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diff --git a/75317-0.txt b/75317-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..53d37ac --- /dev/null +++ b/75317-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11106 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75317 *** + + + + + + _WHEN SHADOWS DIE_ + A Sequel to “Love’s Bitterest Cup” + + _By_ + MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH + + AUTHOR OF + + “Nearest and Dearest,” “The Lost Lady of Lone,” “A Leap in the Dark,” “A + Beautiful Fiend,” “Her Mother’s Secret,” Etc. + +[Illustration: [Logo]] + + A. L. BURT COMPANY + PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + + + + + WHEN SHADOWS DIE + + + + + CHAPTER I + MEETING AND PARTING + + +The Earl of Enderby and his sister, Mrs. Force, acting under the +directions of the earl’s doctor, now set out for Germany, and in due +time reached Baden-Baden. Their apartments, which had been secured by +telegram, were ready for them. + +They had one night’s rest from the journey, and were waiting for their +breakfast to be served in their private parlor, when they were surprised +by the entrance of Mr. Force and all his party. + +The family had been separated scarcely three months, yet to see them +meet a spectator might think they had been parted for three years. + +They soon paired off. + +Mr. Force and his wife sat down together on a corner sofa and began to +exchange confidences. + +Leonidas and Odalite stood together at the window of the room, looking +out upon the busy scene on the street, or rather seeming to do so, for +they were really talking earnestly together on the subject of their +troubled present and uncertain future. + +They had not been separated for one day during their travels; but they +were to say good-by to each other very soon. + + + “It might be for years, and it might be forever.” + + +And so they seized every opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_. + +Wynnette and Elva hovered around their mother, in their delight at +seeing her again. + +The invalid earl sat for a while alone and forgotten, until little +Rosemary Hedge, who was also overlooked in the family reunion, drew a +hassock to the side of his easy chair, sat down and laid her little, +curly black head on his knee. The action was full of pathos and +confiding tenderness. The earl laid his hand on the little head and ran +his thin, white fingers through the black curls. But neither spoke, or +needed to speak—so well the man and the child understood each other. + +“Leonidas, my boy!” called Abel Force from his corner, “I wish you would +go and see if we can get rooms for us all here. This should have been +seen to sooner.” + +“You need not stir, young sir,” said the earl; and turning to his +brother-in-law, he added: “Your apartments are secured, Force. As soon +as I received your telegram saying that you would join me here, I sent +off a dispatch to secure them for you. I hardly need to remind you that +you are all my guests while we are together. But you traveled by the +night express. You must have done so to reach this place so early in the +day; so you will want to go to your rooms. After you have refreshed +yourselves, join me here at breakfast.” + +Le arose at the earl’s request, and pulled at the bell knob with a vigor +lent by his impatience at being called from the side of his beloved, and +which soon brought a servant to the room. + +“Show these ladies and gentlemen to the apartments prepared for them,” +said the earl. + +The man, with many bows, preceded the party from the room and conducted +them to a large family suit of rooms on the third floor, overlooking the +New Promenade. + +The travelers remained some weeks at Baden-Baden. The baths were doing +the earl much good. Mr. Force also needed their healing powers. +Somewhere on his travels with the young people, not having his wife to +look after him, he had contracted rheumatism; he could not exactly tell +when or where or how, whether from exposure or rain and mist on the +mountains, or from fishing on the lakes, or from sleeping in damp +sheets, and drinking the sour wine of the country, or from all these +causes put together, he could not say, so gradually and insidiously had +the malady crept upon him, taking its chronic and least curable form. He +had not mentioned one word of this in any of his letters, nor had he +spoken of it on his arrival. + +“Indeed,” as he afterward explained, “never having had any experience to +guide me, I did not recognize the malady at first, but merely took the +feeling of heaviness in all my frame for over-fatigue, and even when +that heaviness, being increased, became a general aching, I still +thought it to be the effect of excessive fatigue. I was slow to learn +and slower to confess that I had the special malady of age—rheumatism. +However, I thank Heaven it is not acute. It has never laid me up for a +day,” he added, laughing at his misfortune. + +Indeed, his troubles seldom kept him from making up parties for +excursions to the various objects of interest in the town and its +environs. + +Only when the days were both cold and wet, as is sometimes, not often, +the case in early autumn there, did Abel Force allow his young folks to +go forth alone under the care of their mother and the escort of +Leonidas, while he stayed within doors and played chess with the invalid +earl. + +In this way the brothers-in-law became better acquainted and more +attached. + +“I wish you were an Englishman, Force,” said the earl one day, when he +had just checkmated Abel and was resting on his laurels. + +“Why?” + +“Not because I do not admire and respect your nationality, but simply +for one reason.” + +“What is that?” + +“I will tell you. You know, of course, that your wife is my heiress, and +if she survives me, will be my successor. Now, if you were an Englishman +you might get the reversion of your wife’s title.” + +“I do not want it. I would not ask for it, nor even accept it.” + +“That is your republican pride. Perhaps you are right. The old earldom +has fallen to the distaff at length, and it will be likely to stay there +for some generations to come; for Elfrida, who will be a countess in her +own right, has only daughters, which is a pity. And yet I don’t know—I +don’t know. If those fellows at Exeter Hall, and elsewhere, get their +way, in another century from this there will not be an emperor or a +king, to say nothing of a little earl, to be found above ground on the +surface of this fourth planet of the solar system commonly called the +earth, and their bones will be as great a curiosity as those of the +behemoth or the megatherium. Shall we have another game?” + +And they played another, and yet another, game, in perfect silence, +interrupted only by the monosyllable ejaculations of technicalities +connected with their play. + +The earl arose the winner; he often—not always—did. And so he was in +high spirits to welcome the return of the excursionists to dinner. + +Another sad day of separation was drawing near. Le was to leave them on +the eleventh of October, giving himself twenty days in which to travel +from Baden-Baden, in Germany, to Washington, in the United States. + +This was according to his uncle’s advice. + +“You might stay here until the fifteenth, or even until the seventeenth, +and then reach Washington by the thirty-first; but it would, under the +most favorable circumstances, be so close a shave as to be perilous to +risk. An officer, nay, a man, may risk anything else in the world, Le, +but he must not risk his honor. You must report for duty at headquarters +punctually on the first of November, at any cost of pain to yourself or +to others.” + +“I know it, uncle—I know it, and I will do my duty. Never doubt me.” + +“I never do, my boy. And listen, Le. If you are prompt, as you are sure +to be, you may be able to obtain orders for the Mediterranean, and then, +Le, we shall see you again on this side. We will go to any port where +your ship may be.” + +“Thank you, uncle. I shall try for orders to the Mediterranean. And I +think I shall get them. You see, I have been to the west coast of +Africa, and I have been to the Pacific Coast, and I really think I may +be favored now with orders to the Mediterranean. However, an officer +must do his duty and obey, wherever he may be sent—if it were to +Behring’s Straits!” concluded Le, with a dreary attempt at laughter. + +When the day of parting drew very near, and the depressed spirits of the +lovers were evident to all who observed them, Mr. Force suddenly +proposed that he and his Odalite should accompany Le to the steamer and +see him off. + +This proposition was received by the two young people with grateful joy, +as a short but most welcome reprieve from speedy death, or—what seemed +the same thing to them—speedy separation. It gave them two or three more +days of precious life, or its equivalent—each other’s society. + +They cheered up under it and looked more hopefully to the future. And in +a few weeks more, they decided, they should be sure to see Le again at +some of the ports of the Mediterranean. + +When the day of parting came, Mr. Force, Leonidas and Odalite took leave +of the earl and the ladies of their party and left Baden-Baden for +Ostend. + +There were not so many steamship lines or such facilities for rapid +transit as in these days. + +Our three travelers went by rail to Ostend, thence by steamer to London, +where they rested for one night, and thence by rail to Liverpool, which +they reached just twelve hours before the sailing of the _Africa_ for +New York. + +Mr. Force and Odalite took leave of Le on the deck of the steamer, and +left it only among the very last that crossed the gang plank to the +steam tender a moment before the farewell gun was fired and the _Africa_ +steamed out to sea. + +A crowd of people stood on the deck of the steamer, waving last +farewells to another crowd on the deck of the tender, who waved back in +response, and gazed until all distinct forms faded away in the distance. + +Among those on the tender who stood and gazed and waved the longest were +Mr. Force and Odalite, who saw, or thought they saw, Le’s figure long +after everybody else had given up the attempt to distinguish their own +departing friends in a mingled and fading view. + + + + + CHAPTER II + STARTLING NEWS + + +When the tender reached the dock Mr. Force touched his daughter’s arm, +and whispered: + +“We can get a train back to London, and catch the night steamer to +Ostend, and be with your mother by to-morrow evening. Shall we do so, or +shall we go down to Chester and take a little tour through the Welsh +mountains?” + +“Oh, no; papa, dear. We will go home to mamma, if you please,” said +Odalite, who, amid all her grief, noticed the pale and worn look on the +patient face that told of his silent suffering. + +“Very well, my dear. I only thought it would divert you,” he replied. + +They drove from the docks to the Adelphi, where Mr. Force paid their +hotel bill, took up the little luggage, and, with his daughter, drove on +to the railway station, and caught the express train to London, a tidal +train that connected with the Ostend night boat. + +They reached Ostend the next day, and before night arrived at +Baden-Baden, where they were received with gladness by their family, who +did all that was possible to cheer the spirits of Odalite and raise her +hopes for the future. + +They all remained in Germany until the first of November, and then set +out to spend the winter on the banks of the Mediterranean. + +Their first halting place was Genoa, where they waited letters from Le. + +The letters arrived at length, bringing good news. Le was assigned to +the man-of-war _Eagle_, bound for the Mediterranean! Bound direct for +Genoa! + +Then, in perfect content, they settled down for the winter. + +The earl’s health was certainly improving in the mild air of sunny +Italy, and his spirits were rallying in the society of his relatives, so +he also decided to remain in Genoa. + +Before the end of November the _Eagle_ was in port, and Midshipman Force +hastened to see his friends at their house on the Strada Balbi. + +He had been absent only seven weeks, yet they received him with as much +joy as though they had not seen him for seven years. + +As long as his ship lay at anchor in the harbor his friends remained in +the Strada Balbi. And whenever he could get a day or a half day off he +came to them. + +When the _Eagle_ sailed for Nice the family left Genoa for the same +city, and took up their quarters at the Hotel de la Paix, and the same +pleasant intercourse was resumed. + +And so the winter passed. And Mr. Force was beginning to contemplate the +possibility of having his daughter freed from a merely nominal and most +unfortunate marriage. To do this it would be necessary, according to his +ideas of honor, that they should return to the state and the parish +where the marriage ceremony had been nearly performed, but was finally +interrupted. + +But there was no hurry, he thought. Le was on the Mediterranean, and his +duty would keep him there for two or three years longer. + +There was another source of occasional uneasiness—the political +condition of the United States. Ever since the presidential election, in +November, dissatisfaction had spread in certain sections of the country, +and trouble seemed to be brewing. + +All this, coming through the newspapers to the knowledge of the +absentees, gave them disturbance, but really not much, so thoroughly +confident were they all in the safety of the Union, and the grand +destiny of the republic. + +The clouds on the political horizon would vanish, and all would be well. +No harm could come to the country, which was the Lord’s City of Refuge +for the oppressed of all the world. + +They had heard not a word from or of Angus Anglesea since the Washington +detective had traced him to Canada, and there lost him. + +Le privately and most earnestly hoped that the villain had got himself +sent to some State prison for life, or, well, hanged—which the +midshipman thought would have been even better. At least, however, the +family he had wronged so deeply seemed now to be well rid of him. But Le +expressed a strong wish that his uncle would return to Maryland in the +spring and have Odalite entirely freed by the law from the bond, or +rather, the shadow of the bond, that lay so heavily on her life, and on +his. + +“No doubt I could easily have Odalite set free from her nominal marriage +with a villain, who was forced to leave her at the altar before the +benediction had been given. But to do this, Le, I should have to take +her home to Maryland, where you could not follow her for two or three +years. So, what good could come of hurry? Besides, we are no longer +molested by the villain Anglesea. Be thankful for that blessing, Le, and +for the rest be patient.” + +“‘Patient!’” exclaimed the youth. “You have so often told me to be +patient, and I have so long been patient, that I am unutterably +impatient of the very word ‘patient’!” + +“I beg your pardon, Le. I will not persecute you with the word any +longer,” gravely replied the elder man. + +“Uncle, I beg your pardon! I do, indeed. I feel myself to be an +ungrateful and most unreasonable wretch! Here you have made my burden as +light as you can by showing me all sorts of favors and giving me all +sorts of privileges, moving about from place to place to give me +opportunity of being with you all, and here am I like a beast losing my +temper with you. Uncle! I don’t deserve that you should pardon me!” + +“Say no more, Le! Dear boy, I can understand your trials; but look on +the brighter side, my lad. The best of the business now is that Anglesea +does not trouble us. He seems to have died out of our lives.” + +“Yes, but has he, uncle? He did that once before for three years, and +even advertised himself as dead and buried. But he suddenly came to life +again, and sprang into our midst like a very demon, to do us all the +harm that he possibly could. How do we know when he will reappear to +disturb us? Uncle! I do not mean to threaten, because I do not wish to +sin; but I foresee that, if Anglesea ever comes in my way again, the +sight of the man will goad me to crime.” + +“Oh, no, Le! No, my dear boy! Do not talk so! If ever you should be +tempted, pray to the Lord. And think of Odalite. To bring yourself to +evil would break her heart, Le!” + +“I will pray that I may never set eyes on that man again, uncle!” + +Soon after this conversation, near the last of February, the family went +to Rome to witness the grand grotesque pageantry of the carnival. Le +could not leave his ship to go with them, and so they only remained +during the week of orgies, and as soon as it was over returned to +Naples, where the _Eagle_ was then at anchor. Here they settled +themselves in furnished lodgings, on the Strada di Toledo, for the +spring months. + +It was early in May. + +They were all—with the exception of Le, who was on duty on his +ship—assembled in a handsome front room overlooking the Strada. + +The earl, whose health was so much improved that his friends hoped for +its full restoration, sat in his easy chair beside a little stand, +playing a game of chess with Wynnette, who had developed into a champion +chess player, and was much harder to beat than ever her father had been. + +Mr. Force, who, suffering from a return of his malady, lay on a sofa, +pale and patient, but in too much pain to read or to talk. Odalite sat +near him, silently working on the silk flower embroidery she had learned +to like from her mother’s example. + +Elva and Rosemary, at a round table, were turning over a set of “views” +left by Le on his previous visit. + +Mrs. Force was opening a newspaper received that morning, and smoothing +it out, preparatory to reading it aloud to her family. + +Suddenly she dropped the paper, covered her face with her hands, and +fell back in her chair, wailing forth the words: + +“Oh, my Lord! my Lord! This is the very hardest thing to bear of all +that went before!” + + + + + CHAPTER III + THE NEWS + + Who that endured them ever shall forget + The emotions of that spirit-trying time, + When breathless in the mart the couriers met, + Early and late, at evening and at prime, + When the loud cannon or the merry chime + Hail’d news on news, as field was lost or won; + When hope, long doubtful, soared at length sublime, + And weary eyes awoke as day begun + Saw peace’s broad banner rise to meet the rising sun. + —SCOTT. + + +The first gun of our Civil War was fired, and its report was heard +throughout the civilized world! + +“Oh, Abel! Oh, Abel!” moaned Mrs. Force, still pale with emotion. + +“What is it, my dear? Calm yourself! All that you hold nearest and +dearest are in this room with you. What trouble can come upon you?” +inquired her husband, rising from his couch of pain and limping toward +her. + +She lifted the newspaper from the floor and handed it to him. + +Lord Enderby looked from one to the other in perplexity. He did not like +to ask a question—he waited to hear. + +Odalite, Wynnette and Elva also waited in anxious suspense for their +father to explain. + +Not so Rosemary. Her agony of anxiety burst forth at length in a cry: + +“Oh, Mr. Force! is my mother dead, or what?” + +“No one is dead, my child. And no special evil has come to you,” said +Abel Force. Then speaking to his expectant friends, he said: “There is a +civil war at home.” + +His explanation was like a bombshell dropped in their midst. All shrank +away aghast and in silence. + +Before any one recovered speech the door was thrown open, and Le burst +in the room in great excitement. + +“You have heard the news!” he cried; and that was his only greeting. + +“Yes, we have heard the news,” gravely replied Mr. Force. + +“I have come to bid you good-by. The mail that brought the news brought +dispatches from the navy department ordering our ship home. We sail with +the next tide; that will be in an hour. Good-by! good-by!” he said, +beside himself with mingled emotions, as he hurried from one to another, +taking each in his arms for a last embrace. + +“But, Le—this is awfully sudden!” exclaimed Mr. Force, as he wrung the +young midshipman’s hand. + +“Yes! yes! awfully sudden! Odalite! Oh, Odalite!” he cried, turning to +his eldest cousin and once betrothed last of all, as if he had reserved +his very last embrace and kiss for his best beloved—“oh, my Odalite! May +God love, and bless, and guard you. Good-by! Good-by! my dearest dear!” + +And Le pressed her to his heart, and turned and dashed out of the room. + +“But, Le! But, Le! Wait! Can we not go to the ship and see you off?” +cried Wynnette, hurrying after him, and overtaking him at the street +door. + +“No! no! Impossible, my dear! A boat is waiting to take me to the ship! +I have barely time to reach her deck before she sails! There would be no +time for last adieus there! God bless you! Take care of Odalite!” + +The street door banged behind Le, and he was gone. + +Wynnette had flown downstairs, but she crawled up again, dragging weary +steps, “woe befreighted,” behind her. + +She entered the room, and sat down in silent sympathy beside Odalite, +who lay back in her chair, too stunned by the shock of all that had +happened to weep or to moan, or even to realize the situation. + +Mrs. Force went and sat on the other side of her stricken daughter, took +her hand, and said: + +“My dear, nothing but prayer can help you now. You must pray, Odalite.” + +The girl pressed her mother’s hand, but made no reply. + +Mr. Force and Lord Enderby were in close conversation on the political +conflict out of which the war had arisen. + +Elva and Rosemary were standing together in the oriel window overlooking +the street, too much startled by the suddenness of events to feel like +talking. + +“Let us hope that this trouble will soon be over,” said the earl. + +“What! be put down like one of your corn riots, by the simple reading of +the ‘act’?” inquired Abel Force, grimly. “No, Enderby! I know my +countrymen, North and South. And the civilized world will see a war that +has never been paralleled in the history of nations.” + +And his words proved prophetic. + +After this day every mail from America was looked for in the keenest +anxiety; and every mail brought the most startling and exciting news. +Every schoolboy and schoolgirl is now familiar with the leading events +of the war, and they need not be rehearsed here. + +Among news of more general interest came some of a private nature to the +Forces. + +Among the rest, letters from Mrs. Anglesea, who wrote: + + + “You had better pack right up and come right home. ‘The devil is to + pay, and no pitch hot!’ The people have riz up ag’in’ one another like + mad. Ned Grandiere has gone into the Confederate Army. Sam sticks at + home. He says war is bad for the crops, and somebody must plow and + sow. + + “William Elk has gone into the Union Army. + + “Thanks be to goodness, Old Beever and Old Barnes and Old Copp are all + past sixty, and too old to fight, or they’d turn fools with the rest; + but, as it is, they’re ’bliged to stay home and ’tend to their + business, and take care of Mondreer and Greenbushes. + + “But they do say, hereabouts, as old Capt. Grandiere—and he over + seventy years old—has turned pirate, or privateer, or something of the + sort, and is making war on all Uncle Sam’s ships; but I can’t believe + it for one. And young Roland Bayard is with him—first mate—and is as + deep in the mud as the captain is in the mire, and is tarred with the + same brush—which I mean to say as they are both a pirating on the high + seas, or a privateering, or whatever their deviltry is, together. So + they say hereabouts. + + “Anyway, the ship is overdue for months, and neither ship, officers + nor crew has been heard of with any sort of certain sureness. + + “And what I said in the beginning, old ‘oman, I say in the end—as you + and the ole man had better pack right up and come right home. + + “But still, if it would ill convenience you at the present time to do + so, you needn’t come, nor likewise fret about your home. To be sure, + the devil is let loose all over the country, but he hasn’t entered + into Mondreer or Greenbushes yet. Me and the three old men, Copp, and + Beever, and Barnes, and the old niggers, take the very best of care of + everything. You bet your pile on that. So do just as you think + proper.” + + +This letter filled the Forces with dismay, as it told them that their +old friends and neighbors had risen, so to speak, in arms against each +other. + +But the most disturbing part of the news was that which referred to old +Capt. Grandiere and his mate, young Roland Bayard. + +Mr. Force, from his boyhood up to middle age, and Mrs. Force, from her +first arrival in Maryland to the present time, had known the old mariner +intimately and respected him highly. They knew him, even in his +seventieth year, to be strong, vigorous, fiery and energetic. But with +all their knowledge of him they could not know, in his absence, how he +would regard the Civil War, or which side he would take, if any, in the +struggle. + +They had known young Roland Bayard from his infancy, and known him to be +pure, true, brave and heroic as his namesake, but they could not judge, +without him, which side he would take in the conflict. Nor could they +reconcile it with their knowledge of these men that they should run up +the black flag, and wage a war after a manner little better, if any +better, than piracy. + +But of one course they were clear; namely, that they must keep this +baleful report as to Capt. Grandiere and Mate Bayard from the hearing of +little Rosemary Hedge. The child must not be made miserable by a mere +rumor which might have no foundation in fact. + +Mrs. Force was even more affected than her husband by the doubt that +hung over the fate of the _Kitty_. + +She answered her housekeeper’s letter, disclaiming all belief in the +story that Capt. Grandiere and Mate Bayard had turned the _Kitty_ and +her crew into pirates. + +And for the rest, told her that they—the Force family—should not return +home for some months to come, even if then. + +Later on there came a letter from Miss Susanna Grandiere respecting her +niece. + +Miss Grandiere wrote in rather a stilted style, after the manner of her +old-fashioned romances. She wrote: + + + “All through the beautiful summer, all through the glorious autumn, + all through the desolate winter of the past twelve months we have been + anticipating the exquisite happiness of beholding you again in the + blooming spring, when nature rises from the grave, and arrays herself + in fresh and radiant apparel. + + “But, alas! evil days have fallen upon us. War stalks abroad over our + beloved country, spreading ruin, misery and desolation. Brother rises + up against brother, and father against son. Friends and neighbors + whose hearts and minds were once united in the closest and holiest + bonds of friendship and affection, are now severed and estranged in + mutual hatred and malignity. + + “In this spread of affliction and calamity a rumor reaches us to the + effect that the condition of your husband’s constitution will detain + you in foreign countries for a considerable time to come. + + “If this report be truthful, and you should contemplate a further + sojourn in the Eastern hemisphere, I must implore you still to retain + my beloved niece under your protection until you can procure some + responsible escort to convey her across the ocean to the home of her + childhood. + + “I should not venture to take the liberty of preferring this request + did I not accord the most perfect credence to your protestations of + attachment to our beloved child, and of enjoyment in her society, and + of the invaluable benefit she herself derives from foreign travel.” + + +This, and much more to the same purpose and in the same style, wrote +Miss Grandiere. + +Mrs. Force showed this letter to Rosemary, and then had a talk with her, +and found that the child was quite willing to do whatever her friends +should think best. + +Then Mrs. Force answered the letter, condoling with Miss Grandiere on +the state of the country, but also expressing the pleasure she and all +her family would feel in keeping little Rosemary with them as long as +the child might be permitted to stay. + +Still later on letters were received from Le. His ship was at +Charleston, forming one of the blockading fleet. + +Late in the summer of that year the Forces went again to the hot baths +of Baden-Baden for the benefit of the husband and father’s health, which +was giving the whole family much concern. + + + + + CHAPTER IV + ROSEMARY IS STARTLED + + +Strange to say, that while Abel Force seemed in danger of becoming a +confirmed invalid, the condition of his delicate brother-in-law improved +every day. + +He no longer required the arm of his valet to lean on, or even the help +of a cane to walk with. + +One day his sister said to him: + +“Francis, I do believe that you have been more of a hypochondriac than +of a real invalid, after all.” + +“Elf,” he answered, “I am inclined to suspect that you are right. +Certainly most of my ailments, real or imaginary, have vanished under +the influence of change, motion and society.” + +As the earl continued to improve in health and strength, his sister +watched him with a new interest. + +On another day she said to him: + +“Francis, why don’t you marry?” + +Lord Enderby started, and then he laughed. + +“What has put that into your head?” he inquired. + +“My anxious interest in your future—now that you have a future, +brother.” + +“Would you, who are my heir presumptive, wish me to marry?” + +“Indeed, I would! You would be so much better and happier! Think of it, +Francis!” + +“My dearest, I am both too old and too young to fall in love!” laughed +the earl. + +“What rubbish! ‘Too old and too young!’ What do you mean by such +absurdity?” + +“I have passed my first youth of sentiment, and I have not yet reached +my second childhood of senility! Therefore, I am both too old and too +young to fall in love.” + +“Nonsense! That is not true; and, even if it were, you are neither too +young nor too old to marry. It is not necessary that you should ‘fall in +love.’ You might meet some lady, however, whom you could love, and +esteem, and marry.” + +“Where should I be likely to find such a lady? My dear, I have never +gone into society at all. Since my return from India I have led a +secluded life, on account of my health.” + +“On account of your hypochondria, you mean! Now, Francis, you must +change all that. In the beginning of the next London season you must +open your house on Westbourne Terrace, and entertain company.” + +“Will you do the honors, Elfrida?” + +“Of course I will,” replied the lady. + +“And you can bring out your two daughters, and present them at court.” + +“Yes, I might do that.” + +“Very well.” + +Had the earl felt disposed to look about him for a wife, he might have +found a suitable one in Baden-Baden. + +There were many of the English nobility and gentry staying there for the +benefit of the baths. Many very attractive young ladies of rank were in +the matrimonial market. But, to tell the truth, the invalid earl, either +from real ill health or from hypochondria, was very shy of strangers, +and better liked to stroll, or ride, or drive with “the children,” as he +called his nieces and their young friend, than to linger in the parlors +of the hotel or the pavilions of the place. + +In their rambles Odalite seldom joined them. She preferred to stay with +her suffering father, and share the labors of her mother in the sick +room. The earl and the three younger girls usually set out together. + +Wynnette and Elva walking on before; the earl, with little Rosemary’s +hand clasped in his own, followed behind. + +Ever since that day, now more than a year ago, when the reunited members +of the Force family met at Baden-Baden, and paired off—Mr. and Mrs. +Force on one sofa, Odalite and Le on another, and Wynnette and Elva on +the window seat, leaving the earl, as it were, “out in the cold,” and +quite forgotten, and little Rosemary, also temporarily forgotten, had +drawn a hassock to the side of his easy chair and sat down and laid her +little curly black head on his knee, in silent sympathy—ever since that +day the earl and the child had been fast friends. In her tender little +heart she pitied him for his weakness and illness, just as she might +have pitied any poor man in any rank of life, and she had fallen into a +habit of silent sympathy with him, and of drawing her hassock to the +side of his chair, when they were all indoors, and of taking his hand +when they were out walking. Even now, when the invalid had recovered +health, strength and spirits, these habits of the child, once formed, +were not easily to be broken. She no longer pitied him, because she saw +that he was no longer an object of pity; but she drew her hassock to his +side indoors, and took his hand and walked with him outside. She seemed +to think that he belonged to her, or she to him, or they to each other. + +One day they were sauntering slowly through the grounds of the +Conversation-Haus. Wynnette and Elva were flitting on before them. + +Rosemary’s hand was—not on the earl’s arm—but in his hand. He was so +very much taller than the girl that he led her like a child. + +There had been a pause in their talk, when the earl gently closed his +fingers over hers, and said: + +“My little one, I love you very much.” + +“Oh, I hope you do, and it is so kind of you!” warmly answered the +child, returning the pressure of his hand and acting toward him as she +would have acted toward her uncle. + +“Then, you do care for me a little?” he said. + +“Oh, yes, indeed, I care for you a great deal. I am very fond of you,” +said Rosemary, warmly, squeezing his fingers. + +“How old are you, Rosemary?” he gravely inquired. + +“I shall soon be seventeen.” + +“Indeed!” he exclaimed, turning and looking down on her. + +“Yes, indeed!” she answered, positively. + +“Well, you are such a quaint, little old lady, that I am not surprised, +after all. You might have been fifteen, or you might have been twenty. +But seventeen! That is a sweet age—the age at which the Princess Royal +of England was married!” + +“Indeed!” exclaimed Rosemary, in her turn. + +“Yes, indeed!” he replied, with a smile. + +And then there was silence between the two for a few minutes. + +The earl was meditating. The child was uneasy, and wondering why she was +so. + +“Little friend,” he said, at last, “you and I seem very good friends.” + +“Oh, we are! And it is so very good of you to be friends with me!” she +answered, warmly, squeezing his fingers in her small hand. + +“And we are really fond of each other.” + +“Oh, very, very fond of one another, and it is so kind of you!” + +“But why should you say it is kind of me, little sweet herb?” + +“Oh, why, because you are so old and so grand; and I am so little every +way!” she said, with another squeeze of his fingers. + +The earl winced; but whether at her words or her action, who could say? + +“Am I so old, so very old, then, Rosemary?” he gravely inquired. + +“Oh, no, no; I did not mean that! Of course, I didn’t mean that you are +as old as Mr. Force, who is forty-five; but I meant—I meant—I meant—you +are so very much grown up, to be so kind as to walk and talk with a girl +like me as much as you do.” + +“Well, my dear, do you not like to have me walk and talk with you?” + +“Oh, yes! indeed, indeed I do! Oh, you know I do!” she answered, +fervently. + +Again the earl was silent for a few moments, and then, drawing her small +hand into the bend of his arm, he asked: + +“Rosemary, would you like that you and I should walk and talk together +every day for the rest of our lives?” + +She turned and looked up into his face, as if she wished to read his +meaning. + +He smiled into her upraised eyes. + +“Are you in earnest?” she inquired. + +“Perfectly, Rosemary. Do you think I would jest with you on such a +subject?” + +“No! but I thought you knew me so well that you would know without +asking that I would love dearly to walk and talk with you every day all +our lives long, if we could! But how could we? Some of these days I +shall go back to Maryland, and then we shall part and never meet again! +Oh! I hate to think that we shall never meet again. You do seem so near +to me! So very near to me! As if you were my own, my very own! Oh, sir! +I beg your pardon! that was very presumptuous! I ought to have said—I +ought to have said——” She stopped and reddened. + +“What, my child? You have said nothing wrong or untrue. What do you +think you ought to have said?” the earl inquired, in a caressing tone. + +“I think I should have said, that I feel so near to you—that I feel as +if I were your own, your very own! It was too, too arrogant in me to say +that I feel as you belonged to me. I should have said, as if I belonged +to you,” she explained. And then she laughed a little, as in ridicule of +her own little ridiculous self. + +His hand tightened on hers as he replied: + +“Suppose we compromise the question and say that we belong to each +other?” + +“Yes, that is it! And you are so good.” + +“And you really wish that we two should walk and talk together every day +for the rest of our lives?” + +“Oh, yes; if it could be so!” + +“Rosemary,” he said, very gravely, as he still held and pressed her +hand, “there is but one way in which it could be so.” + +He paused, and she looked up. + +How long he paused before he could venture to startle the child by his +next words: + +“By marriage. Rosemary, dear, will you marry me?” + +She turned pale, but did not withdraw her astonished eyes from his face. + +“What do you say, little friend?” inquired the suitor. + +“Oh, oh, oh!” was what she said. + +“Does that mean yes or no, Rosemary?” + +She did not answer. + +“You do not like me well enough to marry me, then, Rosemary?” + +“Oh, yes, I do! Indeed, indeed I do; I would marry you in a minute, +but—but—but——” + +“But—what?” + +“I am engaged!” + + + + + CHAPTER V + THE EARL IS STARTLED + + +He held her off to get a better view of her face. Then he stared at her. + +“You! Engaged?” he cried. + +She nodded two or three times in reply. + +“Such a mite as you! Why, how long have you been engaged, pray?” + +“I—don’t quite know. Ever since I can remember.” + +“Oh! a family arrangement between your parents and your betrothed +husband’s, I suppose?” + +“Oh, no; not at all! Only between him and me.” + +“At that early age! Do babies betroth themselves in America?” + +“I don’t quite know; but we did! And we were not both babies. He was a +schoolboy, but I think I was a baby at first.” + +“At first, very likely! Well, when are you to be married?” + +“I don’t quite know. But not until Roland gets his rights and comes into +his estates.” + +“Ah! there is litigation? But who is this happy man Roland?” + +“He is a mate on a merchantman at present. But when he gets his rights, +I am sure he will be a nobleman of high rank, and maybe a prince of +royal race.” + +“Oh!” said the earl, with a curious smile. Then, growing suddenly very +grave, he inquired: + +“My dear child, do your parents know anything about your relations with +this—adventurer?” + +“He is not an adventurer,” said Rosemary. + +“But when he, a skipper’s mate, represents himself to be a man of rank, +kept out of his rights——” + +“But he don’t represent himself to be any other than what he seems!” + +“Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear! I thought you said he did.” + +“No; oh, no! I said that I feel sure that when he gets his rights, he +will be a nobleman or a prince!” + +“Ah! but why should you think so, my dear!” + +“Oh! no one could look at Roland Bayard and not know him to be one of +princely rank!” exclaimed Rosemary, with such solemn fervor that the +earl turned and gazed at her. + +“And is this the only reason you have for thinking the young man of +gentle blood?” + +“No! not only his looks, but his voice, speech, tone, manner, +gesture—all proclaim him of noble blood!” + +As Rosemary spoke, she suddenly turned and looked intently at the earl, +and then she added: + +“Yes! It is true! It is not imagination! I have thought of it often, +though I never spoke of it before!” + +“Of what, my dear?” + +“Of Roland Bayard’s likeness to you!” + +“To me, my dear?” + +“Yes, to you! But for the difference in age and in health, he is as much +like you as one man can be to another!” + +“Indeed!” + +“Yes, indeed!” + +“An imaginary or an accidental likeness, my child. But, Rosemary, to +return to yourself. Do your parents, or guardians, know anything of your +relations with this questionable stranger?” + +“He is not a questionable stranger. He was brought up among us at home. +Did I not tell you he used to ride me on his shoulder when he was a boy +and I was a baby?” + +“Then, if he is not a stranger, you must know all about him, and whether +he is of high or low degree.” + +“We do know all about him, but nothing at all about his family. He was +saved from a ship that was wrecked on our coast, and he was the only one +saved, and there was not a mark on him or his clothing to identify him. +Mr. Force undertook to provide for him, and placed him with Miss Sybilla +Margaretta Bayard, who was herself descended from a great English duke, +though no one would ever think so to look at her! Mr. Force also sent +Roland to school and afterward to college, and he would have sent him to +the Naval Academy, at Annapolis, only he had already used all his +influence to get Leonidas entered there, and he could not ask the same +favor for Roland. So Roland, being bent upon going to sea, entered the +merchant service.” + +“Ah! I see. But, my child, it seems to me that you have not yet answered +the question that I have twice put to you: Do your parents, or +guardians, know of the engagement between you and this young man?” + +“I have only one parent—my mother. My father was lost at sea, before I +was born, and left no property and no will, because his ship went down, +with everything on board. My mother has some property, and so has Aunt +Sukey, and they take care of me,” said Rosemary; and that was all she +said at the time. + +The earl looked at her curiously. + +Was the child purposely evading his question? + +No; the grave little face was too true for that thought. + +“Does your mother or your aunt know of your relations with +young—young——” + +“Roland Bayard?” + +“Yes.” + +“Why, I think every one in our neighborhood must know all about it! +Because we all know all about our neighbors, and some say that they know +more of us than we do of ourselves, and that we know more of them than +they do of themselves.” + +“I think that quite likely. But, do your friends approve of your +engagement?” + +“Not now; but they will when Roland comes into his rights.” + +“You poor child!” murmured the earl, in a low tone. Then, speaking in a +clearer voice, he asked: + +“Rosemary, would you marry this young man without the approbation of +your friends?” + +“No, never,” she answered, solemnly. + +“That is right. Now, then, if your friends were to counsel you to accept +another suitor whom they approved, would you do so?” + +“No, never,” replied the child, more emphatically than before. + +“Then what would you do?” + +“I would be an old maid, like Aunt Sukey. I never would marry Roland +Bayard against the will of my mother and my aunt; nor would I ever marry +any one else, even to please them. I would be a maiden lady, like Miss +Susannah Grandiere.” + +“Little true heart! Well, little friend, I will not try, through your +guardians, to marry you against your will. Neither, I think, will I +marry any one else. And in any case, we shall always be friends, shall +we not, little sweet herb?” + +“Always! And it is so good of you to say so!” exclaimed Rosemary, giving +his hand another fond squeeze. + +They sauntered on in silence until they overtook Wynnette and Elva, who +had sat down on a garden seat to wait for them. + +“It is time to go home to luncheon,” said Wynnette, “and I am starved.” + +They turned their steps toward their hotel and reached it in time to +join Mr. and Mrs. Force and Odalite at luncheon at their usual hour. + +That afternoon, while Mr. Force was taking his daily nap and the young +girls were resting in their chambers, the earl found himself alone with +his sister in their private parlor. + +“Elfrida,” he said, “I want you to tell me something about this little +protégé of yours.” + +“Rosemary Hedge?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, she is the daughter of the late Capt. Hedge, of the merchant +service, and of his wife, Dorothy Grandiere, the daughter of the late +Gideon Grandiere, of St. Mary’s. Her family is one of the oldest and +best in the State. And her friends have intrusted her to us for the +benefit of travel. That is all there is about Rosemary Hedge.” + +“No, not quite all. The little one tells me that she is engaged to be +married.” + +“Who? Rosemary?” + +“Yes.” + +“Engaged to be married!” + +“Yes.” + +“This is news to me! I never even suspected such a thing. Nor do I know +how she has ever had an opportunity of being wooed, far less won!” +exclaimed the lady, in surprise. + +“And yet the child honestly thinks that you know all about it,” replied +the earl. + +“I know nothing. And I am really distressed at the news you tell me. +Have I been so absorbed in the care of my sick husband as to have +neglected the interests of the orphan child? What adventurer has picked +her up, in the name of Heaven? Tell me, Francis, if you know.” + +“Do you know anything of a young fellow called Roland Bayard?” +significantly inquired the earl, fixing his eyes intently on the face of +his sister. + +That face paled under his wistful gaze; but the lady recovered herself +in a few moments, and replied: + +“Yes; he is a young man who in infancy was cast upon our shores from a +wrecked ship. He was cared for by Mr. Force, who placed him in the +charge of a respectable woman and afterward sent him to school and to +college.” + +“Does any one know anything about his parentage?” + +“He was the sole survivor of the wreck. There was not a mark on his +clothing or on his person to give a clew to his parentage. But, as Mr. +Force has practically adopted him, he will not need to investigate his +own antecedents. He is in the merchant service now.” + +“Yes, I have heard so much from Rosemary. But now as to his character?” + +“He is above reproach. A not unworthy namesake of two heroes—Roland and +Bayard. But why do you inquire into the history of this young person?” + +“Because it is to him that Rosemary is engaged, or thinks herself +engaged.” + +“Oh,” laughed the lady, “that is an old story.” + +“It cannot be an old story, since the child is but seventeen.” + +“It is relatively an old story. When he was a schoolboy he was much +favored by his friends the Grandieres, who lived at Oldfield, near +Forest Rest, where his foster-mother, Miss Bayard, lived, and where +Roland was reared. Rosemary was a baby. He used to pet her very much and +tell her that she was his sweetheart, and his little wife, and all such +childish nonsense as that. And I think they kept it up until Rosemary +was sent to boarding school with our girls. Since that time—some five +years ago now—I think there has been no more of it. I thought it was all +forgotten long ago.” + +“But it is not, you see. The child thinks that she is engaged to him.” + +“I wonder if she is attached to him,” said the lady, thoughtfully. + +“I do not quite know. Perhaps, as she believes herself to be engaged, +she may also only believe that she is attached to him. It is a subject +upon which one cannot very closely cross-examine a young girl.” + +“No, you could not; but I must,” replied the lady. + +“Without mentioning my name, if you please, Elfrida,” said the earl, who +also religiously refrained from telling his sister of his proposal to +Rosemary, lest Mrs. Force should try to influence the girl in his favor. +And he did not wish the latter to be worried or coerced in any way. + +“Certainly without mentioning your name. I shall know how to manage with +tact and discretion,” replied the lady. + +“One word more, Elfrida. Would you approve of a marriage between this +Roland Bayard and Rosemary Hedge?” inquired the earl. + +“Yes, I should.” + +“That is all.” + +“But I have not the disposal of the child’s hand, so my own approval +goes for nothing.” + +“It is enough,” said the earl, and he opened the window looking from the +parlor to the balcony and went out there to walk and smoke. