious guest, though he may be as poor as ‘Job’s turkey.’”

“No; the letter says he has made an immense fortune in the gold mines of
Australia, and is coming back to live on his estate.”

“When do you expect them?”

“By the next steamer—for this letter was written from New York the day
before they were to start.”

“Ah!” said the rector.

And Ran, having communicated his good news, went home to his Judy.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX
                      “ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL”


Meanwhile, Cleve, Palma, their children, servant, and, last and
loftiest, The O’Melaghlin were coming over as fast as wind and steam
could bring them.

They had unusually fine weather for the whole trip. They made some very
pleasant acquaintances, and formed some very fast friendships among
their fellow passengers, with whom they were all very popular.

The eccentricities of The O’Melaghlin were endless sources of amusement
to the passengers as to our own party, to whom they were also causes of
frequent annoyance.

For instance, O’Melaghlin always addressed Mr. Cleve Stuart as
“Wolfscliff.” And not infrequently, when he had had too much wine for
dinner, the chieftain would hail his friend from across the table as
“O’Wolfscliff,” or speak of him to another person as “The O’Wolfscliff.”

Besides this, he would reiterate, in season and out of season, his
injunction that Mr. and Mrs. Cleve Stuart should preserve, inviolate,
the secret of his relationship to Mike and Judy.

“Moind ye don’t let on to them,” he repeated. “I am to be inthrodooced
as a frind of your own, claiming, in right of you, the hospitality of
Misther and Misthress Randolph Hay. And I am to have a week or tin days
to observe me childer before they suspect me. That will lave me find
them out as they are widout pritinces. Do ye moind?”

“Oh, yes,” Stuart would reply, heartily tired, yet half amused at the
man’s persistence.

“And yerself will not brathe a syllable that will lave them suspict I’m
anything to themselves, Misthress Stuart?” he persevered, turning to
Palma.

“Not a syllable, O’Melaghlin,” she answered.

This funny persecution ceased for the time, to be renewed as soon as
they landed at Liverpool, and continued all the way from that city to
York, and from there to Chuxton.

“Not a hint, not a breath, not a look, to bethray to the childer that
they behold in me the father of them, and a discindint of the ancient
kings of Meath,” he said, as the train drew into the Chuxton station.

“‘Not a hint, not a breath, not a look’ from us shall betray your
secret, O’Melaghlin,” Cleve assured him.

“No, indeed,” Palma added.

“Be the powers, if ye bethray me, I nivir spake to aither of yez again.”

“There,” said Stuart, as they all rose to leave the train, “there is Mr.
Randolph Hay himself come in the barouche to meet us.”

“Where?” demanded The O’Melaghlin.

“There, on the other side of the road. That gentleman in the open
carriage with the fine bays and the footman in russet livery,” replied
Cleve, pointing to the “turnout.”

“Be the club of Konn! That foine fellow the son-in-law of meself!”

“Yes, indeed!”

“The gintleman that married me Judy when she was a nady orphan, and he
didn’t suspict she could be the daughter of a hundred kings?”

“The very same.”

“Let me at him!” exclaimed The O’Melaghlin, pushing to the front and
passing through the crowd on the platform to the side of the barouche,
just as Ran got down from his seat to welcome his friends.

“I’m The O’Melaghlin, Misther Hay. And it’s proud I am to make the
acquaintance of ye. You’re a noble man, that ye are—that ye are.
Wolfscliff is behoind. I could not wait for him to inthrodooce you. But
I’m The O’Melaghlin, and you are Misther Hay!” he exclaimed, seizing the
hand of Ran and shaking it to nearly dislocation.

Ran was somewhat dismayed, not knowing how to account for this
overwhelming salute that almost deprived him of the power to respond,
and say:

“I am very happy to meet you, Mr. O’Melaghlin.”

“Misther?” repeated the chief, prompt to take exception to such a common
title applied to himself.

But fortunately Stuart came up, shook hands with Ran and then presented
Palma, who was warmly welcomed by her cousin.

“And now, Wolfscliff, will ye be afther inthrodoocing Misther Hay to
meself?” demanded Ran’s father-in-law.

“Pardon, I thought you had,” said Stuart.

“Divil a bit could I do that same to his intilligince,” replied the
other.

“Then I will have that honor,” laughed Stuart.

And assuming the courtly dignity of a lord chamberlain at a royal
reception, he bowed to the descendant of Irish kings, and with a wave of
his hand, to indicate the inferior person, said:

“The O’Melaghlin, of Arghalee, I have the honor to present to you, sir,
Mr. Randolph Hay, of Haymore.”

Ran bowed very solemnly, conscious now that he stood in the presence of
an “eccentric.”

“And, sure, meself fales honored in the relationship—I mane the
acquaintanceship,” graciously replied The O’Melaghlin, feeling, however,
that he had almost betrayed himself.

“Will you take seats in the carriage now? My servants are here with the
break and a van to bring your people and luggage,” said Ran.