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + A STRANGE MEETING + + +The middle of October found the Forces with their party again at Rome, +settled in their old quarters. + +News of the war came by every mail, bringing accounts of battles fought, +and lost or won. + +They were of those few who in the dreadful struggle could not take any +side. They only longed for peace and reconciliation. They passed the +winter in Rome, but in the early spring Mr. and Mrs. Force and their +daughters began to long for their native country even more than for +their particular home. + +There seemed no present prospect of an end to the fratricidal war. The +holocausts of youth, manhood and heroism offered up monthly to the Devil +of Discord did not seem to appease his rapacity. + +Every mail brought news of new battles and of thousands and tens of +thousands slain on either side; the storm of war raging more and more +furiously as the months went on. + +“Elfrida!” said Mr. Force one day, “I cannot stand it any longer! We +must go home, my dear, and be with our country in her need! Not to burn +and slay and rob on one side or the other, but to nurse the wounded and +feed the hungry, and clothe the naked—and give all our time, money and +energy to this needful work. You and your daughters and even your +crippled husband can do this much to abate the pain of the age!” + +He had said words to the same effect before, but never with so much of +sorrowful earnestness as now. + +“Well, we will go, Abel. Yes; it is indeed our duty to do so. Besides, +our Odalite is wasting away with hope deferred! We have not heard from +Le for so many months! He may be dead on some crowded battlefield, or +ill and delirious in some hospital, or in some prison! We might find out +his fate by going home. And then there is poor little Rosemary fretting +out her heart about young Bayard, who has never been heard of since he +sailed with Capt. Grandiere, now nearly three years ago! We might find +out something satisfactory about him. We all need to go home! There is +no one but Wynnette who is not breaking down under this anxiety and +uncertainty! Wynnette thanks Heaven every day that Sam Grandiere chooses +to stay home and mind his crops. As for Elva, she makes every one’s +trouble her own and suffers for and with all. Yes, we all need to go +home.” + +“And our home and our country needs us,” added Mr. Force. + +So it was decided that they should return home as soon as passages for +their whole party could be secured. + +Mrs. Force dreaded to tell her brother of the impending separation. + +The earl had grown so much better in health, spirits and happiness while +traveling in their company, that it would seem like relegating him to +gloom, solitude and despondency to send him back alone to his old life +at Enderby Castle. + +She took the time immediately after breakfast the next morning to break +the news to him. + +“Going! Going back to America!” he exclaimed, in astonishment. + +“Yes. It is our bounden duty. The war is not the temporary disturbance +that you thought it was to be. It is growing more terrible every month. +It may last yet for years. We must go to our home and do the best we can +for everybody,” replied the lady. And then she went over the whole +subject as it had been discussed between herself and her husband. + +“Yes, my dear, it is your duty to go home,” admitted the earl. + +“Still, my dear brother, we are very sorry to leave you. I hope, +however, that you will not go back to Enderby Castle, to your old +solitary life there. It is very bad for you. I hope you will go up to +London, and open your house on Westbourne Terrace, and call your friends +together and entertain them, even though I shall not be there with my +daughters to help you, as I had once hoped to be.” + +“I shall not go to London, Elfrida. I have no friends there, and I hate +society. No; I shall go to the United States with you,” said the earl. + +“You don’t mean it!” exclaimed Mrs. Force, between surprise, pleasure +and incredulity. + +“Yes; I do most certainly mean it. I have never seen America, and though +the state of civil war may not be the most pleasant aspect under which +to view a new country, yet it is certainly the most interesting. And so, +Elfrida, if you have no objection, I shall go with you to America.” + +“You know that I am delighted at the thought of having you,” said the +lady. + +“Has Force written to engage passage?” inquired the earl. + +“He intends to write this morning to inquire about the first ship on +which he can get berths for all our large party to New York.” + +“Then ask him to see about two additional berths for me and my valet.” + +Thus it was arranged that the whole family party, including the earl, +should go to America together. + +In due time the answer from the agent of the Cunard line arrived. They +could all be accommodated on the _Asia_, which would sail on the +twenty-third of March. + +“This is the ninth. We have just two weeks to get ready in. We had best +start for Liverpool as soon as possible and make our final preparations +for the voyage there,” said Mr. Force, after he had read the letter to +his assembled family. + +“And, oh, papa, let somebody go to Enderby Castle to fetch Joshua,” +exclaimed Wynnette. + +“Why, my dear girl, the old dog may be dead,” said the earl. + +“Oh, no, he is not dead! I write to Mrs. Kelsey every week to ask about +dear Joshua, and he is very well. And he is not at all an old dog. He is +only nine years old. I remember him ever since he was a puppy.” + +“Well, it has been over two years since he saw you, and he has forgotten +you by this time.” + +“Oh, no, he hasn’t. We were away from home three years and three months, +and he never forgot us. You ought to have seen how he met us!” + +“Well, my dear, when we get to Liverpool, I will telegraph to one of my +grooms to bring the dog to us.” + +“Dear uncle! how I love you!” + +A week from this time the whole party were settled at the Adelphi Hotel, +in Liverpool, to await the day of their sailing for New York. + +Mr. Force kept his room. The Earl of Enderby spent hours in his own +apartment with his family solicitor and his land steward, both of whom +had been summoned by telegraph to meet him at Liverpool. + +The ladies of the family spent their days in final shopping, providing +themselves, among other conveniences, with thick linsey-woolsey suits +for sea wear, and with heavy Astrakhan wool shawls for wraps. + +In due time the groom from Enderby arrived with Wynnette’s dog in his +charge. Space does not permit to describe the interview between the two. +It is enough to hint that Joshua, in dog language, bitterly reproached +his mistress for breaking faith with him, and deserting him for so long +a time, and then magnanimously forgave her, while Wynnette was all +apologies for the past and protestations for the future. + +On Saturday, the twenty-third of March, the whole party embarked on +board the ocean steamer _Asia_, then at anchor in the Mersey, and bound +to sail for New York at twelve, noon, of that day. + +There was the usual crowd on deck; with the usual partings; friends +departing, and friends who had come to send them off; some grave, some +cheerful, some merry, some despondent. + +At length this was all interrupted by the shout of the first mate from +the poop: + +“All ashore!” + +And the last hurried good-bys were spoken, and the last embraces given, +and the friends of the voyagers hastened over the gang plank to the +steam tender which had brought them to the ship. + +Then the farewell gun was fired, and the _Asia_ stood out to sea—her +passengers standing in lines to gaze on the receding land. + +Mr. Force and his party were walking up and down the deck of the +steamer, when they saw coming from the opposite direction a figure so +remarkable that it would at once have attracted attention anywhere. + +It was the tall, stout figure of an old man, with a fresh, red face, +clear blue eyes, a white mustache, and a commanding presence. He wore +the uniform of an American skipper, with its flat, gold-rimmed cap. + +As he approached Mr. Force stared, and then started and held out his +hand, exclaiming: + +“Capt. Grandiere! You here! Why, where did you drop from, and where is +Roland Bayard?” + +The gruff old sailor stopped to lift his cap to the ladies, and to shake +hands all around, and to be introduced to the Earl of Enderby, and to +shake hands with him, before he replied to Mr. Force’s first question: + +“My ship, the _Kitty_, was taken by that infernal pirate, the _Argente_. +I was set ashore, alone, on the English coast. I had some correspondents +at Liverpool, who supplied me with funds to return home. That is all.” + +“But—where is Roland Bayard?” + +“With the pirates.” + + + + + CHAPTER VII + AN OLD SALT + + +“Among the pirates, Capt. Grandiere? Roland Bayard among the pirates?” +exclaimed Mr. Force, while Mrs. Force closed her lips with a sudden +motion and grew a shade paler. Rosemary began to tremble, and the other +young girls to look anxious. + +“Come aft! Let us find seats somewhere where we will not be spied or +overhauled, and I will tell you all about it,” said the old skipper, +moving down toward the stern, where the deck was almost deserted by the +other passengers, who were all gathered forward, leaning over the +bulwarks and taking a last look at the receding shores of England. + +They found seats on the wooden benches, and sat down. + +The old skipper took off his cap and wiped his large, red face and +close-cropped gray head, and then said: + +“I didn’t expect to see you here. I should as soon have thought of +seeing Oldfield farmhouse standing up before me, right in my path, as a +group of old neighbors, with my little niece in the midst of them. +Heavens and earth—how a civil war shakes people up! I dare say, now, you +all left on account of the war.” + +“No,” said Mr. Force, “we left before the war to visit my brother-in-law +here, and to give our young people some advantage in foreign travel. My +own ill health has detained us abroad for more than two years. We return +now on account of the war.” + +“Good Lord! Abel Force, you are not thinking of going into the army in +your crippled condition!” + +“No, not exactly. But we can all be useful in the hospitals—even my wife +and daughters—in caring for the sick and wounded soldiers, and for the +widows and orphans of the dead, so far as our strength and means will +go.” + +“Ah! that is something else! When did you hear from the folks at home? I +have not heard from them for years.” + +“I got a letter a week ago from your niece, Miss Grandiere. Your nephew, +William Elk, is in Richmond, on Gen. Lee’s staff; your nephew, Thomas +Grandiere, is in New Orleans, with Gen. Butler, and your grandnephew, +Edward Grandiere, is with Farragut, in Mobile Bay. Sam has elected to +stay at home, follow the plow, and take care of the women.” + +“Sam has the only solid head in the family, except my own! Look at that, +now! Brothers and kinsmen shooting each other down, running each other +through the body, blowing each other up, as if they were at war with a +foreign enemy! Oh, Lord! Lord!” groaned the old skipper, flinging down +his cap with force upon the deck, and furiously wiping his perspiring +face. + +“It is grievous enough; but it is human nature, and we cannot change it. +The strangest part of it all is that the men composing the rank and file +of each army have no personal ill will toward their antagonists. Each +fights from a sense of duty. Each invoke the blessing of God upon their +arms. There was a time, Grandiere, in our lives, when peace reigned so +long that we all began to believe that war belonged only to history, and +barbaric history at that, and had passed away forever, as one of the +last relics of barbarism. It was the Mexican War that woke us up from +our dream of the millennium. And, since that, there has been in one part +of the civilized world or another almost incessant and most ruinous war. +So when we call ourselves a Christian, civilized and enlightened +people——” + +“We tell a lot of bragging lies! Out with it, papa, in plain English!” +put in Wynnette, who had held her tongue until it ached. + +“Who is this girl?” inquired the old skipper. + +“My second daughter, Wynnette. Surely, I introduced her to you,” said +the squire. + +“So you did! But there are so many of them, you know! I used to dandle +this one on my knee when she was a baby; but she has grown out of my +knowledge!” said the old skipper. Then turning to Wynnette, he grasped +her hand, and said: + +“Right you are, my dear! We are a lot of braggarts and ignoramuses! So +far from being Christians, civilized and enlightened, we do not even +know what these terms imply. We are heathen, barbarians, and we live in +the twilight. Right you are, my dear, as to your opinions, but wrong in +your way of putting them. Interrupting your father. Discipline should be +maintained, my dear. Remember that!” said the old skipper, not unkindly. + +Before the astonished Wynnette could reply, Rosemary put in her piteous +little plaint, and said: + +“Oh, Uncle Gideon! dear Uncle Gideon! Tell us about—about——” She meant +to say “Roland Bayard,” but she reddened, and substituted: “The +pirates!” + +“Of course! That is what I brought you here for. You have heard about +the pirate Silver, and his ship, the _Argente_?” + +“I have seen notices of depredations made by the _Argente_. It is a +privateer in the Confederate service, is it not?” inquired Mr. Force. + +“Privateer? Yes, and worse! It is a pirate! In the Confederate service? +No; no further than running the blockade, to carry in merchandise to +sell at ruinous prices, would go! The _Argente_ is a privateer, a +blockade runner, a slaver, and a pirate. Just as, a few years ago, we +thought war had passed away from the face of the earth forever, so we +thought that piracy had been swept from the sea. But we were mistaken in +both cases. Our Civil War, the blockading of our Southern ports, the +emancipation, and consequent stampede of the negroes, have brought into +action a fleet of sea robbers who call themselves privateers, and +pretend to be in the service of this or that faction, but who are really +pirates and slavers. They are armed to the teeth and are manned by the +most reckless desperadoes gathered from all nations—mostly jail birds, +convicts, criminals. They take our merchant ships, they steal slaves +from the West Indies, run the blockade and sell them in our Southern +ports; or, with equal impartiality, when opportunity is given, they +decoy slaves from the Southern plantations by the promise of a free +passage to the North, and they carry them to the West Indies, where they +sell them to the planters. The most notorious of these brigands of the +sea is the _Argente_. I have never yet heard of any of them being +taken.” + +The old sailor having talked himself out of breath, stopped, wiped his +forehead, and flung his rolled handkerchief with force upon the deck. + +“But, Uncle Gideon—dear Uncle Gideon—tell us about—about the pirates,” +pleaded Rosemary, pale with sorrow. + +“My pet, I have told you about the pirates,” grunted the skipper. + +“But—but—about—about—the loss of the _Kitty_,” pleaded Rosemary. + +The old skipper snatched up his cap from the deck and flung it down +again with violence. Then he said: + +“Yes! Devil fly away with them! They took the _Kitty_! I can’t talk +about it, girl! The devil takes possession of me every time I think of +it! They took the _Kitty_! That is all that is in it! Maybe some time or +other, when the devil forsakes me, I will tell you all about it, but not +now—not now!” + +“Tell us something at least of Roland Bayard,” said Wynnette. + +“I did tell you! He is among the pirates.” + +“But in what capacity? Is he a prisoner or a volunteer?” persisted the +girl. + +“Oh! oh, Wynnette! Roland Bayard could never be a volunteer among the +pirates. He would suffer himself to be killed first! Yes—to be tortured +to death first! Yes—yes—to be slowly tortured to death first! Oh, +Roland! Roland!” wailed Rosemary, too deeply distressed for her +childhood’s friend to conceal her emotions. + +Capt. Grandiere, touched by the trouble on the quaint little face, +pulled himself together, patted her head, and said: + +“Don’t cry, little girl! Roland is not a volunteer in the pirate crew. I +never believed that for one minute, though Silver, the head devil, told +me so. No, my child, he is a prisoner among the pirates—I am sure of +that.” + +“Oh, then that is some comfort! I would rather they should keep him a +prisoner, or even kill him, than make him wicked! Indeed, I would, Uncle +Gideon. But how comes he to be among the pirates and you here? He a +captive, and you free? Tell me that, Uncle Gideon,” said the little +creature, with a shade of reproach in her troubled tones. + +And while Rosemary waited in suspense for the answer there was another +who listened anxiously to catch its every word. This was Elfrida Force. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + THE LOSS OF THE “KITTY” + + +“I will tell you, my girl, though I hate to talk of it. About a month +ago I sailed from Havana, bound to London, with a cargo of rum, tobacco +and sweetmeats. The weather was fine, and we had a good voyage until we +came within four or five days’ sail of port. A sail had been following +us all day long. We did not know she was following us, nor could we make +out by our best glass what she was. She was the only sail in sight. As +night closed in she gained on us. That was certain. But still we could +not make her out. She did not come near enough for that, for the _Kitty_ +is a pretty fast clipper herself. As night darkened we lost sight of the +strange sail, without any misgivings. But in the gray of the morning she +was alongside of us! Hold on! The devil is getting into me again!” +exclaimed the old sea dog, snatching Mr. Force’s hat from his head and +flinging it with vehemence upon the deck. + +“The fortunes of war, captain—the fortunes of war! Be patient!” said +Abel Force. + +“The fortunes of murder, robbery, arson, piracy! There was no fight!” + +“The will of Providence, then.” + +“The will of the devil! You shan’t lay their murders, and robberies, and +arsons, and piracies upon Providence! That would be blasphemy! There was +no struggle! What could our unarmed little Baltimore clipper do—though +every one was a hero—against a pirate ship of twenty-four guns, manned +by the desperate offscourings of the galleys and the convict prisons, +all armed to the teeth, bristling with pistols, daggers and cutlasses? +Nothing at all! They boarded us, walked into us and through us, and made +prisoners of our men, took possession of our ship, then put the men into +two open boats and sent them adrift, to sink or swim, carried off me and +young Roland captives to their own deck, and finally sent off an officer +and a detail of their devilish pirates to work the _Kitty_—and Satan +only knows where they carried her and her valuable cargo of rum and +tobacco! We parted company then and there. I never saw young Roland +after that. I believe he did make some resistance, and was wounded. I +saw him bleeding and carried below, and I never saw him again.” + +Here the captain made an involuntary dash at the earl’s cap, but his +hand was intercepted by Mr. Force. + +“He’ll scalp us next,” said Wynnette. + +“Umph! Umph! Umph!” grunted the captain. + +“Oh, Uncle Gideon! Oh, Uncle Gideon!” moaned Rosemary, while Mrs. Force +gripped her own hands firmly in silent trouble. + +“Don’t cry, honey! I believe he is safe enough and will turn up all +right. I called them murderers! And, no doubt at all, some of that +criminal crew were murderers, and worse than murderers, if such could +be! But they did no murder in my sight! They might—had they chosen—they +might have massacred all hands aboard the _Kitty_, but they didn’t! They +put the men in open boats and set them afloat to take their chance; and +then—for some reason well known to himself, but quite unknown to +me—Capt. Silver took young Bayard and myself on board the _Argente_. I +said I never saw Roland after he was taken down below, nor did I! But I +did not fail to inquire for him. The head devil told me that the young +man was all right; that his wound was only skin deep; that his men never +killed or wounded men whom they could so easily overpower and capture +without bloodshed; and especially in the case of a fine young seaman who +might become useful to them.” + +“Oh, Uncle Gideon! Then they did only take Roland on board to make a +pirate of him!” + +“Of course they did, my dear; for when I asked to see Roland, Silver +told me, with a satanic laugh, that the young man was ‘in retreat,’ +preparatory to entering his novitiate in the holy orders of bold +buccaneers, roaring sea rovers, and that no outsiders should have access +to him, for fear they might shake his good resolutions and even win him +back to the selfish world.” + +“What a devil!” exclaimed Wynnette. + +“Every day I inquired about Roland, and each day I received answers +which would have made me believe that the boy was gradually being +persuaded to become a pirate—if I had not known that Roland Bayard could +never become so perverted.” + +“No, never, never, never!” firmly declared Rosemary. + +“But while Bayard was kept a close prisoner, I had the run of the deck,” +continued the captain. “One day I asked Silver where he was bound. He +told me, with infernal insolence, that he should touch on the coast of +England, put me on shore, and then go about his own business. Two days +after, we came to anchor on a lonely part of the coast of Cornwall. It +was a dark night, and they put me in a boat and took me ashore and left +me there, with just two sovereigns in my pocketbook. They had robbed me +of thousands, but they left me that much to take me to London. I don’t +know why, I am sure, that it should sometimes occur to a scoundrel to +stop short of the extreme wickedness he might perpetrate! But at all +events, Silver did stop short of the crime of leaving me penniless to +perish at night on a desolate seacoast. I passed the night in a solitary +fisherman’s cottage. In the morning there was not a sign of the +_Argente_ to be seen. She had sailed again. I walked to the nearest +railway station, distant twelve miles, and there I took the +‘Parliamentary’ to London—for I had to economize my small funds. I went +down to the West India Docks, where I was as well known as the church +clock, and saw some of my correspondents, told my story, got all the +money I wanted, and took the express to Liverpool; reached there +yesterday, engaged a berth, and here I am!” + +“Was your ship and cargo insured?” inquired Mr. Force. + +“From keel to masthead,” answered the skipper. “But that was against +fire and water and accidents. Now, I don’t know whether being taken by a +pirate would be considered as coming under the clause of accidents or +not. But, anyway, you know the insurance companies are bound to make a +fuss before they pay a cent. They always do.” + +“Your losses, then, I fear, may be heavy.” + +“Yes, but not ruinous, even if the insurance companies do not pay, +because I have still the _Blue Bird_ that George sails.” + +“Where is Capt. George now?” inquired Mr. Force. + +“In the China seas somewhere if he has not been taken by a privateer. +But where is your nephew, Leonidas?” inquired Capt. Grandiere. + +“We do not know. We have not heard from Le for many months. When we last +heard it was through a letter from him dated on board the United States +ship _Eagle_, then about to sail under sealed orders. We are all, +therefore, naturally very anxious,” replied Mr. Force. + +“Ay! ay! These are anxious times for us all. But, at any rate, the +man-of-war is safe from the pirates, who prey only on unarmed +merchantmen. Hope the sealed orders were to go after the privateers—that +is, pirates.” + +The conversation was interrupted by the sound of the dinner gong, and +passengers began to troop down from the deck to the dining saloon. +Seasickness had not yet come on to take away their appetites. + +The earl, who had been a silent, though interested, listener to the +story of the old skipper, and who had his own private opinion of young +Roland Bayard’s position in the pirate ship, arose and drew the arm of +Rosemary within his own, to take her down to dinner. + +Old Capt. Grandiere offered his to Mrs. Force. Mr. Force took his eldest +daughter, and Wynnette made a manly bow and took Elva under her +protection. + +And so they went down to their first dinner on the _Asia_, and their +last for several days, for a more stormy passage than that of the _Asia_ +which sailed on that March morning was never weathered by ocean steamer. + +After dinner the old skipper went on deck to smoke his pipe alone. + +The Forces went down into the ladies’ cabin, to look at their +staterooms, arrange their effects, and get comfortably settled in their +quarters before seasickness should overtake and disable them. + +Our party occupied three staterooms in a row, on the right-hand side of +the cabin as you entered it from the forward gangway. + +Nearest the gangway was the stateroom of Mr. and Mrs. Force; next to +that the one of Odalite and Elva; and last of the three was that of +Rosemary and Wynnette. + +All the three rooms were exactly alike, and each had a door opening into +the cabin, and opposite the door a little window looking out on the sea +and sky. On the left hand as you entered there was a wide berth at the +bottom and a narrow one at the top. On the right hand was the wide sofa. +Under the lower berth and under the sofa were deep drawers to hold the +sea wardrobe and other effects of the passengers. In the angle between +the side of the window and the end of the sofa was a stationary +washstand, with all needful accessories. In the angle between the other +end of the sofa and the door leading into the cabin was a stationary +lamp, locked up in a heavy plate glass box, and carefully lighted and +locked up every night, and unlocked and extinguished every morning, by +the stateroom steward. The little door of this glass box or closet was +in the general cabin, so that the lamp could be attended without +intrusion into the stateroom. For the rest, all the fittings of the +staterooms were “cabinet finished”; the floor was covered with a thick +crimson Brussels carpet; the berths and the windows curtained by crimson +satin damask, and the sofa covered with crimson moreen. Under the +stationary lamp was a corner bracket of black walnut, with three shelves +to hold books, or anything else that could be contained on the limited +space. + +Below the Forces’ quarters was a long row of staterooms exactly like +their own, and on the opposite side of the cabin a corresponding row, +all occupied by ladies and families who were total strangers to the +Forces, and perhaps, in many cases, to each other also. + +The ladies’ cabin was fitted up very much as most well-appointed steamer +cabins are, with handsome carpet, sofas, easy chairs, mirrors, water +coolers, and so forth. Down the middle stood a long oval table, at which +you could sit and read, or write, or sew, or talk with companions. This +table was lighted at night by three large chandeliers hanging from the +ceiling. + +The Forces were well pleased with their quarters. And as for the girls, +they were always running in and out of each other’s rooms, comparing and +admiring. + +Only Mrs. Force was anxious about the comfort of her invalid brother. +His stateroom was in the gentlemen’s cabin. She would hear when they +should meet at tea whether he were well accommodated. + +They had scarcely completed their arrangements when the gong sounded to +call the passengers to tea. + +They went up to the saloon, where they were joined by the earl and the +old skipper. Their party of eight just filled one table, which they +thenceforth kept for themselves. + +The old skipper was installed at the head of the table and the squire at +the foot. Mrs. Force and the earl sat on the right and left of the +skipper. This arrangement of the four elders was maintained for the +whole of the voyage, but the four young people sat as they pleased. + +This table had two waiters, and they were well attended. + +In answer to Mrs. Force’s questions the earl gave her a good account of +his stateroom, adding it was near that of the captain. + +After this the whole party went up on deck for a promenade. The setting +sun was striking a broad path of glorious light across from the western +horizon to the bows of the ship. + +“It seems the course of our voyage,” said Odalite. “We are sailing +toward the setting sun, and just now in its path of flame.” + +There were many more people on the forward deck; but after the sun had +dropped below the horizon the wind gradually freshened and it grew very +cold. + +Then Mr. Force proposed that they should leave the deck. + +They all went down to the saloon and gathered around one of the vacant +tables, where the captain entertained them with sea yarns, and even sang +a sea song. + +There were many other groups of passengers gathered at the other tables, +but they were still strangers to our party, when the old skipper began +to sing his song with its roaring refrain of: + + “Oh! what a row! what a rumpus! and a rioting! + They all endure, you may be sure, + Who—go—to—sea!” + +Conversation stopped at all the tables, and all the people turned to +listen. + +Presently several joined in the chorus and made the saloon ring again +with melody. + +At the close of the song the singer was loudly applauded; but he excused +himself from repeating the experiment. + +At ten o’clock supper was served for those who wished it; but as our +party were not among that number they left the saloon and retired to +their berths, where they were all soon rocked asleep by the motion of +the ship. + +And so ended their first day out. + + + + + CHAPTER IX + “THE SEA KING’S DAUGHTER” + + +The next day the passengers all arose early to go on deck; but most of +them had to lie down again before they had finished dressing; and to +remain in their staterooms, where they were attended by the stewardess. + +The ship was approaching Queenstown. + +All our party, however, came upon deck. Some of them were sick enough, +but they all thought that the fine air of the upper deck was better for +them than the close air of the staterooms, or even of the cabin. + +The weather-beaten and weather-proof old skipper and his grandniece, +little Rosemary Hedge, were the only ones who remained perfectly well, +with a keen appetite for breakfast and a wholesome enjoyment of the +sharp March morning. + +“How is it with you, my girl?” inquired the skipper, when they all met +in the bows and exchanged their morning greetings and compared notes +about endured or threatened sickness. “How is it with you? You look as +fresh and as bright as a brand new sixpence, and you are as steady on +your pins as if you had been to sea all your life!” + +“She has been to sea longer than that!” put in Wynnette, the +incorrigible. “She is only seventeen years old, but she has been to sea +about two hundred years to my certain knowledge! And how many thousand +years before that I don’t know! And if she has not exactly followed the +sea, in her own person, she has in that of her ancestry, on both sides +of the house. Her father was a sailor, her two grandfathers were +sailors, and her four great-grandfathers. And from them she has +inherited her good sea legs.” + +“No—doubt—of—it. No—doubt—of—it,” slowly and approvingly replied the old +skipper, as he gazed admiringly on his little niece. “Ah! if she had +only been a boy, what a sailor I could have made of her!” + +They were drawing very near to Queenstown now, and in less than half an +hour the _Asia_ dropped anchor in the Cove of Cork. + +As soon as the ship was still the seasick got well and went down to +breakfast. + +After that they returned to the deck, to look out upon the coast of +Ireland. + +As the _Asia_ was to wait there for some hours to get the last mail, +many of the passengers went on shore. Our party remained on the steamer. + +In the afternoon the excursionists returned. The ship made preparations +for sailing. + +Our party sitting on deck, and all feeling perfectly well now that the +ship was still, overheard some “grew-some” words from one of the men. + +“That bank of clouds in the west means mischief and dirty weather +ahead.” + +“Do you hear that, Jack Tar?” inquired the old skipper of his little +niece. + +“Yes, Uncle Gideon,” she answered, lifting her large, blue eyes to his +face. + +“And do you know what ‘dirty weather ahead’ means?” + +“Yes, Uncle Gideon.” + +“Well, what does it mean?” + +“Why, it means furious storms to come.” + +“Did you ever hear the phrase before?” + +“No, Uncle Gideon.” + +“Then how do you know what it means?” + +“I don’t know; but the meaning seems plain enough.” + +“Oh! then I must tell you how you know. By instinct. By inheritance. +Just as the blind kitten knows a dog the instant it scents his approach. +I should think you would know not only what dirty weather means, but +also the signs of its coming.” + +“Even I, who am neither a sailor nor the son of a sailor, can tell the +signs of its presence,” said Wynnette. “They are a ship deluged with +rain and dilapidated by wind, slopped all over by waves, and holding +several hundred human wretches, all deadly sick at their stomachs. If +that is not dirty weather, I don’t know the meaning of words.” + +“And that is just such weather, Miss Wynnette, as we shall be likely to +have, more or less, for the next ten days, or longer. And the officers +and men know it and are preparing for it. But never you mind, little +Jack Tar. We shall not go down. And as for the rest, you can stand the +storm. You’re a natural born sailor!” + +As the old skipper spoke the signal gun was fired, and the _Asia_ +steamed out of the cove. + +The sun had now set behind a heavy bank of clouds. The wind had risen +with more force than on the preceding evening, and blew so freshly that +all the passengers, with the exception of a few weather-beaten men and +well-seasoned voyagers, went below. + +All our party, with the exception of the old skipper and his little +niece Rosemary, not only went down, but turned in to be looked after by +the hard-worked stewardess, or not unfrequently by one of the stewards. + +“You don’t want to go below to the stifling cabins, do you, now, little +Jack Tar?” inquired Capt. Grandiere of his small companion. + +“No, Uncle Gideon, I do not, indeed. I should much rather stay up here +with you as long as I may,” replied the child. + +“Thought so! And so you may. Ah! if Heaven had given me such a boy!” + +“But, Uncle Gideon, although I can walk the deck when the ship is +rolling, without falling or turning sick, I know I should not make a +good sailor boy,” said Rosemary. + +“Why not, pray? I say you would make a splendid sailor boy! Why, every +one of the passengers has gone down and turned in as sick as dogs, and +here you are as well as I am!” + +“But I couldn’t be a sailor boy, because——” + +“Because what?” + +“Because I should be afraid to climb the ropes and things so high. I +should be afraid of falling on the deck and killing myself, or falling +into the sea and getting drowned,” pleaded Rosemary. + +“Now, don’t go to tell me that you have inherited your sailor +forefathers’ sea heads and sea legs without their stout hearts! Don’t go +to tell me that!” said the skipper, taking his pipe from his mouth and +staring down at his little companion. + +The quaint little creature looked so ashamed of herself that the old man +took pity on her, and said: + +“Ah, well! you are nothing but a bit of a girl, after all, and the very +tiniest mite of a girl, for seventeen years of age, that I ever saw in +my life! Well, you shan’t be a sailor and work on board ship! You shall +be a dainty little lady in your own house: + + “‘With servants to attend you + When you go up or down.’ + +“Come, now! tell you old uncle a secret: Isn’t my lord sweet on you?” + +And the old sailor took his pipe from his mouth and poked the stem of it +into her side. + +“‘Sweet on me?’” echoed Rosemary, in perplexity. + +“In love with you, then. Every girl knows what that means as soon as she +knows her right hand from her left, or sooner. Tell me the truth, +now—isn’t the earl in love with you?” + +“Oh, no!” exclaimed Rosemary, in all sincerity; for although she knew +that Lord Enderby had proposed to marry her, it never occurred to her to +think of his being “in love” with her, or anybody else, because she +considered him so much too old for her—old enough to be her father, as +in truth he was. + +“Well, then I don’t know the weather signs in that latitude! That’s all. +His eyes are never off you, child. If he has not told you he loves you, +he will do so soon. You must then refer him to me. I am the head of the +family, and in the lack of your father, must stand in his shoes. You are +very young to marry, Rosemary—only just seventeen. And I should accept +his lordship’s offer only with the understanding that he should wait for +you a year; but then I should accept him, my girl; for it is not often +that an English earl offers marriage to the daughter of a merchant +captain, even though she is a little beauty and does come of a good +family. And Enderby is a good sort. That is better than being an earl. +He is a good sort.” + +Here the old man put his pipe in his mouth and smoked on in silence for +some minutes, during which Rosemary sat by his side in dumb distress. + +At last the skipper took out his pipe, blew off a cloud of smoke that +went floating over the sea, and then he said: + +“So you understand, my dear, that I, the head of your family, entirely +approve the suit of Lord Enderby.” + +Rosemary was ready to cry. + +“But, Uncle Gideon, I don’t want to marry the earl! I like him so very +much! I love him—I love him dearly! He is the best man I ever saw in my +life! And I do love him dearly, dearly; but I couldn’t marry him, and I +wouldn’t marry him for the whole wide world!” exclaimed Rosemary, with +her little face and frame all quivering with her earnestness. + +“Well—upon—my—word!” muttered the old skipper, laying down his pipe for +good and all, and staring at his little niece, but to no purpose, for +they were sitting in deep shadow now, and he could not see her face. + +“You love the earl dearly, and would not marry him for the world! That +is crazy talk. What do you mean by it?” + +“Why, one does not want to marry people because one loves people. I love +you and Uncle Force, and Cousin Le, and Sam and Ned, and ever so many +more; but I would not marry any of you for all the world, even if I +could. And I love Lord Enderby more than I do all the others, but I +would not marry him. I would die first!” + +“Then, I know what is the matter. The secret is out! You love some one +else even better than you do the earl! Is not that so? I am the head of +the family, Rosemary, and I have a right to know.” + +“Uncle,” whispered the little creature, in a tremulous voice, as she +clasped her tiny hands over her heart, speaking frankly under the +friendly cover of the darkness—“uncle, I am not free to marry the earl, +even if I wished to do so, which, indeed, I do not. I am engaged to +Roland Bayard!” + +“Good Lord bless my soul alive!” exclaimed the old man. “Since when, if +you please?” + +“Oh, I don’t know, Uncle Gideon; but I have been engaged to Roland for +years and years and years.” + +“Bless my soul and body!” + +“It is a sacred bond, and I wouldn’t break it even if I could.” + +“Ah! the love that grew from childhood—was that it, Rosemary?” + +“Yes, dear Uncle Gideon.” + +“Well, he’s a good sort, too—is Bayard.” + +As the old skipper spoke, one of the stewards came on deck with a +message from Mrs. Force. + +“Would Capt. Grandiere be so good as to send Miss Hedge down to the +ladies’ cabin, as it was too late and too cold for her to remain on +deck?” + +“I will take you down myself,” said the old man. + +And he escorted the girl to the door of her stateroom, and bade her +good-night. + +Rosemary was soon asleep in the upper berth of the room she shared with +Wynnette. + +But the old skipper spent hours on deck before he turned in. + + + + + CHAPTER X + THE PRIVATEER “ARGENTE” + + +What a night! + +The wind rose to a hurricane! It had a thousand voices! It hummed, sang, +whistled and hurrahed, as it danced in the rigging. It moaned, wailed, +howled and shrieked, as it knocked the ship about. The steamer rocked, +tossed and tumbled in the stormy sea; now rising high upon a heaving +wave, now dropping into the gulch of the sea. + +Passengers could not sleep that night. It was as much as they could do +to hold on and keep their places in bed. Those on the upper berths were +in danger of serious falls. + +Rosemary, who shared Wynnette’s stateroom, and slept in the upper berth, +let herself down by a series of difficult but successful gymnastics, and +lay upon the sofa, trembling. Presently she crept to the door, opened it +a little way, and peeped into the cabin. The place was quiet, the doors +of the other staterooms all closed, and no one present but the local +night watchman, sitting composedly by the single light. + +She closed the door, crept back to the sofa and lay down again. +Presently she said: + +“Wynnette! how can you sleep through this?” + +“Sleep!” cried Wynnette. “Who’s asleep? Not I! Who could sleep through +such a demoniac opera as this? Rosemary! the Germans swear ‘Ten thousand +devils!’—in their own language—and I think the whole ten thousand German +devils must be holding an open-air concert, after the manner of their +musical countrymen, and that right around our ship! Only, they are all +roaring drunk, and every one singing and playing and piping and blowing +out of tune! I never heard such a hullabaloo in my life!” + +“Oh, Wynnette, do you think there is any danger?” + +“No, I don’t. If there was, the passengers would all be out of their +berths and dressed, to be ready for the lifeboats. And there would be a +great running and racing, and pulling and hauling, and cursing and +swearing on deck; and the officers would all be—blaming the men’s eyes, +and livers, and lights, to—encourage them, you know. And making a +hullabaloo to be heard above the hurricane. And much more horrible than +the hurricane, too. No; there can be no danger yet.” + +“But would all that profanity go on in a beautiful ocean steamer?” +inquired Rosemary. + +“A good deal of it would on occasion. You may bet your best boots on +that.” + +“Oh, I wish it was morning!” sighed Rosemary. + +“So do I. But ‘if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ you know.” + +Morning came at length, however, and as the sun arose the wind went +down, but not entirely, for it still blew and often started up in gusts. + +None of our party appeared at the breakfast table, or even afterward on +deck, except the old skipper and Rosemary. + +The day passed wearily. + +At intervals Capt. Grandiere visited the earl in his stateroom, and +Rosemary her friends in their own. Both visitors found the sick ones +cross and sulky, and so indisposed to be friendly and social that they +were speedily left to themselves. + +People are no more responsible for their behavior when they are seasick +than if they were lunatics. + +At night all hands turned in early. And the wind rose and blew a +hurricane all night. + +And as the day had passed, so the week passed. + +Sunday came. As the weather continued to be tempestuous, the passengers +remained seasick. + +No one came up on deck except the old skipper and his grandniece. The +old man was dressed in his Sunday clothes, and carried a Bible, a prayer +book and a hymn book in his hand. He drew his little companion away to a +comparatively sheltered part of the deck, and they sat down to read the +service for the day—the old man reading the minister’s part from the +book and the young girl making the responses from memory. Then he read +the lessons for the day; and finally they sang a hymn. + +At dinner time they went to the saloon, but found it almost deserted. + +The ensuing week proved quite as tempestuous as the one just passed. + +They were, in fact, suffering from a series of equinoctial storms. + +When the ship reached the Banks of Newfoundland they experienced some +variety of weather in the shape of blinding snow and stinging sleet, +added to howling winds and leaping waves. + +None but the officers and crew of the steamer and our old skipper +ventured on deck. + +Even Rosemary stayed below. It is hard enough to keep one’s feet on a +rolling deck when it is dry, or on an icy surface when it is still; but +to stand or walk on the sleety boards of a rocking ship is well-nigh +impossible to any one but a seasoned old salt. + +So Rosemary, as well as her companions, kept the cabin or the saloon. + +To as many as were able to appear on the common ground of the +last-mentioned place the old man made himself very useful and agreeable +in helping them to pass away the long days, and especially the long +evenings. He told stories, sang songs, and recited poetry—miles of +poetry, which he said he had committed to memory in the lone watches of +his half century of sea life. + +All this time the steamer was not “flying,” not even “running,” but, as +it were, only tumbling against wind and weather toward the port of New +York. + +But it happened on one fine morning, when the winds and the waves fell +and the sun shone brightly and warmly, and seasick passengers got well +and came out on deck like hibernating animals in the spring—they spied a +pilot boat—Number 15—coming toward them. + +There was a general jubilee! They were not yet in sight of land, but +they could not be far from port, for the pilot boat was coming! + +Half an hour later the pilot boat was alongside and the pilot on deck, +with a batch of the latest New York and Washington papers, and with +news—such news! + +A crowd gathered around him at once. + +His papers were taken right and left, and all the men turned eagerly to +the first columns of the first page of his own particular sheet to read: + +“Latest Dispatches from the Seat of War.” + +Before every man’s face fluttered the open newspapers like spread sails, +while they devoured the news! + +But the pilot’s oral news, which was so very fresh that it had not had +time to get into the morning papers, was more interesting to our +immediate party than all the rest. + +Mr. Force, who was deep in news from the peninsula, caught the words: + +“Lieut. Com. Force.” + +And he looked up. + +The pilot was hastily and excitedly recounting some adventure to a group +of men gathered around him to listen. Among these was the old skipper +Grandiere, who seemed eagerly interested. + +The pilot spoke hurriedly, for he had presently to take command of the +ship to carry her into port. + +Mr. Force dropped his paper and joined the group. + +“What is it?” he inquired of Gideon Grandiere. + +But the old man was too intent upon the words of the pilot to hear any +others. + +“What is it?” inquired Mr. Force again. + +Then the pilot stopped to answer him. + +“The blockade runner _Argente_, Capt. Silver, sir! Taken off the coast +of South Carolina, by the United States ship _Eagle_, Capt. Warfield. +Silver and his first officer, and all his crew who were not killed in +the fight, taken prisoners and put in irons. The _Eagle_ put a part of +its own crew on board the _Argente_, under command of Lieut. Force, who +brought the prize safely into port this morning, with Silver and his +first officer in irons.” + +“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Capt. Grandiere. “But do you call her a +blockade runner only? She’s an infernal pirate! She took my _Kitty_! And +Silver shall hang for it!” + +“And the _Argente_ is now in New York harbor?” inquired Mr. Force. + +“No, sir. She was telegraphed from the navy department to sail at once +for Washington. And she sailed an hour ago.” + + + + + CHAPTER XI + WHERE IS ROLAND? + + +“Where is Roland? Oh, Mrs. Force, where is Roland? He was on the pirate +ship, you know! Oh, was he wounded in the sea fight? Was he taken +prisoner? Was he killed? Oh, was he killed?” breathed little Rosemary +Hedge, pulling at the lady’s dress and lifting her light blue eyes +beseechingly to the lady’s face. + +“Let us hope that he has been rescued, my dear, and brought home in +honor, since you know he was himself a captive among the pirates,” +replied Elfrida Force, whose face looked quite as pale and anxious as +the distressed little face turned up to hers. + +“But—but—does not the pilot know? Can he not tell us? Will not some one +ask him?” + +“I think he has told all he knows, my dear! Remember the _Argente_ was +only in port a few hours this morning, after the morning papers were +out, and before the afternoon papers were out. The pilot put to sea at +once. He could not have got but an outline of the facts, and perhaps not +even a true outline.” + +“Oh, Uncle Gideon!” pleaded Rosemary, leaving the side of Mrs. Force and +joining the old skipper. “Oh, Uncle Gideon, won’t you please ask the +pilot if he heard of any prisoner among the pirate crew, rescued from +them by the _Eagle_, or if he heard anything at all of Roland Bayard?” + +“Yes, yes, child, I will ask him,” promptly replied Capt. Grandiere, +pushing to the front of the group, and hailing the pilot, who was +elbowing his way through the questioners who would have detained him +longer. + +“Ahoy, shipmate! Not so fast! Answer one question, and then you may go.” + +“Well, what is it?” demanded the pilot. + +“Heard you of any honest prisoner rescued from the pirates?” + +“No.” + +“Heard you of any man of Roland Bayard?” + +“No! never heard that name before! There were but two names talked +of—Nichol Silver, the captain of the blockade runner, and Craven Cloud, +his first officer,” said the pilot, now breaking away and hurrying aft. + +“And they’ll both be hung as high as Haman, or my name is not Grandiere, +and I never commanded the good ship _Kitty_, and she was never taken +from me, with all her cargo, by the piratical craft _Argente_, devil +sink her! Blockade runner, is it? No doubt in the world she was a +blockade runner! But she was so much worse than that that she was a +pirate of the worst order! Attacking and taking unarmed merchantmen, and +committing Lord knows what atrocities besides! Ah! I’m glad—I’m glad I +didn’t stop longer in England! I’m glad I came over, so as to be able to +give evidence that will hang the pirate captain and his mate! I shall +take the first train to Washington, after landing! I must be on hand to +give my evidence as soon as possible, or those devils will be claiming +to be treated as prisoners of war, because they were taken while trying +to run the blockade! Prisoners of war, indeed, after taking my peaceable +_Kitty_, with her cargo, and sending her crew adrift! We’ll see when I +get to Washington! My evidence will hang them as high as Haman!” + +“Don’t you think a fifteen-foot gallows and a five-foot fall would be +quite as effectual, Capt. Grandiere?” inquired Wynnette. + +“What do you know about it?” demanded the skipper. + +“Nothing at all! That is the very reason why I was turning the question +over in my mind and asking for instructions.” + +“Oh, Mr. Force! Oh, Mr. Force! What has become of Roland?” pleaded +Rosemary, in a low, wailing voice as she took the squire’s hand. + +“I wish I could satisfy you, my dear, but I cannot. We may learn +something from the evening papers when we land in New York. If we do not +we shall certainly find out when we reach Washington, where we shall +meet Le.” + +“Oh, how soon shall we go to Washington?” + +“By the first train after we land. Of course, you know, we did expect to +spend a few days in New York, but this news has altered all our plans, +and we shall go on immediately to Washington.” + +“To-morrow? Early to-morrow?” + +“No, to-night! So that we may be in the city to-morrow morning!” + +“Then,” said the quaint little being, “I must bear the suspense as well +as I can and trust in the Lord.” + +“And, in the meantime, remember, my dear, as your uncle said, we have +every reason to hope and expect that Roland is safe on board the +_Argente_. Being already a prisoner on board the blockade runner, he +could not have been in the sea fight, and, therefore, he could have been +neither killed nor wounded. If taken prisoner by the _Eagle_, among the +rest, he must soon have told the story of his capture, and he must have +been recognized by his friend Le, and released and brought home in +honor.” + +“Yes,” said Rosemary, in her grave, demure way, “I think that is very +probable.” + +“And we are going to Washington to find both our lads, Le and Roland.” + +“Oh! Lord grant it!” fervently exclaimed Rosemary, clasping her tiny +hands and lifting her light blue eyes. + +Mr. Force turned to look at his daughter Odalite. + +What a change had come over the pale, grave face of the girl. Her cheeks +and her lips were glowing with fire, her dark eyes were sparkling with +light. + +“What do you think of all this, my dear?” he inquired. + +“Oh, father! I feel so happy! so happy! Le has distinguished himself! Le +is the hero of the day! Thank Heaven! Oh, thank Heaven! We shall see Le +in a few hours from this! See Le safe, well and honored! Thank Heaven! +Oh, thank Heaven!” + +Mr. Force looked at his wife. Her face was very pale and troubled. + +“My dear Elfrida,” he said, “you let your sympathy for little Rosemary +Hedge and her lover affect you without cause. I think there is no doubt +the young man is now quite safe on board the _Argente_, on her way to +the Washington Navy Yard. We shall land at New York about sunset. We +shall leave our effects at the custom house and take the night express +for the South. We shall reach Washington before the _Argente_ gets +there; but we shall wait for her, and as soon as she arrives we shall +find both the boys safe—Leonidas and Roland—safe.” + +“You are very, very good,” she replied, in a low tone. + +“There is the gong for dinner. I have an appetite for the first time in +ten days,” he said, gayly, as he drew his wife’s arm within his own to +take her down. + +At all the tables in the dining saloon nothing was discussed but the war +news. Gen. Grant was slowly fighting his way on to Richmond, opposed by +an army that was daily wasting away under toil, fever and privation, but +who made up for want of numbers with indomitable courage, endurance and +self-devotion. + +After dinner the passengers all went up on deck to watch for the first +glimpse of land. + +Many had glasses, through which they looked long and wistfully to the +westward, and then passed their instruments on from hand to hand among +the less fortunate passengers who had none of their own. + +Often they mistook a cloud lying low on the horizon for a line of coast. + +Presently some one staring through the glass cried out: + +“Land!” + +“Nothing but a low cloud!” cried another man, staring through another +glass. + +“The Highlands!” cried the first speaker. + +And in a very few minutes “The Highlands!” was the verdict of all on the +outlook. + +The progress of the ship was now very rapid. + +She soon passed the Narrows, and stopped. + +The quarantine officers came on board. No ship ever came into the harbor +with crew and passengers in a healthier condition, Mr. Force’s chronic +rheumatism being the only case of indisposition on board. So the _Asia_ +was allowed to go on her way, and reached her pier a little after +sunset. + +Mr. Force at once landed with his party, taking only such luggage as +they had used during the voyage, and which could be carried in the hands +of the servants. + +This was duly examined and passed by the custom house officers; the bulk +of their luggage to be afterward brought on by the groom of Lord +Enderby, who was left in charge. + +There was a train for Washington at nine o’clock. It was now seven. + +They had time to go to a hotel and take tea. + +They had scarcely left the custom house officers before they were +assailed by a swarm of newsboys crying their papers. + +“Eve-en-ing——” this, that, or the other. + +“Latest from the Perningsalar!” + +“Capture of the blockade runner _Argente_ by United States ship +_Eagle_!” etc., etc. + +“Hi! Boy! Let us have a paper!” called Mr. Force, as they were swarming +past him to a large group of men who were also just off the steamer, +famishing for news and calling for venders. + +Two or three turned back. + +Mr. Force and the earl bought papers from all of them. + +At this moment the negro valet who had been sent for carriages came up +with two. + +The papers were distributed to the members of the party and they entered +the carriages, the four girls in the front carriage, and the four elders +in the hind one—and read as they drove along. + +But, in fact, they learned nothing more from the papers than they had +learned from the pilot, except that there were more details of the fight +which ended in the capture of the privateer by the man-of-war. + +This word “privateer” always put the old skipper into a rage. + +“Privateer!” he exclaimed. “They might as well call an assassin a mere +sneak thief. She is a pirate of the most devilish description. She took +my unarmed _Kitty_. She seized her cargo. She sent her crew adrift in +open boats in midocean. And I’ll hang all hands for it. I swear it!” + +“I don’t think you could hang a whole ship’s crew,” laughed Lord +Enderby. + +“Well, may I be blowed from a cannon’s mouth myself if I don’t hang the +head devil and his mate! That’s what I’m going to Washington for—to make +my charge.” + +In good time they reached their hotel, took their tea, and sat down to +rest and read the papers at their leisure before starting on their night +journey. + +Here a little surprise met the whole party. When Mr. Force tendered a +ten-dollar goldpiece in payment of his bill at the counter of the +office, the coin was rung suspiciously on the board, then examined +critically, and finally dropped into the till. And he was handed a +ten-dollar greenback and a two-dollar greenback in exchange, with the +information that he would find it all right, as gold was that day at one +hundred and twenty per cent. premium. + +This information so astonished the simple squire that he did not recover +himself until he had reached the railway station at Jersey City. + +The party arrived in full time to purchase their tickets and take their +seats. + + + + + CHAPTER XII + ON TO WASHINGTON + + +“Everybody is happy but me! Oh, Uncle Gideon, I have looked all over, up +and down, and everywhere in the papers, and I cannot see one word about +Roland! Oh, Roland! Roland!” moaned little Rosemary, as she sat on the +seat beside the old skipper in the crowded car. + +“My poor little girl, such a small item as the rescue of a single +prisoner from the pirate ship would scarcely be noticed in a first +hurried account of the capture by the _Eagle_. Have patience, my dear +little one. In a few hours we shall hear from Le himself whether Roland +is with him. And remember, my girl, that you are going to meet your dear +mother and aunt, and all your near relations, whom you have not seen for +so many years, and who are counting the hours until you come to them. +Think of your own kindred, my child.” + +“Oh! I do, I do! And I do love my dear mother and dear aunt, dearly, +dearly! But they are both safe and well, and so I am not anxious about +them. But, oh! Roland! Roland!” she wailed, in a little, low tone. + +Mrs. Force, who sat beside her husband immediately in front of Rosemary +and her uncle, heard the little, low moan, and turning to the squire, +said. + +“Abel, dear, will you change seats with little Rosemary, and let the +child sit with me for a while?” + +“Certainly,” replied Mr. Force, and the change was effected at once. + +Mrs. Force put one arm around Rosemary’s waist, and drew her in a close +embrace, as she whispered: + +“You must pray, and hope, and trust, my dear. We have no reason to fear +that any evil has happened to Roland.” + +“Oh, ma’am, I am praying all the time, in my heart, for Roland,” sighed +the girl. + +“Well, darling, when you pray, you must trust.” + +“Oh, I do try to! I do try to! But this dreadful uncertainty! Oh! just +look how happy Odalite and the other girls are! But Odalite—every time +she turns her head around her face flashes! She is so delighted! Oh! I +hope I am not envious, but I do wish I felt as sure of seeing Roland +safe and well as you all are of seeing Leonidas great and happy!” + +Mrs. Force smiled, pensively, at the exaggerated words of the poor +little girl, but she did not attempt to criticize them. + +It was now nearly ten o’clock, and in spite of excitement and anxiety +the travelers yielded to a sense of fatigue and drowsiness, ceased to +talk, and began to doze. + +There was no sleeping car on that train, or if there was, the party had +not engaged berths, so they sat in uneasy attitudes, and dropped off, +one by one, into slumber, that was only disturbed by the stopping of the +train at the stations, and quickly resumed when the train was again in +motion. + +They woke up thoroughly when they reached Philadelphia, where several +more cars were attached to the train, and a number of troops got on to +go to Washington, en route to reinforce Gen. Grant’s army. Many of these +soldiers could not find seats, though the train was a long one, and they +had to stand in a line down the middle of the cars. + +This made the air stifling, oppressive and stupefying. + +Our party dropped off into a deep, unwholesome sleep, which lasted until +the train reached Baltimore, when they one and all awoke with a sense of +sickness and semisuffocation. + +But here people got in and people got out, doors were opened at each +end, and a draught of purifying air went through and revived the +sufferers. + +Here still more cars were attached to the train, and more troops got on, +and the crowd was even closer than before. + +Again our victims succumbed to the stupefying effects of the confined +air, and slept heavily and unhealthily until they reached Washington. + +Day had dawned when the train crawled into the depot. + +The closely packed multitude got out, and filled all the space that was +under cover. + +Mr. Force piloted his party through the crowd, and out into the open +air. + +“I doubt if we can get a carriage,” said the squire, looking around. + +And his doubts were speedily and unpleasantly set at rest. He could not. +If there had been any on the spot they had been seized by the first +travelers, who had jumped off the train to secure a ride. + +“There is nothing for it but to walk to our hotel. Luckily, it is not +very far off,” said Mr. Force. + +It was a fine morning, and dawn was reddening in the east as they left +the depot and walked on toward Pennsylvania Avenue. They walked somewhat +stiffly at first, from having been cramped up so long in the railway +train, but the fresh air was reviving, and so they all felt more +invigorated at every yard by their progress. + +They reached the hotel with fine appetites for breakfast. + +Mr. Force found, on inquiring at the office, that the house was full; +there was not a room or a bed to spare; but the house could give them +breakfast. + +So they waited in the public parlor until the breakfast hour came, when +they went down into the saloon and took their morning meal. + +After breakfast Mr. Force went into the reading room to inquire about +the _Argente_ and to look at the morning papers. + +The rest of his party waited for him at the foot of the stairs leading +to the parlor. + +At last he came and said: + +“The _Argente_ has not yet reached the navy yard, nor has she been heard +from since leaving New York yesterday morning, but she is expected +to-day.” + +“And what are we to do next?” inquired Mrs. Force. + +“You and the girls will remain here, in the ladies’ parlor, and read the +newspapers, or amuse yourselves in any way you please. Capt. Grandiere +is going to see the secretary of the navy to report the capture of his +clipper, the _Kitty_, by the _Argente_. Enderby will go out with me in +search of lodgings. We must find some place to sleep in this overcrowded +city. And we must get out of it as soon as we can. As soon, that is, as +the _Argente_ business is settled and Leonidas gets his leave. We shall +all return here in time for dinner.” + +With these words Mr. Force opened the door of the parlor and saw the +ladies of his party in. + +It was yet so early that the parlor was quite empty. + +“I think you might venture to recline on some of these sofas and go to +sleep,” said the squire, as he nodded good-morning and left the room, +accompanied by the earl and the skipper. + +When they went down, left the hotel and stood upon the sidewalk, Mr. +Force looked up and down the streets in search of that line of hacks +which usually stands drawn up before every large hotel. But it was not +to be seen. + +Inquiry of the porters developed a startling fact—nearly all the horses +in Washington had a plague called epizoötic. There were but few hacks in +the public service now, and they were always “on the go.” There were but +few street cars running, because there were but few horses to draw them, +and they were always overcrowded. + +“Shall we walk, Enderby? Or shall we stand on the reeking platform of +one of these passing cars?” Mr. Force inquired. + +“Oh, walk, by all means, as long as we have a leg to stand on, in +preference to adding three hundred pounds more to the burden of those +poor beasts,” promptly replied the earl. + +“Fortunately, all the best hotels are on or near the avenue,” observed +the squire, as they turned westward. + +“Now, doesn’t it seem as if war were quite enough of evil without a +plague among the horses, Enderby?” inquired Abel Force. + +“You may thank Heaven that the plague is not among the humans,” replied +the earl. + +“Here is the Metropolitan. We will try here,” said the squire. + +And they went in, but were not successful; the house was full. + +So hotel after hotel was tried, but in vain. All were full. The two +gentlemen walked on toward the west end of the avenue. There at length +they found, in one of the largest and best hotels in the city, a suit of +three rooms—two double-bedded chambers and one single one. + +These were secured at once for their party of eight, and at a rather +high price, too. + +Then they went back to the place where they had left the ladies of the +party. + +The old skipper had already returned. + +Mr. Force reported progress, and described the best apartments he had +been able to find. + +“You see there is scarcely space left for us in Washington. We must get +back to old Maryland as fast as we can,” added the squire. + +Capt. Grandiere followed suit and told of his adventures. He had not +been able to see the secretary at all. Anteroom full of lubbers who were +seeking offices or other favors. He had to wait his turn, and before his +turn came a fellow opened an inner door and announced that the secretary +could see no one else that day, and added that he had gone home. Then +he—the skipper—had gone down to the navy yard to inquire about the +_Argente_, and discovered that the prize had been signaled from Fortress +Monroe and was expected to be at Washington Navy Yard the next day. + +“And you shall see as fine a sight as you could wish when I am +confronted with that devil to-morrow! He expects, by what we read, to be +treated as a prisoner of war, and to be put on his parole and set free. +He certainly doesn’t expect to find me on hand to stop his little game +and send him to prison to be tried for his life, and in the end hung for +piracy!” added the old skipper. + +“Oh, if we could only hear from Roland!” sighed little Rosemary. + +“Be patient, dear. We shall hear to-morrow,” whispered Mrs. Force. + +“Oh! ‘To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!’” sighed Rosemary. + +“We will go down and get some luncheon, and then go on to our new +quarters.” + +“And to-night we shall sleep in motionless beds for the first time in +two weeks, thank Heaven!” exclaimed Wynnette. + +They went down to the dining saloon and lunched. Then Mr. Force settled +the bill and the whole party went out. + +The squire caught a hack “on the fly,” put his five ladies into it and +gave the driver the address. The hack drove off. + +The three gentlemen walked all the way to the hotel. + +When they reached it and were gathered in the parlor some little +discussion took place as to the division of three rooms among eight +persons. And it was concluded that the four girls should have one of the +double-bedded rooms; the earl and the captain should have the other; and +Mr. and Mrs. Force should have the small one. + +The party retired very early that night, and in spite of anticipations +of the morning they all slept profoundly. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + THE CAPTAIN OF THE “ARGENTE” + + +Our travelers arose very early the next morning. + +The very first news that met Mr. Force on his entrance into the +gentlemen’s reading room was, that the _Argente_ was in the navy yard. +She had arrived at dawn that morning. + +The squire hastened to the ladies’ parlor to communicate the news to +Mrs. Force and the girls. + +There was a general exclamation of joy, and then a cry of sharp anxiety +from Rosemary: + +“Oh! when shall we find out about Roland?” she pleaded. + +“This very morning, dear child! No more to-morrows! To-morrow has come!” +replied Mrs. Force, with a smile—yet, oh! how wan a smile! + +“Come down to breakfast at once. We will get a cup of coffee or +something, and then start for the navy yard and go on board the +_Argente_,” said the squire, giving his arm to his wife. + +They went down to the saloon and breakfasted as well as they could for +the excitement, which took away their appetite. + +After that, Mr. Force went out to hunt up a carriage, for there was none +on the stand. When he returned, he said: + +“My children, I could only get one hack, and it will hold but four +persons inside. Your Uncle Enderby does not wish to go out. Therefore, +Wynnette and Elva, you will remain here under the protection of your +uncle, until we come back. Your mother, your sister, and your little +friend will go with me.” + +“But where is Uncle Gideon?” inquired Rosemary. + +“My child, chains would not have held him here. He has gone down in an +omnibus to the navy yard.” + +Preparations were soon made, and Mr. Force and the three ladies were on +their way to the east end of the city. + +They drove through the navy yard gate, past the officers’ quarters and +the workshops, and down to the water side. + +There lay the _Argente_ at anchor a few hundred yards from the shore. + +Mr. Force directed the driver to draw up. + +Then he alighted from the carriage and handed his wife down; Odalite and +Rosemary sprang out unassisted. + +Odalite’s face was bright, eager, expectant; Rosemary’s pale, timid and +anxious; both stood looking out upon the prize. + +“How shall we reach the ship?” inquired Mrs. Force. + +“I must signal for a boat to come off and fetch us! Stay, there is a +boat coming,” announced the squire, and soon they all saw the boat that +had been partly hidden in the shadow of the ship’s hulk, put off from +her side. It was rowed by six sailors and approached the shore rapidly. + +“Who is in it? Oh, if it should be Roland!” aspirated Rosemary, in a +low, deep tone. + +“Who is it, Abel?” inquired Mrs. Force of her husband, who was looking +through a field glass. + +“There is but one man besides the oarsmen, and his back is toward us. I +do not know who he is; but—he is neither Leonidas nor Roland! He is much +too stout for either of our boys! He is as broad-backed as old Gideon +Grandiere!” + +“By the way, where is Capt. Grandiere? You said he had come down to the +yard; but we have not seen him.” + +“My dear, he was a full half hour in advance of us, and must be on board +the _Argente_, giving the officers and crew the benefit of his views on +piracy! Come, the boat is almost here!” + +A few minutes after the boat landed, the sailors drew in their oars and +the single passenger turned around, got upon his feet, and stepped +ashore. + +He was the old skipper. + +“Oh! Capt. Grandiere! What news?” exclaimed Mr. Force, while all his +party looked the eager question which they did not put into words. + +“No news at all! Nothing but a fresh disappointment and a longer +suspense.” + +“What do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Force. + +The old man took off his cap, drew his red bandanna from its crown, +deliberately wiped his face and head, replaced the handkerchief in his +cap and his cap upon his crown and answered: + +“There’s nobody aboard that can tell me anything, or that will tell +anything if they can.” + +“And did you learn nothing?” + +“Nothing but this: that Lieut. Force has gone to make his report at +headquarters, and nobody knows when he will be back. And the pirate and +his mate are gone before the commissioner of prisoners, and nobody knows +what their fate is to be.” + +“And did you hear nothing—nothing at all of Roland?” inquired Rosemary, +in a faint voice. + +“Nothing whatever, my girl! I did inquire, but no one knew anything of +any young man of that name. I am very sorry, my poor child.” + +Rosemary had grown very pale and looked as if she were about to faint. + +The old skipper raised her in his arms and laid her in the carriage, +where she sank back upon the cushions. + +Mrs. Force got in, seated herself beside Rosemary and drew the suffering +girl to her bosom. + +“Have courage, my love,” she whispered, through her tears—“have courage. +Roland may have made his escape from the _Argente_ before she was +captured by the _Eagle_; or he may be, by a mistake, with the other +prisoners on board a man-of-war. Have courage, dear love.” + +“Oh, Mrs. Force, I cannot—I cannot any longer! I feel as if I should +give up and die!” moaned the girl. + +Mr. Force handed Odalite into the carriage, and then, turning to the old +skipper, said: + +“Capt. Grandiere, if you will get in with the ladies, I will take a seat +with the driver, and we will all go on together.” + +“I will take the seat by the driver, and thank you, if you will allow +me; but I cannot be shut up in the inside of that hack; I would rather +walk,” replied the old sailor. + +“As you please,” said Mr. Force; and he helped the skipper to mount the +box, and then entered the carriage and seated himself with his +“womenkind.” + +“Where to, sir?” inquired the driver. + +“To the office of the commissioner of prisoners; and on your way call at +the hotel where you took us up.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +The carriage drove off, passed through the navy yard gate again, and +took its way up Garrison Street to Pennsylvania Avenue, and thence to +the West End. + +Half an hour’s rapid drive brought the party to the front of their +hotel. + +“My dear,” said the squire to his wife, “I cannot take you and these +girls to the commissioner’s office. I will take you upstairs, and ask +your brother if he would like to accompany me.” + +“Very well, Abel,” replied the lady. + +Mr. Force got out, handed down his wife and the young ladies, and +escorted them into the hotel. + +They found the earl and his two nieces in the parlor. The two girls +started up with the question: + +“What news?” + +“No very definite news,” replied their father; “but your mamma will tell +you all we have learned. I am going to the office of the commissioner of +prisoners, to see if I can meet Le. If I can, I will wait until he is at +leisure, and bring him here. Enderby, would you like to go with me and +see what it is?” + +“Very much,” replied the earl. + +And the two men went out together. They entered the carriage, which was +driven off immediately. + +It was but a short drive, and in less than ten minutes the carriage drew +up, and the gentlemen alighted. + +Capt. Grandiere climbed down from his seat, and the three entered the +building together. + +The place had once been a commodious dwelling house, but was now, like +many others of the finest mansions in Washington, taken for the service +of the government. A sentinel was on guard before the door. Mr. Force +spoke a few words to him, and passed on with his party. He entered a +front hall, and thence through a door on the right they passed into a +large front room, furnished with seats all around its walls, and a long +table at its back, with chairs behind it, and folios and stationery on +its top. Two or three men in uniform sat behind this table, while all +around the room, on the benches against the walls, sat a rough-looking +score of men guarded by soldiers. There was another door on the right of +the long table, and opening into a rear room. A sentinel or janitor +stood at that door. + +While they waited to be admitted to the presence of the commissioner, +the door opened, and two prisoners came out, guarded by a detachment of +soldiers. + +“There he is! There is the head devil—and not in irons, either! And +there—there, in his company—a prisoner, too, by all that is +atrocious!—is my mate, Roland!” + +The two gentlemen looked up, stared at the prisoners who were slowly +crossing the room to the outer door, closely guarded by the +soldiers—stared until the elder and stouter of the two lifted the back +of his hand to his forehead in a mock salute, and smiled, while the +younger fixed a gaze of yearning entreaty upon the face of his old +captain, and then turned the same gaze upon his old friend. + +Yes! the pirate’s first officer, taken, red-handed, with him, was Roland +Bayard! + +But who was the pirate himself? + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + WHO HE WAS + + +“You say this man is the captain of the _Argente_?” inquired Mr. Force +of the old skipper, when the prisoners and their guard had passed out of +the room. + +“Yes! He is Silver—Silver, the pirate captain! No irons on his wrists +yet! Prisoner of war, is he? Ah! ah! we shall see—we shall see! But my +brave Roland! Taken with him! This, then was the blockade runner’s first +officer whom they were talking about, who was taken with him, and is now +sent to prison with him! Oh, Roland! Roland! Is it possible that you +yielded to temptations to join in a lawless life! But it will cost you +your own life, Roland, my lad! No rescued prisoner from the pirate’s +clutch are you, Roland, but a comrade of pirates yourself! I thought I +knew the boy! I thought I knew him for an honest lad! But I was mistaken +in him! Oh, how mistaken I was!” + +While the captain was muttering these lamentations to himself, Mr. Force +was standing in a maze of perplexity—not thinking then so much of Roland +as of the pirate captain. + +The earl touched him on the shoulder and aroused him. + +“I know the villain!” he said. “I have much cause to know him! His name +is Stukely—Byrne Stukely—once a lieutenant in the royal navy, but +cashiered years ago for dishonorable conduct.” + +Mr. Force stared at the speaker, but did not reply. + +“Why, Force! You look as if you knew the fellow also! You look as if you +‘could a tale reveal.’ What is it?” + +“I know the man. But I know him as Angus Anglesea, Esq., of Anglewood +Manor, late colonel in the East India Service.” + +“What, Force! That fellow! He is not Anglesea! He never was in the army +in all his life. He was in the navy, and kicked out for disgracing it. +Is he the man you have known to your grief as Anglesea?” + +“He is.” + +“Then, Force, the mystery that puzzled me is solved. The inconsistency +that distressed me is reconciled. I never could understand how you could +accuse my friend Angus Anglesea, the Christian gentleman and renowned +soldier, of the base and cowardly crimes committed by your persecutor! +How could I associate theft, forgery and bigamy with such a character as +that of Angus Anglesea? Though they are very consistent with the career +of Byrne Stukely.” + +“Who is this man? And how is it that he could take the name and style of +an officer and a gentleman, and deceive us all, even my wife, who had +known Col. Anglesea in his youth?” demanded the squire. + +The earl shrugged his shoulders and then replied: + +“The fellow is a near relation of Anglesea, and bears a strong personal +resemblance to him. In their youth and early manhood they were +counterparts of each other; but as they have grown older they have +diverged in appearance, so that now no one could mistake the one for the +other. The reason is this—both boys inherited the same form, features +and expression from the same remote ancestor; but they inherited +different dispositions, and have had different trainings. Each has grown +old ‘in the likeness of his love,’ and so they have now grown apart. +Angus Anglesea is of medium size, as well as of medium height; his +features are clean cut, his complexion clear and pale; his expression +grave, sweet, thoughtful, benevolent, intellectual. Stukely is, as you +see, overgrown, with an obese form, bloated features, red face, and a +brutal, sensual, and sometimes ferocious expression.” + +“Yes,” replied Abel Force, “and the last three years of lawless life has +made him even more brutal than ever.” + +“He was in his earlier life a protégé of Anglesea’s. It was his +influence that got him into the royal navy. But he is and has been for +years a sharp thorn in the side of Angus, taking advantage of his +personal resemblance to his cousin, using his knowledge of his +relative’s affairs and his skill in imitating his handwriting to swindle +every one everywhere who came under his notice. This was the adventurer +who tried to marry your daughter, Force. It is well the marriage was +stopped at the altar, though the California woman, poor soul, had no +right to interfere.” + +“Why?” demanded Abel Force. + +“Because Stukely has a wife and five children living near Anglewood on +the charity of Angus Anglesea.” + +“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Abel Force, earnestly. “There is now nothing +to prevent the happiness of my dear Odalite and Leonidas.” + +“I don’t know what you are both talking about, I am sure,” complained +the old skipper. + +“No, you do not know our family history for the last six years, Capt. +Grandiere, or the trouble we have suffered through that man of whom we +have been speaking; but you shall know all at our earliest convenience.” + +“But Roland! Oh, Roland! What will become of my boy?” groaned the +captain. + +“Can you not prove that he was taken prisoner by the pirate?” demanded +Mr. Force. + +“Yes; but I cannot prove that he did not join the pirates, as Silver +told me that he meant to do. And here he is under a false name—Craven +Cloud, first officer to the pirate captain! It looks black! I wish I had +never lived to see this day!” groaned the captain. + +After they had waited about half an hour in the hope of seeing Le come +out of the commissioner’s office, Mr. Force went and spoke to the +messenger at the door. + +“Do you know whether Lieut. Force, who brought the prize ship with the +prisoners this morning, is now with the commissioner?” + +“No, sir; he is not. He came with the prisoners this morning and made +his report, and left them, and then went up to the navy department,” +replied the man. + +“Thank you! That will do! Come, Enderby! Come, Grandiere! We may as well +return to the hotel! We shall not be likely to find Le! We must wait +until he comes to us, I suppose! If he only knew what good news waits +him he would hurry!” + +“If he only knew that we were in the city, or where to find us! But he +does not, you see,” said the earl. + +“Wait one moment,” exclaimed the captain. “I must speak to that man +before we go. Can you tell me where those two prisoners have been sent?” + +“To the Old Capitol prison?” replied the messenger. + +“Can I get to see them?” + +“Only by a permit.” + +“Go on, Force! You and the earl! I am going to see my dear boy! Oh, +Heaven! who shall tell poor Rosemary?” + + + + + CHAPTER XV + LEONIDAS + + +“What do you think of this case of young Bayard?” inquired the earl, as +the two gentlemen drove back to the hotel. + +“I cannot think! I have never in my life felt so amazed, so confused, +and so uncertain! The sudden meeting of Anglesea——” + +“Stukely, my dear friend! Stukely!” interrupted the earl. + +“Stukely, then! the man we have known as Anglesea—and now known as the +blockade runner, slaver and pirate—has—demoralized my mental faculties!” +exclaimed Abel Force. + +“Do you believe Bayard to be a voluntary confederate of the pirate?” + +“No! no! If you put the question in that way, I say no! I do not believe +it!” + +“The young man was a protégé of yours, I have heard.” + +“Yes.” + +“Yet you do not know his parentage, or what traits of character he may +have inherited, which may have been kept down by circumstances, and only +wanted opportunity to spring into life and activity.” + +“I have known Roland from boyhood; I have watched over him as over a +dear son; and I have never seen a low, base, or false trait in his +character. His words, his deeds, and his thoughts—so far as I could read +them—have always been pure, and true, and high. I cannot think of him in +any other light than that of my long knowledge of him—I said from his +boyhood. I meant from his babyhood.” + +“I hope the young fellow’s character may be vindicated. But his case +looks very bad just at present.” + +“I hope much from his old captain’s interview with him. Roland may be +able to explain his position to our satisfaction. I shall wait anxiously +for news from the captain. Or Le may be able to throw some light upon +this subject. He may be able to tell us why Roland was brought home as a +prisoner, instead of as a rescued man. We must wait for more light, +Enderby.” + +“Yes. In the meantime, shall you tell the poor little girl the truth of +Bayard’s position? Is it necessary that she should be told, just at this +point, when we know so little, and that little is so—perhaps—needlessly +alarming?” + +“No. I think not. I will not tell Rosemary that he is a prisoner. I must +tell her only that he is alive and well, and that he will come to see us +as soon as he can. Here we are at the hotel. And, thank Heaven! we have +good news for Odalite! Our darling is free—absolutely free—and may marry +her faithful betrothed to-morrow, if she pleases!” said Abel Force, as +he alighted from the carriage, followed by the earl. + +They went upstairs together, and entered the parlor, where they found +Mrs. Force and the four young girls anxiously awaiting them. + +“Did you find Le?” eagerly inquired Mrs. Force. + +“Oh! did you find Roland?” breathed Rosemary, clasping her hands. + +Odalite, Wynnette and Elva looked all the interest they did not put into +words. + +“No, my dears, we did not find Le, but we heard of him. He and Roland +are both in the city, and both alive and well; and both will come to see +us as soon after they shall have found out that we are in Washington as +they possibly can,” said Mr. Force, throwing himself into a chair. + +“Where are they now, papa, besides being in the city, which is a place +of ‘magnificent distances,’ you know?” inquired Wynnette. + +“My dear, Le is—everywhere—except here! Le is—ubiquitous! He is a +will-o’-the-wisp! We have spent the day in following him about. He was +on his ship—but when we got there he was gone to the navy department, +and when we reached there he was off to the office of the commissioner +of prisoners. When we arrived at the last-mentioned place he was gone +back to the navy department. So we came here to report and get a little +rest and refreshments, and then we are going down to the navy yard to +board the _Argente_ and wait there until we see him. He is sure to turn +up on the _Argente_—well—sooner or later, as he is in command.” + +“And—Roland?” softly murmured Rosemary. + +“Roland, my dear, is alive and well, but he does not know where you are +any more than Le does. We must find Le and let him know that we are +here,” said Mr. Force. + +Then, with a total change of manner, he began: + +“Come here, Odalite, my dear, and sit beside me. I have such good news +for you as shall give you patience to wait for Le, if he does not come +here for a week. But such news that, if he knew it, would bring him +within an hour!” + +Full of vague expectancy, Odalite came and threw herself down on the +sofa beside her father, and looked up into his eyes. + +“My dear Odalite, what would be the very best news that you could hear +to-day?” he inquired. + +Odalite gazed into his eyes, too much excited to speak. Fearing, indeed, +to speak, lest his next words should disappoint her raised hopes, while +Mrs. Force and every occupant of the room, except the earl, waited +breathlessly. + +“Oh, tell me, papa! tell me what you have to tell!” pleaded Odalite. + +“Tell me, first, what would be the best news you could possibly hear +to-day?” persisted Abel Force. + +His daughter gazed into his face, while her color went and came—came and +went; but she did not speak. + +“Well, Odalite?” he inquired. + +“Father,” she then answered, gravely, “the best news that I could hear, +that any of us could hear to-day, would be that the war was ended, the +country at peace, and the North and South friends again.” + +“A conscientious reply, my dear. That would certainly be the best news +that any of us could hear. But it is not the news that I have to tell, +my love. Try again. My news is of a private nature, and concerns +yourself. What would be the best news that you could hear concerning +yourself?” persisted the squire. + +“That I were free!” + +The words came in a tone of impassioned aspiration that spoke volumes of +the suffering the girl had endured under the incubus that darkened and +oppressed her life. + +“Then, my dear, hear it!” said the squire, earnestly. + +“Odalite, you are free!” + +“Father!” + +The cry came from her soul, and it was echoed by her sisters and her +friend. + +“Abel!” + +This was from his wife. + +“Yes, my dears, it is true!” replied the squire. “Odalite is free!” + +“Anglesea is dead, then? Our terrible enemy is dead!” exclaimed Elfrida +Force, with a sigh of infinite relief. + +“No, my dears, Anglesea is not dead, I thank Heaven! Long may that +gallant soldier and true gentleman live to enrich humanity! But your +enemy is dead to you, Odalite! You are free, my child! As free as either +of your sisters! And you have always been free, my dearest dear, +although I did not know it until to-day.” + +“What is the meaning of all this?” demanded Elfrida Force, in a voice of +doubt and pain. + +“Tell your sister, Enderby. Tell them all—and all about it! I cannot. I +am not equal to the task! I should talk like a fool!” said the squire, +drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiping his brows. + +Thus adjured, the earl looked around on the group of eager listeners, +and said, addressing Mrs. Force: + +“You may remember, Elfrida, how amazed and incredulous I was when you +told me of the disgraceful career of one whom you called by the name of +my nearest and dearest friend—Angus Anglesea.” + +“Yes! yes!” eagerly exclaimed the lady. + +“And with good reason was I thus amazed and incredulous! To think a +gentleman of purest honor in one hemisphere should become an unmitigated +scoundrel in another, was simply impossible! I did not, and could not, +comprehend the enigma, and I did not try!” + +“But sometimes you nearly lost your temper with us!” put in Mrs. Force. + +“I did; because I thought you ought to have known my brother officer +better than to have believed him guilty of all the crimes of which he +was accused! Elfrida! I had forgotten one matter that might have cleared +up the mystery at once! And that matter was the existence of Byrne +Stukely.” + +“‘Byrne Stukely!’ Who was he?” inquired Mrs. Force. + +“He was the man who, under the name of Angus Anglesea, tried to marry +your daughter, but failed so signally that he has not even the shadow of +a shade of claim upon Odalite! She will not need the slightest action of +the law to free her from that incomplete ceremony begun in All Faith +Church! No, my dear; Odalite Force, as my brother-in-law has just said, +is as free as either of her sisters! Byrne Stukely has a wife and half a +dozen children, more or less, living in the town of Angleton, and +supported by the charity of Angus Anglesea!” + +“But who then, in the name of Old Scratch, is this Byrne Stukely?” +demanded the irrepressible Wynnette. + +“My dear, wait until I tell your mamma! Byrne Stukely is a distant—very +distant—relation of Angus Anglesea, and yet the two distant cousins +were, up to the age of twenty or thereabout, as much alike as twin +brothers. They must each have inherited the form, features and +complexion of some common ancestor; but there all the resemblance +between the men ended; for one inherited all the virtues of his +progenitors and the other all the vices! They were as opposite in +character as they were alike in form. This resemblance lasted, as I +said—lasted in its completeness—until the young men grew to be about +twenty years of age, when the character of each began to impress itself +upon his face, manner and expression. Anglesea developed into a man of +the highest and purest moral and intellectual excellence, and became a +Christian gentleman and soldier. Stukely sank down to the level of the +beasts, and below them—and became a bloated, brutalized criminal and +sensualist. No one, who has known both for the last twenty years, could +possibly mistake one for the other. Each has grown ‘into the likeness of +his spirit,’ and therefore they have grown far apart.” + +“I ought to have known he was an impostor!” put in Wynnette. “I don’t +mind other people being deceived in the fellow! but for me—me—not to +know, the minute I saw the portrait of the real Col. Anglesea, that the +other fellow was a fraud!” + +“There were many other people deceived in times past by the exact +resemblance between the two men! It was a source of continual +embarrassment to the Angleseas of Anglewood. The father of Angus +Anglesea procured for young Stukely a midshipman’s warrant, and got him +sent off to one of our most remote naval stations, to get him out of the +way and get rid of him. He went on pretty well for a while. And he +received much indulgence, too, for the sake of the benefactor behind him +But rectitude was not the forte of Byrne Stukely, and in the end he +disgraced his patron and was dismissed the service.” + +“But how came he in the army?” inquired Wynnette. + +“He was never in the army. He was no more a colonel than he was an +Anglesea. Nor more a soldier than he was a gentleman. He was in the +navy, as I said, and was kicked out of it. Lastly, he has turned up in +the slave trade and the general piracy line of business as Capt. +Silver.” + +“Capt. Silver!” echoed every voice, except that of Abel Force. + +“Yes, my darlings—Capt. Silver, of the _Argente_. Ostensibly blockade +runner only. Subject only to the laws of war—to be held only as a +prisoner of war. But really a slaver and a pirate, likely to be tried +for his life and hanged for his crimes by this government; or if he +should chance to escape conviction and execution here, where the +punishment of crime is so very uncertain, still sure to be claimed by +the British Government, under the extradition act, and hanged by us, +who, you know, will stand no nonsense from slavers and pirates. But now, +my darlings, let us leave the subject of the villain and turn to +something pleasanter. Odalite, my dear, I congratulate you on your +escape. And I hope, when we go down to the _Argente_ this afternoon, we +shall be able to bring Lieut. Force back with us.” + +“Heaven grant it!” breathed Odalite, in a low and fervent voice. + +“Where is Capt. Grandiere?” inquired Mrs. Force. + +“He has gone to look up his mate, young Bayard,” replied Mr. Force. + +“Oh, I hope he will bring Roland back with him!” sighed Rosemary, who +was the frankest little creature in the world. + +“I hope he may,” said Mr. Force. + +“Come! Let us go down to dinner,” suggested the earl. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + THE OLD SKIPPER’S DESPAIR + + +Meanwhile, Capt. Grandiere, having obtained his pass, got into a crowded +street car, en route for the Old Capitol prison. After toiling up the +long hill on the north side of the Capitol grounds, the car turned into +East Capitol Street. + +There the old skipper got off and inquired his way to the “Old +Capitol”—a large pile of brick buildings, looking not unlike a +warehouse, but which in its time, before the present beautiful edifice +had been raised, was used for the councils of the National Congress, and +now was turned into a military prison. + +Capt. Grandiere found the place—though it looked very much like a +Baltimore tobacco depot—and then went up to the main floor, at which a +sentry stood on guard. + +He showed his pass. The sentinel scrutinized it, returned it to him, and +let him in. + +He entered a broad passage, with doors on either side, and a staircase +in the midst. These doors were all closed, and a sentry stood at every +one. + +“I wish to see young Ro—Mr. Craven Cloud,” said the captain, correcting +himself—“one of the officers taken prisoner on the blockade runner +_Argente_.” + +The sentry to whom he addressed these words looked at his pass, and +said, laconically: + +“Upstairs.” + +The old man climbed the stairs, and found himself in an upper passage, +with other doors on each side, and another staircase in the midst. These +doors were also closed and guarded by sentries. + +“I want to see Ro—Mr. Craven Cloud, one of the prisoners from the +blockade runner _Argente_,” said the skipper, handing his pass to the +nearest sentry, who looked at it, and answered, shortly: + +“Upstairs.” + +The old man groaned, and slowly mounted the second flight of stairs, to +find himself in a passage exactly like the one below in all respects of +doors, sentries, and a third staircase. + +The captain, panting from his long ascent, repeated his formula, and +handed his pass, which was returned to him, with the answering formula. + +The old man, feeling fatigued and dizzy, began to ascend the third +flight of stairs. When he reached the top he found himself in a passage +precisely like those below—closed doors, armed sentries, and a fourth +staircase, probably leading into the garret. + +“I have been a sailor for sixty years, and hope to sail the seas for +sixty more! Men have lived hale and hearty to extreme old age, and why +not I, who never was drunk or ill in my life? But if I have to go up +another flight of stairs I shall be cut off in my prime!” said the +captain to himself, as he leaned, puffing and blowing, against the +freshly whitewashed wall. + +“I feel just like the + + “‘Youth who bore through snow and ice + A banner with a strange device— + Excelsior!’ + +“Which must mean ‘Upstairs.’ And like him, I shall drop dead at the top. +Say! you, sir! I want to see Mr. Craven Cloud, who was taken prisoner +from the blockade runner _Argente_. Here’s my permit,” said the old +skipper, as soon as he could get his breath, handing his pass to one of +the sentries. + +“Room at the end—Number 53,” said the soldier, returning the paper. + +“Thank Heaven, that is a change for the better!” exclaimed the old man, +trotting up the whole length of the passage to a board partition that +seemed to have been temporarily put up across the end. + +A sentry stood before the door in this partition, and to him the skipper +gave his pass. + +The sentry unlocked the door and admitted the visitor into the small +room that had been partitioned off from the front end of the passage. + +The place was clean, fresh and light, but had no furniture except one +narrow iron bedstead with a mattress, a pillow and a white spread as +clean as the room. + +Extended on the mattress lay the young and handsome form of Roland +Bayard, clothed only in his white shirt and gray trousers. His hands +were clasped above his head and his eyes were open and fixed on the +ceiling. + +He started up on hearing the visitor enter. + +“Roland! Roland! My dear boy, Roland!” cried the old skipper, in a +tremulous voice, while the tears started to his eyes. + +If the two had been French or German, they would have fallen into each +other’s arms. Being Americans of English descent, they only clasped +hands a little more firmly than usual, gazed into each other’s eyes +earnestly for a moment, and then sat down on the side of the bed +together in silence. + +The old skipper at length spoke: + +“Roland, my dear, dear boy, how is this?” + +“How is—what?” inquired the young man, slowly, and after a pause, +speaking in a tone of pain in his hesitating voice, and with a look of +pain in his haggard eyes that could not be concealed. + +“Oh, you know. Dear lad, you know! You know what I mean! How is that I +find you here a prisoner, instead of a free man? Why did you not tell Le +that you were a captive among the pirates, not a confederate of them? Le +could have corroborated your story and you would have been brought home +in honor, not in this way!” + +“Le could have done nothing for me, under the circumstances!” replied +the young man, in a tone so full of despair that the old skipper looked +at him in horror. + +“Circumstances, Roland? What circumstances? That devil, Silver, told me +he had persuaded you to join his band. But he never told the truth! +Surely, surely, Roland, he never told the truth! You never joined the +pirate crew! Why do I ask? Of course you never did, and never could!” +said the captain, speaking with great assurance, but—looking anxiously +into the face of his favorite for confirmation of his words. + +No such confirmation came. + +Roland put up his hand and covered his eyes; he could not bear to meet +that anxious, eager gaze of his old friend. + +“Roland, my dear lad, to what circumstances do you allude? Roland, for +my sake—for all our sakes—for—for—little Rosemary’s sake, explain +yourself!” + +The young man kept his eyes covered and his head bowed, while his whole +frame shook as with an ague fit. + +The old skipper saw the effect of his words, and repeated them: + +“For little Rosemary’s sake, dear lad!” + +“Don’t! don’t!” wailed Roland. “Don’t! don’t! I loved the child! Heaven +knows how I loved her! She was always the dearest creature on earth to +me! I loved her so much that I hope, in these three years of absence, in +which she has grown from childhood to womanhood, I hope she has +forgotten me!” + +These last words were uttered in a wail of anguish. + +“But she has not forgotten you, Roland! You are the larger part of her +life! From the time I met her on the _Asia_——Did I tell you that I came +over on the same ship with Force and his party?” + +“No. Capt. Silver told me that he had set you ashore on the coast of +England, not far from Penzance, and so I supposed that you had come +home; but I did not know on what ship or in what company! Go on! you +were talking about Rosemary.” + +“We met by chance on board the _Asia_. Of course, there was great +surprise on both sides. And, of course, I told them all about the +capture of the _Kitty_ by the pirates. And the first question my niece +asked was about you. And from this she has been in a state of continual +anxiety about you—anxiety that has been much increased since she learned +of the capture of the _Argente_ by the _Eagle_.” + +“You told her I was with the pirates?” + +“As a captive, yes! as a well-treated captive! I was not likely to +repeat to her a tale that I did not myself believe, about your having +joined the crew,” said the captain, indignantly. + +Roland again covered his face with his hands, and bowed his head. + +“Boy I what am I to think of your silence?” demanded the old skipper, +more in sorrow than in anger. + +“Oh, my dear old captain, you will think as well of me as you can.” + +“Are you Capt. Silver’s mate? Yes or no?” + +“I cannot tell you.” + +“Roland, if you were the pirate’s mate, you would be brave enough to +avow it. If you were not, you would be sure to deny it. I do not +understand your silence.” + +The young man did not attempt to explain, but sat with his elbows on his +knees and his head bowed upon his hands, in an attitude of despair. + +“I will ask you one other question. Perhaps you will answer it. Did you +recognize in the pirate Silver the man whom you once knew as Angus +Anglesea?” + +“Yes, I recognized him,” replied Roland, wearily. + +“And he recognized you as the youth he was accustomed to see with the +Forces?” + +“Yes, he knew me at once.” + +“It must have been a strange meeting between you.” + +“It was.” + +“Tell me all about it, Roland, my lad. What did you say to him? What did +he say to you when you first met? How did he account for having two +characters and two names, eh? Tell me all about it, lad.” + +“I cannot. Believe me, I cannot. Oh, my old captain! My dear old +captain! It wrings my heart to refuse you! I would do anything to please +you, but I cannot do this which you ask.” + +“I don’t understand! I don’t understand! I don’t believe I shall ever +understand!” exclaimed the perplexed captain, shaking his gray head. + +“Perhaps you never will in this world, but I hope that you will in the +world to come, when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed. In the +meantime—oh, judge me as charitably as you can!” pleaded Roland. + +“Heaven knows that I wish to do so, my dear lad! Perhaps you may answer +me one more question—a last one: Why did you drop your lawful name of +‘Roland Bayard,’ and take another by which you are now known—‘Craven +Cloud?’ You need not answer if you do not choose?” + +“I will tell you. The life of a blockade runner——” + +“Blockade runner be blowed!” angrily exclaimed the old skipper. “Pirate, +you mean! You can’t blind me with—blockade runner! Not after her taking +the _Kitty_, you can’t! Pirate, lad—pirate!” + +“Just as you please! The life, I say, on such a ship is uncertain; death +often tragic. I did not wish to carry an honest name through such a +life, or to such a death. In a word—if those who loved me were destined +to hear one Craven Cloud—blockade runner, pirate, slaver, as you +please—had been taken and hanged, I did not wish them to know that I was +the man. I took an alias, and I made it Craven Cloud because the name +suited the case. There! that is all.” + +“But, Roland, you are no pirate—no slaver. It is impossible that you +should be!” exclaimed the old skipper with the utmost confidence, yet +still eagerly, prayerfully gazing into the troubled face of his young +mate for confirmation of those words. + +But still no such confirmation came. + +The door opened and a soldier entered. + +“Sorry,” he said, in a serio-comic spirit in which some of the soldiers +jested their cares away, “sorry to separate you, but the best of friends +must part. Shutting up time has come, and the word is march!” + +“Do you mean I must go?” inquired the old skipper. + +“That’s about the measure of it, granddad.” + +“Good-by, Roland, lad! Mind, I don’t believe any ill of you, in spite of +all. I shall come to see you again to-morrow, and bring Rosemary with +me.” + +“No! no! no! no! Do not bring her! I am parted from Rosemary forever! +The sight of her—would unman me!” cried the youth. + +“Then—what am I to say to her when I see her?” + +“Say—the best you can—the fairest, the most merciful you can!” exclaimed +Roland. + +The old skipper wrung the youth’s hand and left the room. + +He returned to the hotel, but kept entirely out of the way of the +Forces. He had not the courage to meet Rosemary. + + + + + CHAPTER XVII + ON BOARD THE PRIZE + + +Soon after dinner the earl and the squire left the hotel for the ship. + +They took a street car that ran from Georgetown to the navy yard gate. + +There they alighted and entered the yard, passed the officers’ quarters, +passed the workshops and the ship house and went down to the water side. + +As they neared it they saw an officer in naval uniform standing with his +back toward them, and his gaze directed toward a boat, rowed by six men, +that was swiftly coming toward the shore. + +Mr. Force quickened his steps and laid his hand on the arm of the man, +whom he had recognized as Le. + +The latter turned quickly, started joyfully, and held out both hands, +exclaiming: + +“Uncle Abel!” + +“Le, dear boy!” cried the squire, seizing the youth’s hands and shaking +them cordially. + +“You here! What a surprise! How glad I am to see you! I thought you were +in Europe. When did you return? How are my aunt and cousins? And how is +Odalite? And——” + +“Softly, Le. Softly, dear lad. One thing at a time. We have just arrived +from Europe, and we are all well. And here is a friend of yours whom you +are forgetting,” said the squire, taking the young man’s arm and leading +him back to where the earl stood. + +“Lord Enderby! How glad I am to see you! This is another joyful +surprise. You are looking so well, too. Quite recovered your health, I +hope,” said Le, cordially shaking the hand the earl had given him. + +“Quite recovered, thank you,” replied the latter. + +“Where are you stopping, Uncle Abel?” + +“We are stopping at the old place where we boarded six years ago, when +we first came to Washington. And we have been following you about for +the last twenty-four hours,” replied Mr. Force. + +“And to think I have passed that hotel at least a dozen times within a +day without knowing that you were there! What a surprise! And you say +Odalite is quite well?” + +“Odalite and all are quite well.” + +“I am so glad to hear that! And to know that they are all so near! When +can I see them?” + +“As soon as you please. It will depend on yourself. They have been +waiting for twenty-four hours most anxiously to see you.” + +“What a surprise! I cannot get over the surprise. There is the boat, +Uncle Abel. Will you and Lord Enderby return with me on board the ship, +and spend a few hours with me in the cabin, where we can talk” Le +inquired, as the boat touched the wharf and the rowers laid on their +oars. + +“We came down here for that very purpose,” replied the squire. + +“Come, then.” + +The three gentlemen walked down to the water’s edge and entered the +boat. + +The sailors pushed off, turned and headed for the _Argente_. + +It was a pretty view. The sun had just set, and the western sky was +aflame with the crimson afterglow which was reflected in the water. The +full moon was rising like a vast globe of gold above the gray eastern +horizon. In the distance before them was the green and wooded shore of +Maryland. Midway of the river lay the _Argente_ at anchor, reflected +clearly and duplicated distinctly in the water below. + +They soon reached the ship and stood upon the deck. + +A young midshipman saluted his superior officer. + +Le introduced him as Midshipman Franklin, exchanged a few words with +him, and then took his friends down into his own cabin. + +This was quite a luxuriously furnished place for the cabin of a +man-of-war, as the pirate ship seemed in a small way to be. An Axminster +carpet was on the floor, and blue satin damask curtains before the +berths; blue satin damask coverings on the chairs and sofas. A +marble-topped round table stood in the center. A marble-topped +sideboard, with silver stands for decanters and glasses, stood at the +end opposite the companion way. + +Le drew chairs around the table and invited his friends to be seated. + +Then he went to the sideboard and brought forth a bottle of old port +wine, with wineglasses, and a box of choice Havana cigars, with wax +tapers, and putting them on the table, exclaimed, for the fourth time: + +“What a surprise! I shall never get over this surprise!” + +“You talk of surprises, Le!” said Mr. Force, when they had all had a +glass of wine around, and had lighted their cigars. “You talk of +surprises; but you ought to have grown hardened to them by this time! No +one could ever have had a greater one than you had when you found in the +pirate captain and his mate your old enemy, Angus Anglesea, and your old +friend, Roland Bayard!” + +“You may well say that, uncle! But I do believe it was the sight of my +old foe that put the devil in me that day and made me utterly reckless +of my life in that fight.” + +“We have all read of your heroism in action, Le, my dear boy, and we are +proud of you,” said the squire. + +“It wasn’t heroism, uncle! It was diabolism! If ever the devil got into +mortal man he did into me that day! And it was all at the sight of +Anglesea.” + +“No matter, the papers are full of the brilliant action, and you are the +hero of the hour.” + +“Of the hour. You are right, uncle! Of the hour! In these days of +heroes—on both sides, mind, uncle—no one man, whatever his deeds, could +expect to hold public attention for a longer time. But, indeed—and there +is no mock modesty in what I say—I have no merit. I was more mad than +brave in that action.” + +“Your captain, in his dispatches to the department, puts the case in a +better light. But let that pass for the present. Do you know who the +pirate really is?” demanded the squire. + +“No more than that he is Capt. Silver, known to us as Col. Anglesea,” +said Le. + +“He is neither entitled to the one name nor the other.” + +“Neither Silver nor Anglesea? Who is he, then?” demanded the young +commander, in surprise. + +“Enderby, dear fellow! You, who can speak with authority, tell Leonidas +who the man really is.” + +The earl, thus entreated, turned to the young officer and told him the +story of Byrne Stukely, as it is already known to our readers. + +Le listened with the closest attention, and at the close of the +narrative drew a deep sigh of relief and breathed forth a fervent +thanksgiving. + +“And so you see by what Enderby has told you, that the rascal has not +now, nor ever has had, the slightest claim on the hand of Odalite, who +is now, and always has been, perfectly free. There is not even any need +to seek the aid of the law in her case,” said Mr. Force. + +“Thank Heaven! Oh! thank Heaven!” again fervently exclaimed Le. + +Then, after a pause, he asked: + +“Uncle, when can I see Odalite?” + +“As soon as you please, my boy!” + +“I wish I could see her to-night But to-night duty holds me here. +Franklin, my second in command, has gone on shore for the first time to +see his family, who reside here, and whom he has not seen for three +years. So I cannot get off to-night! But early to-morrow! How early may +I see her to-morrow?” + +“Come and breakfast with us at nine to-morrow. That is about as early as +we can manage.” + +“I will go!” + +“And now, Le, tell us about Roland Bayard. How comes it that he is in +the uniform of the pirate’s mate? How comes it that he is brought here +as a prisoner, instead of as a rescued captive?” + +The countenance of the young man fell, all the joyous life died out of +it, and he murmured: + +“I had forgotten! In my own selfish joy I had forgotten,’” + +“Forgotten? What, Le?” + +“I had forgotten Roland’s position. Oh, Uncle Abel! It is a most cruel +one!” + +“Tell me one thing,” sternly demanded Mr. Force. “Was he Silver’s mate?” + +“I do not know.” + +“You do not know, Le? What do you mean by that? Surely you must know!” + +“Indeed, I do not, uncle. After the fight was over, and when the two +prisoners were placed under my charge on board this ship, and she was +manned by a part of the crew from the _Eagle_, and I was ordered to take +her home, when we had set sail and were well on our way I went to see +Roland, to ask him some explanation of his presence on board the +blockade runner. He was not known there as Roland Bayard, but as Craven +Cloud. I found him alone, for the two prisoners had been confined +separately. I found him moody to the verge of melancholy madness. I told +him how grieved I was to find him there, and asked him to tell me how it +happened, when he had left Capt. Grandiere, whether he had joined the +navy and had been captured in some action.” + +“And what did he reply to all these questions?” inquired Mr. Force, +seeing that Le paused in his narrative. + +“Not one satisfactory word! He told me that fate had brought him there, +and that he could tell me no more. And though I plied him with +questions, and appealed to him to answer them in the name of our +lifelong love for one another, he remained obdurate. He assured me that +he could not satisfy me.” + +“And he never did?” + +“He never did. But one day he told me the reason why his tongue was +tied.” + +“And what was that?” + +“It was a terrible revelation, uncle—a terrible revelation! But it +accounted for everything that was strange in Roland’s life and conduct,” +replied Le, still shrinking from the utterance of what he had to say. + +“Well, well, my boy?” demanded the squire. + +“He told me that Capt. Silver was his own father!” + +“Good Heaven!” exclaimed the earl. + +The squire was silent for a moment, and then said, in the most emphatic +manner: + +“I don’t believe it! It is not true!” + +“Oh! sir, it was true—too true! He had every proof of its truth! +Therefore, you understand that poor Roland, if he was a prisoner among +the blockade runners and a witness to deeds even more unlawful and more +criminal, could not open his mouth with explanations that might be fatal +to Capt. Silver.” + +“The scoundrel is no more Roland’s father than I am! No, not by an +infinite distance, for I have been a father to the boy ever since he was +a baby. And I know that scoundrel is nothing to him! I know the reason +why he told such a falsehood to the young man. It was to get him into +his power and seal his lips! Did Roland, for instance, tell you how he +came to be separated from Capt. Grandiere, and to be on board the +blockade runner, or rather the pirate, as she really was?” + +“No, sir. I explained to you that he would tell me nothing but that fate +had brought him there.” + +“Of course. Then I will tell you. Capt. Grandiere’s ship, the _Kitty_, +was taken by the pirate _Argente_ about six weeks since only. Her crew +were put into open boats and sent adrift to sink or swim, find land or +perish, as fate might will. Her two officers, Skipper Grandiere and Mate +Bayard, were taken prisoners, and brought on board the _Argente_, while +a part of the pirate crew were sent on board the _Kitty_, to take her, +with her rich cargo, to some port—Heaven knows where! That is how young +Bayard came on board the pirate ship.” + +“Is—it—possible!” exclaimed Le, in amazement. + +“Yes; and from the time the master and mate of the _Kitty_ were captured +by Silver they were never allowed to meet. Roland, who had been wounded, +was kept below in the cockpit. Silver told Capt. Grandiere that Bayard +had decided to take service with him, and did not wish to see his old +captain for fear of unpleasant words. Silver was near the English coast, +and he sent a boat ashore at night and landed the old skipper on a +remote beach in Cornwall, and left him to find his way to London as best +he might.” + +“But how did you find out all this, Uncle Abel?” inquired Le, unable to +get over his amazement. + +“Grandiere went up to London on a third-class train, found his +correspondents, told his story, got what money he wanted, and engaged +passage on the _Asia_ from Liverpool to New York. We came over on the +same steamer. That is how we came to know it.” + +“Where is Capt. Grandiere now?” inquired Le. + +“In Washington, staying at the same hotel with us. You may judge our +surprise, and his triumph, when on reaching New York, three days since, +we learned that the blockade runner _Argente_ had been captured by the +United States man-of-war _Eagle_, and had been sent home as a prize, +under the command of Lieut. Force. We came down to Washington by the +first train—I and my party—to see you and Roland; but Capt. Grandiere +avowedly to prove Silver to be a pirate, and to hang him. Capt. +Grandiere will now also be able to prove that young Roland Bayard was +captured by the pirates at the same time that his ship, the _Kitty_, was +taken, and he, the skipper, taken prisoner. Capt. Grandiere’s evidence +must vindicate Roland Bayard.” + +“Oh! if it only could! But, uncle, if Roland will not deny that he was a +voluntary member of the pirate crew?” + +“He will deny it, when he knows the pirate lied to him and deceived him, +and has no claim whatever to his forbearance, much less to his duty or +affection,” said Mr. Force. + +It was growing late, and Mr. Force arose to go. + +“Uncle,” said Le, “why cannot you and the earl stay on board with me +to-night? I can send a man with a note to the hotel to let the ladies +know where you are, and I can make you up most comfortable berths in +this cabin. And to-morrow we can all three go and breakfast with our +friends,” pleaded the young man. + +“Le, my lad, I should like it extremely, but I cannot speak for +Enderby,” replied the squire. + +“I propose this,” said the earl—“that I return to the hotel to take care +of the ladies, and prepare them for your reception in the morning, +leaving you here, Force, with your nephew.” + +The earl’s proposal was accepted by acclamation, and soon after he took +his leave, and was rowed ashore, leaving the uncle and nephew to spend +the night together on the ship. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII + A TERRIBLE REVELATION + + +“We must wait until Franklin comes on board,” said Leonidas Force, the +next morning, as he stood beside Mr. Force, on the deck of the +_Argente_, looking off toward the navy yard, where a boat had already +been sent to bring out the young midshipman. + +“Will he be punctual?” inquired Mr. Force, who was almost as impatient +as his companion to be off to keep their appointment to breakfast with +the ladies of their family at the hotel that morning. + +“‘Punctual!’” echoed Le. “His orders are to report on board at seven +this morning, and he will be here on time.” + +Mr. Force took out his watch and looked at it. + +“It wants twelve minutes to seven now!” he exclaimed. + +“And here comes Franklin!” replied Le, as the young midshipman was seen +running across the yard down to the water’s edge, where the boat waited. + +As he jumped on board, the boat was seen to turn and head for the ship. + +In a few minutes it had crossed the water and come up alongside. + +Young Franklin sprang out and climbed up on deck. + +“Two minutes to seven! You are prompt, midshipman,” said Le, smiling. + +“I would rather be an hour too soon than a second too late, lieutenant,” +replied the young officer, saluting. + +“Quite right! Tell the coxswain to wait. He is to take this gentleman +and myself ashore,” said Le. + +Then he went down into his cabin, followed by Mr. Force, to make a few +final preparations. + +Soon they returned to the deck, went down into the boat, and headed for +the shore. + +When they landed, and were walking across the yard, Le asked: + +“I may at last marry Odalite without let or hindrance?” + +“I have told you so, lad!” + +“Yes, bless you, uncle! But how soon? How soon?” + +“This very day, if Odalite and her mother agree.” + +“Let us walk faster, uncle! Please!” pleaded the impatient lover. + +“My dear Le! Consider—consider my rheumatism! Besides, look! There is no +car near the gate, and we shall pass through before one comes up.” + +Le saw at once that fast walking would not bring him any sooner to the +side of his sweetheart, and so he moderated his haste. + +They reached the gate just as a car came up, and they entered it while +the horses were being unharnessed and turned around. + +“If one had but wings!” said Le. + +“You would find them inconvenient on most occasions,” replied Mr. Force. + +Several other passengers now entered the car, and it started on its +uptown trip. + +Passengers from the sidewalks, however, continued to stop the car and +crowd in until it was more than full, for every seat was occupied, and +all the standing room between the rows, as well as both platforms before +and behind. + +This was always the condition of the street cars in war times, when +authorities were as careless of the lives of horses as they were of +those of men. + +All private conversation was rendered impossible, and Mr. Force rode on +in perfect silence, half suffocated by the close air and heavily pressed +upon by a crowd of men standing up in the middle, hanging on by the +straps and swaying to and fro against the forms of their fellow +passengers. + +At last—“long last”—the ordeal was over. The toiling horses reached the +corner of the street on which their hotel was situated, and Mr. Force +pulled the strap to stop the car, and with his companion slowly pushed, +elbowed and worked his way out of the “black hole” in the open air. + +“There is one comfort in this difficulty in getting out—though our +clothes are often torn and our flesh scratched or bruised in the +trial—yet it gives the wretched horses a minute’s rest,” said the +squire, as, followed by Le, he made his way across the pavement to the +ladies’ entrance of the house. + +Here a great shock met him. + +The earl, pale and grave, stood in the hall waiting for him. + +He bowed to Le, and then took the arm of his brother-in-law, and said: + +“Come with me, Force—lieutenant, you will find the young ladies in the +parlor.” + +Le, surprised and vaguely uneasy, hesitated for a moment, and then ran +upstairs. + +“What is the meaning of this, Enderby? What has happened?” anxiously +inquired the squire. + +“Your wife is not well. She——” + +“She is ill! She is dangerously ill! Let me go to her! Let me go to her +at once!” exclaimed the terrified husband, breaking from the earl’s +hold. + +“No, no, I beg of you! It would be useless! She is—sleeping! Two +physicians and a nurse watch beside her, and they forbid all approach +for the present. Come in here with me!” said the earl, drawing his +brother-in-law into the nearest room, which happened to be a temporarily +untenanted private parlor. + +“When did this happen? Why was I not sent for at once? What is the +nature of her illness? Oh, my dear wife!” exclaimed the squire, as he +fell rather than sat down upon the nearest chair. + +The earl closed the door and turned the key, and then answered: + +“Not an hour ago! They—Elfrida and her daughter, with Miss Hedge and +myself—were in the drawing room waiting for your arrival before ordering +breakfast. A servant brought in the morning paper, and Wynnette took it +to read aloud for the benefit of the party. She turned first to the +report of the examination of the two prisoners, Silver and Cloud, alias +Stukely and Bayard, and of the demand of the British Government for +their extradition upon charge of piracy and slave dealing.” + +“Good Heaven!” + +“The demand was said to have come through the British consul at New +York, who had been on the watch for the possible capture by our ships of +this same pirate ship.” + +“Then old Grandiere’s word will come true!” + +“Probably! But as Wynnette read I happened to look at my sister. She had +grown deadly pale. I arose to go to her, but she raised her hand with a +gesture of command that stopped me, and she listened to the end of the +reading, and then, with her wonderful self-control—deadly pale as she +was—arose to leave the room. Wynnette had not observed the change in her +mother; but Odalite and Elva had done so, and both of them sprang to her +side. Her attack was so sudden and unaccountable.” + +“I understand! I understand!” muttered Mr. Force to himself. + +“But she waved the girls back in the most peremptory manner, and went +alone to her room. The children came back to me, and gazed in my face +for an explanation. I could give them none. They once more started to +follow their mother. But I called them back, and told them to be +patient. Then the condition of little Rosemary Hedge claimed attention. +She was sobbing violently on the sofa. I told my nieces to respect their +mother’s wish to be left alone; that she was probably overcome by the +ill news of one whom she had known from his boyhood, and that she would +best recover her composure in solitude.” + +“I understand! I understand!” again murmured the poor squire to himself. + +“I went to Rosemary, and sought to soothe her. While I was so engaged +little Elva slipped away and went up to her mother’s room, and instantly +came shrieking back, telling us, in wild and incoherent exclamations, +that her mother lay unconscious on the floor of her chamber. + +“Gracious! Gracious heavens!” groaned the squire. + +“We hurried to her assistance, all of us, even Rosemary, who forgot her +own grief at this crisis. We found her on the carpet in a deep swoon. + +“She lay face downward, and dressed as if for a journey. By her side lay +a traveling bag, which seemed to have dropped from her hand as she +fell.” + +“I understand! Oh, I understand too well! too well!” muttered the squire +to himself. + +“We got her on the bed, and sent for a doctor. There was one in the +house, who heard of the event, and came first. Then the doctor whom we +had sent for arrived. They are with her now. One of them procured a +professional nurse. And they are all three agreed upon one point—that no +one but the doctor or nurse be allowed to enter the room.” + +“But I must go to her door. I will not make the least noise; but I must +go to the door and see one of the physicians,” said Mr. Force, rising. + +“I will go with you,” said the earl. + +The two gentlemen left the room together, and went up two flights of +stairs to the floor on which was the suit of rooms occupied by the +Forces. + +They paused before the door of the chamber of illness, or it might be of +death, and Mr. Force tapped very gently. + +It was the nurse, a wholesome-looking, middle-aged woman, who answered +the summons. + +“I wish to see one of the physicians,” whispered Abel Force, in a voice +that trembled with emotion. + +The woman stepped noiselessly back into the room, and was presently +succeeded by Dr. Bolten, a large, fair, bald-headed man, of about sixty +years of age. He stepped out into the passage noiselessly, closing the +door behind him. Then, in a whisper, he greeted Mr. Force, with whom he +had been acquainted. + +“How is my wife?” he inquired, in breathless anxiety. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX + THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH + + +The doctor took the squire’s arm and led him away from the door before +he answered: + +“She is doing as well as possible under the circumstances. All depends +now on absolute quiet. It was for that reason I summoned a trained nurse +and forbid any of the family to approach her.” + +“But what is the nature of her illness, doctor?” + +“She has received a severe mental shock.” + +“Of what nature?” + +“I do not know.” + +“Will—will she—recover?” + +“With great care, I hope so.” + +“Can I go in—very quietly—and look upon her?” + +“Not if you speak to her. Not if you waken her.” + +“I will neither speak to her nor waken her. You shall see how noiseless +I can be.” + +“I am not going back to her room. I have all my patients to see yet, but +I will call again in the afternoon. Dr. Hollis will remain a little +longer. And the nurse, Mrs. Winder, can be relied on. If you enter the +room, Mr. Force, let me entreat you to make no sound,” said Dr. Bolton, +bowing, and passing the squire on his way downstairs. + +Mr. Force softly turned the handle of the lock, which had been oiled, +and entered the room. + +On the bed, covered with a white counterpane up to her chin, lay the +form of his fair wife, still and white as death. On one side of her sat +the nurse; on the other side stood the doctor. + +Mr. Force raised his finger in token that he did not mean to speak, nor +expect to be spoken to, and so he approached the bed on tiptoe, and +gazed upon the marble features, colorless except for the dark rings +around the eyes and lips. + +As the husband gazed a spasm of anguish convulsed his features. He +turned his eyes from the face of his wife to that of the young doctor +who stood over her. + +Dr. Hollis smiled and placed his finger on his lips. + +Abel Force understood both signs, and felt a little hope steal into his +heart. He stood for some time longer gazing upon the beloved face, and +then, at another sign from the doctor, he turned to steal noiselessly +from the room. + +As he went from the bedside toward the door his eyes fell on a large +packet of paper, with a note tied on the top of it. And as he passed he +took it up, thinking that it might be something that required to be sent +to the post office. + +After leaving the room and closing the door softly behind him, he looked +at the superscription of the packet. And it was this: + + + “To my dear husband, Abel Force. To be opened by him alone.” + + +The packet was sealed and tied with a cord, under which was slipped a +letter, directed simply to Abel Force, Esq. + +When Mr. Force had looked at this packet he showed neither surprise at +its existence or impatience to read it. Without breaking the seal, he +slipped it into his pocket, and went quietly down to the parlor in +search of his troubled young people. + +He found them all seated as if they had been at a funeral. + +Odalite and Le occupied one of the small sofas. Old Capt. Grandiere sat +in a large armchair, with his little niece, Rosemary, on his knees, her +head on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. She had sobbed +herself into exhaustion, and therefore into quietness, and was listening +calmly to the consolation the old skipper was trying to give her, and +which was something like this: + +“I tell you, my pet, he may be as stubborn as a mule, and hold his +tongue until he loses the use of it, but I know that, not two months +since, he was taken prisoner off my ship, along with me and all the +crew, and so far from being the pirate’s mate, he was the pirate’s +prisoner. I’ll tell my own story, and it will clear Roland as sure as it +will hang Silver.” + +This, in every form and variety of language, was the oft-repeated +consolation that the old skipper was offering to his little niece, and +not without effect. + +Elva and Wynnette were seated with the earl, who was talking to them in +a low voice, and evidently trying to keep up their spirits. + +As soon as the squire entered the room his daughters all hurried to meet +him, with anxious looks. + +“My dears,” he said, “the doctors speak hopefully of your mother’s +condition. Let us be patient and trust in Providence; and for the +present, my children, you must control your feelings and keep away from +her room.” + +But this did not satisfy the daughters of Elfrida Force. They plied +their father with questions: + +“What is the matter with mamma?” + +“Did the doctors tell you what ails her?” + +“When will she get well?” + +“How soon may we see her?” + +And so forth, and so forth. + +Mr. Force answered these questions as well as he was able, but not at +all satisfactorily. + +The old skipper broke in upon their talk. + +“Force! I wish to the Lord you would order these girls down to +breakfast! Here it is ten o’clock and not one of us has had a mouthful.” + +“My dears, is that true?” demanded their father. + +“Oh, we could not touch any food so long as we felt so anxious about +dear mamma!” answered Odalite, for the whole party. + +“Come down at once! Le, give Odalite your arm! Grandiere, take care of +Rosemary! Enderby, look after Wynnette! Come, my little Elva, under my +own wing,” said the squire. + +And so the party of eight went down to the public breakfast room, but in +truth no one but the earl, the old skipper, and the young lieutenant +made any pretense of eating. The husband and daughters of Elfrida Force +could not feed while the life of the wife and mother was in jeopardy. +But they drank some strong coffee, which served to support their +strength. + +After breakfast the young girls returned to the drawing room under the +escort of the earl and the old captain; but Le remained by the side of +Abel Force, who walked toward the office of the hotel. + +“The occupant of the little room adjoining our own has left this +morning, and I wish to engage the apartment before any one else takes +it; for, Le, if the doctors will not allow me to remain in the same +apartment with my suffering wife, I must, at least, be in the next one, +if possible,” said Mr. Force, as he went up to the counter. + +The room was secured, and the two men turned to go upstairs together. + +“Uncle,” said Le, “Odalite will not give me any answer! Will not fix a +day for our marriage until her mother recovers.” + +“Odalite is right, Le! How can she think of marriage, or of anything but +her mother at this crisis?” solemnly inquired Abel Force. + +“Oh, uncle, we have been so often disappointed, so often put off! It +does seem as if fate were against us!” + +“Don’t be selfish, Le! Think, my dear boy, what anxiety we are all +suffering just now!” + +“I know it, uncle! I know it, and I share it! But how could our marriage +affect the present circumstances? It could not increase the danger of my +aunt, nor could it heighten our anxiety,” pleaded the youth. + +“My dear Le, your passion blinds you to the fact that your marriage at +this time would be deeply indecorous! Say no more about it, dear lad, +until our beloved sufferer is out of danger.” + +Le sighed profoundly, but did not answer. + +“Le,” said the squire, in a low voice, to change the subject, “have you +told old Grandiere why it is that Roland will not give evidence against +the pirate captain, even to save himself?” + +“Yes; I have told him that Roland has been persuaded by Silver, that he, +Silver, is his, Roland’s, father. + +“He said that he didn’t believe one word of it. He said that when the +villain was down in Maryland he must have heard the story of the young +man having been saved in his infancy from the wreck of the _Carrier +Pigeon_, without a mark on person or clothing to point to his parentage, +and taken advantage of the circumstance to claim Roland as his son, and +get him in his power.” + +“I think Grandiere was right,” said Abel Force. + +When they reentered the parlor they found all their party present, idle +and silent, because, in fact, they could settle themselves to neither +occupation nor conversation while their minds were so full of anxiety. + +Le went and sat down beside Odalite. + +Mr. Force lingered a few moments in the room to bid his troubled +daughters to trust in Providence and hope for the best. Then, telling +them he was going up to sit in the room he had engaged adjoining their +mother’s, and that he might be found there if wanted, he left the parlor +and went upstairs. + +First he stopped at the door of the side room and tapped lightly. + +The nurse came to answer the summons. + +“How is she?” he whispered. + +The nurse came out and softly closed the door behind her before +answering: + +“She is sleeping quietly, and must not be disturbed on any account.” + +“Thank you. That will do. I am going to sit in the next room. If I +should be wanted, come to me there.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the woman, returning noiselessly to the sick chamber, +and closing the door behind her. + +As Mr. Force turned away, his eyes fell upon the form of Rosemary Hedge +moving silently as a spirit along the corridor. + +He went to her and whispered: + +“What is it, my dear?” + +“Nothing. I am only going to our room to put on my hat. Uncle Grandiere +is going to take me to see dear Roland,” replied the girl. + +“Ah, that is right. God bless you, my dear!” said the squire, as +Rosemary passed on to the large, double-bedded room in the same corridor +which was occupied by the four girls. + + + + + CHAPTER XX + “WHEN LOVERS MEET IN ADVERSE HOUR” + + +Rosemary quickly put on the olive green linsey suit in which she had +crossed the sea, and the little round traveling cap in which she had +ridden to the city, and hurried downstairs to join her uncle. + +Her dress was not too warm for these late April days. + +“Come, my little love,” said the old skipper, “I could not find a +carriage for you on the stand, nor even at the livery stable around the +corner; so there is nothing for us but to pack ourselves into a moving +black hole they call a street car or to walk. I think by walking fast we +could reach Capitol Hill sooner than by riding in one of these cars.” + +“Let us walk, by all means,” promptly replied Rosemary. + +Then went downstairs together and set out for a brisk rate down +Pennsylvania Avenue. + +It was a fine morning, with a bright sun, and a deep blue sky mottled +lightly with feathery white clouds, as became an April day. + +“You must keep up your heart, little girl,” said the old man, as they +walked on. + +“I do try to do so. I have trust in the Lord; and, under Him, in you, +Uncle Gideon. But oh! when I think of how the news affected her, my +heart almost dies in my breast,” sighed the girl. + +“Mrs. Force, do you mean?” + +“Yes, of course.” + +“But why?” + +“Oh, don’t you see? If the news of Roland’s danger affected her so +greatly, his state must be very serious.” + +“My dear, Roland may have had nothing to do with the lady’s attack. It +looks to me as if it was an apoplectic fit, such as might have happened +to any middle-aged man or woman without any outside cause. Besides, I +never heard of Mrs. Force taking the least interest in the young man, or +even the slightest notice of him beyond mere civility.” + +“Yes, she did—I am sure she did! I always thought—but indeed I hardly +know why I thought so—that she was kinder to me on account of Roland. +She always sympathized with me. And it was the news of Roland’s peril +that brought on her illness—I know it was!” + +“How do you know it, my dear?” + +“Because I was watching her while Wynnette was reading the paper. I was +almost ready to die with my trouble, and I was looking to her for help +and comfort—because she always sympathized with me—and I saw her start, +and her eyes grow wide and scared, and her face turn white; and then I +saw her rise to leave the room. And then, but not till then, the others +saw her, and went to her; but she sent them all back. And I knew it was +about Roland, and I thought there was no hope for him, and I fell to +screaming. Oh, uncle, it was so very bad in me to go on screaming so, +but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t faint and forget all about it, like +Amanda Fitzallen used to do when she couldn’t stand things any longer, +so I had to keep screaming. If I hadn’t I do think my heart would have +bursted!” + +“It was all quite enough to frighten you into hysterics, my poor little +girl, when I was not on hand to reassure you. But still, my dear, in +future you must control yourself. There is nothing more contemptible in +this world than a man or woman who cannot control himself or herself.” + +“But, uncle—my heart would have bursted if I hadn’t screamed.” + +“Then, my dear, you should have let it burst, rather than have screamed. +This may seem harsh to you, my dear, but it is the best kindness. +Self-control, my little girl, is one of the mightiest powers in this +world. It is the soul of the ruler, my dear,” said the old skipper; and +having taken this text he preached on it until they reached the foot of +the Capitol Hill, and he lost his wind in climbing up it. + +In a short time they reached the Old Capitol prison. + +Capt. Grandiere had procured two passes, and armed with these, presented +himself and his niece at the guarded door, and was permitted to enter. + +“I know the way now! But let me take a long breath before I begin to +climb all these stairs that are before us!” said the old man, as he +dropped upon a rude bench in the hall and began to wipe his face. + +Rosemary sat down beside him, and peeped charily through her green veil +at the sentries that stood before the closed doors on each side the +hall. + +Presently the captain arose and told Rosemary to come along, and began +to ascend the stairs. + +They went up three flights and found themselves on the third floor of +the building, in a wide passage, with closed doors, guarded by sentries +on each side. + +Walking between these they reached the front end of the hall, where a +small apartment had been made across it by a partition of wood. Before a +rude door a sentry stood. + +Capt. Grandiere showed his permits, and the soldier opened the door to +let them pass. + +They entered the small room, which, however, had the advantage of a +large window and of perfect cleanliness—of almost aggressive +cleanliness—for everything smelt of fresh water and fresh whitewash. + +Roland Bayard sat on the side of his narrow cot, engaged in reading the +morning paper. + +As his visitors entered the place he looked up, and gave a cry of +mingled pleasure and reproach. + +“Uncle! Rosemary! Oh, Rosemary! Oh, uncle, how could you? Why did you?” + +“Roland! Dear Roland! I couldn’t help it! I wanted to see you so much! +Oh, Roland, you are glad to see me, are you not?” pleaded Rosemary, +going to him and putting both her hands on his shoulders, with all the +innocent candor of her childhood. + +“‘Glad’ to see you? ‘Glad!’” echoed the young man, in a broken voice, as +he took her tiny hands and pressed them to his heart and to his lips, +while his hot tears fell upon them. + +Rosemary burst into a storm of tears and wept upon his shoulder. + +“Oh, uncle!” reproachfully exclaimed Roland, “why did you bring this +child here?” + +“Because no power on earth would have kept her away! If I had not +brought her, she would have done some deadly thing! She would have gone +and got a pass for herself. She would have come here alone and exposed +herself to insult on the way! You don’t know what desperate dare-devils +these little blue-eyed angels of our race can be, where their friends +are in danger or in trouble!” said the old man. + +“And, oh! it is not only that I wanted to see you,” said Rosemary, +raising her tearful face from his shoulder, “but I wanted to beg you for +my sake—for my sake, Roland, to be just to yourself! To have mercy on +yourself! You know, as we know, that you are not a pirate or a +slave-stealer! You know, as we know, that you were taken prisoner by the +pirates when the _Kitty_ was captured! Capt. Grandiere can testify to +that! But he cannot swear that you never joined the pirate crew after +you became their prisoner! He cannot swear that you never became the +pirate captain’s mate, as they charge you with being. Only you can tell +what you did after recovering from your wounds on board the pirate ship. +We know that you remained true to yourself and to your friends and to +every principle of manhood and honesty, and we could swear that you did, +from our lifelong knowledge of you! But, oh, Roland! But, oh, Roland! +Such testimony would not be worth anything in a court of law, where +moral conviction is not legal evidence! Oh, dear, dear Roland! Take pity +on yourself and on us, and testify to the facts that will vindicate +you!” + +These were her words, but no pen can give the pleading, prayerful, +pathetic tones and looks and gestures with which they were uttered. + +The whole strong frame of the young man shook with the emotion that +convulsed his soul. + +“Rosemary!” he said, at length, in a broken voice, “I am about to speak +the words that must separate us forever.” + +He paused, and she took up his cue. + +“That you cannot do, Roland! Neither man nor angel can utter words which +would separate us forever. In this world we may be parted, Roland, if +such be your will. But not forever! Not forever!” she said, in her +tender, vibrating tones. + +“Rosemary, hear me! I cannot give the testimony that would vindicate +myself, because the same testimony would convict Capt. Silver.” + +“He will be convicted fast enough without your testimony,” put in the +old skipper. + +“Then it would help to convict him, so I must not give it.” + +“But, oh! Roland, why should you care for that wicked man—that wickedest +man in the whole world?” pleaded Rosemary. + +“Because, poor child—and now come the words that must part us—because I +am his son!” + +Rosemary stared in blank amazement, while she grew pale as ashes. + +“You are no more his son than you are my son! And not half so much as +you are Abel Force’s son! Deuce take you, lad, are you such a baby as to +be beguiled by that man’s lies? He found out your early history, and has +made use of the facts, as well as of the want of facts, to deceive you +and claim you as his son, to get you in his power, to make you his +comrade, if he could, and to tie your tongue in any case. Ah! you must +be a blind bat, indeed, not to see through him!” + +“Ah! Capt. Grandiere, old friend, you do not know! You do not know! +Capt. Silver has proved the truth of his story to me,” replied Roland, +in a tone of despair. + +“How has he proved this?” demanded the old skipper. + +“I dare not tell you that. His story involves the—the—honor of +another—of another family. I cannot breathe another word on this subject +beyond the bare fact that I know myself to be Silver’s son, and will not +give testimony to convict my father. So much was due to you, and told +that you may know why I will not testify.” + +“Then——!——!——!” The old skipper let off a volley of oaths that might +have been highly effectual in a storm at sea, or a fight with pirates, +but that fell on Rosemary’s delicate ears like claps of thunder, and +made her put her hands up to shelter them—and he finished by saying—“If +I don’t give a hint to the authorities and have you put upon the stand +and compelled to give evidence.” + +The young man made no reply, but turning to Rosemary, began to ask about +their mutual friends. + +The girl answered all his questions to the best of her knowledge. + +This conversation lasted until the old skipper arose to take leave. + +“Captain,” said Roland, “my advice to you is to take Rosemary down to +Maryland and leave her there with her friends. Washington, under present +circumstances, is certainly no place for the child.” + +“I will not go, Roland. I will not stir from this city until I see you +through this trouble!” said the girl. + +“You hear that?” inquired the old skipper. “And you see that I could not +get her away without turning Turk and tyrant, and calling in the power +of the law and using force and violence to back up that. What can an old +ruffian like me, even though I weigh two hundred pounds, and am the +terror of the roughest crew afloat, do with a mite of a blue-eyed angel? +She’ll do as she likes, if she dies for it!” growled the skipper. + +“You will let me come to see you every day, Roland, and in that way I +can try to bear this,” pleaded Rosemary. + +“May the Lord bless you, my child. May the Lord bless you and keep you +safe always!” breathed Roland, as he folded her to his heart and kissed +her—even as he had been accustomed to do when he was a little lad and +she was a baby. + +And so the interview ended. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI + COUNTRY VISITORS + + +Capt. Grandiere and Rosemary left the Old Capitol prison by the way they +had entered it, and bent their steps toward Pennsylvania Avenue, and +thence toward their hotel. + +The old skipper went upstairs with Rosemary, to ask after Mrs. Force. + +They found all the young people of their party still in the drawing +room. + +Mr. Force was up another flight of stairs in the room next to that of +his sick wife. + +Lieut. Force had returned to his ship. + +Odalite, Wynnette and Elva were seated about the room, trying to work at +their flower embroidery and conversing at intervals in hushed voices. + +“Well! And how is the mother by this time?” cheerily inquired the +captain, with a view to encourage the daughters. + +“Dr. Bolton has just made a second visit, and says that she will do +well, if not disturbed,” replied Odalite. + +“Thank Heaven! I hope she will be all right in a day or two!” exclaimed +Grandiere, heartily, as he threw himself into a big armchair and dropped +his hat between his feet. + +“How did you leave Roland?” inquired Wynnette. + +“Perfectly well, as to his bodily health. He inquired after you all, and +sent his respects to you.” + +“How does he take his arrest and imprisonment?—that is what I meant,” +said Wynnette. + +“Bravely and patiently, as should a man with a good conscience,” replied +the captain. + +“You can prove that he was a prisoner among the pirates, and not a +comrade of their crew?” said Wynnette. + +“I can swear that he was their prisoner,” replied the old man. + +“And, of course, that will clear him,” said Wynnette, conclusively. + +The old skipper did not contradict her. + +Perhaps he might have done so, however, if at that moment the door had +not opened to admit a waiter, who brought a handful of cards that he +held together like an open fan. + +Before he could deliver them a group of laughing visitors passed him and +entered the room. + +Rosemary made a dart at the group, exclaiming: + +“Mother! Oh, mother!” + +She was caught in the arms of Mrs. Dorothy Hedge and covered with tears +and kisses, while the three other girls rushed upon Miss Susannah +Grandiere, and the old skipper trotted across the room and shook hands +with his grandnephew Sam, who was the only member of the visiting party +left for him. + +The words that followed on all sides were at first rather incoherent, as +such greetings after such partings are apt to be. + +“We followed up the fellow who brought up our tickets. Fancy our staying +downstairs to wait for him to go and come! So as he insisted on taking +our tickets first and handed us blank ones and a pencil, I wrote all our +names down and let him take them, but we followed close behind the +tickets!” said Mr. Sam Grandiere. + +“Cards, dear Sam! Cards!” whispered Wynnette. + +“How is it that you are not in the army?” inquired Capt. Grandiere. + +“Because somebody had to stay home to plow and sow and look after the +family,” replied the young man. + +“And so you never volunteered, and you bought a substitute when you were +drafted?” + +“I never volunteered because my father and brother were both in the +army, and because, as I said before, somebody had to stay home and look +after the crops. And I never was drafted; if I had been I should have +gone in, because I could not have found it in my conscience to tempt any +poor fellow with money to go and get shot in my place. No, if I had been +drafted I should have gone.” + +“Right, my boy! Right! Right! Right!” exclaimed his uncle, heartily. + +“And how are all here?” inquired Miss Susannah Grandiere, when at length +all were seated. + +“You see us all here except papa and mamma. Papa is well, but mamma——” +Here the speaker, Odalite, paused as the tears choked her voice. + +Miss Grandiere looked from one to the other of the family party in mute, +though anxious inquiry. + +“Mrs. Force was taken suddenly ill this morning,” said the old captain, +speaking for his friends. “No! now don’t be alarmed! The doctor, who has +just left her, says that she is doing well, and will be all right if +kept quiet!” he added, to soothe the uneasiness of the visitors. + +“But what is the matter with her?” inquired Mrs. Hedge. + +“She had a severe shock, and fell into a swoon. She has been lying +prostrate, but quiet, ever since. Now, don’t be alarmed; there is no +danger.” + +“But what sort of a shock?” inquired Miss Grandiere. + +“Susannah, you were always inquisitor-general. Mrs. Force heard suddenly +that a friend of ours, young Roland Bayard, had been taken prisoner +under exceptional circumstances.” + +“What circumstances?” persisted the inquisitor. + +The old skipper heaved a deep sigh, and as briefly as he could, told the +story of Roland’s double capture, first by the _Argente_, that took the +_Kitty_, and afterward by the _Eagle_, that took the _Argente_, and he +added, without reserve, the circumstances of Capt. Silver’s alleged +claim upon Roland, which sealed the lips of the latter. + +“Roland the pirate’s son! Why, he is no more Silver’s son than he is +mine!” exclaimed young Sam. + +“But, now tell us how it was that you found us so soon?” + +“Well,” said Sam, “to begin at the beginning: On Monday morning we got +your telegram saying that you had all arrived safe, and that Uncle +Gideon was along with you, and you would be with us in a few days. +Naturally we were all rejoiced and we waited for you. But on Wednesday +morning we got the New York papers, telling all about the capture of the +_Argente_ by the _Eagle_, and the arrival of the _Argente_ under command +of Lieut. Force, and of the prize being ordered to the navy yard here!” + +“And it did not need one to rise from the dead to reveal the fact that +we should all come directly to this city to meet Le!” put in Wynnette. + +“No, it didn’t!” assented Sam. + +“And so I offered to come up and see you. And Aunt Dolly and Aunt Sukey +said they would come, too. So I harnessed the two strongest draft horses +to the old carryall, and we set out yesterday morning. We got as far as +Horsehead last night, and put up there for the night. This morning we +started early, and reached the city about noon. First, like a fool, I +drove my party to your sometime house at the West End. Found it was all +turned into public offices. Then we went the rounds of the hotels and +now at last we have found you.” + +“Good boy!” exclaimed Wynnette. + +“But have you found rooms?” anxiously inquired the old skipper. + +“No. Our carryall is at the door. We came here to call first, but we +also hoped that we would be able to put up here,” said Sam. + +“Indeed, I hope you may,” said the old skipper; “but the dearest thing +in Washington at the present time is space! If I had a room to myself I +would offer it to these ladies, but I have only a single bed in a +double-bedded room.” + +“But, at any rate, you will order your carriage around to the livery +stable and spend the day with us. That will give Mr. Grandiere time to +see about your rooms, here or elsewhere,” said Odalite to the two elder +ladies, who were seated on the sofa, with Rosemary between them, with +each of her little hands clasped one in each of theirs. + +“Yes, my dear, thank you, we will spend the day,” announced Mrs. Hedge, +for her party. + +“Come up now and lay off your wraps,” said Rosemary, leading the way to +what, in party parlance, was now called the room. + +“Uncle,” inquired Sam Grandiere, very anxiously, “are matters really +serious with Roland Bayard?” + +“So serious, my lad, that I fear for the worst. Unless he can be +disabused of this idea that Silver has impressed upon him—that he is the +pirate’s own son—he will never be induced to give the testimony that +will convict that pirate and vindicate himself.” + +“If Miss Sibby Bayard were only here; she might be of use at this time,” +mused Sam, aloud. + +“Miss Sibby Bayard is here, you bet! Talk of the devil and you know what +follows,” said a voice on the threshold, and the form of the lady in +question appeared at the door. “When a thing is got to be done, sez I, +the sooner the better, sez I! And so here I am, good folks.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXII + NEW HOPE + + +“Miss Sibby!” exclaimed the assembled party, in one breath, as they all +arose to welcome her. + +“Oh, yes!” said the good woman, after she had shaken hands all around, +and had sunk breathless into the nearest easy chair. “It is all mighty +fine to cry out ‘Miss Sibby,’ as if you were overjoled at the sight of +me; but deeds speak louder than words, sez I. And them as runs away to +the city and leave me behind, sez I, and then pretends to be glad to see +me, sez I, is nothing but ‘sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal,’ sez I. +Yes, it’s you I mean, Sam Grandiere!” + +“But, Miss Sibby, I didn’t run away and leave you, ma’am,” pleaded the +young fellow. + +“And plenty of room in the carryall, too, as might have incommodated me +very well. The old saying sez as ‘Where there is a will there is a way,’ +and I sez, correspondimentally, sez I, ‘where there is a way, sez I, +there out to be a will,’ sez I. Yes! I’m talking to you, Sam Grandiere. +You had the way to take me, but you hadn’t got the will.” + +“Indeed, Miss Sibby, I didn’t know you wanted to come. I should have +been glad enough to take you.” + +“Why didn’t you ask me, then? You might a knowed, soon as the news +reached our neighborhood as all the folks had come back from furrin +parts, and Gideon Grandiere among ’em, as I would want to come up and +hear news of my lad. But you run away and left me behind. And when I +found it out I just said to myself, sez I, I’ll just harness up my old +mule, sez I, and I won’t be long behind ’em, sez I. And so here I am.” + +“How did you find us out?” inquired Capt. Grandiere. + +“In the funniest way as ever you see. As I was a-driving slowly up the +Pennsylwany Avenue who should I see but that dog, Joshua, a-walking as +majestical down the street as if the whole city belonged to him. I +knowed him at once, and naterally looked to see who was along of him. +And then who should I see but that nigger a-walking down the street +behind the dog as if the whole country belonged to him, if you please. +So I stopped the mule and hollered to him. And the wust of hollering +after anybody on Pennsylwany Avenue is that everybody in hearing thinks +as you’re hollering after them. So everybody had to turn and look at me +and my mule. And the nigger stood and stared. And I had to holler after +him again to ax him where his master was a-putting up. And he come to +the side of the cart and told me, and axed me to let him get in and +drive me to the hotel, ’cause, he said, every one was a-staring at me.” + +“And so Dickson drove you here, did he, ma’am?” inquired the old +skipper. + +“He did. But as for the people staring at me, sez I to that nigger, if I +am a show, I’m a free show, sez I, and it will cost ’em nothing, sez I, +and it ain’t often as the poor white trash in the city gets a good +chance to stare at the descendant of the great duke, sez I, and you may +lay your life on that, sez I. So that nigger got in and drove the mule, +and Joshua marched behind as solemn as a funeral procession. And so we +got here. And now how is my boy? My adopted neffy? And where is he?” + +“Roland is in good health. He is at present—ahem!—living on Capitol +Hill,” answered the old salt, who was unwilling at this juncture to +enter into explanations with Miss Sibby as to Roland’s real state. + +“And why isn’t the boy staying here with you all?” inquired the old +lady. + +“Oh, he—there is no room here. We are fearfully crowded. The four young +ladies have to sleep two in a bed, in a double-bedded room.” + +“That’s ruinous to health. Why don’t you all go to some other hotel?” + +“Because they are all more crowded than this.” + +“Then what am I to do?” + +“Oh, Sam and I are going out to hunt for lodgings now. We have to find +lodgings for my two nieces and nephew. We will hunt up a place for you +also. Of course, you will stay here to-day.” + +“It is perfectly dreadful! If I had a knowed all this I’d a-never have +left home. I had room enough to turn round in there, anyways. When +people’s well off, sez I, they ought to be content, sez I. But how is +Abel Force and his wife and Odalite? I don’t see any of ’em round.” + +“Mrs. Force is not well, and Mr. Force is with her, I believe. Odalite +went to show my two nieces to a room to take off their things,” +discreetly answered the old sailor. + +“What’s the matter along of Elfrida Force?” + +“Well—she——I really don’t know. Not much, I hope.” + +“I know. It’s trotting around so much. There’s where it is. When people +gets to be past their prime, sez I, they ought to take care of what’s +left of them, sez I. ‘Dancing bears,’ sez I, ‘must pay for their airs,’ +sez I.” + +“What sort of a time have you had since the war began, Miss Sibby?” +inquired the old salt, with a view to take the visitor off dangerous +ground. + +But he “fell from the frying pan into the fire.” + +The old lady’s face flushed, and her eyes snapped. + +“Don’t ask me what sort of a time I’ve had! Old Scratch’s own time! What +with being raided by first one party and then another, I have hardly a +sheep or a pig or a duck or a hen left on the place. And what with being +called a rebel by the Unioners and a traitor by the Confederers, I have +hardly a morsel of self-respect or Christian charity left in my heart. +And I haven’t a bit of respect for either party—not I! Clapper-clawing +each other like a pack o’ wild cats for nothing in this world, as I can +see, ’less it is because they haven’t got no furriners to clapper-claw. +If free people can’t live peaceable in a free, healthy, plentiful +country, sez I, the sooner they get the Turkey of Constantinople to rule +over them the better, sez I.” + +“You seem to be excited, Miss Sibby.” + +“So would you be excited if you had suffered all that I have. First +comes the Unioners and carries off all my pigs, and calls me a rebel +because I object. And then comes the Confederers and carries off all my +fowls, and calls me a traitor because I don’t see the right of it. +Unioners and Confederers! I calls ’em Blue Bottle Flies and Gray Back +Bugs, I do!” + +“Oh, Miss Sibby!” + +“Well, then, I do! I hain’t no patience with neither party! A cutting +and a slashing at each other like Injuns! Only last week a lot of Blue +Bottles come riding up and searched the house after a spy—as if I would +harbor a spy!—and after eating up and drinking up everything in the +house, and putting me in fear of my life, they mounted and rode away, +telling me ‘to take care of myself’! ‘Take care of myself,’ indeed; +after scaring me almost to death.” + +“Oh, Miss Sibby! I am afraid you are no——” + +Whatever he was going to say was cut short by the sudden opening of the +door, and the reëntrance of Odalite Force, escorting Mrs. Hedge and Miss +Grandiere. + +“You here, Miss Sibby?” exclaimed the three ladies, in a breath. + +“What the Blue Bottles and the Gray Backs has left of me is here, as you +see,” replied Miss Bayard, rising to receive the welcome of the new +arrivals. + +“And now, Sam, my boy, we will go out hunting lodgings; and if we can’t +find them in the city we will even go a little way into the country,” +said the old skipper, as he arose and bowed himself out of the room, +followed by his nephew. + +When they had gone, Lord Enderby, who had been left out of the talk, now +fancied himself out of place. So he likewise arose and bowed himself +out. + +When the half dozen women were left in the parlor, they drew their +chairs together and fell into a confidential talk. + +Miss Sibby inquired more particularly into the nature of Mrs. Force’s +illness; and Wynnette, with her brusque frankness, told the truth—that +the shock of hearing of Roland Bayard’s arrest and imprisonment, under +the charge of piracy, had made the lady ill. + +Miss Sibby just stared with incredulous amazement. + +“Roland Bayard! My Roland—charged with piracy? Why, it is all a funny +mistake, you know, that must soon be set right! And that old gay +deceiver, Gideon Grandiere, to go and tell me that he was boarding on +Capitol Hill, when he was in prison there! What did he do it for? Was he +afeared of scaring me about my own Roland? Why, Lor’, sez I, when I know +my boy is innocent, sez I, I know his innocence is gwine to shine forth +like the sun at midday, sez I, and make his accusers ashamed, sez I.” + +Here it was felt to be right Miss Sibby should be told of the real state +of the case. And so she had to hear all about the taking of the _Kitty_ +by the _Argente_; when the skipper and his mate were made prisoners by +the pirate, who set the former at liberty on the coast of Cornwall, and +kept the latter a captive on board the _Argente_; and then of the +capture of the _Argente_ by the _Eagle_, and the bringing of the prize +into port with the pirate captain and his first officer on board; and, +finally, the identification of the two prisoners as Angus Anglesea, +alias Capt. Silver, and Roland Bayard, alias Craven Cloud; and the +alleged paternal claim of the former upon the latter, which now closed +the lips of the claimed son from saving himself by testifying against +the self-styled father. + +Miss Sibby’s eyes opened, her brows raised, and her chin dropped in +sheer horrified amazement. + +“Why, them’s all lies!” she indignantly exclaimed. “Abel Force knows +they’re lies! Why don’t he go and tell the boy better? As to that +Anglesea a-turning out to be no Anglesea at all, no English gentleman at +all, and no military officer at all, but just a pirate, after being a +thief and a forger, I’m not a bit surprised at that. No more would I be +surprised if he was found out to be Old Scratch himself, allowed to come +on earth in the human form in these very bad times. But as for anything +going amiss with my boy on account of his being stuffed with lies about +that pirate being of his own father, it shan’t be done! Me and Abel +Force will put a stop to that! Abel Force knows who that boy’s father +is; and I have my suspicions. There shan’t be a hair of his head hurt! +Mind that!” said the old lady, shaking her head. + +“Oh, Miss Sibby!” pleaded little Rosemary, clasping her hands +prayerfully, and raising her large blue eyes to the speaker’s face. “Can +you—will you—save Roland?” + +“Abel Force can, and he will, or I’ll know the reason why!” replied Miss +Bayard. + +For hours longer the conversation ran on Roland Bayard and the net of +circumstances that had caught him in this perilous false position. + +They were still talking when the two gentlemen returned, and reported +that they had found comfortable lodgings for the travelers, who might +take possession of their new quarters that evening. + +“Where is Abel Force?” inquired the captain, as they all went down to +luncheon. + +“Papa sent word down that he did not need luncheon, but would join us at +dinner in the evening,” replied Odalite. + +And they began the meal. + +And meanwhile where was Abel Force? + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII + TOO GREAT A BURDEN + + +Abel Force went into the little room he had engaged, adjoining the sick +chamber of his wife. + +It was no more than a closet, and had evidently been used as a dressing +room attached to the large chamber before the exigencies of war had +rendered space in the house too valuable for the little place to be used +for any purpose but a bedroom. + +It was furnished very simply, with an iron bedstead, a washstand with a +glass above it, a single chair, and half a dozen wooden pegs on the door +to hang clothes. + +Mr. Force turned the back of the only chair to the window that was +opposite the door and overlooked the yard; and he sat down and drew the +packet he had taken from his wife’s room, and again looked at the +superscription. + +Yes, it was directed in a firm hand to: + +“Abel Force, Esq.” + +It was tied up with cord and sealed with wax. + +But under the cord a little note had been slipped, and this also was +addressed—but in a weak and tremulous hand—to: + +“Abel Force, Esq.” + +He opened the note to read it. It was without date; yet he felt sure +that it must have been written on that very morning before the sudden +fall of the woman had prevented her flight. + +The note ran as follows: + + + “The hour has come when I must drop the mask of deceit and show myself + in my true colors—a living lie, a hypocrite, though never, never happy + in falsehood and hypocrisy. Your love and trust have wounded and + tortured me; the reverence of children has humiliated me. No, never + for a moment happy or at ease in my disguise. It is almost a relief + now to throw it off and reveal myself as I am, even though the + revelation must banish me from your presence and my children’s forever + in this world, and perhaps in the next. Yet, I repeat, it is a relief + to throw off the disguise which has suffocated me like a heavy cloak + these many years; and has been more than that—has been like Medea’s + robe of fire for the last few years since Anglesea’s first visit to + us. + + “The inclosed packet contains a manuscript that was written at + intervals during this time, and with a view to the chance of just such + a crisis as has now come. I leave it for you to read. I do not ask you + to pardon me, for I know there is no such thing as pardon for me in + this world. I do not even ask you to judge charitably of me—charity is + for the sinner, not for the hypocrite. I only ask you to read the + story that you may understand the fiendish hold one human being had + upon my body, soul and spirit—my very life here and hereafter; and, + after having read it, I, who have no right to ask you anything, dare + still to ask you this—to ask, to plead, to pray that you will be kind + to one who is the guiltless victim of others’ guilt, and to save him, + if you can. And now, farewell! And oh! my whole heart goes out in this + cry. Oh, God! Oh, God! though I cannot be pardoned—yet, oh! hear my + prayer, and save and bless my husband and my children!” + + +That was all. + +Abel Force dropped his head upon his breast, and remained in deep +thought for a few moments. Then, with a heavy sigh, he aroused himself, +drew a match case from his pocket, lighted a match, set fire to the +little note and held it down upon the stone window sill, with the point +of his penknife, until it was consumed to ashes. + +Then he went to lock his door, to prevent intrusion; but he found that +he had already taken that precaution. + +Finally, he returned to his chair, cut the cords of the packet, broke +the seal, and read as follows: + +“THE STORY OF A WITHERED HEART + +“You have often heard how lonely, loveless and neglected was my +childhood and youth. You are reminded of these facts now, not in excuse +of what followed, but as the causes of the effects that destroyed my +life. + +“You know that I was born at Enderby Castle, where the first years of my +infancy passed. + +“When I was scarcely four years of age I lost my mother—too young to +understand or to lament my loss. The pageantry of her funeral is one of +the strongest impressions among the brain pictures of that time. + +“A few days after that event my father left Enderby, taking me with him. + +“We went to Weirdwaste, an estate he had acquired through his marriage +with my mother, situated on the west coast of Ireland. It was, if +possible, even more drear, lonely and desolate than Enderby Cliff +itself. + +“This place, in which I was destined to pass my childhood, was built of +gray stone, two stories high, around the four sides of a hollow +quadrangle, at the inland end of a long, flat point of land stretching +far out into the Atlantic Ocean, which at high tide swept over it, +covering more than two-thirds of the ground; and the moan of the sea +never ceased from the sorrowful shore. North, west and south around the +point of land nothing but sky and water was to be seen. East—inland—was +a wild waste, dotted here and there by the huts of the poorest peasantry +on the island, and that means, also, the poorest people on the earth. + +“The old manor house was shockingly out of repair, but because it was +the best building on the estate it was occupied by my father’s land +steward, O’Nally, and his wife. + +“These two had been old servants of my mother’s family, and had been +very much devoted to her. + +“After my father’s arrival with me at the house they also acted in the +capacity of butler and housekeeper. + +“My father had brought with him a valet and a groom, and for me a nurse +and a governess. + +“I was very warmly welcomed and fondly caressed by my mother’s old +servants, and so for the first few days I was very happy at Weirdwaste. + +“We had no neighbors but the poor tenantry in the huts, on the waste +behind the manor house. + +“And we saw no company but the vicar of the little Protestant parish, in +the village of Bantrim, ten miles inland, and the county practitioner +from the same place. + +“These two old men remain strong, clear portraits in the gallery of my +memory. + +“The vicar, Mr. Clement, was a large, fair, clean-shaved, bald-headed +old gentleman, with blue eyes and a beaming smile. He was very, very +good to me, and I soon learned to love him. + +“The medical practitioner, Dr. Alexander, was a tall, gaunt, high-nosed, +red-faced man, with a shock of iron-gray hair and whiskers; a formidable +frown and a brusque manner. He also was very, very kind to me, but I +never got over my fear of him. + +“My father did not intend to remain at Weirdwaste, as I soon found out. +He had the vicar and doctor come and spend the day and dine at the +house, so that they might see the child who was to be left at Weirdwaste +under their joint care. + +“The doctor pronounced me a wonderfully sound and healthy child, who +would grow finely in the pure, invigorating air of the seaside. The +doctor promised to look after my health, and the vicar to superintend my +education. And both engaged to write frequently and keep my father +advised as to my welfare. + +“So, having taken every precaution he thought necessary to my +well-being, and having settled the urgent business that brought him to +Ireland, my father bade me good-by, and left Weirdwaste to travel on the +Continent. + +“And then began the loneliest life ever led by motherless child. + +“O’Nally and his wife were an old couple. They kept two old servants—a +woman, who did the housework; and a man, who did the outdoor work. And +they kept an old horse and an old jaunting car. + +“My nurse was a respectable, elderly matron; my governess, a discreet, +middle-aged maiden, selected by my father especially for good qualities. +Surely I had all the care and protection that was needed. But I had no +love, no play, no amusement, no companions. Even the warm-hearted +peasant women, who had come down from their huts on the waste to welcome +their little lady of the manor, came no more after that first day—not +that they had ceased to care for me, but because the occasion of their +coming had passed, and their hard work kept them all at home. + +“On fine Sundays O’Nally took me in the jaunting car, with himself and +his wife, to church, and we heard Mr. Clement preach, and after the +service I sometimes got a pat on the head, and a smile and kind word +from the vicar. He was a widower without children, so I never was asked +to his house. + +“Once a week the county practitioner rode out to the manor house to see +after my health, that he might report to my father. Also, if no one from +Weirdwaste happened to go to church on a Sunday, the vicar would ride +out to the manor in the course of the week to inquire the cause of +absence, and report to my father. + +“These occasional drives to church on Sundays, and semi-occasional +visits from the vicar and the doctor, were the only variations in the +monotony of my days, which were ordinarily passed in this way. + +“At seven o’clock in the morning, Nurse Burns would wake me up, give me +a bath, and dress me in such a plain black frock! I had not even the +pleasure of pretty clothes! And then she would give me my breakfast—such +a plain breakfast of oatmeal and milk! I had never the indulgence of +cakes or sugar plums, which was all very well for me, no doubt, but +which was also very dull. Then came Miss Murray with the school books, +and I would sit alone with her in the schoolroom, trying to study my +first reader, while she sat reading or sewing, but scarcely ever +speaking. + +“Then came the noon dinner of boiled mutton and potatoes. + +“And after that more school for an hour or two. + +“Then a walk on the sands, all around the point, if the tide was low; +or, if the tide were high and the cape covered with water, we took a +walk on the waste behind the manor house. + +“Sometimes I got a letter from my father, inclosed in one to the steward +or to my governess.