Cleve bowed and handed Palma to a back seat, and The O’Melaghlin to a
place beside her. Then he took a front seat, where Ran joined him, and
the barouche started for Haymore Hall.

The drive through the beautiful country, now in the glory of early
summer, charmed both Cleve and Palma.

“It is a boundless Garden of Eden!” exclaimed the latter.

But beauty and glory in nature was quite lost on The O’Melaghlin, who
employed the time in descanting to his son-in-law upon the ancient
royalty and grandeur of the O’Melaghlins until the carriage turned into
the park gate, where Longman stood to welcome them.

“There, that was a foine sivin-footer—that retainer of yours, Haymore.
Jist such min me ancestor, Roderick O’Melaghlin, last monarch of Meath,
had for his bodyguard, armed with spears and battle-axes, iviry man of
them,” said the chieftain, as the carriage rolled up the avenue toward
the house.

When it drew up in front of the Hall, there stood Mike and Judy, the
beautiful young pair, as much alike in their dark loveliness as twin
brother and sister could possibly be. Both in evening dress; Mike in the
conventional black swallowtail and patent leathers, with a sprig of
shamrock in his buttonhole in honor of the visitor. Judy in a dark blue
satin dress, trained, and with low body and short sleeves, showing the
plump neck and round arms, which were now dimly veiled with fine lace
and adorned with the Haymore diamonds in honor of the guests.

Behind them stood an array of servants.

“There is your son and daughter, O’Melaghlin,” whispered Palma in the
ear of the chief, as he sat beside her.

He looked out and saw the beautiful pair, with their lovely faces
lighted up now with the joy of expectancy.

“What! thim? You don’t mane thim!” he exclaimed, gazing at them.

“Yes, I do. They are Mike and Judy.”

“Och! let me at thim—the angels!—the beauties! They are both the imidge
of their mother, me sainted Moira! Let me at thim!”

And with a bound The O’Melaghlin was out of the barouche and tearing up
the stairs to the presence of his astonished children.

Forgotten were all his plans of secrecy and covert observation. The
father’s pride and joy in the Irishman’s warm heart overbore all
resolutions, and he fell upon his son and daughter with ravenous
delight.

“And so ye are me own childer—me Mike and me Judy! And the jewels that
ye are!” he exclaimed.

But it was Judy he clasped to his breast and covered with kisses.

“Oh, Mike! Mike! save me!” exclaimed the frightened and distressed
daughter.

“Will ye be afther kapin’ yer hands to yerself?” exclaimed Mike, who
thought the stranger was a maniac, and tried to separate him from the
terrified victim. But Mike was no match for The O’Melaghlin.

“Aisy! aisy!” exclaimed the chieftain. “It’s jealous ye are of me
affection for the sister av ye! But your turn will come nixt, me bhoy!”

Fortunately Ran, to whom Cleve had hastily communicated the now open
secret, came hurrying up the stairs, leaving Stuart and Palma for the
moment in the barouche.

“Stop! stop! Mike, my lad! The gentleman is your father. Yes, dear Judy,
your father. Do not be afraid of him,” he exclaimed, coming to the
rescue with the explanation.

“Yis, darlint Judy, it’s the fayther av ye that’s pressin’ ye to this
throbbin’ heart av him! It’s the fayther av ye, me foine Mike, that will
make ye the lawful heir av the oldest name and richest estate in ould
Ireland! Yis, I meant to have kept that same a secret till I had watched
the natures av ye both for a wake or two, but me affections were too
much for me.”

While he spoke he was kissing Judy, patting Mike on the shoulder or
embracing them both and holding them together to his breast.

At last, quite overcome by his emotion, he sank down upon the top step
and covered his face with his hands to hide the tears that might have
seemed a reproach to the descendant of the warlike monarchs of Meath.

Mike and Judy raised him up with tender care and led him into the hall
and thence into the drawing-room, while the old butler, without waiting
orders, went and brought a tray with a decanter of brandy and a glass.

The O’Melaghlin saw the elixir of life and revived at the sight.

Meanwhile Ran returned to the barouche to conduct Stuart and Palma to
the house.

“He made me and my wife swear by all the saints in Christendom that we
would not betray his secret until he himself should give us leave, and
lo! he has blurted it out himself,” laughed Stuart.

“Yes. He seems a very eccentric person, this unexpected father-in-law of
mine. Yet I like what I have seen of him,” replied Ran.

“You will like him better. The longer you know him the more you will
esteem him. And if you will consider the eccentricities of his fate and
fortune, you will understand and forgive the eccentricities of his
character,” replied Cleve.

And then they followed their host into the house and into the
drawing-room, where they found The O’Melaghlin seated on a sofa between
his son and daughter, with his left arm around Judy’s waist, and in his
right hand a wineglass of brandy which he sipped at intervals, while
Mike held the decanter ready to replenish the glass when necessary.

But as soon as Ran came in with the Stuarts The O’Melaghlin gave the
glass to Judy to hold and went to meet them.