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV + A NEW MOTHER + + +“One day I received a terrible shock. Child as I was, I felt it +severely. It came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it fell like a +thunderbolt upon me. + +“It was a morning in November when the carrier’s cart stopped at the +manor house, and left a box directed to me, in the care of the steward. + +“When it was opened, it revealed a beautiful cake wrapped in many folds +of silver paper. I was delighted, for I had not tasted cake for months. + +“But, oh! I did not taste it even then! The letter that lay on the top +of the cake poisoned it. + +“That letter told me that my father had married and was spending his +honeymoon in Paris. I had a stepmother! A being whom, I knew not how, or +why, unless perhaps from the idle talk of servants, I had learned to +hate as an evil and to dread as an enemy—though it never occurred to me +that my father would give me one. And yet he had married within five +months after my mother’s death. + +“I could not touch the poisoned cake! I know not what became of it. + +“I cried all that day and many days after. The steward and his wife and +the two old servants who had known and loved and served my mother, +encouraged me with their sympathy and lamentations to yield to my grief +and despair; but the governess frowned upon me and lectured me upon my +duty to my parents, as it was her business to do—only it seemed to me +cruel in her. + +“As days passed my passionate grief subsided. + +“My father did not bring his bride to Weirdwaste, which was, indeed, no +fit place to bring a fine lady. Nor did he send for me to join them +wherever they might be. + +“He heard regularly from me through the doctor, the vicar, the steward, +or my governess. And he seemed to be content with my condition. + +“So the year passed away. I was thankful to my father for one thing—that +he did not bring my stepmother and myself together. + +“This was all wrong, but I did not know it then. I was unconsciously +influenced by the sentiments of my own mother’s own old servants who +were about me, and who, whenever Miss Murray was out of sight, would +commiserate with me on the subject of my stepmother, and then rejoice +with me on the fact that no future heir to Enderby that might be born of +the second marriage, could deprive me of my inheritance of Weirdwaste, +which was mine in right of my own mother. + +“Ah me! Enderby Castle and Weirdwaste sounded well enough in the +peerage, but in point of fact the united rent roll of both places did +not reach over a thousand pounds per annum, and my father, for his rank, +was a very poor man. + +“I expected to see my father at Christmas. He wrote to the steward to +say that he would come and bring Lady Enderby with him, and that the +house must be made as comfortable as possible for her reception; and +that the suit of rooms pointing south must be fitted up for her especial +use. + +“This letter filled my soul with dismay. I could have looked forward +with delight to the visit of my father, had he been coming alone; but I +could only dread the meeting with my stepmother. + +“However, both the pleasure and the pain were saved me, for after the +servants had got the house ready for the reception of my father and his +new wife, there came another letter saying that the delicate health of +Lady Enderby obliged him to take her to Italy for the winter. And in +place of my father and stepmother’s visit, came a box of presents. + +“I was again divided in my feelings—sorry not to see my father, glad not +to see my stepmother. + +“The Christmas box was a large and well-filled one, packed with flannels +and blankets, and tea and sugar for the old women in the huts on the +waste, and containing another smaller box with cakes, sweetmeats and +sugar plums for me and my small household. + +“I heard the steward remark to his wife that the new countess must be +well off, or the earl must have come into money some way, for this was +the very first Christmas that he had ever sent anything to the poor on +the estate. As the guardian of his daughter, the heiress, he forgave +many of them their rent, but he never helped them in any other way. And +so at Christmas the old people on the waste were made happy. And now let +me add here that as long as I remained at the old manor house this +Christmas dole came every year. + +“After this I heard less of the cruelty of my father in afflicting me +with a stepmother. I heard even less of the wickedness of stepmothers in +general and the probable enormity of my stepmother in particular. + +“The old people from the waste came down in crowds to the manor house on +Christmas Day to thank me for the dole that had been sent to them on +Christmas Eve. This was the only pleasure we had. There was no +merrymaking, and the state of the roads prevented us even from going to +church. + +“Oh, the dreary winter that followed! No one came to the house except +the vicar and the doctor, who made weekly calls to report to my father. +And we went nowhere at all. That was my first winter at Weirdwaste. And +here let me add that all succeeding winters were like that. + +“I had no companions, no amusements, no occupations except my +schoolbooks and my piano. I had not even a pet bird, or cat, or dog. + +“The steward and his wife were good to me, but they were engaged in +their affairs. Miss Murray was faithful, but when she was not hearing my +lessons, or guiding my fingers over the keys of the piano, she was +busied in reading. I never knew anybody to read so much as she did. She +had no other recreation. + +“When the spring returned we began to take walks on the sand again when +the tide was out; and we drove to church on Sundays when the state of +the roads permitted us. + +“On the first of August we received news from my father. He was at +Enderby Castle, to which he had taken my stepmother for a temporary +sojourn. He wrote to the steward to tell him that an heir had been born +to Enderby; and he wrote to me to say that my new mother had given me a +dear little brother, and that he hoped I would love them both very much. + +“I was not quite four years old when my own dear mother died. I was but +a few weeks past five now when I was told that I had a little brother by +my father’s new wife, and that I must love both. + +“I could not do it. You will see what a sensitive and badly trained +child I was when I tell you that I fell into hysterical sobs and tears, +and refused to be comforted. It seemed to me that I had quite lost my +father—that he had been taken away from me by the new woman and the new +child. I remember crying aloud to my own mother in heaven to come and +take me away, because no one cared for me on earth. + +“Miss Murray coaxed, lectured, remonstrated, all in vain. I would not +hear reason or receive consolation. + +“The two O’Nallys and the two old servants sympathized with me, and +petted me, and cried over me. They never said a word against my father +or my stepmother, personally or in my presence; but I often overheard +them saying it was ‘a burning shame to neglect a child as I was +neglected; that I ought to be with my father and stepmother, wherever +they were,’ etc., etc. And their words deepened in me the sense of +injury I felt. + +“And yet, in justice to my father and his wife, I must say that no wrong +was intended me. We were all the victims of circumstances, as you will +judge as I go on. + +“It was on this occasion that I wrote my first letter to my father, with +much help from my governess. + +“As soon as I had got over my paroxysms of grief, which did not happen +for days, Miss Murray insisted that I should answer my father’s letter +and wish him joy of his heir, and send my love to my new mother and +little brother. + +“This I most positively refused to do, declaring, with a new burst of +tears, that I did not wish him any joy in his son; that I did not love +my new brother, and that I had no new mother. I had but one mother, who +was in heaven, and I should never have another. + +“My governess insisted, and tried to intimidate me into compliance. +Whereupon I told her that she should not wish to make me write +falsehoods, and that for my part I was quite ready to be burned at the +stake, like Bishop Bonner, for the truth’s sake, rather than write what +I did not feel and what was not true. + +“You see from this what a morbid, sensitive, extravagant little soul I +was even at that tender age, and what exaggerated views I took of every +trial. + +“My governess had to yield the point. How could she even wish her pupil +to write falsely? We compromised the matter by my consenting to write a +short note to my father, telling him that I was glad to hear that he was +well, and asking him when he would come to see me. + +“A week later I got a most affectionate letter from my father, saying +that he would visit his ‘dear little daughter’ as soon as he thought it +would be safe to leave his wife, who had lain in a low condition ever +since the arrival of her babe. + +“But my father did not come. + +“It was, in fact, October before the countess was able to leave her +room. Then her physicians ordered her to the south of France, whither my +father soon took her, with her infant son. + +“Another dreary winter followed me at Weirdwaste. The same confinement +to the house, without companions, or amusements, or occupations—except +my elderly attendants and my schoolbooks and music. No visitors except +the vicar and the doctor. No visits except to church on exceptional +Sundays when the roads were passable. I grew into a very strange child, +precocious in a certain sort of intelligence gained from books, but +backward in all knowledge of child life and depressed in spirits. + +“I received occasional letters from my father, and wrote others, touched +up by my governess.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXV + FATHER AND DAUGHTER + + +“It was not until the next June, when we had been parted nearly two +years, that I saw my father again. + +“He came over suddenly and dropped down on us, so to speak, on the +morning of the fifth of that month. + +“Steward and housekeeper were both ‘taken aback’ and ‘flustered,’ as +they described themselves; yet they were not unprepared. The house was +always as well kept as the circumstances would permit. + +“Nor was Miss Murray. She also had done her duty and could present her +pupil without fear of criticism. + +“We were both in the schoolroom, my governess and I, when the door +opened and some one entered unannounced. I looked up from my slate, to +see a tall, stately man, with a pale face framed in black hair and black +whiskers, standing in the doorway. + +“I recognized my father and flew to his embrace, before Miss Murray +could rise to receive him with deliberate decorum. + +“My father kissed me with much love and received Miss Murray’s greetings +with stately politeness. + +“Later on, when I had recovered from my surprise and excitement at his +sudden appearance, he explained that he had but lately returned to +England and had taken his delicate wife and child to London, which was +then, in the fine June days, at the height of the fashionable season, +and had left them on a visit to his mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady +Burnshot, who had a fine house near Hyde Park; and that he had seized +this first opportunity to run to Ireland to see his dear little +daughter. + +“He further explained that he could not bring the countess and the +little viscount because she could not bear the sea air yet. + +“He brought me a doll and a doll’s set of furniture, all of which +delighted me almost as much as his visit, for—will it be believed?—I had +not possessed a doll since the death of my own mother, and I was only +six years old. + +“My father remained only a few days at Weirdwaste, during which he +invited the vicar and the doctor to dine and talk with him over the +affairs of the estate, and the condition of my health, to thank them for +their past kindness, and to ask their continued supervision of his +daughter’s welfare. + +“‘I cannot take her with me to London at present,’ he said, ‘for we are +visiting at the house of Lady Burnshot, the mother of my wife. Besides, +I think, for her own sake, little Elfrida is much better here for a few +years longer.’ + +“The doctor and the vicar agreed with my father, that I was much better +off at Weirdwaste than I could be in London. And so there was no more to +be said. + +“My father took a very loving leave of me at the end of the week. + +“After he was gone I grieved myself sick! I loved him so dearly! I +longed to go with him so ardently. + +“But it was not to be. + +“Why do I linger over these details? Is it because we all grow garrulous +when talking or writing of our childhood? Or is it because I dread to +approach the period of my life’s tragedy? Or do both these causes +combine to influence me? I know not; but I know that I must hurry toward +that from which I shrink. + +“A few weeks after this, being in the heat of summer, my father came +again to see me, bringing my stepmother and my little baby brother with +him. + +“He had written to apprise us of the visit, so we were all ready for +him. All the animosity I had ever felt against my stepmother vanished +when I saw her pale, patient face. My child heart pitied her, and from +pity I loved her; and did everything in my small power to please her; +except this—I would not call her mother. I said it would not be right +toward my own dear mother, who was in heaven. And she kissed me, and +said she only was sorry she had not been able to do a mother’s part by +her motherless child, for that she, too, would soon be in heaven, where +she would meet my own mother, when she could only tell her that she +loved, but had not been able to serve, her daughter. + +“As for my infant brother, now a year old, I idolized him. His mother +delighted in my affection for her child. + +“‘I have not been able to be good to you, my poor little girl; but you +will be good to him when I am gone, will you not?’ she inquired. + +“‘Indeed, indeed, I will. I will love him better than myself. I will die +for him,’ I said, taking the extravagant view and using the exaggerated +language that was usual with me. + +“The chills of autumn come very early at Weirdwaste, and so about the +middle of September, when the evenings began to be cold, my father took +my stepmother and my baby brother back and settled them for a few weeks +at Torquay, then believed to be the best winter resort in England. + +“I grieved after them for a week or more. And, oh! how I wondered why +they could not take me with them! + +“The reason was this, as I afterward learned: that the state of Lady +Enderby’s health made it impossible for me to be with them, especially +in a lodging house. + +“My father did not visit Weirdwaste again for a long time. He spent the +winter with his wife and infant son at Torquay, and in the early summer +took them to Switzerland, and in autumn to the Grecian Archipelago. In +fact, two more years passed before I saw my father again. + +“Then it was June and the height of the London season, and he had +brought his wife to London and left her on a visit to her mother, the +Baroness Burnshot. But on this occasion he brought my little brother +over to Ireland and down to Weirdwaste. + +“The child was now called Viscount Glennon, and was a beautiful boy +nearly three years old. + +“I was at that time a little old woman of eight. All the years that I +have lived and all the sorrows that I have suffered have never made me +as old as I was at eight. + +“But again my heart leaped to meet father and brother, and I loved and +adored them. I asked why my stepmother had not come with them. My father +told me that she was much too frail to bear the sea air even in summer. + +“He was satisfied with my health, and with my progress in learning, and +so he left us, taking the boy with him. + +“I had now been more than four years at dreary Weirdwaste, and had not +known any home but the old manor house, or any society than its inmates. +As these first four years passed so passed the next seven. + +“My father came about once a year to see me, bringing my brother with +him. He always spent a week at Weirdwaste, and then returned to England, +taking my brother with him. + +“His time was entirely devoted to his invalid wife, whose life seemed +only to be prolonged by his incessant care. + +“They were always moving from place to place, as the seasons changed—in +Switzerland, or in Norway, or Sweden in the summer; in the south of +France, in Italy, or among the isles of the Grecian Archipelago in +winter. Sometimes in the finest weather of the early summer they came to +London, during which time the countess would visit her mother, and then +my father would take my little brother and come on a flying visit to me. + +“So the years went on until I reached my fifteenth year, when the days +of my dark destiny drew near.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI + BRIGHTON YEARS AGO + + +“You may never have occasion to read these lines, yet I come to my task +from time to time to prepare them for you. + +“Let me resume: + +“I never was reconciled to my lonely life at Weirdwaste, but as the +years passed on, and I grew toward womanhood the solitude and monotony +of my surroundings pressed more and more heavily upon my health and +spirits. + +“My father in these years seemed almost to have forgotten me. He was +with my mother on one of the islands of the Grecian Archipelago—for her +health. My little brother—now a well-grown schoolboy—was at Rugby. You +see, our family of four was scattered. + +“About this time my health and spirits became so seriously affected that +Dr. Alexander thought it necessary to call my father’s attention to the +fact. He wrote to him, and in due time received an answer. + +“It was something to this effect: + + + “‘As you recommend the south coast, you will please take the girl to + Brighton, and take suitable lodgings for herself and her attendants. + As she is no longer a child she must have more advanced teachers. Miss + Murray may be retained as her companion or chaperon, but a French + governess must be engaged for her. + + “‘I leave all this to you. Our good vicar will be able to assist you. + + “‘My son will join his sister at the seaside for the midsummer + holidays. Draw on me for the necessary funds.’ + + +“The prospect of any change filled my soul with delightful +anticipations. + +“It was now the middle of June. By the first of July I was established +in delightful lodgings on the King’s Road, facing the sea. + +“We had the whole of the first floor, consisting of a suit of eight +rooms—drawing room, dining room, schoolroom, bathroom and four bedrooms. + +“I was delighted with the gay vision of life and motion all around me; +there seemed to be a perpetual gala. + +“The splendor of the view from my front windows was not all the splendor +of sea and sky; it was fleets of gayly decked craft, of all sizes and +shapes, from the queenly yacht to the pretty little rowboats; and the +pier, with its bazaars of toys, trinkets and jewelry; the bathing +houses, the frolicsome children in the surf or on the sands, the +brilliant crowds on the esplanade, the bands of music, the magnificent +shops, with displays of sumptuous fabrics and splendid jewels, not to be +surpassed in those of Paris or Constantinople. + +“In fact, to me, who had never been in a town before—to me, coming from +lonely and dreary Weirdwaste—Brighton was a dazzling, bewildering scene +of light, life, gayety, splendor and magnificence. + +“And if it was all this viewed only from the front windows of my +lodgings, what was it, let me ask you, afterward, when my schoolboy +brother and his friends came, full of high spirits, to make the most of +our opportunities? + +“On the second day after our installment at our lodgings we were joined +by the French governess who had been engaged for me. + +“She was a small, dark, middle-aged woman, with black hair, and sharp, +black eyes. Her name was De la Champe—Madame de la Champe. Her last +place had been in the service of a duchess, whose last daughter having +just been married, madame found herself under the necessity of seeking a +new engagement, and had found one through the vicar’s answer to her +advertisement. + +“I did not like her, though she came so highly recommended. But my +prejudice against the Frenchwoman was not the slightest drawback to my +intense enjoyment of my new and delightful surroundings. + +“On the fourth day after our arrival we were joined by my brother and +his friend. My brother was then a bright lad of twelve, looking older +than his years, because he was really a very precocious boy. He greeted +me with the warmest affection, and promised me a ‘jolly old time.’ His +friend was Angus Anglesea, a young man eight years his senior, who, +however, had formed a strong attachment for the bright lad, and taken +him under his protection. + +“Angus Anglesea was at this time about twenty years of age; with a form +of medium height, slender and fair, with light hair and mustache, and +blue eyes. His appearance and manners were pleasing and attractive. + +“I could not have believed any evil of him then. + +“On the day after the arrival of my brother and his friend, the good +doctor, who had accompanied us to Brighton, took his leave, after having +warned my teachers that their office was, for the present, a sinecure, +and that there were really to be no lessons for the next three months, +or until my health should be fully reëstablished. + +“After the doctor left our days were given up to enjoyment—walks on the +esplanade, sails on the sea, bathing in the surf, drives along the +coast, rides over the downs, saunters on the pier—a perpetual recurrence +of delightful recreations, each one enhancing the pleasures of all the +others. + +“It seemed paradise to me. My brother lived with us, of course. Angus +Anglesea had lodgings near us, and came every day to join in our +amusements. + +“The Eleventh Hussars were stationed at Brighton Barracks then, and the +officers were often on parade. Anglesea was not at that time in the +army. He received his commission afterward; but he knew a number of the +officers, and introduced some of them to me. My French governess or my +English teacher was always at my side on these occasions. + +“So three enchanting months passed. + +“My brother’s holidays were over, and he was now to go to Eton. My +father’s London solicitor was charged with the duty of making all the +arrangements for his entrance into college. + +“On the fifteenth of September he left me, with the promise to return +and spend the Christmas holidays with me, for I was to winter at +Brighton. + +“Angus Anglesea remained at Brighton. Friends and neighbors of his +father’s, in Lancashire—the Earl and Countess of Middlemoor, with their +only daughter—had arrived at their seaside home on Brunswick Terrace, +and Anglesea had remained to see them. Even then he was reported to be +engaged to the Lady Mary. + +“Soon I heard that young Anglesea had left his lodgings and accepted the +invitation of the earl and countess to make their house his home during +his sojourn at the seaside. + +“After this we did not see so much of young Anglesea. + +“He came but seldom to our lodgings, and never joined us in our walks on +the seaside. Whenever we chanced to meet him, he was in the company of +the Middlemoors, either driving or walking with them. + +“If Brighton had seemed to me the paradise of life and light, splendor +and gayety, in the summer months, when the season was at its lowest ebb, +what was it, if you please, in the early autumn, when the tide of wealth +and fashion set in? + +“No words of mine can describe my impression of it, my delight in it. + +“The bijou of a theater and the elegant assembly rooms were opened for +the season. The ‘paradise’ was one panorama of brilliant crowds. It was +like nothing real to my simplicity.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII + LUIGI SAVIOLA + + +“I come now to the most fateful day of my unhappy life. The day on which +Luigi Saviola was presented to me. + +“It was in November; but it was bright and sunny on the seashore. + +“My companion and chaperon—once my English teacher—Miss Murray, was +confined to the house by a slight attack of bronchitis, which she was +carefully nursing lest it should become serious. + +“I was walking on the esplanade, attended by my French governess. + +“At that early hour, ten in the morning, there were but few people out +besides nursemaids and children. + +“We were sauntering along slowly, when we saw coming toward us Anglesea +and another young gentleman, walking arm in arm, apparently on the most +friendly and even affectionate terms. + +“In a few minutes we met face to face. + +“Anglesea bowed, and then presented his companion: + +“‘Prince Luigi Saviola.’ + +“Madame de la Champe received the stranger’s low bow with all the +courtesy of her nation. + +“I do not know how I received him, I wore a little round turban hat, +with a little thin, gray gauze mask veil over my face, which completely +shaded my features, while it enabled me to look at the stranger. + +“I know not if there be any such thing as love at first sight; for the +only real, lasting love of my life was of slow growth, as you know, +Abel. Oh, Abel! you do know that I love you! + +“No! I do not believe there is such a thing as real love at first sight; +but I do know that there is a madness that apes it. + +“Some fascination made me look at this Italian from behind the shield of +my gray veil, while he talked with my vivacious French governess, who +quickly engaged him in conversation. + +“He was young—quite youthful, indeed; and—it is a very effeminate term +to apply to a man—but he was beautiful—not handsome, but beautiful. He +was of medium height and slender proportions; but he was perfectly +elegant in form and perfectly graceful in gesture. His profile was +purely, finely Grecian. His complexion pale and clear, his hair, +eyebrows and mustache of darkest brown; his eyes of darkest violet blue. +Yet all this description gives but the outline of the youth’s form and +face—it cannot give the subtle and exquisite charm of expression which +was the chief beauty of his aspect, nor can it give the lingering music +of the most melodious voice that ever spoke. + +“Are you displeased with me, that I describe this stranger so minutely? + +“I do it in cold blood, Abel, and only that you may understand and +perhaps pardon the fascination he possessed over a sensitive, +imaginative young recluse, such as I had been. And some instinct told me +even then that this attraction was mutual, though we did not exchange a +word, and he could clearly see my face. + +“After a few moments of courteous conversation, the two young gentlemen +bowed and walked on. + +“I went home in a dream—the face and voice of the young stranger +haunting my spirit. + +“The Frenchwoman made some few favorable remarks on the manner and +appearance of the young Italian; but I did not reply—I could not. + +“I passed the day in a vision. I was like one possessed. + +“Two days later young Anglesea made us the first call of many days. + +“Madame de la Champe immediately beset him with questions about the +young Italian. + +“I said nothing, but listened with the deepest interest for his replies. + +(“This is a confession, you know, Abel. And I mean that it shall be a +full one.) + +“I listened with the most eager curiosity to hear all that could be told +of one who had taken complete possession of my fancy and imagination, if +not of my heart. + +“And what Anglesea told us of Luigi Saviola did but deepen the profound +interest I already took in the young stranger. + +“He told us that Saviola was of royal race, yet of advanced republican +ideas. That for the expression of his principles he was a political +exile. He was wealthy, and his wealth had been confiscated. He was now +living in Brighton on the wreck of his fortune; but was brave, cheerful +and heroic, as we had seen him. + +“All this, as I say, deepened my interest in Saviola, and heightened my +admiration for him. He was no longer a most charming person, but he was +a hero and a martyr, a patriot and a humanitarian. And already I loved, +adored, worshiped him, or believed that I did. + +“You see, Abel, what a very ‘foolish virgin’ I was. But then, I was a +motherless child. + +“Anglesea was devoted to Saviola, and expressed the most profound esteem +and admiration for him. He asked permission to bring the young Italian +to call on us. + +“It was an indiscreet request to make; but Anglesea was young and +impulsive. + +“It was an improper favor to grant, but my governess was vain and +faithless, and had herself taken a fancy to the young Italian, so she +consented that he should come. + +“The intervening time between this day and the day of the visit was +passed by me in a state of feverish anticipation. + +“The next evening Anglesea brought Saviola. He was much more attractive +than ever. He talked mostly with Madame de la Champe, but I felt that he +looked mostly at me—at me, who scarcely ever uttered a word. + +“This was the first of many calls—for some time made only in the company +of his friend, and received by me only in the company of one or both of +my governesses. + +“How can I tell you the progress of that infatuation, hallucination—call +it what you please—that kindled at the first meeting, and increased with +every after interview? + +“Saviola never sat by my side in those early days; never took my hand, +except at meeting and parting, when, with the reverential tenderness of +his race, he would raise it to his lips, bowing over it. He scarcely +ever addressed me with words, but with glances—how eloquently! All the +wooing was done through the passionate eyes. + +“At first I could not look at him at all; then only very shyly; and then +at length my eyes seemed irresistibly attracted to meet his—even to seek +to meet his eys. + +“Oh, Abel, I am telling you everything! I am unveiling my heart to you! +How will you receive my confession? Will you believe that there was no +conscious sense of wrongdoing at the time? But, indeed, there was none. +Will you believe the stranger truth that this was not love which I gave +to Luigi? I did not know what love meant until I met the one love of my +life—years after this lunacy. Oh, Abel, believe that this delirium was +not love, though even I, knowing no better, mistook it for love at the +time. It was madness; it was hero-worship, enthusiasm. But not love. +This young Italian exile, beautiful as Adonis in his person, was +idealized and glorified in my vision by his history. + +“Remember how young I was—scarcely past childhood; and remember how I +had lived isolated from all society of my own rank and age, secluded in +a desolate old manor house on the Irish, coast, whose very +name—Weirdwaste—could not tell its dreariness; spending my solitary life +in wandering by the seashore during the days, reading the old romances +and poems left on the bookshelves of the old manor house, and dreaming +dreams and seeing visions that seemed to have come to be realized in my +present surroundings and crystallized in the person of Saviola. + +“Oh, Abel! Oh, Abel! Pity and pardon me if you can, for now I come to +the part of my life which I shrink from approaching as a child would +shrink from a fierce fire. + +“Luigi came every day now, whether Anglesea accompanied him or not. I +had learned a little Italian from Miss Murray, at Weirdwaste, and now +Madame de la Champe was continuing my studies in that language. + +“Luigi found it out, and begged her permission to bring me some standard +Italian works and to assist me in the translation. + +“Madame, who looked upon me only as a child, and thought the attention +of the young Italian so many tributes to her own charms, very affably +consented, and so the exile became my unpaid master in Italian. + +“The ‘standard’ works he brought were all poetry—Petrarch’s, Tasso’s and +others’ impassioned songs. These he translated for me in more ways than +one—with his pen, with his tongue, and more eloquently and effectively +still with his glorious eyes. + +“As for me, I was far gone in madness before Luigi ever had the +opportunity to speak one direct word of love to me. + +“The inevitable hour came at last. I was reading Italian poetry with +Luigi. + +“Madame de la Champe sat near, working a screen in Berlin wool. Suddenly +she got up and left the room to match some shade of worsted. + +“The next instant Saviola was at my feet, and, in a sudden tempest of +impassioned words, he told me what his eyes had told me long ago. + +“This was the first time we had been alone since we had met on the +esplanade, and he had seized the occasion. + +“I could not reply to him; but I did not repulse him, and he saw that I +did not wish to do so. + +“‘Madame!’ I whispered, as I heard the Frenchwoman’s approach, which had +not attracted his attention. + +“He arose at once, and resumed his attitude of teacher. + +“Madame entered. She had not been gone two minutes. + +“Gradually, as the intimacy between madame and the exile advanced, her +strict surveillance over me was relaxed. I was still a child in her +eyes, and she was a charming woman who had fired the young Italian with +admiration. So she did not feat to leave Luigi and myself together. + +“As for Miss Murray, she hated all foreigners, especially Italians, and +most especially political exiles, so she was seldom present during +Saviola’s calls. We had many a _tête-à-tête_. And for a few weeks we +lived happily in mere certainty that we could see and talk with each +other every day. But then came a change. + +“Luigi became restless and unhappy. He never smiled now. He often sighed +heavily. He grew paler than his custom and very thin. + +“Madame—poor madame—thought the youth was pining away for her love. And +surely she did all she could to encourage him to speak plainly to her; +all she could, except to tell him in so many words that she was ready to +marry him. + +“One day she sent me out of the room, and was with him alone for an +hour. I think then she really did propose to him, and that he saved +himself without wounding her, for when she recalled me to the room +Saviola was gone, and she was in tears, when she said to me: + +“‘Ah, the poor prince! He is so honorable, so conscientious. He +sacrifices—he immolates himself! It is for duty—it is for patriotism! We +must cure him of all that.’” + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII + A MAD ACT + + +“So thanks to the blind vanity of the French governess, the young +Italian and her pupil escaped her suspicion. + +“We were Romeo and Juliet. We were Francesca and Paolo, Tasso and +Leonora. + +“Ah! I have often thought since that it was well, in the interest of +poetry and romance, that the story of these lovers never carried them +into matrimony; for such delirious passion is not the love that lasts +through a long life! + +“A disastrous day was fast approaching us. + +“Luigi had been for some time suffering under the deepest depression of +spirits. Madame looked at him and sighed as if she understood his secret +sorrow and could console him, if he were not so morbidly honorable and +conscientious, if he were not so determined to sacrifice, to immolate +himself on the altar of duty and patriotism. + +“One morning she left the room on some errand that her restlessness +suggested. + +“In another moment Luigi was again at my feet, pleading with me now to +give myself to him, or rather to take him for myself, for my lover, +adorer and husband at once and forever. + +“He explained in rapid, vehement words that he was recalled to Italy; +that he must go; that he could not and would not leave me behind; he +would rather die than leave me. + +“All this, and much more, he poured forth in a torrent of words, to +which I only replied by tears. + +“He went on rapidly explaining, lest we should be interrupted before he +got through. He told me that all was arranged for our flight. That +Anglesea would help us and keep our secret. + +“‘Madame!’ I whispered, as my quick ears heard a footstep on the hall +outside. + +“‘Meet me on the pier—four o’clock this afternoon. Come without fail, if +you care to save me from selfdestruction!’ he hastily whispered, as he +arose and resumed his seat. + +“It was not madame who entered, however; it was Miss Murray. + +“She bowed stiffly to the Italian, and then glanced searchingly around +the room. Seeing no one present but Saviola and myself—realizing that we +were _tête-à-tête_—she frowned and sharply demanded: + +“‘Where is madame?’ + +“‘She has just left the room,’ I replied. + +“‘Very improper, very irregular, most reprehensible! I shall write +to-day,’ she said, as she sat down bolt upright on the chair nearest us. + +“Miss Murray was a conscientious woman, and she did her duty; there was +no doubt of that! but her words and her threatened action decided me. + +“Swift as lightning through my mind sped this question: What will be the +effect of her letter to my father? Something that will separate me at +once and forever from Saviola? I could not for a moment endure the +thought. + +“I looked at my lover, and my look said plainly as tongue could speak: + +“‘I will meet you, and go with you to Italy.’ + +“And his eyes responded with equal clearness: + +“‘I understand you, and I thank and bless you.’ + +“Soon after he took a formal leave of me, and raised Miss Murray’s hand +to his lips and kissed it with devotional tenderness as he bowed. + +“‘He is a very perfect gentleman, as indeed why should he not be? A man +of his rank?’ said the half-appeased old maiden lady. ‘But all the same, +my dear, he is young and unmarried, and a foreigner! And, what is worse +still, he is a political refugee. Always suspicious characters, my dear! +Always suspicious characters!’ + +“‘But Prince Saviola is well introduced, Miss Murray, and he is staying +with the Middlemoors,’ I ventured to advance in my lover’s defense. + +“‘Very true, my dear! But that does not prevent him from being a +foreigner and a political refugee,’ persisted Miss Murray, in her most +absolute manner. + +“‘I cannot deny the fact,’ I admitted. + +“And then I went to my room and packed a small handbag with the merest +necessaries for my journey. + +“We still kept schoolroom hours for meals and had our dinner at two +o’clock. + +“Madame drank claret and Miss Murray stout at dinner; but both equally +went to sleep in their easy chairs over the drawing-room fire, while I +was supposed to be busy with my exercises until the five o’clock tea. + +“Now was my opportunity. + +“As soon as my governesses were both asleep in their chairs, I left the +room, went up to my chamber, put on my outdoor dress, took my traveling +bag and left the house. + +“Never was there before so perfectly easy and simple a flight. + +“I walked down the King’s Road until I reached the new pier, and there +at the land end I met Saviola and Anglesea waiting for me. A close +carriage stood within call. + +“Saviola was very much agitated. + +“It was Anglesea who spoke first. + +“‘My dear little girl,’ he said, as if he had been speaking to his niece +or younger sister, ‘I do not at all approve of these proceedings; but as +I feel perfectly certain that you would go on without my consent and +assistance, I think it is best, in the interests of your absent family, +that I should aid and abet you in what you do—see you safely, legally +and regularly through it. Now do not be frightened. We shall take the +train for London. Thence the night express for Scotland. And to-morrow +morning, as soon as we are over the border, you shall be married. I +shall not leave you until I witness the ceremony and hold the +certificate in my pocket. You will write to your father and plead your +cause as no one but yourself can do so well. Perhaps he will storm, +perhaps he will reproach you, but he will end in forgiving you—when he +has considered all the circumstances. Here is the carriage.’ + +“While Anglesea had been talking, Saviola had brought up the vehicle, +and now he handed me into it and entered himself, followed by Anglesea. + +“We drove at once to the station and took tickets for London Bridge. In +five minutes we three were crowded into a coupé; and in little more than +an hour we were at London Bridge. + +“Anglesea, who had resumed the role of friend, guide and protector to +the two young maniacs, took us to a quiet family hotel, where we three +got supper in a private sitting room. + +“‘I assure you I do all this in the interests of my friends, your +relatives, my dear. I knew that Saviola would, sooner or later, run off +with you. So I determined to see you safely through it all!’ he +explained again, as we sat down to supper. + +“When the meal was over, Anglesea called a cab and we all drove to +King’s Cross Station, where we were just in time to catch the night +express on the Great Northern Railway. + +“Anglesea took a compartment for ourselves, and took along also a basket +of fruit, a bag of cakes, and a box of bonbons, for he knew that I was +still child enough to love sweetmeats. He also took half a dozen of +bottled lemonade and ginger beer. + +“We none of us slept a wink that night, but laughed and talked all +night, and ate and drank at intervals. + +“I did not at all feel the gravity of the situation. I had not left any +one behind whom I cared much about, or to whom I thought I owed any +duty. So, I had no regrets or compunctions on that score. + +“As for my dear father, time, absence and negligence had really +estranged us, or seemed to have done so. + +“I even thought my marriage might bring us closer together; for Luigi +had promised to take me to him as soon as he should consent to see me. + +“So, without a regret for the past, or a misgiving of the future, I +yielded myself up to the joy of the present. + +“It was a very happy journey. Excitement kept us all from feeling the +least sense of fatigue. + +“About dawn we stopped at a wayside station. + +“‘Here we are,’ said Anglesea, as the guard called out the name of the +place. + +“We alighted, and Anglesea, keeping up his rôle, proposed that we should +go first to the hotel which stood on the other side of the track. + +“‘We must get washed, and combed, and fed, my children, before we can +present ourselves before the minister,’ he said, speaking to us as if we +were indeed children and he were quite a venerable party. He was, in +truth, younger by a year than Saviola. + +“We went to the hotel, the ‘Victoria,’ where two rooms were engaged—one +for me alone, and one for Anglesea and Savialo jointly. + +“I went to mine to refresh my toilet. I had never dressed myself without +the help of a maid in my life, and hardly knew how to go about it. +However, I rang for the chambermaid, and with her assistance I took a +bath and made a change of clothes. + +“After this I went down and joined Anglesea and Saviola in the ladies’ +parlor. They took me to breakfast in the coffee room; and soon after +that we all three walked out in search of a minister. No marriage +license was required in Scotland. + +“We found a church, with a parsonage adjoining. + +“We all three passed through the gate leading into the grounds before +the house. + +“But only Anglesea went up to the door and rang the bell. + +“A servant maid opened to the summons. + +“Anglesea spoke to her, and both disappeared in the house, leaving the +door ajar. + +“After a few minutes Anglesea reappeared at the door, and with a smile +beckoned us to come in. + +“We entered the hall, and were immediately conducted by our ‘guide, +philosopher and friend’ to the minister’s study on the right hand of the +hall. + +“There stood a venerable man, with white hair, and clothed in clerical +black, to receive us. + +“Very few questions were put to us, and our answers, mostly given +through Anglesea, were satisfactory. + +“We were then asked to come up and take our stand before the minister. +And in a very few minutes the marriage ceremony, which I believed had +made us man and wife, was completed. + +“Then the old minister gave us a solemn lecture on the duties we had +assumed. And then he made a fervent prayer for us, and ended by giving +us his blessing. + +“Anglesea paid him a munificent fee, for which the old man gave him +thanks. + +“‘And a marriage certificate, if you please, reverend sir. I am acting +on the part of this young lady’s absent friends, and I must omit no +necessary formality,’ said Anglesea. + +“The demand was unusual; the certificate was considered unnecessary. The +old minister told us so, and added that he had no printed form and never +had had any. + +“‘Then we will take a written form. Just write that on this day, in this +place, you have united in marriage, Luigi Saviola, of Naples, Italy, and +Elfrida Glennon, of Northumberland, England. Sign it yourself, as the +minister, and allow me to sign it as a witness. It would also be better, +too, if you could call in some member of your family to sign as a second +witness. I think I have seen the young woman who let us in peeping +through the door through the whole performance. Please call her as a +second witness.’ + +“The old man sighed and sat down to the table where his stationery lay, +and wrote out the certificate. + +“Anglesea read it critically, expressed himself satisfied, affixed his +signature as witness, and then put the pen in the hand of the maid, who +had been called in for the purpose, and who now scrawled her name under +that of Anglesea. + +“And it was finished.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX + AFTER THE MARRIAGE + + +“We took leave of the old minister, who shook hands warmly with us at +parting, repeating his benediction. + +“We returned to the hotel, where Anglesea paid the bill and reclaimed +our bags. + +“Then we went to the station, where we had to wait some little time for +the London train. + +“It came up about nine o’clock. We entered it and were off to London. +The daylight journey was even more pleasant than our festive night ride. +I, who had been so confined all my life, could see the beautiful and +varied scenery—the lakes and mountains of Northumberland; the moors and +forests of Yorkshire; the castles, country seats, hamlets and farmhouses +along the way. And to me all this was novel and delightful. + +“We reached London at nightfall. And there we parted with Anglesea, who +returned to Brighton to rejoin his friends the Middlemoors. + +“As we were really very tired with our twenty-four hours of travel, +without sleep, we went to the Norfolk Hotel for the night. + +“The next day we spent in seeing some of the sights of London, which I +had never seen, and which, of course, filled me with wonder and +interest—indeed, all my life since I had left Weirdwaste was marvelously +changed and enlarged, even as if I were born in a new world. + +“The next morning we took the tidal train from London Bridge and went +down to Dover to meet the Calais boat. + +“‘We will spend a month in Paris, my soul,’ said Luigi to me, as we +entered the train—‘a full month, no less, my life.’ + +“‘But have you not to go immediately to Italy?’ I inquired. + +“‘Oh, no; I am recalled—that is, I am permitted to return, not commanded +to do so,’ he explained. + +“‘Oh, then I misunderstood you.’ + +“‘Yes,’ he said. + +“‘And your estates, dear Luigi. Are they restored to you?’ I next +inquired, without one mercenary thought in my heart. + +“‘Yes,’ he replied, with a curious smile. ‘Such as they are, my love and +life, they are restored to me.’ + +“‘What do you mean?’ I questioned. + +“‘That they were not worth keeping from me, my own. Yet, fear not. I am +not without resources. We shall spend a gay month in Paris.’ + +“And so we did. + +“We reached that city the next morning and took apartments at the +‘Splendide.’ + +“If to my rustic mind Brighton had been a delight Paris was now a +rapture. + +“‘Is there,’ I asked of Luigi, after only one day’s experience of the +city—‘is there another place in all this world so heavenly as Paris?’ + +“He looked at me a few seconds in silence, and then replied, with more +knowledge than his years could have promised: + +“‘No, my soul! There is no place on this planet so celestial, or so +infernal, as is this city.’ + +“I stared at him in dismay. + +“‘Never fear, my love. You shall never see or hear the infernos of the +city.’ + +“That day I took time to write to my father. I had not an hour’s leisure +during our mad journeys to do so before. + +“I told him all the circumstances and all the experiences of outer and +inner life that had driven me to take my fate in my own hands and go +away with Luigi Saviola to be married. And I gave him all the details of +the journey and the ceremony. And I ended by imploring him to forgive us +both and to receive us on a visit. + +“After that act of duty, I plunged with Luigi into all the gayeties of +gay Paris, and saw no signs of the ‘infernos.’ Music, the drama, balls, +excursions, these filled up our days, for a month of mad rapture. + +“Then, about the middle of December, we went down to Marseilles, and +took a steamer to Naples, where we arrived in health, spirits and +safety. + +“I had often questioned Luigi about his family, but he told me he had +none to speak of. He was an only child; his father and mother were among +the angels in heaven. His uncle was a priest and missionary in Brazil. +His two aunts were nuns—one in a Benedictine convent in France, the +other in an Augustine sisterhood in Spain. + +“I had questioned him about his home. + +“He had described to me a half ruined and wholly uninhabitable castle +situated among the forest-covered mountains of the wild Abruzzo. + +“But oh! how I longed to go there! All my love of the historic, the +romantic, the picturesque was engaged in that longing! + +“On our landing at Naples I proposed to go. + +“But he told me that at this season of the year the roads were so very +bad as to render the journey impracticable. + +“He took me to the ‘Vittoria,’ where we rested for a few days. + +“Here again I wrote to my father, telling him of my first letter, which +I feared had never reached him, and repeating at length the story of my +marriage, and the plea for his pardon. + +“I waited weeks for an answer before I gave up hope. + +“Naples did not offer many sources of amusement, but we availed +ourselves of all that was to be obtained. + +“It was during our sojourn in this city that I gradually learned—what I +was very unwilling to believe and very deeply distressed to know—namely, +the nature of those resources of which Luigi had spoken to me; they were +the gaming tables, at which he was almost always a successful player. My +hero, and martyr, and patriot was a gambler! + +“It was a great grief, and I never really recovered from it. + +“He won large sums of money, and lavished gifts upon me which gave me no +pleasure. + +“About the middle of February we went to Rome for the carnival, for Lent +was rather late this year. + +“And, after the week of orgies, we still remained in the ‘Eternal City’ +until the end of March, that I might see all its glories, and, ah me! +not a few of its shames. + +“In April we went to Venice—the city of a hundred isles. I thought I had +seen the most marvelous and enchanting things in the world, but here +again wonder upon wonder burst upon my amazed soul. + +“Why should I go on writing all this like the index of a guidebook? + +“You and I have gone over Europe together. You know me, and may judge +what it was to me the first time. + +“Let me be brief now. + +“Luigi, wherever we went, pursued his profession, and was never without +‘revenues.’ I looked in vain for any sign of heroism, self-devotion or +patriotism in him. + +“Sometimes in the cities we passed through, in the public gardens, or +the parlors of hotels, I heard questions discussed which stirred my +blood—questions of the rights of man in all its ramifications—questions +that made my heart beat in sympathy. + +“They never moved him. + +“And I wondered. Once I asked him if he really had lost all interest in +the welfare of the world. + +“He shrugged his shoulders, and replied that he never had felt any. + +“On another occasion, when I spoke of the elevation of mankind, he +answered: + +“‘We are young. We are fair. We are healthy. We are happy. Let us enjoy +ourselves, and let mankind go to Hades.’ + +“My dark-eyed Luigi was neither hero nor martyr; neither patriot nor +humanitarian. He was only a beautiful and joyous youth, bent on making +the merriest of every hour of life at cost of anybody else, except of +himself and me. + +“Oh, how I was disappointed in him! A broken idol is a very sad event in +the life of a romantic dreamer, I fancy. + +“I began to try to remember how I had ever got the idea that he was a +patriot and a political refugee, and the rest of it. And I recollected +that it was from Anglesea and from Madame de la Champe. + +“He—Luigi—had never pretended to be anything but my lover. And he was my +lover still. He continued to be my lover to the last of his short, young +life. + +“I must pass on now to the tragedy of our marriage.