He seized the hand of Ran, and shaking it again cruelly and almost to
dislocation, exclaimed:

“Me son-in-law! Me brave, good, thrue bhoy! I have not yet greeted ye,
nor wilcomed ye as me son-in-law! But now I will do it, with the highest
praise mortal man could give ye. I will say: Haymore, sir, ye are worthy
to be the husband of me daughter Judy and the daughter of a thousand
kings.”

“I thank you, sir. I am sure that is the highest praise you could give
me. I hope it is true,” gallantly replied Ran.

Servants were at hand to show the guests to their apartments.

Mike did the honors to his father, and accompanied him to the apartments
prepared for him.

Judy attended Palma to the beautiful suit of rooms that had been fitted
up for Mr. and Mrs. Stuart and their children.

There Judy for the first time made acquaintance with Palma’s lovely
children, whom she found already on the nursery cot, asleep and attended
by the faithful Hatty.

“Why, when did these beauties come? Why have I not seen them before?”
demanded Judy.

“They came in the second carriage with Hatty and Josias. I would trust
them with those two as confidently as with myself and their father,”
replied Palma.

“And I was so taken by surprise at the sudden meeting with my father
that I forgot even to inquire after the darlings! I beg your little
pardons!” said Judy, kneeling by the side of the children’s cot and
kissing their sleeping faces.

At dinner the newly arrived visitors met the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell,
who had been invited to meet them. Jennie—the Countess Dowager of
Engelmeed—being in deep mourning for her husband, did not go out or
receive visitors.

A week of idleness on the part of all the family followed at Haymore
Hall.

After that questions of importance were taken up.

It was decided that The O’Melaghlin, with Mr. and Mrs. Hay and Mr. and
Mrs. Stuart and Mike, should set out on an excursion to Arghalee Castle
and find lodging at Arghalee Arms, and from that vantage point
investigate the ancient ruins and see what could be done toward the
successful restoration of the castle, also open negotiations with the
duke’s legal steward if possible to repurchase all the land that had
once constituted the Arghalee estate.

All this was happily effected in the course of a few months—for The
O’Melaghlin stopped at nothing in his eager desire to restore the
ancient magnificence and splendor of his house; and so he paid twice the
worth of the land to get it back, and fabulous sums to the antiquaries
and architects to restore the castle and the chapel in all their
pristine strength and glory.

The Stuarts remained at Haymore until the last of the summer and then
bade affectionate adieus to the Hays and returned to Virginia.

This was the first of many visits, which the Hays often returned.

That autumn Mike was entered as Michael O’Melaghlin, master of Arghalee,
in one of the best preparatory colleges in Glasgow.

That winter, when “Burke’s Landed Gentry” appeared, under the name of
Hay it contained this item:

  Hay, Randolph, born January 1, 185—, succeeded his father March 1,
  187—, married December 2, 187—, Judith, only daughter of Michael, The
  O’Melaghlin, Chief of Arghalee, Antrim.

And the anxious soul of Will Walling, when he received a copy of the
book with the marked passage, was entirely satisfied.

And New Year’s Day brought Ran and Judy a New Year’s gift, in the form
of a son and heir, which filled the hearts of the parents with bliss.


                                THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                  BURT’S SERIES _of_ STANDARD FICTION.


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  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 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.


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.


TICONDEROGA: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By G.
P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with 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 frontier of New York State, where dwelt an
  English gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the loss
  of his wife, with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the
  exigencies of war, comes an English officer, who is readily recognised
  as that Lord Howe who met his death at Ticonderoga. As a most natural
  sequence, even amid the hostile demonstrations of both French and
  Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl find time to make most
  deliciously sweet love, and the son of the recluse has already lost
  his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden whose
  warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized
  life.

  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. The tribal laws and folk lore of
  the different tribes of Indians known as the “Five Nations,” with
  which the story is interspersed, shows that the author gave no small
  amount of study to the work in question, and nowhere else is it shown
  more plainly than by the skilful manner in which he has interwoven
  with his plot the “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.”


ROB OF THE BOWL: A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P.
Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the noted
  statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his native
  State, and while some critics are inclined to consider “Horse Shoe
  Robinson” as the best of his works, it is certain that “Rob of the
  Bowl” stands at the head of the list as a literary production and 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.

  As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, “Rob of
  the Bowl” has no equal, and the book, having been written by one who
  had exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning the
  individual members of the settlements in and about St. Mary’s, is a
  most valuable addition to the history of the State.

  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.


BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine.

  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.


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.

  The story opens in the month of April, 1775, with the provincial
  troops hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. 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. You lay the book aside with the feeling
  that you have seen a gloriously true picture of the Revolution. 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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. P. 235, “Here am” inserted for illegible characters. 7 characters
      because capital H and lower m are each nearly 2 characters wide.
      Barely visible in original edition and reprint—defective typeface
      in original.
 2. P. 302, changed “in Sahara” to “in the Sahara”.
 3. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 4. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.