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXX + AWAKENING + + There is not in this world of sin + A soul so deeply sunk therein, + Thronged though it be with crimes and cares, + Revenges, malices, despairs, + However dire the phantoms there, + However pestilent its air— + But in its thoroughfares, night and day, + There ever is some golden ray, + Like a sweet child from home astray— + Some light of Heaven, some fragment thence + Of primal love and innocence, + Which keeps the angels on its track + To lure and win and lead it back. + —WM. H. HOLCOMBE. + + +“We lived at the best hotels in every town and city where we stopped, +but we never stayed long at any place. Saviola was too successful a +gambler for that. + +“He was always kind to me, and would have loaded me with jewels and +costly dress, but that I would have none of them, for my soul was +troubled by the way in which he made his money—a way that he no longer +tried to conceal from me. + +“I had periodical fits of homesickness, during which I wrote to my +father and to my teachers, but without in any instance receiving a +reply. Then I would write again and again, with no better result. And +finally I would give up hoping to hear from them, and try to resign +myself to my fate; until my next attack of homesickness would set my pen +in motion again. + +“Later on, not homesickness alone, but remorse and despair and terror +seized me. I was beginning to lose all hope of ever being forgiven by my +father; and, ah me! I was also beginning to lose esteem for my husband, +for whose sake I had left all my friends and relations. + +“Luigi was still fond of me in that way that a child is fond of a +favorite toy of which he is not yet tired. + +“I had discovered my own self-deception. + +“Other young girls have come to grief and death through their deception +by others. I had only myself to blame! Myself had only deceived me. But +it was bitter! oh, how bitter! to find out that the hero, martyr, +patriot and humanitarian I had imagined, was only a very handsome young +gambler, who was not too honest or truthful! + +“My undeceived soul sickened at him and at myself! + +“My very last attack of homesickness found us at Geneva, where we had an +elegant suit of apartments in the Hotel Beau Rivage. + +“Again in one day I wrote five letters to absent friends—to my father, +to Miss Murray, to Madame de la Champe, to Dr. Alexander, and to the +Rev. Mr. Clement. From some of these I should surely get an answer. But +week after week passed and no answer came to me. + +“In the second month after our arrival at Geneva, Saviola was suddenly +called to Paris—on imperative business, he said; but I had learned to +distrust. I could not accompany him—my state of health utterly precluded +the idea of my traveling. He took a very affectionate leave of me, and +promised to be back again in a few days. + +“‘A few days’ is a vague term! Yet I was not disturbed by that. He left +me, and I never saw his face again. + +“Just one week after he went away my child was born—a boy. I was very +healthy, and had a rapid convalescence, notwithstanding the suspense and +anxiety I was suffering on account of my father. + +“I wrote to Luigi—to the address he had given me—and informed him of the +event. But I received no reply to my letter. Yet, I got better every +day, and I took great comfort and delight in my child. Also, I daily +expected the return of Saviola to answer my letter in person—for I +remembered that he hated to write, and was therefore one of the very +worst correspondents in the world. + +“But I was disappointed. Day followed day, week succeeded week, and I +neither saw nor heard from Saviola, nor received any answers to any +letter written to my father and friends. + +“I knew that my father must long have left the archipelago, but I +supposed that he must have—as usual—left orders for any letters that +might come for him after his departure to be forwarded to his new +address; so, though I had expected delay, I had not anticipated final +disappointment. + +“It was now the first of October, and many tourists were leaving the +lake. Saviola had left me amply provided with funds, so that I had no +fear of embarrassment, especially as I was very economical, only +applying the ill-gotten money to my barest necessities. Besides, I had +my boy, so that I was able to wait quite cheerfully the return of my +husband. + +“Ah me! It was not Saviola that I was troubled about. It was my father. +At length it occurred to me to write to my father’s London bankers to +inquire for him. And I wondered that I had never thought of doing so +before. + +“On this occasion I received a prompt answer, which was at once +encouraging and depressing, as you will see, contradictory as the +statement seems. Messrs. Rhodes told me that the earl had taken the +countess to the Canaries for her ladyship’s health, and that they had +wintered there, but that in May they had sailed for an extensive +yachting cruise, from which they were expected to return to England some +time in February. + +“So my father could never have received any of my letters, and was +therefore not the unbending, unforgiving, pitiless father I had thought +him. He had probably written me many letters whose final destination was +the dead-letter office. I might still hope for his ready forgiveness. So +far the news was encouraging. + +“But, then, on the other hand, he would not return until February. This +was the depressing feature in the letter. Yet the encouraging +circumstances outweighed the depressing item, so that, on the whole, I +was more hopeful and more cheerful. + +“As the days of October grew shorter and cooler I began to be impatient +to leave the place, and for this reason eager for the return of Saviola. +At length I grew really despondent. It was about this time—the middle of +October—that I saw in the little Geneva paper an item that startled and +delighted me. It was under the head of ‘Arrivals.’ It was but a line: + + + “‘The Hon. Angus Anglesea, England—Hotel des Bergues.’ + + +“Without an instant’s delay I sat down and wrote a note, asking him to +call on me at the Beau Rivage. + +“The thought of meeting one home face—and that the face of my brother’s +dear friend, Saviola’s good friend, my own true friend, who had traveled +with us to Scotland to see that I should be regularly married before he +left me under the protection of Saviola—filled my soul with delightful +anticipations. + +“He came promptly in response to my summons. It was only noon when the +waiter opened the door of the little drawing room where I sat, and +announced: + +“‘The Hon. Mr. Anglesea.’ + +“I sprang up and held out both my hands to welcome him. + +“He raised one to his lips, bowed over it, and said: + +“‘I hope I find you well, madame.’ + +“‘Oh! I am so glad—so glad to see you!’ I exclaimed, at random. + +“He took a seat. + +“I sank into my easy chair, my heart beating with excitement, with +tumult, only to see the face of a friend. + +“‘I am very happy to come to you,’ he said. ‘I hope Saviola is well,’ he +added—dubiously, as I thought. + +“‘He is always well,’ I replied. ‘He is in Paris.’ + +“‘You hear from him daily, of course?’ + +“‘No. He is a poor correspondent. I shall not hear from him until I see +him, I fear.’ + +“He looked very grave, but made no comment. + +“I hastened to ask him if he knew where my father then was. + +“His reply confirmed the bankers news—the truth of which, by the way, I +had never doubted. + +“He said that my father was wintering in the Canaries for the sake of +the countess’ health, and that Viscount Glennon, my brother, was with +them. + +“This was the reason, then, why I had never heard from my brother. + +“Mr. Anglesea appeared preoccupied while he spoke. Then, after a short +silence, he said: + +“‘Ah, madame, pray do not consider me impertinent. Believe me, I speak +only in your own interests——’ + +“‘As you acted when you went to Scotland with us,’ I added. + +“‘Precisely, Madame la Princesse.’ + +“‘Then speak freely, Mr. Anglesea. I shall not take offense.’ + +“‘Then I wish to inquire when you last heard from Luigi Saviola.’ + +“I hated to answer that question—to confess the many days that had +elapsed since I had seen or heard from my husband. Yet I answered: + +“‘I have not heard from him since he left here for Paris, six weeks +ago.’ + +“‘Ah!’ he said, very gravely. + +“‘But I expect to see him soon,’ I added. + +“‘Indeed!’ he exclaimed, in surprise. + +“‘Yes, indeed. Of course. Why not?’ I demanded, in astonishment. + +“He was silent. + +“‘Why not?’ I again demanded, uneasily. + +“He looked grave. + +“‘What do you mean, Mr. Anglesea?’ I exclaimed, anxiously. + +“‘Ah, madame!’ he sighed. ‘You know so little of the world! So little of +the world!’ + +“‘Mr. Anglesea, you distress me. Has anything happened to Saviola?’ + +“‘Ah, madame, you were but a child when you went off to marry the +Italian. I—knowing full well that I could not prevent that mad act which +was sure to take place—went with you, for your sake, for your brother, +my friend’s sake, to prevent any fatal error from being committed. I +thought I had prevented calamity to you. I know better now. Ah, yes!’ + +“‘Mr. Anglesea,’ I said, ‘you frighten me. What has happened? I implore +you to tell me.’ + +“‘Not now! I cannot! But do not be alarmed! Take courage! I am your +friend! I will see you through this trouble.’ + +“‘No! you must tell me—now! Has—has—has——’ I could scarcely bear to put +the question; but I nerved myself to do it. ‘Has Luigi left me—deserted +me?’ And I sank back and covered my burning face with my hands. + +“‘How shall I answer your question, madame? But put the question rather +to your own intelligence. He left here six weeks ago. He has not +returned or written to you since. Any one less youthful, innocent and +inexperienced than yourself would draw inferences from these +circumstances. Will you excuse me now? I will see you this evening. May +I?’ + +“‘Yes,’ I answered, mechanically. + +“He bowed and left the room. + +“I was alone again. I wished to be alone to collect my thoughts. It had +never occurred to me that Saviola would desert me—never! + +“He had ceased to be my king, my hero, my idol. He had revealed himself +to be a gambler, a sharper, an adventurer. I had long ceased to love, +trust, or respect him. Still, I knew that he was fond of me, in his way, +and so I never imagined that he could forsake me. And, now that the +possibility was presented to me, it filled me with more wonder than +sorrow or mortification. + +“I was not nearly so much troubled by the possible desertion of Saviola +as I had been by the long silence and fancied implacability of my +father. I was sorry for Saviola only because, though I had ceased to +love, or trust, or respect the man, I had begun to compassionate him. He +seemed so much weaker than I was. + +“With this feeling of pity and regret was mingled one of intense relief. +I had so little to lose in losing the man whose life was a constant +source of shame and fear to me! But, whatever he may have been, his rank +was unquestionable. I had been lawfully married to him, and I was the +Princess Saviola. And my son was Prince Rolando Saviola. No one could +deprive us of these old and honorable, though now empty, titles. + +“I soon reconciled myself to my desertion, even if I did not rejoice in +my deliverance. I made up my mind to take my child and go directly to +Weirdwaste, my own inheritance from my mother, and there await my +father’s return to England; then confess the whole truth to him and +throw myself upon his love and his protection. + +“But, ah, Heaven! I did not yet know the worst!” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXI + PRETENDED CONSOLATION + + +“In the evening Anglesea called on me again. + +“His manner was full of the most respectful sympathy. He was my +brother’s dearest friend. He had acted in my father’s and my brother’s +absence as my own best friend; and, since he could not prevent my +romantic escapade, he had attended me in the character of a guardian, to +see that no fatal mistake was made through Saviola’s ignorance of +national laws and customs. Therefore, I had every reason to trust in him +and confide in him as in an elder brother. + +“I was alone, in the little drawing room, when he entered. I received +him as warmly, though more gravely, than when he had called at noon. + +“When we were seated I asked him—as I would have asked my +brother—whether my husband had really, finally abandoned me. + +He looked searchingly into my face, as if to see how I would be likely +to take his answer. + +Finding in my expression no very distressing anxiety, but simply a wish +to know the truth, he replied: + +“‘Saviola has disappointed us all. If I were not speaking to you I +should say that he is scarcely worthy of thought, still less of regret.’ + +“‘But—are you sure? Has he really and finally abandoned me?’ I repeated. + +“‘He has.’ + +“‘You are sure of this?’ + +“‘I am.’ + +His words and tones were grave, sweet and compassionate. + +“‘Where is he now?’ I next inquired. + +“‘In Paris.’ + +“‘I must write to him again, then,’ I said, with the idea that, although +I no longer loved or respected the man, he was my husband, and to write +to him was my duty. ‘I will—will write to him to-night.’ + +“‘You may do so,’ he said, gravely and tenderly. ‘Nay, I would even +counsel you to do so for the relief of your own mind, and that you may +never have the slightest cause for self-reproach. But I warn you that it +will have no effect whatever upon Saviola. He will not answer your +letter.’ + +“‘He has not answered any letter of mine since he left for Paris. But, +surely, if I write and ask him, plainly, whether he ever means to return +to me, and beg him to reply, so that I may know what to do, he will +answer.’ + +“‘No, he will not. But, to satisfy yourself, write to him at once. Then +you will know, Elfrida!’” + +“In the days when we three—Anglesea, my brother and myself were as +intimate and familiar as the children of one house—he had followed suit +with Francis and called me by my Christian name, and sometimes by its +abbreviation. I had liked it then, and I liked it now, though this was +the first time, since my marriage, that he had given it to me. + +“‘Yes, I will write to-night. I will write at once,’ I said. + +“‘Then I will bid you good-evening. There is a mail that closes at +eleven o’clock. If I leave you now you may be able to secure it,’ he +said, rising. + +“‘Thank you, Angus. Come again to-morrow,’ I said, using the name I had +been accustomed to give him when he was the daily and beloved companion +of my brother and myself. + +“He took my hand, bowed over it and left the room. + +“Then I sat down to my desk to write the letter to Saviola in Paris. + +“I did not reproach him, nor lament his absence, nor write in any way +unkindly or sorrowfully to him. I simply reminded him how long he had +been gone; how many letters I had written that remained unanswered, and +then inquired whether he meant to return to me, and if so, when? I ended +by telling him that my little son and myself were in good health, and +begging him to answer me to the point that I might know what to do. So I +left him at perfect liberty to act for himself. + +“When I had sealed and directed this letter I rang and dispatched it to +the hotel bag that left the house at a quarter to eleven. + +“Then I went to bed. + +“My child usually slept with his nurse in a little room off my +bedchamber. But now I called her to bring the baby to me; and I took him +into bed and drew him to my bosom, finding comfort in the thought that +my child would never desert me, and that no one on earth had power to +take him from me. What a soothing balm that little form was pressed to +my heart. + +“I lay awake nearly all that night, not with trouble or anxiety, but +with thoughts and plans for the future of my child and myself. + +“I had made up my mind. If I should get no answer from Saviola I would +make ready and leave Switzerland for Ireland. I would go with my child +to Weirdwaste, which was my own, and live there as I had lived before +the fatal journey to Brighton. I would live among my warm-hearted Irish +tenants, who, poor as my forefathers had been for generations, had never +been oppressed, but always helped to the extent of our power. They had +loved my mother, had loved me for her sake, and they would now welcome +and love my child, who would be the heir of Weirdwaste, if of nothing +more. + +“I would live at Weirdwaste until the return of my father, when I would +confess all my faults and follies to him, and appeal to his affection +for forgiveness and protection. + +“In two years and a few months I should be of age, and should enter into +the full possession of my poor, old estate. + +“I should live there always, and bring up my boy to be a Christian +gentleman and a good and wise landlord. + +“The excellent vicar should be his tutor and look after his education, +and the amiable doctor should be his physician and look after his +health. + +“Francis, my dear brother, would visit me often, I felt sure. My father +would come sometimes. These were all I really cared to see. + +“We should be happy—my little son and I—in spite of all that had passed. +He would never, from his father’s example, grow up to become a gambler, +a wine bibber, or an adventurer. He should be trained to become an honor +to his name and a blessing to his tenantry. + +“Thinking these pleasant thoughts I fell asleep at last and realized all +my anticipations—in my dreams! + +“The next day, and every day for a week, Angus Anglesea came to see me. + +“He no longer spoke of Saviola; but he talked to me of my dear brother, +his own dearest friend—a theme of which I never tired. He told me that +his ardent studies at Eton had overtasked his strength. His physicians +recommended a long vacation, and a total change of air and scene. +Therefore, he accompanied his father and stepmother to the Canaries—Dr. +Alexander and the Rev. Dr. Clement, of Weirdwaste, attending the party, +as traveling physician and private tutor. + +“‘So,’ said I, ‘that is the reason why none of my letters addressed to +my old friends at Weirdwaste were ever answered. But since the vicar and +the doctor were conscripted for foreign service, who, may I ask, was +left to take charge of the souls and bodies of the poor people at +Weirdwaste?’ + +“‘My child, clergymen and physicians are as plenty as wild berries. A +curate without a parish and a doctor without a practice were easily +found to fill the places of the hard-worked and badly paid old vicar and +doctor, who needed rest and change about as much as any of the traveling +party.’ + +“‘So all my friends are in the Canaries!’ + +“‘Except myself, Elfrida. I am here, and I will remain near you, to +guard you as an elder brother, until your fate is decided.’ + +“‘A girl’s fate is supposed to be decided when she is married, but that +does not take into account the possibility of her desertion by her +husband,’ I replied, but without any bitterness of feeling. + +“‘No,’ he admitted, very gravely—‘no, because such possibilities are as +exceptional as they are tragical. But take courage, Elfrida. As I was +your brother’s truest friend and brother, so I will be yours, to remain +near you, to guard you and assist you as long as you may need me.’ + +“‘Thank you, Angus! Oh, thank you! I am glad that all my family and +friends are in the Canaries, since it is so good for them to be there. +And I am glad—oh! so glad that you are here, Angus! I do not feel quite +alone and helpless now that you are here. It is very good of you to say +that you will remain near me until something is settled. But will not +your doing so interfere with some of your previous engagements?’ + +“‘Not with any,’ he replied. ‘I am an idle man. And even if it were not +so—even if I were over head and ears in business—I should let all go in +order to be of service to my dear friend’s sister in her need. And +believe me, Elfrida, I find the greatest happiness in serving you.’ + +“His generous devotion moved me to tears. I thanked him in the most +earnest words at my command. + +“The week passed, and no letter came from Saviola. I was not +disappointed, for now I scarcely expected to get one. I reconciled +myself to my fate as a forsaken wife all the more cheerfully for my +child’s sake, who would be thus saved from the baleful effects of his +father’s evil example. + +“The week passed, and though no letter came from Saviola, no word on the +subject was spoken between Anglesea and myself.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXII + A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING + + +“Anglesea watched me closely, as if in anxiety to see how much this +suspense and uncertainty might affect my health and spirits. And I think +he was surprised and pleased to discover that I was not distressed by +the situation. + +“It was on the eighth day after my letter had been dispatched that the +subject of that letter was first mentioned. It was I who first spoke of +it. + +“Anglesea came in to make his usual morning call. + +“After our greetings were over, and we had sat down, I said to him: + +“‘It is now more than a week since I wrote to Saviola. I have now no +longer the faintest hope of receiving an answer to my letter. I shall +not wait here longer. I shall leave Geneva to-morrow.’ + +“‘I never supposed for a moment that you would ever hear from him again. +I knew, in fact, that it was impossible for you to do so; but I wished +you to prove the question to yourself,’ he gravely replied. + +“‘You knew it! I thought that you inferred it!’ I exclaimed. + +“‘My inference amounted to moral conviction; moral conviction to +positive knowledge.’ + +“I did not answer him. I scarcely understood him. + +“‘What do you propose to do, Elfrida?’ he inquired, gravely and tenderly +taking my hand, and then adding: ‘Whatever it may be, you see me here +ready to stand by you, to counsel and assist you to the utmost of my +ability.’ + +“‘Oh! I thank you, Angus!—I thank you with all my heart and soul! You +are indeed a friend and brother raised up to me in the time of need!’ + +“‘I see—I hope I see clearly—that you are wasting no vain regrets on the +man who is unworthy of your thoughts,’ he said, with a strange look that +puzzled me, coming from him. I cannot define the look; I had never seen +such a one on his face before, and it troubled me; I answered him: + +“‘I am not grieving as you see; but we will not talk of Saviola; he is +my husband after all, you know.’ + +“‘Ah!’ he said, in a sort of equivocal tone that again disturbed me. + +“‘What shall you do now, Elfrida?—after leaving Geneva, I mean?’ he next +inquired. + +“‘I shall go at once to England, cross over to Ireland, and take up my +abode at Weirdwaste, where I lived so long before that fatal visit to +Brighton.’ + +“‘To—Weirdwaste!’ he exclaimed, in some surprise. + +“‘Yes. It is a poor old manor, but it is my own property in right of my +mother, and I shall come into full possession of it as soon as I am of +age.’ + +“‘But—to that wild, dreary, solitary home, where you spent so many +lonely, secluded, unhappy years. And of which you complained to your +brother and myself so bitterly?’ + +“‘Yes. It seemed all that you have described it to be to my wilful and +impatient childhood and youth, when I longed to see and know the world. +I have seen and known enough, and more than enough, of the world, and +now my thoughts turn to Weirdwaste and its quiet life as a haven of +rest.’ + +“‘My poor Elfrida! You would wear your young heart out in such a +solitude!’ + +“‘No; I would not. I should have my child to occupy and interest me; and +I shall have the poor on the estate to look after.’ + +“‘These duties could not fill your heart, Elfrida. You would languish +into melancholia or death. Listen, Elfrida—dearest Elfrida! You talked +of that wild seacoast manor house as a haven of rest. It would not be +so. It would be to you as a desert, a prison, an exile. See, Elfrida! +Here is your true haven of rest!’ he said, bending toward me with a look +that sent all the blood rushing to my head and face. + +“‘What do you mean? Where?’ I cried, in alarm, though I did not +understand his meaning. + +“‘Here!’ he exclaimed, striking his breast and then extending both hands +toward me—‘Here! in my love!—in my arms!—in my bosom! Oh, Elfrida! +accept the life’s devotion of one who adores you, and who will gladly +consecrate all his days to your happiness!’ + +“I could no longer misunderstand him; nor could I speak for amazement +and indignation. He took advantage of my silence to pour out the +malebolge of his revolting passion before me. + +“At last, with a great effort, I conquered the speechless panic into +which his insults had thrown me, and my wrath and shame burst forth in +strong and fiery words. + +“I ordered him from my presence; but he did not go. I called him hard +names—a snake in the grass—a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a traitor, a +hypocrite. + +“He did not reply; he stood up before me and took it all, devouring me +with his eyes, while his tongue was silent. + +“At length, my paroxysm of violence broke down in tears, and I wept in +bitter anguish. + +“‘Although I am forsaken, yet still I am a wife!’ I said; ‘though my +husband has left me, yet still he is my husband.’ + +“These words gave him the opportunity he now wanted. + +“I had sunk down in my chair and covered my face with my hands. + +“He came up to me, laid his hand on the back of my chair, and dropping +his voice to the lowest tones of reverential sympathy, he said these +terrible words: + +“‘No, Elfrida! No, my poor child! It breaks my heart to tell you the +truth, that I have only recently learned to my dismay; but you must hear +it sooner or later. Better to hear it kindly, tenderly told by a +friend’s tongue than harshly and suddenly by a wordling’s or an enemy’s. +No, Elfrida! You are no wife.’ + +“‘Saviola is dead, then!’ I exclaimed, in an access of excitement. + +“‘No, Elfrida; that is not what I mean. You are no wife, because—you +never have been.’ + +“I lifted my head and gazed on him in dumb horror and amazement. + +“He met my look with one of deepest sorrow and commiseration. + +“‘It is false!’ I cried, as soon as I could speak. ‘It is foully, +cruelly false!’ + +“‘I would to Heaven it were!’ he sighed. ‘I would to Heaven it were!’ + +“There was something in his look and tone that seemed to force truth and +despair into my soul. Had my marriage ceremony been unlawful, +notwithstanding Anglesea’s pretended carefulness? Or what had happened? +How had I been betrayed? I struggled not to believe him—not to question +him; but I could not help doing both. + +“‘Why do you say such—such——’ I had no word strong enough to utter my +thought. + +“He answered me as if I had done so: + +“‘Because I must, Elfrida. I came to Geneva for that purpose. I came +from Saviola, charged with a message to you.’ He ceased. + +“‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Go on,’ I was at that moment almost insane. It took +all my power of self-control to keep still. + +“‘I met him in Paris two weeks ago. He told me that he was on the eve of +marriage with Mademoiselle de la Villemonte, daughter of the Duc de la +Villemonte; that he had not the courage to write and break his +connection with you, especially as such writing would be dangerous. It +might bring you on to Paris to try to prevent it, which would be +awkward. So, he prayed me to take his farewell message to you. I will +not insult you, Elfrida, by giving his message.’ + +“‘Yes! Give it! Do not spare me!’ I cried out in my agony. + +“‘Then it was to the effect that he was obliged by circumstances to part +with you, but that as soon as he could command the fortune he was to +receive with Mademoiselle de la Villemonte, he would make a suitable +provision for you and your child.’ + +“‘You heard him say that? You, my brother’s friend! And you did not slay +him on the spot!’ I cried, with all my blood on fire. + +“‘My dear Elfrida, my scorn, contempt and indignation might have led me +to knock the villain down and trample him to death. But, my child, we +are all living in civilized Europe and in the nineteenth century, and +our education teaches us to subdue the wild beast that is within us. +Besides, I had you to think of. If I should slay Saviola and be cast +into prison, who would take care of you? Your father and brother, even +your old pastor and doctor, were away in the Canaries, and you had not a +friend in the world near you.’ + +“‘And I have not now!’ I cried, in bitter despair. + +“‘Do not say that, Elfrida. I lay my life at your feet!’ + +“‘No more of that! Your every word insults me! And you could come here +with a false face and let me write to that man and never tell me what +you have only told me now!’ + +“‘My dear Elfrida! Could I burst upon you suddenly with news that, for +aught I then knew, might have killed you on the spot, or maddened you +for life? No, none but a brute could have done so. I had to feel my way; +to lead you slowly up to the truth; to strengthen you to bear it. That +is why I allowed you to write to Saviola and to wait for a letter from +him. That is why I watched your every tone and look. While doing so I +perceived that your happiness did not depend on your union with +Saviola.’ + +“‘Tell me this!’ I burst out, almost furiously. ‘How was it that you, +who went ostensibly to guard me against misadventure, became accessory +to some deception which rendered that marriage rite performed between me +and Saviola of no legal effect? Tell me this, oh, traitor and +hypocrite!’” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIII + HOW IT HAPPENED + + +“‘My dearest Elfrida, for my beastly stupidity I deserve all the +reproaches you can heap upon me. But not the utter reproach of +complicity in the deception that was practiced upon you. I never +suspected Saviola of a design to deceive you. But the Italian was too +deep for me. I went to insure you against mistake, not deception. But, +as I say, the Italian was too deep for me.’ + +“‘What do you mean?’ I cried. + +“‘Saviola had studied the route to Scotland, with the design to deceive +you. There were two stations on that route of similar names. One was +Kelton, in Northumberland. The other was Kilton, in Scotland. Saviola +took tickets for us all to Kelton, when he made us believe that they +were for Kilton. We went by the night train, you remember. We got out at +Kelton, near the border on the English side, believing all the time that +it was Kilton, on the Scottish side. There, in England, you were married +regularly enough; but because it was in England, and you were a minor +marrying without the consent of your parents or guardians, therefore the +marriage was illegal, null and void.’ + +“‘Did Saviola tell you this when you met in Paris?’ + +“‘Yes, but I had discovered the fact, to my great dismay and distress, +before that.’ + +“‘When, and how?’ + +“‘In September I was going up to Scotland for a week’s shooting. I went +by the same train that had carried us, but in the daytime. When we +stopped at Kelton I recognized the station at which we had got out, the +hotel where we had stopped for breakfast, and the distant church, with +the manse beside it, where the marriage ceremony had been performed. And +yet I knew then—as I had not known on that fatal night—that we had not +crossed the border.’ + +“‘Then we were married in England?’ I wailed. + +“‘Yes! To settle the point, I asked a fellow passenger how far we were +from the Scottish border. He told me just five miles. Still, I did not +then suspect Saviola of having wilfully betrayed us. I thought he had +confused the two—Kelton and Kilton—and had made a fatal mistake. And I +cursed my own stupidity in not having foreseen and prevented it. I +determined to seek you both out and have the mistake rectified by +another and a regular marriage ceremony as soon as possible. I did not +know where to find you, nor of whom to inquire for you, since your +friends were all in the Canary Islands. It was by accident only that I +met him in Paris, and learned the truth from his own lips, as I have +already told you.’ + +“He ceased to speak. + +“Overwhelmed as I was I tried to make some little stand for my own +dignity and self-respect. I said: + +“‘The marriage—in spite of quibbles—was a marriage in the sight of God, +if not in the sight of man. The good old minister who pronounced the +nuptial benediction over two young people who—at that time, at least, +loved each other, and who were free to wed—married us as lawfully, as +sacredly as all the united state and church could have married us! +Repudiated and abandoned as I may be, I am still the wife of Luigi +Saviola. And I will be true to myself. Though he has sacrilegiously +wedded another woman, he is still my husband, and I will be faithful to +him.’ + +“I had by this time recovered my self-possession, and felt some regret +at the paroxysm of emotion into which I had been thrown. + +“‘Elfrida,’ he said, ‘this is sheer fatuity. You have no more right to +call yourself the wife of Prince Saviola than you have to call yourself +the consort of the czar. You are not a wife. You are free—free to accept +the love and devotion that I lay at your feet.’ + +“I felt my heart rising again in wrath. I did not wish again to lose my +self-control. I commanded myself, and, with forced calmness and some +sarcasm, inquired: + +“‘Do I understand you to be offering me marriage Mr. Anglesea?’ + +“He took his hand from the back of my chair, over which he had been +leaning, and walked away with a look of petulance and annoyance. +Presently he returned to my side, and said: + +“‘Dearest Elfrida, men do not offer marriage under these circumstances.’ + +“I turned and looked him straight in the face as I demanded: + +“‘What, then, is it that you do offer your friend’s sister?’ + +“He winced slightly, but answered: + +“‘All that a man may offer—under the circumstances—love, devotion, +protection. My heart and my fortune. The use of my country seat and town +house until—ahem!—such settlements as may secure your future from want. +Elfrida, hear me!’ + +“And again he poured forth a torrent of insults, which pretended to be +love, admiration, adoration—what you will, but which were gross insults. +When he had talked himself out of breath I only answered: + +“‘Mr. Anglesea, you have offended me beyond hope of pardon. Leave my +presence at once, and never dare to enter it again.’ + +“He did not go, but stood there and recommenced his insulting suit. + +“I went and put my hand upon the bell. + +“‘Will you leave the room, or shall I call the people of the house to +put you out?’ + +“‘Neither, Elfrida. You will hear me,’ he said. + +“I pulled the cord, and with such effect that a servant quickly entered +the room. + +“‘Show this gentleman out,’ I said. + +“The man bowed and held the door open. + +“‘Thanks, Fritz. I can find my own way. You needn’t wait,’ said +Anglesea, with cool insolence. + +“The man bowed and withdrew. + +“Anglesea turned to me with a smile. + +“Quick as lightning I formed a resolution and acted upon it. I darted +through the door leading into my bedroom, closed it behind me, and shot +the bolt to secure myself. I heard him laugh as I dropped breathless +into a chair. + +“‘What is it, madame?’ inquired the nurse, who was seated beside my +sleeping baby’s crib. + +“‘Nothing,’ I answered. And the girl, seeing that I did not mean to be +questioned, became silent. + +“Soon I heard Anglesea leave the room and walk downstairs. + +“A little later on I rang again and gave orders that if the gentleman +who had just gone out came again, he was not to be admitted to my +apartments. + +“Then I began my preparations for leaving Geneva. I clung with all my +heart and soul and strength to the conviction that my marriage was +sacred. Saviola and myself were both single when we married. The +venerable minister of God who united us was most solemnly in earnest +when he performed the rites and gave us his benediction. We were +married, and no subsequent nuptials of Saviola could affect that +undeniable fact. + +“Yet—though I felt so sure of the reality and sanctity of our marriage, +I was resolved never under any circumstances to be reunited with Saviola +so long as a doubt of the fact remained on my mind. + +“I would go, as I had planned, to Weirdwaste, and live there with my +child, retaining my marriage name and title for the boy’s sake as well +as for my own. + +“I made such progress with my preparations that they were completed by +nightfall. + +“Anna, my Swiss nursemaid, agreed to go with me to England and remain +with me until I could supply her place, when I would pay her expenses +back to Geneva. + +“After my tea was over that evening, and as Fritz went out with the +service, I told him to bring my bill, and have it include the night’s +lodging and the next morning’s breakfast. + +“He left to do my errand. + +“In half an hour he returned, followed by some one with a firm footstep. +I thought it was Anglesea, and flushed with indignation. + +“‘A gentleman to see madame,’ said the waiter, throwing open the door. + +“‘Did I not forbid you——’ I began, but stopped suddenly and aghast. + +“It was my father who stood before me.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIV + FATHER AND DAUGHTER + + +“Yes, it was my father who stood before me. + +“He was dressed in deep mourning, and he looked older by twenty years +than when I had seen him last. As I gazed on his worn face, on which +there was no trace of anger, but only sorrow—I was suddenly smitten with +remorse for all I had done to him; wrongs of which I never realized the +enormity until now. + +“The cry of the prodigal son rose in agony to my lips: + +“‘Father! forgive me!’ + +“He opened his arms, and I threw myself within them. + +“He folded me to his bosom in sorrow too deep for words, yet I felt that +I was forgiven as I sobbed on his shoulder. + +“After a few minutes he lifted my head, kissed me, and led me to the +sofa. + +“When I had dropped upon the cushion he sat down beside me, put his arm +protectingly around me, and then he spoke for the first time: + +“‘It is I who need forgiveness—I who left my poor, motherless little +girl for long years to the care of hirelings and eye servants, who +betrayed their trust and left her an easy prey to villainy. Yes, it is I +who need forgiveness. Elfrida, my child, can you forgive me?’ + +“‘Oh, father! father! do not speak so to me—to me who sinned against you +so grievously—to me who ought to be on my knees at your feet!’ I said. +And in the excess of remorse that his patient, forgiving words inspired, +I would have kneeled to him, but that he stopped me and drew me again to +his bosom. + +“We spoke no more to each other for a few moments. At last he said, in a +broken voice: + +“‘Did you know—your poor stepmother—was dead, Elfrida?’ + +“‘I thought so, from your mourning dress, papa. I am very sorry for +you,’ I replied. + +“‘She passed away in the Canaries, five weeks since. I have the comfort +of knowing that everything which human power could do was done for her. +I devoted the last twelve years of my life solely to her, going with her +wherever there was any hope for benefit. And for this cause I left my +poor motherless child exposed to the beasts of prey that infest this +world.’ + +“‘Father, dear father, say nothing more of that. I am alive, and since +you have forgiven me, I am almost happy again. Dear father, let us live +for each other now. I will be the most loving, the most faithful, +devoted daughter that ever parent had. I will live for you, father. Only +for you—and—and—for my child—my boy.’ + +“‘Your child, Elfrida!’ he said, staring at me, while a shiver passed +through his frame. + +“‘Yes, the child of my wilful, unfortunate marriage, dear father. I +wrote and told you all about my marriage, but I fear you never got my +letter.’ + +“‘No,’ he said, with a visible effort to recover from the shock he had +received; ‘no. I heard of your marriage from other sources, and not +until I returned to England, three weeks ago, with the remains of my +wife for interment in the vault at Enderby Castle. The news met me +there—terrible news to meet a father coming home to bury his wife.’ + +“‘Oh, my father! Oh, my father! Can you forgive me?’ I cried out, at +this. + +“‘I could not forgive myself, child. I never dreamed of blaming you. +Does any one blame the bird that is snared?’ he tenderly inquired. + +“‘You are too merciful to me—too merciful. I do not deserve it,’ I said, +covering my face with my hands, for my father’s kind words pierced my +heart like poniards. + +“‘Hush, child; hush. Do not reproach yourself so bitterly. Let me tell +you how it was that I did not receive any tidings of your marriage until +my return to England.’ + +“‘I know, dear father. It was because you were far away in the +Canaries.’ + +“‘That was not all, my child. Listen. While I was still in the +archipelago, late in October, I received a batch of letters from +England, all bringing me good news of my son and daughter. There was one +from you, telling me of your fully restored health and good spirits, and +your desire to spend the winter at Brighton. Another from Miss Murray, +giving a very flattering account of your progress in education. A third +was from Madame de la Champe, much to the same effect.’ + +“‘Those letters were written only three days before my hasty marriage, +and, oh! believe me, papa, because I even dreamed of taking such a hasty +step,’ I earnestly declared. + +‘I do believe you, my child. You shall explain later. The same mail +brought me a long letter from your brother, who had gone to Eton. He +told me of his long summer vacation spent with you at Brighton. And he +corroborated the intelligence given by yourself and your governess as to +your health, good spirits and rapid progress. He also asked leave to +spend the Christmas holidays with you at Brighton. + +“Here I sighed so heavily that my father stopped, and laid his hand on +mine in sympathy, while he resumed: + +“‘All these letters gave me great satisfaction, on account of my dear +children. They were especially comforting to me at that time, as I was +about to leave the archipelago for the Canaries. I did not notice then +that Glennon had omitted to say one word about his own health, which was +always delicate, he having inherited the constitution of his mother.’ + +“‘He looked well when he left Brighton,’ I ventured to say. + +“‘Yes; but he did not continue well after resuming his studies. The same +mail that brought me his letter brought one from one of the physicians +at Eton. I had overlooked all my other correspondence in dwelling upon +the letters from my children; but at length I took up one in a strange +handwriting which, on opening, proved to be from the physician who had +been attending my son for some seemingly slight disorder in his health. +This Dr. Fletcher wrote to me to say that the state of my son’s health +was such that Glennon should leave Eton and have a thorough change of +air, scene and diet. He suggested that he should have a traveling tutor, +and go to a warmer and drier climate.’ + +“‘I had heard that he went with you to the Canaries,’ I said. + +“‘Yes,’ continued my father, ‘I quickly made up my mind in regard to +Glennon. I wrote to my two old friends, Dr. Alexander and the Rev. Mr. +Clement, asking them if they could procure substitutes to fill their +places at Weirdwaste, and accompany us to the Canaries for the +winter—the one to take charge of the young viscount’s health, and the +other to direct his studies in a very moderate manner.’ + +“‘I heard, too, that the doctor and the vicar joined your party,’ I +said. + +“‘Yes; though I scarcely ventured to hope that they would. And really I +was as much surprised as pleased when I received letters from them +accepting my offer and promising—according to my request, in case of +their acceptance—to go to Eton, join my son and accompany him to +Gibraltar, and there await the arrival of our steamer.’ + +“My father paused for a few moments, looked at me remorsefully, and +said: + +“‘I little knew how I was about to leave my dear, only daughter; my +poor, motherless girl! We sailed early in November. But before sailing I +answered your letter and those of your teachers, expressing the great +satisfaction I felt in your improved health and good progress, thanking +your teachers for all their—supposed—zeal and care, and telling you that +you should winter at Brighton while we were at the Canaries.’ + +“‘Oh! I never saw that letter, father! I had gone on my mad journey +before that letter came!’ I said. + +“‘I know it now, my dear! I did not know it then, when I said in +cheerful confidence that I had left you so safe and happy. At Gibraltar +your brother, with the vicar and the doctor, joined us; and in a few +days we sailed for Santa Cruz de Teneriffe. Where were you then, my +dear?’ + +“‘I was in Paris—anxiously waiting for an answer to the letter I had +written you, announcing my marriage and asking your forgiveness.’ + +“‘A letter which I missed by leaving the Grecian Archipelago before it +arrived.’ + +“‘And, oh, how long, in my ignorance—how long I waited and hoped to hear +from you!’ + +“‘As I waited and hoped to hear from you—not understanding your silence. +After we had been some weeks settled at Santa Cruz, I began to be +seriously uneasy at not hearing from you, as I had especially requested +you, in my last letter, to direct your answer to Santa Cruz de +Teneriffe. But the countess urged that you would probably wait to hear +of our arrival before writing. Then I wrote to you and waited for an +answer; none came. Then I wrote to the postmaster at Brighton for +information, and in due time received an answer that your whole party +had left the town, without leaving any directions at the post office +where letters should be forwarded. This I attributed to carelessness on +your teachers’ part and inexperience on yours.’ + +“‘I left too suddenly and too madly to have thought of such a +provision—and I know not how my governesses left after they discovered +my flight.’ + +“‘I know how they left, but I did not learn until later. From the +postmaster’s imperfect information I judged that you had returned to +Weirdwaste. There I addressed my next letters, with no more success than +had attended all the others. I received no answer. I was uneasy, but not +anxious. I thought that you were living under the care of your teachers +at Weirdwaste. And I hoped, from week to week, to hear from you, and +ascribed my disappointment to any other cause than the real one—to +negligence, to irregular mails, and so forth.’ + +“‘And all that time I was going from city to city with my husband, +leaving always directions where my letters should be forwarded, and +hoping always to hear from you.’ + +“‘Ah, well, my dear, we were at cross-purposes without knowing it. The +summer came, but brought no increase of health to my poor wife. She grew +worse, and my great anxiety on her account began to absorb all my +thoughts. I ceased even to look for a letter from England.’ + +“‘I understand, dear father; the present and real calamity dulled your +sensibilities to imaginary troubles.’ + +“‘In a measure and for a time; but at length I wrote to the steward at +Weirdwaste to ask why I did not hear from you or your teachers. But, ah! +before there was time for an answer to return my poor wife died, and I +got ready to bring her remains to England.’ + +“‘My dear father!’ + +“‘I took the casket first to Enderby, where, having been previously +embalmed, it lay in state in the drawing room. The funeral was +advertised for the eighth day after the arrival of the body, and I used +the interval in going quietly down to Liverpool and taking steamer to +Ireland en route for Weirdwaste, to fetch my daughter on to Enderby for +the funeral. It was at Weirdwaste that the news of your marriage first +met me.’ + +“‘Oh, father! But you have pardoned me! And so they knew nothing of it +at Enderby?’ + +“‘No, my dear. Consider the remoteness of each of these seats from the +busy world, and their distance from each other—Enderby on the northwest +coast of Northumberland—Weirdwaste on the west coast of Ireland. No, my +dear, no hint of your marriage had reached Enderby, nor would it ever +have reached Weirdwaste but for one circumstance.’ + +“‘And that, my father?’ + +“‘Was the fact of your oldest governess, Miss Murray, having left a +portion of her effects at Weirdwaste. The old lady wrote to the steward, +telling him of your sudden marriage, and of the consequent cessation of +her services, and requesting him to forward her effects—of which she +inclosed a list—to a certain address in London. Though the steward and +the housekeeper both wrote to the governess—when they sent her +boxes—imploring her to give them more particulars of their beloved young +lady, she gave them none, merely saying in the letter in which she +acknowledged the receipt of her property that you had married and had +gone away—more than that she said she knew nothing.’ + +“I bowed my head in sorrow. I realized what my dear, stricken father +must have felt to hear such news at such a time. But I know he never, +even in thought, reproached me. + +“‘I made every inquiry, but could learn no more at Weirdwaste. I went +back to Northumberland—to Enderby—and remained until after the funeral +of my dear wife. Then I went down to Brighton to make inquiries there. I +found the house where you had lodged—to which all my letters had been +directed—but the landlady could tell me nothing more than that the young +lady had been missed one day, and that at the end of the same week the +two old ladies had given up their apartments and had gone to London. And +that, subsequently, she had heard a report that the young lady had gone +off to Scotland, with “the Italian,” to be married; but she did not know +the truth of the matter.’ + +“‘I do not know how the report could have got out, except through my +teachers.’ + +“‘Of course it was through them. When I could hear no more I went up to +London to transact some business with my banker. I did not like to ask +any direct questions of him concerning you; nor did I have any strong +hope of hearing news of you in that quarter. Nevertheless, when our +accounts had been overhauled, I did venture to remark: + +“‘“My daughter has not drawn on you of late, I perceive.” + +“‘“Not for a year,” he said; “and that reminds me,” he continued, “that +I had a letter from her highness, last summer, inquiring your lordship’s +address—I believe it was from Geneva. I cannot lay my hands on it at +this time, but—yes, I am sure it was from Geneva.” + +“‘How glad I am that I wrote that letter! The banker’s prompt reply was +the first clew I got to your whereabouts, as the banker’s news was the +first clew you got to mine.’ + +“‘Yes, my dear. I did not ask a question, burning as I was to hear more +of you. How could I ask that comparative stranger for information +respecting my daughter, with whose movements I should have been +perfectly familiar? I did not even know why he called you “her +highness.” I left England that same afternoon, and came as fast as steam +could bring me to Geneva. Here I am! But I do not even know the name of +your husband.’ + +“Again I dropped my head upon my breast. I had so much to tell him, +besides the name of my husband. But he was waiting patiently for my +reply. I gave it.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXV + A SHOCK + + +“‘Prince Luigi Saviola.’ + +“He stared at me in surprise, in distress. + +“‘Prince Luigi Saviola!’ he echoed, without withdrawing his fixed gaze +from my face. + +“‘Yes, dear father,’ I answered, wondering at the emotion, or rather at +the panic, into which my words had thrown him. + +“‘Oh, my poor child! Oh, my dear child! And here you have been +controlling and concealing your own great sorrow to listen to me and to +sympathize with my lighter ones. Oh, my poor Elfrida! My poor, poor +girl!’ he breathed at last, with a voice full of distress and compassion +that I felt sure he must have heard of Saviola’s Parisian marriage, and +was grieving over it more than I was for myself. I felt that I must try +to comfort him. + +“‘Do not take it to heart, dear father,’ I said. ‘Look at me! I do not +appear to be dying of despair, do I? Do not grieve for me, since I do +not grieve for myself. Let us, from time to time, live for each other. +You, dear, dear father! have had a great sorrow which you bear like a +Christian. I have had a humiliating disappointment and a wholesome +lesson; though like most of the teachings of experience, the lesson +comes too late to do the pupil any good. But from this time I will +forget my trouble and live for you.’ + +“He was still staring at me with more wonder and amazement than before. + +“‘I had not the remotest suspicion that it was Luigi Saviola whom you +had married,’ he murmured, as if speaking to himself. Then after another +long, speculating look at me, he inquired: + +“‘Elfrida, my darling, how came you to marry this young man—was your act +a mere whim, a childish freak, or could you really have loved him?’ + +“I saw by his whole manner that there was some afterthought in my +father’s mind that I did not comprehend; but I answered him: + +“‘I thought I loved him; but in my ignorance and inexperience I must +have been misled by fancy and imagination to mistake admiration and +enthusiasm for love; but the hallucination was strong enough to make me +forget every duty I should have remembered and held sacred.’ + +“‘Tell me all about your courtship and marriage, Elfrida!’ he said. + +“And then I told him, as faithfully as I have set it down here for you, +Abel, every particular—of Saviola’s introduction to me; of the growth of +our acquaintance and its development into that false hero-worship which +I mistook for love; of our runaway marriage, in which Angus Anglesea +aided as my guardian, saying that since he had no power to prevent the +marriage he would see that it was solemnized legally and properly. + +“‘God bless the boy!’ broke in my father, with so much fervor that I had +not heart to tell him afterward what a villain Anglesea had proved +himself—in the sequel—to be. + +“Then I told him of our travels; of my letters of contrition to him; of +my disappointments in not hearing from him; of the gradual opening of my +eyes to the true character of my husband; of my grief, wonder and +humiliation at discovering that my imaginary hero, martyr, patriot, +humanitarian, was no better than a professional gambler and adventurer! +Still, though his life degraded himself and me, though I could no longer +adore and worship him as I had done when I believed in him—still I bore +with him because I really thought that he loved me, that with all his +faults he was faithful to me. In this belief I lived and hoped until the +end came. Then, indeed, the last scales fell from my eyes. I know that +if he had ever loved me, he had ceased to do so now. + +“‘Poor fellow!’ murmured my father, as if he judged Saviola much more +leniently than I could do. And again the impression came to me that +there was an afterthought lurking in his mind, incomprehensible to mine. + +“‘Why do you pity him, father dear? I should think you would feel +nothing but resentment and animosity to him.’ + +“‘My dear, when one has seen so much suffering as I have, one must learn +mercy. He ran away with my daughter and married her, to be sure; but he +was young and in love, and you were living only with careless +governesses. I could have forgiven him. He took to the gaming table +until hazard became the passion of his life. He was lucky in cards, but +I never heard that he was dishonest. And—without knowing his near +relations to you and myself—I have heard a good deal of him lately.’ + +“‘Father, you seem to be really defending him.’ + +“‘Am I, my dear? Then it is because he can no longer defend himself.’ + +“‘No; for his conduct is utterly indefensible.’ + +“‘What conduct, my child?’ + +“‘My dear father, with all that you have heard of him lately, you cannot +have heard of the shocking event at Paris.’ + +“‘Yes, my dear, I have heard it all—though I did not know at the time +that he was your husband.’ + +“‘And now that you do know it, what do you think of all this, sir?’ + +“‘I think, my dear, that it is strange in you, and incomprehensible to +me, that you should feel no regret for the young man’s tragic fate, nor +wear one sign of mourning for him who was your husband. I think, my +dear, that in this you should pay some respect to death, if not to the +dead,’ he gravely replied. + +“It was now my turn to stare at him. + +“‘Father!’ I exclaimed; ‘I do not comprehend. What tragic fate? Who is +dead? Not Luigi! I heard of him only yesterday!’ + +“‘Heard of him? Heard of whom? Not Saviola? Is it possible that you do +not know?’ + +“‘Know what, sir? I know nothing, it seems. What do you mean, dear +father?’ + +“‘Is it possible that you do not know Prince Luigi Saviola fell in a +duel with the Duc de Montmeri, nearly two months ago!’ + +“‘Great Heaven! No, I knew nothing of all that. Oh, poor Luigi! Poor +Luigi!’ I covered my face with my hands and fell back in my chair. + +“‘And you knew nothing of all this?’ + +“‘Nothing, nothing!’ I moaned. + +“‘And yet the papers were full of the subject.’ + +“‘I never saw any papers after Luigi left me. I was expecting my child +every day, and I lived very secluded, so that I heard no rumors—until +very lately a report met me that he was on the eve of marriage with a +French heiress,’ I said, remembering the tale told me by Anglesea. + +“‘Strange that such a report as that should get afloat about a young man +whose fate was well known all over Europe, and filled all hearers with +compassion and sympathy.’ + +“‘Tell me of the duel, father! Tell me all you know,’ I said. + +“‘It arose at a gentlemen’s dinner, given by one of the Bonapartes. The +talk turned on women, and drifted into the comparative merits of women +of different European nationalities. The Duc de Montmeri, who had taken +too much wine, made some injurious and sneering remarks on Italian +women. The prince warmly took up the defense of his fair compatriots. +High words ensued. The quarrel ended in the challenge of Saviola by +Montmeri. They met the next morning in a secluded spot in the Rouveret. +Montmeri was a professional duelist and a dead shot. Saviola fell at the +first fire. It was a murder—no less. When his second went to raise his +head the dying man only breathed forth three words—“My poor wife”—and +died. Little did I think when I read these words that the poor wife in +question was my own daughter.’ + +“‘Oh, Luigi! Poor Luigi! And to think that I should have listened to +such cruel slanders of you and cherished such bitter thoughts of you!’ I +exclaimed, in sudden remorse at the remembrance of the ready credence I +had given to the story of his second marriage told me by Anglesea. + +“‘And you really knew nothing of this fatal duel until I told you about +it?’ again demanded my father. + +“‘Nothing, I assure you. But remember how secluded I have lived here, +seeing no one but my infant boy, my nurse and my maid—except, indeed, my +physician, who came daily for weeks, but who would not have been likely +to speak to me of the duel, even if he had read of it, which he might +not have done, you know.’ + +“‘Well, my love, you should now put on widow’s mourning for your +deceased husband,’ said my father, looking gravely into my face.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVI + “TELL ME ALL” + + +“‘I am not sure that I have the right to do so,’ I answered, dropping my +head on my bosom. + +“‘You do not know whether you have any right to do so? What do you mean, +Elfrida? Are we still at cross-purposes, my dear? Or what new enigma is +this?’ he demanded, uneasily. + +“‘Father, I fear that a fatal mistake was made in the manner of our +marriage. I fear that mistake may render it illegal. I will have no +concealments from you. Therefore, I must tell you even this. Once I was +led to believe that Saviola made no mistake, but purposely left the +train with me, on the English side of the border, where our marriage +without your consent would have been unlawful; but now since I have +learned that the report of this French marriage was false, I now believe +that the report of his wilful deception of me in regard to the place of +our marriage was also false, and that he ignorantly made the fatal +mistake.’ + +“‘My dear girl! My dear Elfrida! What do you mean? What fatal mistake do +you mean?’ + +“‘I have already indicated it, my dear father. But I will tell you more +distinctly,’ I said. + +“And then I told him of the two stations on the road with similarly +sounding names—Kelton, on the English side, within five miles of the +border, and Kilton, on the Scottish side, just across the border. +‘Intending to be married at the last-mentioned place, we got out of the +train by misadventure at the first, and we were married in England.’ + +“‘What disastrous carelessness!’ he groaned. + +“‘But, father, we both acted in good faith, and were married by an +ordained clergyman, and had our marriage duly recorded and witnessed. I +do, for myself, feel that our marriage was lawful and sacred as if we +had been united in the presence of all our relations, by the combined +powers of church and state. Still it is for you to decide. I have +concealed nothing from you, my dear father. I have now told you all. I +leave my fate and my conduct in your hands. Shall I live on as the +widowed Princess Saviola, or what shall I do?’ + +“‘My dear Elfrida, I must think of it. I must have time to decide. This +is a complication, an embarrassment for which, dear child, I was not at +all prepared. No, do not look distressed, child. I do not blame you.’ + +“‘Before you came I had made up my mind to leave Geneva and return to +Ireland and take up my abode at Weirdwaste, where you yourself had fixed +my home. Although I believed then that my husband had repudiated the +ceremony performed at Kelton, deserted me and married a French heiress, +still I had determined to stand by my marriage, to call myself by my +husband’s name, and to live in seclusion at Weirdwaste and devote myself +to the education of my son and to the care of the poor. Such was the +plan of life I had laid out for myself before your arrival, my dear +father. Indeed, my trunks are already packed and my hotel bill paid up +to noon to-morrow. But now I place myself in your hands most gladly, and +I will abide by your judgment.’ + +“‘You could not do better, my dear. One part of your plan may be carried +out at once. We will leave this place to-morrow morning for England, but +not for Ireland—not for Weirdwaste—rather for a little place of mine to +which you have never been; because, in fact, it was leased for +twenty-one years, and the lease will only expire on the last day of +December.’ + +“‘You mean Myrtle Grove, on the south coast?’ + +“‘Yes, dear. I have given orders that as soon as it is vacated it is to +be put in complete order. I intended to live there in strict seclusion. +I did not know that I should have the comfort of my dear daughter’s +society. For the present, that will be better than Weirdwaste for you, +my child.’ + +“I could not but agree with my father in this view of the case. + +“Then, as it was growing late, I rang for supper, which was promptly +served in my sitting room. + +“I asked my father if he had engaged apartments for the night. + +“He told me that he had not; that he had set out from the railway +station to find me first, having left all his luggage in charge of his +valet at the station. But he said that he would attend to the matter +immediately after supper, which he did. + +“He succeeded in procuring rooms in the same house and in the same +corridor with me. Then he sent a messenger from the hotel to the station +to fetch his valet with the luggage. + +“When these arrived he bade me good-night, and retired to his apartment. + +“He had not seen my beautiful boy, nor had he asked to see him; nor had +I the courage to propose to show him. + +“Now I felt a little grieved at this neglect of my innocent child. + +“Early the next morning we left Geneva, and traveling as fast as steam +could carry us by land and sea, in due time we reached London. We put up +at one of the quietest hotels at the West End. Here my father insisted +that I should pay off my French maid and my Swiss nurse, and send each +back to her own country. + +“When they were gone, he said: + +“‘And now we take leave of the Princess Saviola forever, and we know +only Lady Elfrida Glennon.’ + +“‘But my boy, dear father—my boy!’ I pleaded. + +“‘A proper nurse must be procured for the child without delay—some +healthy young married woman living in the country, who will take the +whole charge of the boy before we leave London. He is the child of a +deceased son of mine, and so delicate that he must be reared in the +country, and fed on fresh milk and fresh air.’ + +“‘And—must I part with my child, oh, father?’ I pleaded. + +“‘For a time you must—for his sake as well as for your own. What should +Lady Elfrida Glennon do with a young child at Myrtle Grove?’ + +“I would have pleaded with him, but I saw at a glance that it was +useless to do so. Kind, tender, gentle, yielding as my father was in +most cases, yet when he once made up his mind to any course his will was +as strong as fate. Besides, I and my child were both in his power. I had +no other alternative than to obey him. And, finally, notwithstanding the +pain I felt in parting from my boy, I could not fail to see that, under +the circumstances, it was best for the child, and best for us all, that +he should be put out to be nursed. + +“I took the sole charge of the child while we were seeking for a nurse. +We had many applications, but I was hard to please. At length the right +woman came; a fine, fresh, young creature, with a plump form, bright +eyes, rosy cheeks, a pleasant smile, and a sweet voice. She attracted me +at sight. She was the wife of a young dairyman. She had one child, a +week older than my boy; and she was well able to nurse twins, if Heaven +had sent twins to her. She was willing and anxious to take our little +orphan. She invited us to go down into Kent and see for ourselves the +comfort and cleanliness of the dairy farm, and the health and liveliness +of her own child. + +“We took her at her word and went home with her—only a few miles from +London—and we were so well satisfied with all we found there that we +concluded it would be difficult to do as well, and impossible to do +better, anywhere else; and we left the baby with her, with a check for +twenty-five pounds, that was to be renewed quarterly. + +“I may here say that this young woman, Mary Chester, did her full duty +by her nurseling, as I found in my periodical visits to the dairy. + +“As soon as Myrtle Grove was ready for occupation, my father took me +down there. + +“It was a comparatively small place, but a lovely, secluded home, in a +deep, green, wooded glen, about three miles inland from the sea. + +“Here we lived a very quiet life, seeing no one but the vicar, the Rev. +Mr. Ashe, of St. Agnes’ Church, the country practitioner, Dr. Ray, and +the country lawyer, Mr. Flood, who was my father’s local man of +business. + +“We were both in deep mourning for my stepmother, and that fact +justified our seclusion from the world. + +“Once my brother came down from Eton to spend the Easter holidays. He +had never heard of my runaway match, and my father decided that he never +should hear of it. + +“Once a month my father took me to the dairy farm in Kent to see his +grandchild—the child of his deceased son,’ as he called my boy, and as +the people at the dairy cottage believed him to be. + +“‘And it is no falsehood, Elfrida, my dear. The lad is my grandchild, +and is the child of my deceased son—in-law’—he said. Our deep mourning +was supposed by the dairy people to be worn for this same deceased son +and brother. + +“Looking back, I think I had never before spent so calm, peaceful and +contented a time as at Myrtle Grove.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVII + THE DAWN OF A BRIGHTER DAY + + +“We liked Myrtle Grove so well that we made it our home for three years. +Its quiet beauty seemed so soothing and restful after the terrible +grandeur of Enderby Castle and the mournful desolation of Weirdwaste. I +had a little school of poor children, and a small number of aged and +invalid cottagers, whose necessities gave me interest and occupation. + +“My father was now a recluse and a student, passing most of his time in +the small library among his favorite authors, or, if the weather was +very fine, sitting in his leather chair under one of the trees in the +thickly shaded grounds at the back of the house, with a book in his +hand. + +“My brother came every Christmas and every midsummer to spend his +vacation with us. As I mentioned before, he knew nothing of my short, +disastrous marriage, and was to know nothing of it. + +“His talk, when he was at home, was full of Angus Anglesea, his one dear +friend. When he was praising this hypocrite I was forced to make some +excuse to get out of the room, or to keep a painful silence in it, for I +could not contradict him or expose Anglesea’s villainy to me without +betraying facts that it was desirable should be kept from him. + +“Even my father, who knew now every circumstance attending my imprudent +marriage, knew nothing of Anglesea’s insulting proposal to me. Pride, +delicacy and consideration for that dear father’s feelings prevented me +from telling him. Yet I made him understand that, under my peculiar +circumstances, I did not want any visitors, especially gentlemen +visitors, at Myrtle Grove—of course always excepting the vicar, the +doctor, the lawyer and my dear brother, who could scarcely, indeed, be +called a visitor. + +“In this manner, without having to mention Anglesea’s name, I kept my +brother’s dear friend from coming to Myrtle Grove. + +“Before the commencement of every vacation, undaunted by previous +refusals, Glennon would write from his college, and ask leave to bring +his friend home with him. + +“My father would then bring the letter to me, and ask my opinion. I +would always tell him—what was the truth—that my soul shrank from +visitors. + +“And he would write something to the same effect in his reply to +Glennon. + +“My brother took this very hard, and on his arrival at home would always +complain that it was—in schoolboy slang—‘a jolly shame’ he could not +have Anglesea to spend the holidays with him as he had always been +accustomed to do. + +“He said that he did not know what had come over ‘Friday.’ She had been +very fond of Anglesea when they were at Brighton together. So fond of +him that he—Glennon—had hoped Anglesea might one day be his +brother-in-law, as he was now his brother in heart. + +“I said nothing in self-defense at all, but left it to my father to +explain—what he assumed to be the truth—that I had no especial objection +to Anglesea, but that the state of my health unfitted me to entertain +company. + +“This generally satisfied him, at least for the time being. + +“At length, when little more than three years had passed, my father +began to grow weary of our long seclusion from the world, and proposed +that we should make another tour of the Continent—avoiding as much as +possible the crowded resorts of tourists and betaking ourselves to +quieter scenes. + +“I consented to this, as I did to every plan proposed by my father. I +made but one condition. The Easter holidays were approaching, and my +brother was expected to come to Myrtle Grove to spend the time with us +as usual. I therefore proposed to my father that Glennon should now +invite his friend to accompany him to Myrtle Grove, while I myself +should go for a week and take lodgings at the dairyman’s cottage in +Kent, where my child was at nurse. + +“You may wonder why I should have done this, knowing the character of +Anglesea as I did. I have sometimes wondered at the same act. But I +think it was from affection for Glennon I acted. I knew how he longed to +have Anglesea with him at Myrtle Grove. I wished to gratify that +longing. I knew that nothing I could do could either cement or sever the +bonds of that strong friendship. I knew also that Anglesea never had and +never would show his cloven foot to Glennon, or that even if he should +do so, Glennon would never tolerate it; he would fly from it. I felt +instinctively that Anglesea could never harm my brother. + +“More than willingly, gladly, my father agreed to my plan. He wanted to +gratify his son. So I wrote immediately to see if I could obtain +lodgings, ‘for change of air,’ at the dairy farm. In good time came a +favorable answer. + +“Then my father wrote to Glennon, authorizing him to invite his friend +to spend the Easter holidays with him at Myrtle Grove. + +“I did not wait for the arrival of the visitor, but on the Wednesday +before Easter I set out alone for Kent, meaning to engage some country +girl in the neighborhood of the dairy to wait on me while in lodgings. + +“I reached the dairy about four o’clock on that Wednesday afternoon, and +found my son, now a fine boy over three years old, in the rosiest health +and most boisterous spirits. He sprang into his ‘auntie’s’ arms and +covered her with caresses before he began to search her pockets and her +hand bag for the sweetmeats and toys she was accustomed to bring him. + +“A dainty tea table was waiting for me in a charming cottage parlor. So +Mary Chester coaxed my ‘nephew’ from his ‘auntie’s’ arms and showed me +into a clean, neat, fresh bedroom, snow white, as all delectable +bedrooms were in the days before the ‘decoration’ craze spread over the +land. There I laid off my bonnet and washed off the railroad dust. + +“And then I returned to the parlor, where my ‘nephew’ was allowed to +join me at the tea table, sitting up in a high armchair. + +“That night Mary Chester waited on me as lady’s maid, but the next day I +procured the country girl I had been thinking of. + +“I spent a really happy week at the dairy with my child and his +foster-brother. These two children were so fond of each other that it +was a comfort and delight to me to think of them together. + +“Mary Chester had no other children, and she was entirely devoted to +them. John Chester, her husband, was a fine, wholesome, honest young +man, bearing an excellent character in the neighborhood. We all went to +the parish house together on Easter Sunday, leaving the two baby boys at +home in charge of Mary Chester’s grandmother, who was too infirm to sit +through the long church service, but who was quite equal to the care of +two children for a few hours. + +“As Easter week drew to a close I began to think of returning to Myrtle +Grove. + +“But I did not leave the dairy until I received a letter from my father, +informing me that the visitors had departed. + +“Then I loaded my little son, his foster-brother and his attendants with +presents suited to the conditions of each. I returned heartfelt thanks +to Mary Chester for her excellent care of my ‘nephew,’ and paid her six +months in advance. + +“Finally, on the Thursday after Easter, I bade them all good-by and set +out to return to Myrtle Grove. + +“I found my father in excellent health, but impatient to start on our +journey. + +“I hurried my preparations, and two days after we left England for +Germany, where it was my fate first to meet you, Abel Force, who made +all the happiness of my life.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVIII + NEW LIFE + + +“We avoided the ‘highways’ and public resorts of travel—the grand +railway lines, the great cities, the famous spas, the big hotels, and we +sought out the by-ways—unfrequented hamlets and villages on mountain +heights or in forest depths, as yet undiscovered by the eyes, unprofaned +by the feet of speculators. + +“We had seen enough of the splendor and magnificence of Europe; we +wished to see some of its real, working life. + +“Yes, we wished to lose ourselves and find repose in obscurity. + +“Yet where can one go and avoid fate? Or where, let me ask you, Abel, +can we travel and not meet an American tourist? + +“You remember the day and the place of our first meeting. It was on a +glorious afternoon in July, when the sun was sinking in the west and +kindling all the horizon into a conflagration. We were in a little +chalet at the foot of the mountain. We had come out to view the +magnificence of the sunset. The cowherd was penning his cattle; the +shepherd was folding his sheep. + +“Coming down the mountain path we saw a solitary tourist, knapsack on +back and alpenstock in hand. + +“That was my first sight of you, Abel; a tall, athletic, black-bearded +man, whom we all first took for a Tyrolesian. + +“You came up to the door of the chalet, raised your hat to us and asked +the cottagers if you could have a night’s lodging. + +“Do you remember, Abel? Of course you could be accommodated—roughly; we +were all ‘roughing it’ for the time being. + +“So our acquaintance began. + +“That night you introduced yourself to us by name and nationality—Abel +Force, of Maryland, United States; and when my father, in return, named +himself and me your face brightened. You told him that on leaving +America you had brought letters of introduction—among which was one from +your late minister to St. James, addressed to the Earl of Enderby. These +letters were all with your luggage at your hotel at Berne, where you had +left them to come on this pedestrian excursion to the mountain. You +added that you had missed Lord Enderby in England and learned that he +was traveling on the Continent; that you deemed yourself strangely +fortunate in having thus met him, and would present your credentials in +the form of the ex-minister’s letter, as soon as we should reach Berne. + +“The next day we all returned to Berne in company—you, at my father’s +invitation, taking a seat in our carriage. + +“At the Bernerhof Hotel we stopped but one night. There you found and +presented your letter—to prove that you were no impostor, you said. You +joined our company and traveled where we traveled, and stopped where we +stopped. + +“Why should I repeat this to you, you know it already? + +“Only because it is a visible link in the chain of our destiny. + +“That long summer, Abel, we spent together! That long summer, every day +of which drew our hearts nearer and nearer! Even my father, who was ever +most reserved to all but oldest friends and nearest kin, came to love +you like a son. + +“I—feeling then, for the first time, all the bitter significance of my +own antecedents—resisted the sweet influence that was flowing into my +soul, yet—resisted it in vain! + +“You know how silently our love grew, during those delightful weeks and +months we lived and traveled together. + +“I knew then, though we might never marry in this world, even as I know +now—though this confession may part us for this earth—that we are mates +for all eternity. + +“There came a day, at last, when we were all in the ancient city of +Grenada, that you went to my father and asked his consent to win me for +your wife. He told you that he would have a talk with me first, and then +give you an answer. + +“My father came to me and told me all that had passed between himself +and you, and of your proposal for my hand, and he asked me how I felt +disposed toward ‘Mr. Force.’ + +“Oh! the bitter sweet of that moment. + +“I told my father I felt so well disposed toward you, that but for my +past calamity and its living evidence I should accept your hand. + +“Oh, Abel! my answer did not express the hundredth part of the love, the +joy and the sorrow that strove in my heart at the time; but I had to +control myself and speak quietly, almost indifferently, in the presence +of my father. + +“He replied by assuring me that he should approve my marriage with Mr. +Force; that as for my calamity, it was no crime, no fault of mine, but +the result of circumstances—that I was so perfectly and unquestionably +innocent that I might tell the whole story to Mr. Force without losing a +degree of his love and esteem. + +“At that I became very much alarmed. I declared to my father that I +should die on the spot if ever my suitor should be told the story of my +humiliation; for under such circumstances I could not look him in the +face and live. + +“My father attempted to argue with me, to call me morbid, my thoughts +and feelings extravagant, exaggerated; but the violence of my agitation +bore him down and silenced him at last. + +“‘What am I to say to Force?’ he inquired. + +“‘Tell him anything you like—except the story of my fall—or that I can +accept his suit.’ + +“‘You refuse him, then?’ + +“‘I must.’ + +“My father left me. + +“I kept my room the whole of that day. + +“On the next day I went down to the sitting room we three occupied in +common. I certainly did not expect to find you there, Abel Force; yet +there you were, looking a little graver than usual, but otherwise +behaving as if nothing unusual had been said or done. You bade me +good-morning, handed me a chair, and inquired after my health. + +“Well, though to my surprise I found you in our sitting room that +morning, I certainly expected you to leave our party on the first +opportunity. But you did not. You remained with us and traveled with us +as before. + +“I shrank from speaking to my father on the subject, yet at length I +summoned courage to ask him if he had given my answer to you. He replied +that he had, and that you had said you could wait and hope. + +“We spent the autumn together, as we had spent the summer; yet, Abel, we +were not happy, and as the time for our return to England and your +return to America approached, and we were to separate to meet no more in +this world, we both grew more and more miserable. As for me, my heart +seemed wasting to death. + +“One day in November my father came to me, and said: + +“‘Elfrida, do you consider me a man of honor, or not?’ + +“‘My dear father, what a question!’ was all that I could answer. + +“‘But tell me, do you consider me a man of honor? Yes, or no!’ + +“‘Yes, my dear father; yes. A man of the most perfect and most +unquestionable honor,’ I replied. + +“‘Good! Then perhaps you will believe me and act upon my words. Elfrida, +Mr. Force has this morning begged me to speak for him again. Again he +offers you his hand.’ + +“‘Well, my dear father?’ + +“‘Well, Elfrida, he loves you, and you know it. You love him, and he +knows it. You are both dying for each other, and I know that.’ + +“‘Well, my dear father?’ I said again. + +“‘Have pity on him and on yourself, and accept his suit.’ + +“‘But, my past—my past—which I can never tell him—never! I could die +first.’ + +“‘Elfrida, do you believe your father to be a man of honor?’ he +inquired, for the third time. + +“‘Dear sir, how can you ask me? I have said, “a man of indubitable +honor,”’ I replied. + +“‘Very well, then. On the truth of a man, on the honor of a peer, on the +faith of a Christian, I swear to you, Elfrida, that you may marry Force +without telling him one word of your past trouble,’ he said to me, so +solemnly that I could not question him. I could only receive his words +on the high and sacred ground on which he had spoken them. + +“Oh, Abel! was I wrong? + +“‘I am now going to send Force to see you,’ he repeated, as he left the +room. + +“Two minutes after that you came to me, and before you left my side I +was your promised wife. Oh, Abel! was I wrong? Was my father misled by +his love for his child? Was I deceived by my love for you? Oh, Abel! was +I wrong? I knew my father’s strict, punctilious sense of honor. I had +seen many instances of it. He had been a wealthier man had he been a +less fastidiously honorable one. How could I believe that he would +sanction a dishonorable concealment of my story, even to secure my own +happiness? + +“I could not believe this of my father. And yet I doubted—I doubted. And +this concealment never did secure my happiness, but has burdened and +darkened and sickened my soul for twenty years. + +“You remember it was arranged that we should be married at Myrtle Grove. + +“We all went to London together. You took apartments at Langham’s. We +went down to Myrtle Grove, where you were to meet us, a fortnight later, +for the wedding. + +“And what did I do at Myrtle Grove? Prepare for my wedding? + +“No! I passed but one day there, and then I hurried down into Kent and +to the dairy farm to see my boy, whom I had not seen for many months. + +“I carried loads of toys, pets, sweetmeats, presents of all sorts—ah! as +if gifts could compensate a child for family recognition, for mother’s +love. + +“I found the boy in high health, happy in his surroundings, in his +foster-parents’ affections, and in his foster-brother’s companionship. I +spent nearly the whole fortnight preceding my marriage with my child in +Kent. + +“Two days before the one appointed for the wedding I took leave of my +boy, half heartbroken at the forced separation, yet comforted with the +knowledge that he at least was well and happy, and that he would be +faithfully nursed by Mary Chester, and carefully looked after by my +father, who had promised to adopt and educate him, and to bring him to +see me at intervals. + +“I returned to Myrtle Grove, having made no preparations for our +marriage, which you know was a strictly private one at the parish +church, with only my father to give me away, and my brother and the +parish clerk for witnesses. + +“After the wedding, you remember, we took leave of my dear father, who +promised to visit us the ensuing spring, but who never kept his promise, +because he died suddenly of heart disease during that winter.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIX + A CLOUDED HONEYMOON + + +“We went down to Liverpool and sailed for America, to commence our new +life on your Maryland plantation. + +“But, oh, Abel! with a burden of sorrow and remorse on my heart and +conscience which has oppressed and darkened all my days. + +“In the first winter of our marriage news came to us of my father’s +death, and we mourned him deeply, as you know. Added to grief for his +loss was anxiety for the fate of the child he had promised to adopt and +educate. No news came to me of my boy. I knew not even if the quarterly +payments had been kept up. When we went to Baltimore, however, to buy my +mourning outfit, I took the opportunity to send a bill of exchange for a +hundred pounds to Mary Chester on account, and asked her to send me news +of the boy, and to direct her letter to Bryantown, to which place I +intended to go, and I did go at intervals, in hope to find a letter, but +none ever came. + +“In the spring I received a terrible shock. Report came that a schooner +had been wrecked on the shore, and that but one life had been saved—the +life of a child who had been washed up on the sands and found there +living. + +“This child I heard was at the house of Miss Bayard, who was taking care +of him. + +“I went—as everybody went—from curiosity to see the little waif. + +“There happened to be no visitor at the house when I entered Miss +Bayard’s parlor. She was talkative, as usual, and told me all about the +wreck and rescue as it is known to you and to all that community. And +she took me into the bedroom adjoining the parlor to look upon the +sleeping boy. + +“There he lay upon the clean patchwork quilt, crosswise upon the bed, +his flaxen head upon the snowy pillow, a gray woolen shawl spread over +him. + +“I approached and stooped to look at his face. + +“Heaven of heavens! + +“Think—think what I must have felt on recognizing my own child! + +“Surprise, delight, wonder, terror—all shook me in turns as I gazed. + +“‘Eh, ma’am! I don’t wonder it gives you a turn! It did me, I tell you!’ +the good woman whispered, as she stood beside me. + +“In a tumult of emotion I withdrew from the room. I was afraid the child +might open his eyes and see me, and I knew as surely as I had recognized +him would the little one remember me, and call me by my name as soon as +he should set eyes upon me. + +“I was afraid to stay any longer, or to ask any more questions, lest I +should in some manner betray myself. I took leave of Miss Bayard, and +left the house. + +“The rescued child was the talk of the county for the whole season. +Every one wondered and speculated as to the boy’s birth and social +position, but no one could decide upon it, for there was no mark on the +nightdress in which the little one had been found. + +“In a few days I heard that you, my beloved and honored husband—you, of +all men—had taken upon yourself the cost of the child’s maintenance and +education; that you had engaged to pay Miss Bayard a liberal quarterly +allowance for her care of the boy, and to send him to school, as soon as +he should be old enough to go. + +“Then, when I heard this, my better angel urged me to confide in you—to +confess the truth and throw myself upon your mercy—the mercy of the +truest, noblest, tenderest heart that ever beat! + +“But I dared not do it. The longer I had kept my secret from you the +harder it was to tell. I feared that you would ask me why I had not told +you this before our marriage. I feared that you might even part with me. +And the longer I had lived with you, the more I loved you, the harder +was the thought of parting from you. I could not risk the loss, even +though to retain your love seemed almost a theft. + +“I did not tell you, nor did I show any sympathy in your care of the +friendless child. I did not go near my boy, lest he should recognize and +innocently betray me. + +“So weeks passed into months, and months passed into years. Children +came to us, and drew our hearts even more closely together, if that were +possible, than they had been before; but though I loved our little girls +as fondly as ever a mother did, yet I loved them no more than I loved +the dear boy whom I dared not acknowledge, or even look upon. + +“It was not until Roland was at school, and time and change of fashion +in clothing and hair-dressing had made such alteration in my appearance +that I judged it safe to do so, I first saw my son face to face, and +shook hands with him. How he stared at me! his mind evidently startled +and perplexed by the phantom of a remembrance he could not fix or +define. + +“After that I saw him often, and was able to befriend him; but I was +often troubled by the look of perplexity in the boy’s eyes when they met +mine. After a while, however, this shade of memory faded quite away. + +“Years passed, and the old sorrow also seemed to have gone like some +morning cloud of spring, leaving scarcely a trace behind. + +“It was on that visit to Niagara Falls, now nearly seven years ago, when +I met in the parlor of the hotel the one man I dreaded more than all men +or all devils—Angus Anglesea! + +“I saw my danger as soon as our eyes met. I knew that for the old +repulse I had given him at Geneva he would now take his revenge. Yet I +tried to look him down, but I could not. You were by my side. I was +obliged to present him to you. You had heard of Angus Anglesea from my +father and from my brother, and had heard nothing but praise of the man +from them. You gave him a warm welcome. You pressed him to come down and +visit us at Mondreer. + +“Afterward, to you alone I protested against this visit with as much +energy as I dared to use; for I could not explain to you why he ought +not be our guest. But you thought me somewhat capricious, and declared +that you could not withdraw an invitation once given. + +“Then I appealed to him, to any little remnant of pride, honor or +delicacy that might remain somewhere in his depraved nature, not to +accept your invitation—not to enter a house which his presence would +desecrate. + +“He laughed in my face! He told me that he had already accepted the +invitation, and that he meant to make the visit. + +“You know what followed. He came down with us to Mondreer. He cast his +eyes upon our dear daughter, Odalite, and on her fortune—not only on her +American fortune, but on her English prospects. + +“Ah! my poor Odalite! She was engaged to be married to her faithful +lover, Leonidas Force, who was expected home on the Christmas of that +year; and she was as true as truth to her love; she was not for a moment +‘fascinated by the admiration of the brilliant stranger,’ as people +said. She sacrificed herself to save me; and in saving me, to save you +and her sisters. + +“Do you know what that snake who had entered our paradise threatened to +do if he were not bought off by the hand and fortune and prospects of +our daughter Odalite? He threatened to publish my secret to the whole +world! + +“Ah! how I mourned then that I had not told you the sad story before +accepting your offer of marriage, and left you free to withdraw or to +renew that offer. + +“It was too late then! Every year that I had kept the story from you +made it harder and more humiliating to tell. And he threatened to +tell—not you—that would have been terrible enough—but to tell +everybody!—to tell the story in the barrooms of the country inns, at the +gentlemen’s wine parties and oyster suppers—and everywhere! He would +leave our house, take up his lodgings at the Calvert, and spread the +venom over the whole community. That would have been fatal! Abel, this +story, as he would have told it, must have driven us all in dishonor +from the neighborhood. I think it would have killed you. You are strong +and brave, and could have borne much—everything but dishonor! That would +have killed you! I know it would have driven me mad, and it would have +blighted the lives of our children. + +“I was nearly insane, even then. Some women in such a position would +have committed suicide; but, apart from its sinfulness, it would have +been ineffectual in my case, as, if I had died, he would still have +blackmailed Odalite. Some other women in my position would have killed +Anglesea. I knew that; and I knew that if ever man deserved death at a +woman’s hands, he did at mine; but I was not even tempted so ruthlessly +to break the sacred laws of God. Nay, let me say here, that weak, blind +and foolish as I have been, I have not only tried to keep, but I have +kept those laws from my youth up. + +“What is it, then, that I have confessed to you? Not a sin, not a fault, +but a secret that I have kept from you because I had not strength enough +to tell you, or light enough to know you, or wisdom enough to confide in +your wisdom. It was no sin of mine that my marriage was a deception +practiced upon me; but it was a great wrong to you to keep the secret of +that marriage. + +“You know now the secret of my life—why I consented to sacrifice Odalite +to that man, from whom she was saved as by a miracle. + +“Is it a mockery to ask you to pardon this lifelong secret, Abel? I know +that you will pardon as freely as God pardons. + +“But when you have seen these lines you may never afterward see me. +Heaven knows. + + * * * * * + +“I have written the foregoing confession to put it away, lest death take +me unaware, leaving me no time to tell the true story as I only can tell +it. + + “WASHINGTON, April 18, 18—. + +“The time has come. I have learned some facts. The villain who spoiled +my life, and would have spoiled my daughter’s life, was not Angus +Anglesea, my brother’s dearest friend, college mate, and fellow-officer, +but an impostor bearing his likeness and wearing his name, and now +waiting trial as a pirate and a slaver, and having for his mate and +fellow-prisoner one whom you have known and cared for as Roland Bayard, +but who is really Roland Glennon, my son.’ + +“No! I cannot meet you! When you have read these lines you will see me +no more.” + + + + + CHAPTER XL + A STARTLING ENCOUNTER + + +When Abel Force had finished reading this manuscript he sat with it in +his hand, thoughtfully gazing at the paper and almost involuntarily +listening for any sound from the adjoining bedroom, where his wife lay +in a very precarious condition. + +At last he folded up the parcel and put it into his breast pocket, +muttering to himself that he must keep it out of sight until he could +get an opportunity to burn it. + +Then he softly left the room and went and tapped gently at the door of +his wife’s chamber. + +The nurse opened the door. + +“How is Mrs. Force?” he inquired. + +“She is sleeping under the influence of an opiate. The doctor thinks +that if she sleeps well through the night she will be very much better +to-morrow morning.” + +“Thank Heaven!” + +The nurse softly closed the door, and Mr. Force returned to the little +room, where he lighted the gas, for it was growing dark, made some +little improvement in his toilet, for it was dinner time, and then +hurried downstairs, for he had eaten nothing since breakfast. + +He opened the parlor door, and was surprised to find a group of many +people gathered around his own party. + +Wynnette sprang out from them all to meet him. + +“Oh! papa, I have not seen you since early this morning. Where have you +been? We had all begun to fear that you were a ‘mysterious +disappearance’!” + +“My dear, I have been closely engaged all day. Who are those with you?” +inquired Mr. Force. + +“Who? Who but your old friends and neighbors, Mrs. Dorothy Hedge, Miss +Susannah Grandiere and Mr. Samuel Grandiere. Come! Come and speak to +them.” + +“They here! Why, how did they find us out?” + +“Joshua found them and brought them here, else they never would have +found us out. And yet people say that dogs have no souls!” + +Mr. Force hurried to meet the friends from St. Mary’s, and warmly shook +hands with them all. + +“We are so sorry to hear that Mrs. Force is indisposed,” said Mrs. +Hedge, when these greetings were over. + +“She has had a severe nervous shock. Such strokes must be epidemic among +those who live amid ‘war’s alarms,’ you know, Mrs. Hedge.” + +“Yes, of course. But all war’s alarms are not disastrous. What a +glorious deed young Leonidas Force has done! I congratulate you on your +nephew, Mr. Force.” + +“Thank you, madam. Will you take my arm down to dinner? There is the +gong.” + +The whole party arose and went down into the dining room and took their +places at the table; the party filled up a large one. + +After dinner they returned to the drawing room for a little while, and +then the visitors from St. Mary’s bade good-night, and—accompanied by +Capt. Grandiere and Rosemary Hedge—went away to take possession of their +rooms at a boarding house that had been found for them in E Street. + +Mr. Force and Lord Enderby lighted a couple of cigars and walked out on +the bright and busy avenue to smoke and stroll. Between the gas lamps +and the illuminated shop windows the scene was almost as light as day, +and, with its crowd of pedestrians, as noisy as a fair. + +Up and down they strolled and smoked until, tired of being jolted, or, +as the earl put it, “walked over,” they turned up the west side of +Fifteenth Street, where the sidewalk was brilliantly lighted, yet almost +vacant of passengers. + +Here they walked and talked in the cool of the evening, unconscious of a +dark figure approaching them from the north end of the street, whose +advent was to have the most important effect on the destinies of several +of our friends. They were going to meet the form that was approaching +them. + +Both looked up carelessly and saw a tall, soldiery looking man, who, +coming up, held out his hand with an exclamation of surprise and +pleasure: + +“Enderby!” + +The earl stared for a second and then seized the offered hand, crying +with delight: + +“Anglesea!” + +“When did you arrive?” + +This question was put, in the same words, at the same time by both. + +“But three days since,” answered Lord Enderby. + +“Only this afternoon,” replied Gen. Anglesea. “I have come to America to +see your sister.” + +“Let me present you to my brother-in-law—Mr. Force, of Mondreer, +Maryland. Mr. Force—Gen. Anglesea, late of the East Indian service—the +real Simon Pure, you understand, Abel!” + +The two gentlemen, thus introduced, bowed deeply. + +“You say you have come over to see my sister?” inquired the earl. + +“Yes! On very important business! You may judge how important when I +tell you that it has brought me across the ocean at such a time as +this.” + +“My sister is at this time indisposed. I think it will be a day or two +before she is capable of attending to any business. But here is her +husband.” + +“Of course. I am very happy to meet Mr. Force, and shall be ready, at +his convenience, to enter upon this business. It concerns Lady Elfrida’s +first marriage.” + +Now, if Mr. Force had not already learned the truth concerning that +first marriage, I know not what might have been the consequences of this +sudden announcement. As it was, Lady Elfrida’s second husband, with +great presence of mind, replied: + +“Precisely. I shall be ready to attend to you as soon as you please.” + +As for Lord Enderby—who had never heard a word about his sister’s first +marriage—he was considerably startled, but, with equal presence of mind, +recovered himself, and said: + +“If it is necessary that this matter should be entered upon this +evening, we had better withdraw into apartments. We can scarcely discuss +important business in the street.” + +“You are quite right. And I am at your service,” assented the general. + +“But where shall we go? Privacy is hardly to be had at any price in this +overcrowded city. We have not a private sitting room at our hotel.” + +“Come with me, then,” said Anglesea. “I have, by a fortunate chance, +been able to secure a comfortable bedroom, with a little box of a +sitting room adjoining.” + +“A box of a sitting room! What a boon! What a blessing in these times!” +said the earl, as he turned with the squire and the general to walk to +the last-mentioned gentleman’s hotel. + +Ten minutes later they were all three seated around a small table, on +which stood a bottle of sherry, some wineglasses, and cigars. + +“My business with Lady Elfrida,” began Anglesea, “is to restore to her +some documents that have been too long, indeed, in my possession, though +I did not really anticipate they would ever be called for, as they now +appear to be, to confirm her son’s claim to the estate of his +uncle—Antonio Saviola.” + +“‘Her son?’” thought the earl to himself; but he said nothing; he only +looked at Abel Force, whose face was quite impenetrable. + +“I hope the young gentleman is living and is quite well.” + +“Yes, thank you, my stepson is quite well, and a very fine young man +altogether.” + +The earl looked from one to the other. Here was a revelation! His sister +had been twice married, and she had a living son by her first marriage! +And Abel Force knew this! And he himself had never even suspected such a +thing! Why had not he—her brother—her only living relative besides her +husband and children—been told of this first marriage? Did his father +know it, and conspire to keep the secret from him, too? Did Anglesea +also know it from the first, and confederate with all the other +conspirators to keep the secret from him—the son, the brother, the bosom +friend? It was very hard on him, the injured earl reflected. + +In the meantime the general had taken out from a rolled morocco case a +few parchments, which he spread upon the little table—pushing all the +glasses together to make room. Then, missing some papers from among the +others, he arose and went into the adjoining chamber to look for it. + +Lord Enderby seized the opportunity afforded by his temporary absence to +stoop and whisper to the squire: + +“This sudden news of my sister’s first marriage has fallen like a +thunderbolt upon me!” + +“Has it?” inquired the squire, with forced calmness. + +“I should think so! I had never dreamed of such a thing! Why was it kept +a secret from me? Did my father know it?” + +“Certainly.” + +“My father knew it! Anglesea knew it! You knew it! Why was it kept +secret from me?” + +“My dear Enderby—because it seemed to your father necessary that it +should be kept so,” soothingly replied the squire. + +“Was the marriage a discreditable one, then?” + +“No, it was not.” + +“Then why, in the name of Heaven, could it not have been announced?” + +“My dear Enderby—secrecy is not always wrong and foolish; it is +sometimes wise and right. It was so in this instance. And I may further +promise to satisfy you of this in a few hours.” + +“When you married my sister, did you know that she had been married +before, and that she had a living son by that first marriage?” + +“Most certainly I did!” said Mr. Force, with emphasis. + +“And yet I remember—I swear that I remember—she signed her name to her +marriage register with you, Elfrida Glennon.” + +“Hush! here comes Anglesea,” said the squire, as the general entered the +room. + + + + + CHAPTER XLI + THE OTHER SIDE + + +“You are, of course, aware,” said the latter, sitting down at the table +and beginning to arrange his papers before him—“you are, of course, +aware of my own intimate connection with the very youthful marriage of +my friends, Lady Elfrida Glennon and Prince Luigi Saviola?” + +Mr. Force, thoroughly informed of that circumstance, could bow +acquiescence. This assent was supposed to answer also for Lord +Enderby—who, however, knew nothing about it—and the general continued: + +“You know that at that time I was a very young man, scarcely having +attained my majority. I had a warm friendship for, and a youthful +sympathy with, the young lovers; yet I would have dissuaded Saviola from +the hasty marriage if I could have done so. But who can turn an Italian +lover from his love chase? Seeing that I could do nothing to prevent the +marriage that was sure to come off, sooner or later—for her father was +in the East, and her brother was at Eton, and a minor, and she herself +only in the care of two teachers for whom she had neither love nor +esteem—I determined to do a brother’s or a father’s part by her, at +least so far as going with the mad pair and seeing that the marriage +ceremony was duly and lawfully performed in Scotland. But you have heard +all this before, and I am wasting time, perhaps, in trying to excuse +myself.” + +“Your course in that affair needs no excuse, but rather the gratitude of +all who are interested in Lady Elfrida,” said Mr. Force. + +“I thank you, sir. I did indeed act in the interest of the young lady. I +went to Scotland with the young pair and saw them properly married, in +the parlor of the manse, by the minister, at Kilton, Dumfries, North +Briton; and in addition to the certificate given to the bride, I took a +duplicate, duly signed and witnessed, because I thought it just possible +the young lady might mislay or lose her lines.” + +“You are sure that the place at which you stopped for the marriage was +Kilton, in Scotland, and not Kelton, a few miles south in England?” +inquired Mr. Force. + +Anglesea lifted his eyes from the paper in his hand and looked at the +questioner with surprise. + +“They are so near together on the same line, and the sound of the names +are so similar, that the mistake might easily have been made—on a night +journey,” Mr. Force explained. + +“It might, but it was not. Here is the certificate. Will you examine +it?” said the general, laying the document before the squire. + +Sure enough, there was the printed heading: + +Parish of Kilton, Dumfries, N. B. + +And then followed the date and the record of the marriage between Luigi +Saviola, of Naples, Italy, and Elfrida Glennon, of Northumberland, +England, signed by the minister and attested by two witnesses. + +Abel Force heaved so deep a sigh of relief that Lord Enderby bent toward +him and inquired: + +“What is the matter? Why were you so anxious about this point?” + +“I will tell you later. I will explain everything later. For the present +let us listen to the facts.” + +“I wish to put one question to you, Anglesea, and in the name of our +lifelong friendship: Why did you never inform me of my sister’s +marriage?” + +“Because, my dear fellow, I was in honor bound to keep the secret until +the parties concerned announced their marriage. As I heard nothing about +it from you or your father, I was restrained from mentioning the +subject.” + +“I see! I see!” assented the earl. + +“I should not have brought up the matter now had not the death of +Saviola and the marriage of his widow absolved me from my implied pledge +of secrecy; and very important considerations constrained me to cross +the ocean to seek out Lady Elfrida and to speak of her first marriage, +of which I was the principal witness.” + +“I thank you, both on the part of Lady Elfrida and myself, for the great +interest you have felt and the great trouble you have taken in her +cause,” said Abel Force so earnestly that Lord Enderby muttered to +himself: + +“I wonder what in the deuce has come over the squire? But I shall know +presently, perhaps.” + +“I must explain these considerations,” continued the general. “I was at +Naples last year, where I renewed my acquaintance with the aged prince, +Antonio Saviola, whom I had known years before. We met at the house of a +mutual friend. He invited me to dine _tête-à-tête_ with him on the next +day, and to come early, as he wished to converse with me on a subject +near. I accepted the invitation and went.” + +“Pardon,” said the earl; “what relation was Prince Antonio to Luigi +Saviola?” + +“He was the granduncle of Luigi, who was his next of kin. When I reached +the Palazzo Saviola I was at once ushered into the presence of the +prince, who received me in his library with much cordiality. He entered +at once upon the subject in his mind by saying: + +“‘You were the attendant of my grandnephew, Luigi, on the occasion of +his marriage with the only daughter of an English earl?’ + +“‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, a little surprised that he should know the +fact. + +“‘So I was informed by a letter from my nephew soon after the +occurrence. You were also his second in the fatal duel in Paris, about a +year later, in which my nephew lost his life?’ + +“‘No, prince. I was not in Paris at the time of that unhappy meeting,’ I +answered. + +“‘Then I have been misinformed upon that point. But there is no question +of your having been a witness to his marriage?’ + +“‘No question at all, prince. I was present in the interests of the +lady, taking the place of her father or brother, one of whom should have +been there to give her away.’ + +“‘Precisely. That is how I understood from Luigi your presence at this +Montague and Capulet marriage. I have lost sight of the widow entirely. +I last heard of her at Geneva. In a letter written to me by my unhappy +nephew on the night before his duel he told me that his wife was at the +Beau Rivage, Geneva, expecting the birth of a child; that if he should +survive the meeting of the next day he would hurry to her side. If he +should fall, he recommended her to my sympathy and compassion. This +letter found me prostrate with typhoid fever, and did not meet my eyes +for weeks after it was written. My nephew was dead and buried. His widow +had left Geneva, accompanied by her father and her infant. All my +efforts to find them proved fruitless, and at last I gave up inquiry. +Only lately have I become again interested in the subject. The reason is +this: I am very aged, near ninety. My sons and grandsons have all gone +before me to the better land. The last, Vittorio, departed some months +since. I have no heirs, unless it happens that the posthumous child of +Luigi proves to be a son and is now living. It is to ascertain this +point that I have called you here to-day.’ + +“I could tell him nothing about the child, of whom I had never heard. +But I offered to go to Geneva in person, and search the church register +of the year and month in which the child of Luigi and Elfrida was born, +and ascertain whether that child were son or daughter. I did so, and +succeeded in procuring an attested copy of the registry of birth and +baptism of Rolando, son of Luigi Antonio Saviola and Elfrida, his wife. +This I took to Naples and laid before the old prince, together with the +certificate of the marriage of Luigi and Elfrida. The old man was very +near his end, but he lived long enough to acknowledge the boy as his +legal heir, and to make a will, leaving him all his devisable property. +‘For I feel sure the youth is living, _Amigo_,’ he said. ‘Fortune would +not be so cruel as to cut off the entire family of Saviola.’ + +“Those were his last words. + +“After the funeral, I prepared to return to England, to search for Lady +Elfrida and her son. Judge of my surprise when I learned, by a mere +accident, that she had been with her family at Naples only a few weeks +before. I went over to England, only to hear that she had sailed, with +all her party, for America. I took ship and followed. Looked for you in +New York in vain. Remembered that you had a country seat at Mondreer, +Maryland. Came down to Washington to-day en route for Mondreer. Ran up +against you, Enderby, in the street to-night.” + +“A lucky meeting,” said the earl. + +“Yes. These documents before me are attested copies—the first of the +certificates of the marriage between Luigi Saviola and Elfrida Glennon; +the second of the registry of baptism of Rolando, their son; the third +of the last will and testament of Antonio Saviola. These will establish +the claim of the young man, who, you say, is alive and well, to the +estate of his late uncle. When may I bring them to Lady Elfrida?” + +“To-morrow, if you please,” replied Mr. Force. + +Then the earl and the squire arose, and, with renewed thanks, bade the +general good-night. + + + + + CHAPTER XLII + THE EARL’S DISCOVERY + + +The church bells were chiming twelve, midnight, as the earl and the +squire walked along the now almost deserted avenue toward their hotel. + +“I had no idea it was so late,” said the earl. + +“Nor I,” assented the squire. + +“Force!” + +“Well?” + +“Will you tell me now, as we walk along, why my sister’s first marriage +was kept a secret from me during all these years? Why even my chum in +college, my fellow soldier in camp, never once mentioned the matter to +me?” + +“He has explained that in his case it was because no one spoke of it to +him, and it was not his cue to be the first to allude to it.” + +“But why? Why was all this mystery about a marriage that was honorable +enough in itself?” + +“Because there was a fatal misapprehension. I call it fatal, on account +of the years of untold misery it entailed upon more than one.” + +“Explain.” + +“You remember, and can now at last appreciate, the dreary loneliness and +isolation of your sister’s childhood and early youth at Weirdwaste?” + +“Oh, yes! yes!” + +“And the bewildering change that Brighton and a princely lover must have +been to the hitherto solitary recluse of Weirdwaste?” + +“Yes, yes!” + +“The fear of having to return to that desolation must have been as +strong a motive as love itself in inducing her to fly to Scotland with +her lover.” + +“Most probably.” + +“She had neither father, nor brother, nor any relative near her; no one +but governesses and servants.” + +“Ah! my poor father never meant to be unkind, but it was cruel to leave +her in that isolation.” + +“She found it so; and she listened to the pleadings of her lover, whom +her imagination had elevated into a hero, martyr, patriot and +humanitarian, when, in fact, he was only a political refugee, on account +of some hotheaded revolutionary utterances he had given.” + +“Yes, I heard of Saviola’s exile while at Brighton; but I never met the +man.” + +“I think your friend Anglesea had not met him at the time you were in +Brighton. He first met Saviola at Lord Middlemoor’s, on Brunswick +Terrace.” + +“You seem to be well informed on all points of this affair, Force.” + +“Pretty well,” said the squire; “but to proceed. Your sister went to +Scotland to marry Saviola, escorted by your friend Anglesea, who, having +done all he could to dissuade the Italian from running away with the +young lady, and having failed, was resolved that the marriage that he +could not prevent should at least be properly and legally solemnized.” + +“Yes, he told us that.” + +“And he told you also that he was bound to secrecy.” + +“He did.” + +“Well, now to the point. When the newly married pair parted from +Anglesea, on the day of their marriage, they never saw him again.” + +“No?” + +“No. You heard Anglesea relate how the old Prince Antonio Saviola +supposed him—Anglesea—to have acted as second to Luigi Saviola on the +occasion of his fatal duel with the Duc de Montmeri, and how +he—Anglesea—had denied all knowledge of the tragedy?” + +“Yes, I did hear, and I remembered that Anglesea was at that very time +at college with me.” + +“Well, then, Enderby, listen: If the bona-fide Anglesea did not +officiate as Luigi Saviola’s second in that duel, his double, Byrne +Stukely, did.” + +“What!” + +“Yes, Anglesea’s _bête noir_, evil genius, material counterpart, Byrne +Stukely, did. He personated Anglesea in Paris, on the dueling ground, +and at the death of Saviola, and in the apartments of Saviola’s widow!” + +“Ah! what new infamy is this of which you tell me? I shall have to +prosecute that villain if he should escape the law here!” exclaimed the +earl. + +“He will not escape the law here; but to proceed——” + +“Yes—yes!” + +“Stukely received the last dying messages from the lips of Saviola, and +some little time afterward took them to his widow in Geneva. There, +passing himself off for Anglesea—undetected, unsuspected by her, he +delivered his credentials, and won her confidence. But, when he saw the +beautiful young widow, he dared to think of her in a manner that should +have brought down upon him severe chastisement.” + +“How? What?” demanded the earl, in an excited voice. + +“Calm yourself, Enderby. Be patient, my friend. Here is our hotel. Shall +we go in?” + +“No! no! I cannot go indoors now! Let us walk here where the night air +cools my head—unless you are tired, Force?” + +“No, I am not tired. We will walk on a little way.” + +“Well, go on!” + +“With an artful delicacy, with sham sympathy, he approached the subject, +and told Saviola’s widow that she was, in fact, no widow at all; that +her marriage with the late prince was null and void from the first, +because it had been celebrated at Kelton, in Cumberland, England, +instead of at Kilton, in ——shire, Scotland. He manufactured plenty of +false evidence to prove his falsehood to be truth, and then—and then——” + +“What? what?” + +“He insulted the lady with the offer of his heart and——” + +“Hand?” + +“Protection!” murmured the squire. + +The earl sprang into the air as if he had been shot, but came down upon +his feet. He said nothing. There are some things that will not bear a +single word of comment. This was one. + +“She ordered the venomous reptile from her presence, and he crawled +away, but left his poisoned sting behind. The consummate art of his +false evidence had convinced her, as it afterward convinced her father, +and, later on, myself also, that her marriage ceremony with Saviola was +an empty form—null and void. Her father never knew otherwise. She does +not know otherwise to this day. And I knew no better until to-night.” + +“You believed my sister, your wife, to have been the victim of a false +first marriage until to-night?” + +“Yes, until the moment when Gen. Anglesea produced the certificate, and +told the true story.” + +“And yet you married her!” + +“Yes, thank Heaven, I was permitted to marry her, and she has been the +light of my life,” said the squire, fervently. + +“With this cloud overshadowing her.” + +“Enderby, every one of us has something to bear. This secret and its +evil consequences have been our cross. We have had no other. We have +loved each other truly, and we have been happy in our married life, +notwithstanding our cross.” + +“Force, you are a noble fellow! But now about her son. Where is he?” + +“Well,” said the squire, smiling and hesitating, “he is a very fine +young man, a prisoner of war at present, but he shall be free +to-morrow.” + +“Not—Roland Bayard!” + +“Yes, Roland Bayard. As fine a young man as breathes.” + +“Then, after his mother, he is my heir.” + +“Yes, Anglesea has proved his legal right to be called so.” + +“Force, does the boy know of his parentage?” + +“No. His birth was a mystery to him, as it was to every one except me +and his mother. He believes himself to be the son of Byrne Stukely, and +that is the reason why his tongue has been tied, so that he will not +give the evidence that will clear himself and go near to hang Stukely.” + +“I see! I see!” + +“But he shall give it to-morrow, and be set at liberty. I shall see to +that. Here we are again at the door of our hotel. Shall we go in? Or +have you anything else to ask me?” questioned the squire. + +“No; nothing else to-night. Let us go in.” + +The two gentlemen entered the house, got their chamber keys from the +sleepy watchman, and went upstairs. + +The public parlors were dark and deserted. The gas burned low in the +halls. + +The earl and the squire bade each other good-night and separated, and +went off to their several apartments. + +Mr. Force climbed another flight of stairs to seek the little room he +had occupied since his wife’s illness. + +He paused at the door of her sick chamber and knocked lightly. + +The night nurse answered the summons. + +“How is Mrs. Force this evening?” he inquired. + +“She is better, sir, and she is sleeping nicely,” replied the woman. + +“Thank Heaven! Good-night,” said the squire, as he turned away and +entered his own little room. + +He retired to bed, too happy to sleep until near morning, when at length +he sank to rest. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIII + HUSBAND AND WIFE + + +It was late in the morning when Abel Force was awakened by a gentle +tapping at his chamber door. + +“Who is there?” he inquired, as he hastily arose, thrust his feet into +slippers, drew on his dressing gown, and opened the door. + +“It is I, papa,” said Wynnette, in a cheerful voice, and with a bright +smile, that at once dispelled the squire’s fears for his wife, which had +been aroused by the summons. + +“How is your mother?” he inquired. + +“She is better, papa. She is awake now. Dr. Bolton says that we may see +her, but only one at a time. I thought you would like to be the first, +so I came to call you. I did not know that you were still asleep. It is +late, you see.” + +“Yes, it is late; but I was up nearly all night. Thank Heaven that your +mother is better. Come in, Wynnette.” + +“Hadn’t I better leave you to dress, papa?” + +“Presently. But I wish to send a line by you to your mother before I go +to her. I will dress while you take it.” + +Wynnette entered the room, closed the door, and sat down on the side of +the little bed to wait for the “line.” + +Mr. Force went to the small stand, and wrote: + + + “Dearest dear, I have read your paper, and I love you as ever—more + than ever, if that were possible; for love is deepened and sanctified + by sympathy with all that you have suffered. Send me word by our + Wynnette if you feel well enough to see me. I am longing to be with + you.” + + +He folded the paper and gave it to his daughter, saying: + +“Go in to see your mother, and when you have kissed and embraced her +give her this note, and wait until she reads it. Then bring me any +message that she may send.” + +Wynnette took the missive, wondering a little why her father should send +it, and left the room to deliver it. + +But Mr. Force had acted with prudent foresight. He feared that, in his +wife’s nervous and enfeebled condition, the sudden sight of him in her +room while she was yet in doubt about his feelings toward her, might +have a disastrous effect upon her health. Therefore he had sent the +short, loving message as a preparation for his visit. + +He dressed himself in a great hurry, and waited for the return of +Wynnette. + +She came while he was drawing on his coat. + +“Mamma wants you to come at once and see her alone. She has sent out the +nurse.” + +“How did you find her, Wynnette?” + +“Oh, she is better. All right, I should think, except that she is very +weak and as white as chalk. She cried when she read your note, papa. Why +did she cry, papa? What was in your note?” + +“She cried from nervousness, my dear. There was nothing in my note to +distress her. I expressed the sympathy I felt, and asked her if she was +able to see me,” replied the squire, truthfully, as far as the words +went, yet evasively. + +“Oh!” said Wynnette, and she was perfectly satisfied. + +“I am going to see her now,” said the squire, as he passed out of his +own little room and went to his wife’s chamber. + +He opened the door and passed in. The window shutters were open, but the +white shades were down and the lace curtains drawn, so that the chamber +was filled with a soft, dim, white light, that showed the low French bed +and the fair form upon it. + +As Mr. Force approached his wife, she put up her hands and covered her +face. + +“Elfrida,” he said, in low and tender tones. + +“Oh, how can I look you in the face?” she murmured. + +“How can I kiss you, dear, unless you take away your hands?” he said, +gently removing them and pressing his lips to hers. + +“Oh, Abel! if I could leave my bed—I should be at your feet! It is on my +knees that I should receive your forgiveness,” she moaned. + +“My dearest,” he whispered, kissing her again—“my dearest, I do not +offer you forgiveness, for you have done me no wrong.” + +“Oh, yes! oh, yes! I had a shameful secret, and I kept it from you, and +married you! My love——No, no! my selfish feeling was not worthy of the +name of love, yet what else can I call it? Whatever it was, it blinded +me to honor and duty and drew me on to marry you, with that shameful +secret in my heart,” she moaned. + +“Dear wife, you are very morbid. Your secret was not a shameful one, and +it was never kept from me,” he answered, caressingly. + +“What, Abel! What are you telling me?” she inquired, starting up in bed. + +“Lie down again. Calm yourself and keep very quiet, Elfrida. I have much +to tell you, and I will tell you all. Confession for confession, my +dear.” + +“The idea that you should have anything to confess! It is impossible, +Abel!” she said, as she sank back on her pillow and lay quietly as he +had told her to do. + +“Yes, Elfrida! Confession for confession! for I knew your secret when we +married, but I never let you suspect that I knew it.” + +“How?” she breathed, in wonder. + +“Your father told me, when I asked him for your hand. The late earl had +insight enough into character to see that he could trust me; that I +could never blame you for the deception he believed had been practiced +upon you; that I should consider you as truly an honorable widow as if +the marriage you believed to have been a fraud, had been as legal a bond +as it is now proved to have been!” + +“What—what are you saying, Abel? I—I—cannot comprehend.” + +“I am telling you that Saviola married you in good faith, and that your +marriage was as lawful as heaven and earth could make it! But lie still, +keep quiet, and let me tell my story in my own way. You will then be +able to comprehend it better.” + +“I will try,” she said, settling herself once more. + +“You will remember that when I asked your father for your hand he said +that he must have a talk with you before he could give an answer.” + +“Yes, he told me so, when he came to talk with me of your proposal.” + +“You remember that you refused me, all on account of that secret, which +you would not reveal. I, not knowing why you refused me, but certainly +knowing that you returned my love, declined to take no for an answer, +and so I continued to be a member of your father’s traveling party.” + +“Yes.” + +“After some weeks I again renewed my proposal for your hand to the earl, +your father, begging his intercession with you on my behalf. It was then +that he took me into his confidence and told me of the false marriage +into which—he believed—you had been led while yet a young, motherless +girl in the schoolroom, and of the child that had been born of that +marriage, and finally of the death of the man who had perpetrated the +supposed wrong.” + +“It must have been a great shock to you.” + +“A shock that was without the least blame to you, my darling wife; so +that when I recovered from it I told your father that you were in my +eyes a blameless widow, and that I should be the proudest and happiest +man alive if I could be blessed with your love and honored with your +hand.” + +“Oh, Abel! Generous soul!” + +“He then told me where the difficulty lay—that you imagined yourself +so—so—well, so injured by the wrong which had been done you—or which you +believed had been done you—that you could never bring yourself either to +reveal it to me, or to marry me without having revealed it.” + +“No, I could not—I could have died, or lived in misery sooner.” + +“So your father told me. But I was a young man, in love, my dearest, and +therefore ready with expedients. I said to the earl: + +“‘I see a way out of all this.’ + +“He replied: + +“‘Tell me, for I see none.’ + +“I answered: + +“‘You have told me these antecedents, and your most fastidious sense of +honor is satisfied. I know the secret, and still pray for the honor of +your daughter’s hand, as I believe I have already the blessing of her +love. Pray go, therefore, to your daughter, ask her if she considers you +a man of honor and integrity worthy of her trust. Of course, she will +earnestly, and with wonder and indignation at such a question, assure +you that she does. You will then please tell her of my renewed proposals +and assure her, in turn, that on your honor as a peer, and your faith as +a Christian, she may accept my hand without revealing her secret, and +without detriment to her conscience.’ + +“The earl remained plunged in thought for a few minutes, and then +replied: + +“‘I believe you have found a way out of the labyrinth. I will do as you +request upon one condition.’ + +“I asked him what it was. He answered: + +“‘That you never tell my daughter that you knew her secret. She is so +morbid on that point, I believe she would die if she thought you knew +it.’ + +“I promised. And, Elfrida, darling, you know the rest. We married, each +having a secret from the other—yours the secret of your first marriage, +mine the secret of the forbidden knowledge of that marriage. Did I not +say that I should offer confession for confession?” + + + + + CHAPTER XLIV + LOVE STRONGER THAN FATE + + +“Oh, Abel! what did you think of me all that time?” + +“I thought that you were the loveliest, yet the most morbid, woman, upon +one point, on the face of the earth. Often when I looked at you and saw +you preoccupied and very sorrowful, I wished that you would be brave +enough to tell me your trouble and so relieve your heart and find rest +in my sympathy. But you never took courage to speak of it, and I was +bound by my promise to the late earl never to reveal my knowledge unless +you should first trust me with your secret. You have done so at last, +and enabled me to make my confession also.” + +“And oh! Abel, you educated my son!” + +“Our son. I adopted him when I married his mother.” + +“Oh, Abel! Noble heart!” + +“Hush, dear, I am but an honest and well-meaning man. At least I hope I +am that much. As soon as we heard of the earl’s death I sent for the +child, whom he had cared for while he lived. The boy was brought over in +a Baltimore clipper and I went to the city to meet him. I found the boy +thriving, and I sent him down to Port Tobacco by sea while I came home +by land. I intended that he should be reared in Port Tobacco, where I +could go to see him often and watch over his training. It was a stormy +season, and I, traveling by the shorter land route, reached home fully a +week before the tempest-tossed and battered _Carrier Pigeon_ was driven +upon our shores and wrecked with the loss of all on board, except the +child alone, who was strangely saved. I should have taken him at once to +our own home but for consideration of you. I gave him in charge of Miss +Bayard. In a day or two I knew that you had seen and recognized the boy. +Then I noticed that any mention of the wrecked child distressed you. So +I did all that I could for the little lad without forcing him upon your +notice.” + +“My noble Abel! I have never deserved such a heart!” + +“No more of that, love. I think now that I have made ‘a clean breast of +it.’ I think I have told you all.” + +“Except this: You said that my first marriage was not a fraud, but a +legal act. Oh! is that true? And if true, how came you to know it?” +inquired the lady. + +“Oh, yes, I must explain that. And then, Elfrida, you must neither talk +nor listen longer. You are exhausted.” + +“But tell me, first, how do you know my first marriage was legal?” + +“Do you remember the discovery we made the day before you were taken +ill?—the discovery that the villain who attempted to blackmail you and +marry our heiress, under the name of Angus Anglesea, was not that +gallant officer at all, but an impostor, taking advantage of the closest +possible resemblance to Anglesea to carry out his own nefarious +purposes?” + +“Yes; a relative of Anglesea—Byrne Stukely.” + +“The same. Well, twenty years ago Anglesea and Stukely—I hate to connect +their names—were exact counterparts, as you have heard. Well, this same +Stukely was in Paris at the time that Saviola was there, and was taking +the name and character of his benefactor. Saviola, deceived by the name +and resemblance, mistook him for Anglesea, and asked him to act as his +second. Stukely consented, and when Saviola fell, mortally wounded, the +dying man intrusted the impostor with important papers and confidential +messages, to be delivered to you at Geneva. Now do you understand?” + +“Yes, I see. But he took his time in coming to Geneva; did not make his +appearance there, indeed, until weeks after Saviola’s death, when he +came, I suppose, in the course of his own business.” + +“Well, my dear Elfrida, it must have been the sight of your beautiful +face that tempted him to his subtle villainies; to use the papers and +the information he really possessed in the manufacturing of false +evidence, to convince you that your true and lawful marriage had been a +fraud, in order to get you in his power.” + +“Yes, yes. But when and how did you discover that the marriage was +really lawful, and that the evidence produced by Stukely was +fabricated?” + +“By the appearance, yesterday, of the bona-fide Angus Anglesea, who went +with you and Saviola to Scotland, saw you married, and, for your better +security, took an attested copy of your marriage certificate, which I +have now in my possession.” + +“My brother’s friend here! My brother’s friend all that we first +believed him to be! The vow he made to see me scathless through my mad +marriage kept to the letter! The shadow lifted from my life! Oh! I am so +glad—so glad, and so grateful! Thank Heaven!—oh, thank Heaven!” + +“Do not excite yourself, Elfrida. You promised to be quiet.” + +“Well, I will. I will be quiet. But I am so happy—happier than I have +been for twenty-five years! What brought Gen. Anglesea here?” + +“He came in search of you. He brought with him some papers that belong +to you,” said the squire; and then, while the lady listened with +breathless interest, he told her of his accidental meeting with her +brother’s old friend on the avenue the night before, and of the long +interview they had had in the apartments of the general, in which the +latter had told of his visit to Naples, his chance encounter with the +Prince Saviola, and all that had transpired on the occasion, which was +followed a few weeks later by the death of the prince, who had left all +his devisable estate to his grandnephew, Rolando, only son of Luigi +Saviola, and his wife, Elfrida Glennon. + +“And our dear friend took all the trouble to go to Geneva and hunt up +the baptismal register of my son, and then to come across the ocean to +find me out?” + +“And to bring you the copies of your marriage certificate, the register +of your son’s birth and baptism, and of your greatuncle’s will.” + +“But my son, Abel!—my son!” she cried. + +“Our son’s release is the question of a few hours only. He has been a +voluntary prisoner because he has been grossly deceived by Stukely into +the belief that he is Stukely’s son——” + +The lady gave a cry of horror. + +“And he refused to testify against his supposed father. This morning, +Grandiere, Anglesea and myself will go to see him together and tell him +the truth. He will no longer refuse to testify. We will then go to the +commissioner of prisoners and ask for him an early hearing. If there +should be any delay, we will go to the President. I think I can promise +that he will be released before sunset.” + +“Heaven grant it!” breathed the lady. + +“And now, Elfrida, I must summon your nurse and leave you to repose. You +had better not try to see any one else to-day, not even the children. +Anglesea will wait until to-morrow for an interview.” + +“One more word before you leave me, Abel.” + +“What is it?” + +“How came I back here in this bed? Where did you find me? I know I was +crazed with trouble when I left that statement on the table and started +on my journey. I have no distinct memory of that journey until I lost +myself in a wild, dark, desert place, infested with wild beasts and +birds of prey, and then oblivion, until I awoke to find myself in this +bed. How did I get back? Who brought me home?” + +“You have never been away, dear Elfrida. Your ‘howling wilderness’ was +but a delirious dream. In your distraction you prepared to leave me, no +doubt, but you never left the room. You were found by little Elva, +dressed as for a journey, but lying in a swoon upon the carpet. You were +put to bed and skilfully treated, and you have got better.” + +“Is—it—possible?” murmured the lady, passing her hand dreamily over her +forehead. + +“It is true. And now, dearest, though I would much rather pass the whole +day beside your bed, I must call your nurse and let you rest. You must +not be disturbed again to-day,” said Abel Force, as he stooped and +kissed her. + +She put out her arms and drew his head down again and returned his kiss, +murmuring: + +“Bless you, Abel! Bless you! Bless you!” + +Then she released him, and he went softly to the door and opened it. + +Mrs. Winder, the sick nurse, was sitting on a chair a few feet off. She +arose and met the squire, saying, reproachfully: + +“You have stayed too long, sir! The doctor expressly said that no one +must talk to my patient for more than five minutes, and you have stayed +half an hour, at least. It is very wrong, sir, indeed, very wrong—and I +should not like to be responsible for the consequences!” + +“You must pardon me on this occasion, nurse,” said the squire, +good-humoredly. “I hope I have done your patient no harm, and I promise +that no one else shall disturb her to-day.” + +“No, sir, that they shan’t! I will see to that!” answered the woman, +with the despotism of her class. + +Mr. Force was too happy to be resentful. + +He went downstairs to the ladies’ parlor, where he found a large party +waiting for him—Odalite, Elva, Wynnette, Mrs. Hedge, Miss Grandiere, +Miss Bayard, Rosemary, Capt. Gideon and young Sam. + +He bowed as he entered the room, where he was promptly met by Wynnette, +who at once flew at him and pecked him with the words: + +“Papa, you are a perfect outlaw. You were not given permission to stay +more than five minutes in mamma’s room, and you have stayed—about five +hours, it seems to me.” + +“Oh! tut, tut, tut! What reckless exaggeration! Not half an hour, my +dear,” said the squire. + +“And we are all just famishing. Here are our friends from the country, +too. They have got furnished apartments on E Street, but they have to +come here for their meals, and they are just fainting with hunger.” + +The squire thought they need not have waited for him, but might have +gone down to breakfast under the escort of the old skipper, but he was +too kind-hearted to say so. + +“She is only teasing you, Mr. Force. She has no respect for the fourth +commandment. We have but just arrived, and though we have excellent +appetites for our breakfast, we are not suffering from hunger,” said +Mrs. Hedge. + +“I know, Wynnette,” said the chick-pecked papa. “But now we will go +downstairs at once. Where is Enderby, then?” + +“He went out to breakfast with a friend who has just arrived from +England, but I didn’t catch his name,” replied the skipper. + +“Oh, I know. Miss Sibby, will you take my arm?” + +“Now, what do I want with your arm, Abel Force? Them as has arms and +legs of their own, sez I, don’t need to be toted along on other +people’s, sez I,” replied the old lady, trotting on before the party. + + + + + CHAPTER XLV + WINDING UP + + +When the party returned to the drawing room they found the earl and the +general waiting for them. + +The squire greeted his friends, and then introduced the general. + +The visitors from the country, who had known the counterfeit to their +cost, were now very much pleased to make the acquaintance of the genuine +officer. + +Presently, taking Anglesea aside, Mr. Force said to him: + +“I have had a long interview this morning with my invalid wife. There +has been a full explanation between us; but the excitement of such a +conversation has exhausted her, and nurse and doctor forbid any more +talk to-day, and enjoin absolute repose. To-morrow she will see you. In +the meantime, will you be so good, if you have no objection, to go with +Capt. Grandiere and myself to one of our military prisons? You need not +fear anything unwholesome. The place is a miracle of cleanliness.” + +“A veteran of the East Indian army need not fear the sight of a military +prison,” laughed the earl. “But what may be the object of our visit?” + +Mr. Force then explained the real position of Roland Bayard and of Byrne +Stukely, and the deception that had been practiced by the slaver captain +on his young prisoner to persuade the latter that he was the son of the +former, and to prevent him from giving the evidence that would clear +himself and hang his supposed father. + +“It is to abuse the young fellow of this false impression, and to prove +to him his real parentage, that I wish you to accompany us to the +prison, general,” concluded Mr. Force. + +“Of course, I will do all that with much pleasure. So my estimable +relative, Stukely, has wound up his career by turning pirate and slaver +in these war times! Well, something of the sort might have been expected +of him. And his extradition has been demanded by the British Government, +I hear.” + +These last words fell on the ear of Capt. Grandiere, who immediately +answered: + +“Yes, and when they get him they’ll hang him, for they don’t mince +matters with such scoundrels as we do! But, Force,” he added, turning to +the squire, “an article in this morning’s paper, while it confirms the +report about Stukely, denies that the extradition of Craven Cloud, or +any other than the slaver captain, has been demanded. And that is +plausible, too, for what time had they to hear of Craven Cloud, who has +only passed a few weeks on board of the slaver by which he was taken +prisoner?” + +“And who is Craven Cloud?” demanded the general. + +“Craven Cloud is the name our poor Roland took in his dire misery to +save his own name from unmerited dishonor and to save his friends from +the knowledge of his possible fate. I am glad that he is not included in +this demand of your government.” + +“So am I, for his extradition would have involved painful delays in +getting his rights.” + +Mr. Force then rang the bell and ordered a carriage—if one could be +procured—to be at the door in twenty minutes. + +Then he went up to Rosemary Hedge, took her hand, and said: + +“Dear little, faithful heart, we are all going to get Roland out of +prison. It may take us all day, for there may be lots of red tape to +disentangle; but we expect to bring him back with us.” + +Rosemary smiled gratefully. + +“Did I hear you say you expected to bring my Roland back with you?” +inquired Miss Sibby. + +“Yes, madam,” replied the squire. + +“Well, now, you do it, Abel Force! You better had, squire! If you don’t +I’ll walk myself right up to the President! I won’t go to any of your +secretaries, nor commissioners, nor any other understrappers! I’ll walk +myself right up to the President of these United States, and I’ll demand +of him why a brave and honorable young man who is the adopted nephew of +a descendant of the great duke of England is kept in prison! If you go +to any one, sez I, go to headquarters, sez I!” + +“What does she mean by the ‘duke of England’?” inquired the general, in +a low voice. + +“Oh, she means a duke of England—that is, Thomas, fourth Duke of +Norfolk, one of whose younger sons came over to Maryland with Leonard +Calvert in 1633, and from whom Miss Bayard’s mother was really +descended—a fact which she never forgets or allows any one else to +forget. A long decline, you will say, but, my dear general, there are +people descended from your English aristocracy who are working on our +roads, or pining in our prisons, as there are also people descended from +your English peasantry who are filling the highest places in our social +and national life. The waves of rank rise and fall like those of the +ocean!” + + “‘Here we go up—up—up! + And here we go down—down—downy!’” + +murmured Wynnette, who, standing nearest the speakers, had overheard +with her sharp ears the low-toned words of this conversation. + +The carriage was now announced, and the three gentlemen left the room to +go upon their visit to Roland, in the Old Capitol prison, putting the +ladies under the care of Sam Grandiere. + +Young Sam, too gallant to leave them, yet with his “ruling passion +strong,” under all circumstances, proposed to take them to the +Agricultural College, and also to the agricultural grounds and +conservatories. + +All the ladies consented to go, except Odalite, who decided to stay home +for the chance of being admitted to see her invalid mother, and of +receiving a visit from her lover, should his official duties give him +time to call. + +But Le found no opportunity to visit his sweetheart that day, and +Odalite remained alone, unsummoned even by her mother, who, jealously +guarded by her nurse, was kept in a state of complete quietude. + +She did not go down to lunch because she disliked to enter alone the +public dining room, crowded as it was at all times with officers, +soldiers and civilians. + +She remained in the ladies’ parlor, ate a few crackers, read a few +newspapers, went occasionally to her mother’s door to inquire after the +patient, and hearing that she was resting quietly, returned to her +parlor and her reading. + +So passed the day. + +It was late in the afternoon when Sam Grandiere and his party returned +from their sightseeing excursion. + +The ladies were hungry and fatigued, and anxious to get something to +eat, and then to go to their rooms and lie down. + +But Sam was full of the wonders of agriculture, horticulture and +floriculture to which he had been introduced that day. + +“If I was to be condemned for my sins to live in the city—which Heaven +in mercy forbid—and was allowed to choose the place of my punishment, it +would be the Agricultural College. I could stand that better than any +other place,” he said. + +And this was high praise, coming from such a quarter. + +When they had all lunched the Grandieres and Hedges returned to their +lodgings in E Street to rest before dinner. They always went and came +under protest, declaring that to sleep in one house and eat in another +seemed to them so disorderly as to border on indecency. + +But Wynnette always quoted Sancho Panza, reminding them that “Travelers +must be content,” especially in war time. + +It was dark when at length the three gentlemen returned to the hotel, +with Lieut. Force and Roland Bayard in their company. + +As they entered the parlor Odalite sprang up with a little cry of joy, +given no less to the released prisoner than to her betrothed lover. + +“Is it all over? Is Roland quite free now?” she inquired, after she had +shaken hands with both the young men. + +“Well, no, not quite over, for Roland is detained here in Washington as +a witness. Perhaps he will have to go to England as a witness. Find +seats, gentlemen. I will tell you all about it, Odalite,” said Mr. +Force. + +When they were all seated, the squire continued: + +“We went from here to the Old Capitol prison, to see this knight, who +was going to sacrifice himself upon a hallucination. Never mind that, +you will understand by and by. Our friend here was enabled to give +Roland the true history of his birth and parentage, being fully +acquainted with all the facts and furnished with documents to prove +them.” + +“And who, then, is he—Roland?” inquired Odalite, with affectionate +interest. + +“Stay, my dear! Not now! I cannot inform you just yet. You shall know +his position presently. Now I wish to tell you how we released Roland. +First we told his own story and convinced him that he owed no duty to +the impostor who had deceived him. Then we went to the commissioner of +prisoners, without much success. Then to the secretary of war, without +much more. Finally to the President, who, after hearing what we had to +say, signed an order for Roland’s release on parole.” + +“But why not release in full?” inquired the young lady. + +“Because, my dear, there must be an investigation. And that takes time. +However, he is practically free.” + + + + + CHAPTER XLVI + REVELATIONS + + +The ladies’ parlor of the Blank Hotel, in the city of Washington, +consisted of several rooms thrown into one by arches, draped with +curtains. + +It was the habit of the guests to collect in family or social groups in +the several compartments of this saloon, where each circle could enjoy +some privacy apart from the stranger inmates. + +On this warm evening in May all the Forces, except the mother, all the +Grandieres who were in Washington, the Hedges, Miss Bayard, Roland, Gen. +Anglesea and the Earl of Enderby, were assembled in the rear alcove, at +a safe distance from any other guests who might be in the parlor. + +For still greater privacy the curtains of the arch had been lowered, and +for coolness the sashes of the bay window at the back had been raised. + +They thus enjoyed something like the seclusion of a domestic drawing +room. + +There was a gay group at the other extremity of the saloon, and the +sound but not the sense of their talk and laughter sometimes reached our +party in the rear alcove. + +But nothing that was spoken among the latter could possibly reach the +ears of the former. + +The alcove was in pleasant shade this summer evening. Some one had asked +leave of the others, and then had lowered the gas, to decrease the heat, +as well as to subdue the light. The May moon, at its full, shone in +through the open bay window, and softly illumined the interior, falling +directly on the pale face of Abel Force, who occupied a large easy chair +in the midst of his party, who were seated around him, waiting in eager +attention for his words. + +The squire of Mondreer began to speak in a somewhat formal manner. + +“My friends,” he said, “I have asked you all to meet me here that I may +explain to you some family matter that you have not hitherto understood, +or rather, that you have entirely misunderstood up to this day.” + +The squire paused in some embarrassment. + +Miss Sibby took advantage of the momentary silence to nudge Miss +Susannah Grandiere and whisper: + +“I knowed it. Everything as is hid, sez I, is sure to come out, sez I; +but it’s nothing ag’in Abel Force, whatever it is, sez I. I’ll bet on +the old squire every time, sez I.” + +Mr. Force went on: + +“You have all taken—or seemed to take—much for granted in our lives +which was not true. Now did you not?” + +“Why—not that I know of, Force. I don’t know of any mistakes we any of +us ever made about you,” exclaimed old Capt. Grandiere, answering for +all his neighbors. “In what respect have we done you wrong?” he next +inquired. + +“In no respect have you done me wrong. You have only taken some things +for granted and made some harmless mistakes.” + +“What mistakes?” + +These questions helped the embarrassed squire in his awkward +explanations. Perhaps he drew them out for the purpose. + +“For instance,” he replied, “you all took it for granted, when I married +in Europe, that I had married a young lady who had never been married +before.” + +“Yes, of course,” replied the old skipper, while every one else listened +in silent expectation. + +“You never imagined that I had married a young widow.” + +“Good Heaven! No!” exclaimed the old sailor, opening his eyes to their +widest extent. “None of us ever could have dreamed of such a thing. So +Mrs. Force was a widow when you married her?” + +“Yes; the widow of the late Prince Luigi Saviola, of Naples.” + +“Goo-oo-ood gracious! And you never let on a word about it to any of +us!” + +“There was no occasion. The way did not open to make such an +announcement without apparent egotism,” replied the squire, discreetly, +but not very convincingly. + +“I confess I do not see where the egotism would have been,” said Miss +Susannah Grandiere. + +“There may be a difference of opinion on that head,” said Abel Force. “I +could not go up and down the country proclaiming aloud to all and sundry +of my farmer neighbors that I had married the widow of the late Prince +Luigi Saviola. Nor should I even mention the fact here among my old +friends this evening but that new developments of circumstances have +made it necessary to do so.” + +“‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ sez I. Not that Abel Force has +anything to do with the devil, sez I. No, indeed. I bet on Abel Force +every time, sez I,” muttered Miss Sibby, aside to Mrs. Hedge. + +“Now, squire, speak right up. Tell us all about it. You look as if you +couldn’t come to the point. You have got something more to tell us +besides that you married a beautiful young widow. Out with it, squire. +We are all friends here,” heartily exclaimed old Gideon Grandiere. + +Thus backed up and encouraged, the embarrassed and hesitating master of +Mondreer took heart of grace, and told the story of his wife’s first +marriage. Not the whole story, by a long deal! He suppressed much that +did not concern his neighbors to be told, and would not have edified +them to hear. + +For instance, he never hinted a word about the runaway marriage of the +fascinating Italian exile with the too romantic young school girl. He +merely told of the marriage of Prince Luigi Saviola, of Naples, with the +Lady Elfrida Glennon, only daughter of the Earl of Enderby. Of their +travels over the Continent, and of the birth of their only son at +Geneva. + +He breathed no syllable of the fatal duel in which the prince had +fallen; but told them that he had died suddenly while on a visit to +Paris; and that soon after his death his widow had returned to the +protection of her father, in whose company he—Abel Force—had first met +her in Switzerland; and that he had been so charmed with her that he had +won her affections, and that he had married her some months later in +England. + +At this point of the story Abel Force paused for a few moments, and then +said: + +“It would be too long and tedious a tale to tell you how we both became +separated from our only son—that is, my wife’s son by her first +marriage, and my son by adoption and by affection—the young man whom you +have known as Roland Bayard, but, who, in truth, is no other than +Rolando Saviola, the only son of the late Prince Luigi Saviola and of +the Lady Elfrida, his wife. Enough that lately has come over from Europe +this gentleman, Gen. Anglesea, the long-time friend of my wife’s family, +who was present at her marriage with the prince; who was present also at +the death of the lately deceased, aged Prince Antonio Saviola, and is +the appointed executor of his will. Gen. Anglesea has come to America in +search of the heir, and has found him in the person of the young man +whom, as I have said, you have known so long as Roland Bayard.” + +As Mr. Force concluded his narrative a silence of astonishment fell on +the circle. + +“And now,” put in the earl, “I hope all our friends understand the +position of my nephew here.” + +Old Capt. Grandiere started up and seized Roland’s hand, and shook it +heartily. + +Little Rosemary slipped her slender fingers in those of the earl, and +whispered: + +“Didn’t I tell you Roland was of patrician birth? Didn’t I tell you he +looked like you? I am not the least surprised.” + +The earl caressed the little hand that was resting in his, but made no +reply in words. + +“Yes, for all that I knew it all along, and am not surprised, I do feel +as if I was hearing it all read out of a romance, by the evening fire, +in Aunt Sukey’s old room in the farmhouse,” added Rosemary, dreamily. + +Le followed the example of Capt. Grandiere, went up and shook Roland by +the hand, whispering: + +“I am heartily glad of your good fortune, old fellow—heartily glad! Not +that any fortune, good or ill, could affect my friendship for you.” + +“It is not likely,” smiled Roland. “If you did not lose faith in me when +I was in the role of the pirate captain’s mate, surely no amount of +adversity could turn you against me. And as for prosperity, I know, Le, +that mine gives you unselfish joy.” + +All now in turn shook hands with Roland, and wished him well. + +The young man cordially responded to all this sympathetic pleasure. + +Mr. Force’s friends were not quite satisfied—all was not cleared up to +their contentment. They wished to know how it happened that Roland had +been separated from his parents in his infancy. + +But the mystery, which has been revealed to the reader, was never made +clear to them, though subsequently various reports got into circulation +concerning the lost child—the most popular of which, originating no one +knew how, was that Roland had been stolen by gypsies. This romance came +finally to be received as the truth. + +It was late that night when the party separated and retired to rest. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVII + MOTHER AND SON + + +The recovery of Elfrida Force was very rapid. When she awoke from sleep +on the morning after her interview with her husband, she felt so free +from pain and weariness, so refreshed in mind and body, that she wished +to get up and dress, and go down into the drawing room to join her +family circle. This the nurse dissuaded her from doing, but advised her +to put on a wrapper, sit in an easy chair, and receive any friends she +might wish to see in her own room. + +The first one she asked for was her husband. Abel Force came quickly, +dismissed the attendant from the room, and sat down beside her, holding +her hand in his own a few moments before either spoke. + +The squire was the first to break the eloquent silence. + +“Dearest, you will be glad to hear that our Roland is at liberty; is +fully exonerated.” + +“Thank Heaven!” breathed the mother. + +“The morning’s papers give us the information that Stukely will be +yielded up to the British authorities and will leave Washington to-day +for New York, to sail on the _Scotia_, on Saturday, for Liverpool.” + +“Thank Heaven!” again breathed Elfrida Force. + +“I have had an explanation with our friends and neighbors; have told +them all that they need know, and nothing more,” continued the squire. + +For the first time since his entrance the lady looked uneasy. + +“Do not distress yourself, my dear. I will tell you all that I said, and +how I said it,” he added. + +And then he repeated, nearly word for word, all that had passed in the +alcove of the ladies’ parlor on the preceding night. + +“Oh, Abel, how well you have managed to shield me, unworthy that I am, +from all reproach!” she murmured, in a tremulous voice. + +“Nay, dear! Do not speak so of yourself. If I have tried to lift the +burdens and dispel the shadows from about you, it is because it would +have been unjust for you to suffer from them. And, Elfrida, I have had +this morning an exhaustive interview with our son.” + +“Ah, yes! yes! What will Roland think of my long ignoring him?” sighed +the mother. + +“He knows now all about it—the cruel, slanderous deception practiced on +you by the man Stukely, when he made you believe that the marriage with +Saviola was illegal, and left you no other alternative than to do as you +did. And no shadow of implied blame is felt by Roland—only reverential +tenderness and compassion for all that you have had to suffer for so +many years from the diabolical villainy of one man. Roland is impatient +to see you, my dear, as soon as you can admit him.” + +“My incomparable husband!” breathed the lady, penetrated by her +perception of his utter unselfishness and superiority to every feeling +of jealousy. + +“Ah! how you exaggerate, dear,” he said, with a smile. Then: + +“Will you see Roland?” he inquired. + +“When you please,” she answered. + +He arose, stooped and kissed her forehead, and left the room. + +In a few moments the door opened and Roland entered. + +The blood rushed to the lady’s face, and then left it paler than before. +She held out both hands to receive him. + +“My son! Oh, my son! Can you forgive me?” she wailed. + +Roland dropped on one knee and lifted her hands to his lips, in silent +reverence. Then he arose and folded her in his arms, still in silence. + +“Speak to me, Roland,” she said at last, when he had drawn a chair and +seated himself at her side. + +“Dear mother,” he said, very gently, “I have heard your whole story from +the lips of my stepfather—my honored father, I should rather say, for +truly he has done a father’s part, and given a father’s love to me—and I +feel for him the deepest love, respect and compassion. I wish from my +soul that at my hands the demon who has wronged you so bitterly could +receive his punishment.” + +“No, no, my son. From your hands his punishment would be sinful revenge. +From the hands of the law which has seized him it will be retributive +justice. Roland, how much, if anything, can you remember of your +infancy, before you were cast upon these shores?” she suddenly inquired. + +“Not much very clearly, dear mother. But I do remember a country place, +where there were many cows and some calves, fruit trees, flowers and a +house covered all over with flowering vines. I remember a rosy-cheeked +woman in a white cap and white apron, who used to wash and dress me, and +another little boy of about my age, and give us our milk and bread in a +room that had a bright red brick floor.” + +“Nothing more, Roland?” + +“Oh, yes. I remember something that used to make a grand holiday for us, +a great lady who used to come to see us, and bring cakes and sugar plums +and toys and clothes. Then I remember being in a ship on the sea for +many days, but cannot recall how I got there, or how I came away. These +reminiscences I have often told to Aunt Sibby, but neither she nor I +could ever make out by much study where that home of my infancy could +have been located, or what seas I had sailed over.” + +“And did no face, no voice here ever associate itself with those earlier +memories?” inquired the mother. + +“Yes,” replied the young man. “I was but four years old when I last +beheld the face of the beautiful woman who visited me at intervals, and +whom I had been taught to call my aunt. But this last occasion was fixed +in my memory from the childish delight I found in the hobby-horse she +had brought down for me, and also by something very opposite that—my +distress at seeing her great griefs and paroxysms of sobs and tears at +leaving me. These impressed the lady’s face and voice indelibly on my +memory, so that the image and the tone survived everything else in my +picture of the past. I was ten years old when I first saw ‘Mrs. Force’ +at our school examination, but her face and her voice troubled me with +fancies that they had both once been familiar and beloved. Mother! I +remembered your presence in the home of my infancy, though I remembered +little else about it; and I recalled your face and voice when I met you +again six years later on this other side of the world, though I could +not identify you with the angel of my fancy. Yet I always loved you in +both characters, though I never ventured to show my affection; and I +somehow perceived your love for me, though you never showed it!” + +“A veil was between us,” said Elfrida Force. + +“Yes, a veil; but so thin that we saw each other through it. Why, +mother, dear, even our little Rosemary perceived this, for she often +told me that she believed you loved her for my sake more than for her +own. To-day she told me that when she was in distress on my account, it +was only to you she could go for sympathy.” + +“And that was true,” murmured the lady. + +“And, mother, dear, what treasures I have realized in my new-found +sisters. Odalite—always kind to me because Leonidas loved me—Odalite has +been most affectionate to-day. Wynnette—charming Wynnette—has been so +openly fond of me as to rouse the jealousy of Mr. Samuel Grandiere, who +remonstrated in elegant style this way: ‘Drot it all, Wynnette! You make +more of Roland than you ever did of me, though I am to be your +husband.’” + +“And what did our Wynnette say to that?” inquired Mrs. Force, with a +smile. + +“She answered: ‘Well? It is written that a man shall forsake his father +and his mother and cleave to his wife; but it is nowhere written that a +woman shall forsake her darling brother to cleave to another fellow.’ +And she hugged me tighter and kissed me closer than before.” + +“And little Elva?” inquired the lady. + +“Sweet Elva! Tender, loving Elva! She could not ever have been sweeter, +kinder, tenderer to me than she has always been. Elva is the sweetest of +all my sweet sisters.” + +“She is a dear child,” breathed the lady. Then, after a little +pause—“And Rosemary?” she inquired. + +“Mother, with your consent—and I am sure we shall have your +consent—Rosemary will be my wife. Dear, true-hearted little mite! She +would have given herself to me even if I had been nothing more than a +little skipper’s mate, under the ban of suspected piracy! Her love for +me was so warm—her faith in me so true—I am glad that I have the rank +and wealth to offer her which will make me acceptable to her relations. +But, mother, dear, Gen. Anglesea is waiting to speak to you.” + +“Then go and bring him in; and, Roland, you need not retire,” said the +lady. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVIII + THE MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS + + +Angus Anglesea entered the room, ushered in by Roland and followed by +Mr. Force. + +Mrs. Force arose from her chair to meet her old friend, who took her +hand and bowed over it respectfully. + +“I am very glad to see you after so many years,” said Mrs. Force, as +Roland drew forward a chair for the visitor. + +“I wish with all my heart and soul that our meeting had been earlier! It +would then have saved much misunderstanding and suffering,” said Gen. +Anglesea, with a deep sigh, as he took his seat by her side. + +“The past is past,” said the lady. + +“Every one in this world has something to bear. All things considered, +we have had but a small share of the universal burden,” cheerfully +remarked Abel Force. + +“I have brought some very important documents here to place in your +hands,” said Anglesea, beginning to sort a parcel of papers that he +held. + +“You have taken much trouble to bring me these documents. How can I +thank you sufficiently?” murmured the lady. + +“But I need no thanks for doing my duty! This is the will of the late +Antonio Saviola, by which he leaves all his possessions to his +grandnephew, Rolando Saviola,” said the general, laying the largest +document on the small stand in front of the lady’s chair. + +She bowed, and took it up. + +“This is the certificate of your marriage with Luigi Saviola, and this a +certificate of the baptism of your son. These documents were necessary +to establish your son’s right to the inheritance of the Saviola +estates,” he continued, placing two other papers on the table. + +These also the lady took up, with a bow of thanks. + +“Mr. Force will tell you how all these came into nay possession, if he +has not already done so. And now, dear lady, having surrendered my +trust, I must take my leave for the present. I have been cautioned by +your physician, who is waiting in the parlor below, not to make my visit +too long. I shall remain in Washington some time, and I hope I shall be +permitted to see you often,” said Anglesea, as he arose to leave the +room. + +“Must you go? Then return soon. Come often. Do come and spend the +evening with us. I am quite recovered, I assure you, and shall join my +family party in the drawing room after dinner,” said the lady, detaining +the hand that he had given her. + +“I will do so with pleasure,” returned the general, and with a low bow +he relinquished her hand and left the room. + +His exit was followed by the entrance of the doctor to make his daily +visit. He expressed much satisfaction on finding his patient so much +improved. And when Mrs. Force spoke of her wish to join her family in +the drawing room, the doctor made no objection to the proposed measure. + +As soon as he had gone, the lady dismissed her other two visitors, Abel +Force and Roland, telling them that she meant to dress and go down into +the parlor, where they might rejoin her. + +The two men left the room. + +A half hour later, Elfrida Force was seated in the alcove at the rear of +the saloon, surrounded by her daughters, her young friends, and her old +Maryland neighbors, all of whom rejoiced over her as over one who, if +not risen from the dead, had at least passed safely through a terrible +crisis and risen from a most dangerous illness. + +All the gentlemen of their circle were absent, having gone with Roland, +who was to pass through some necessary formalities before he could be +released from bonds and set entirely at liberty. + +So it turned out that the large party in the alcove was a “hen +convention.” And the subject they discussed was a double wedding, when +and where to come off. + +Leonidas had that day pleaded for an immediate marriage, urging, with +much reason, the long time that he and his beloved had been obliged to +wait, and the repeated disappointments they had been fated to suffer. + +And Mr. Force had replied that he would consult Mrs. Force on the +subject and give him an answer as soon as possible. Mr. Force had, in +fact, resolved to leave the matter to be determined by his wife. + +Roland had also pleaded for an early wedding, arguing that he would be +compelled to go to Italy to take possession of his estates, and that +after all that he and his sweetheart had endured, they might really +expect to be made happy. + +Mrs. Hedge and Miss Grandiere promised to take the matter into +consideration, and give him an answer in due time. + +And now all the women and girls were freely discussing the subject. + +There should be a double wedding—that was a fixed fact. Leonidas and +Odalite, Roland and Rosemary should be married at the same place and at +the same time—but in what place and at what time? In the city of +Washington, within a week, or in St. Mary’s County, within a month? + +That was the question that occupied the ladies’ circle. + +There was so much to be said on both sides. It would save time, trouble +and expense to have the double wedding come off in Washington. But, +then, as Roland and Rosemary were to sail for Europe immediately after +their marriage, it seemed a pity that they should not look once more +upon old scenes and meet once more old friends before their departure. + +You see the matter resolved itself at length into a question of +convenience or of sentiment. And, inasmuch as it was a convention of +women who sat upon this subject, the decision may be anticipated, as +given in the favor of sentiment. + +The weddings, therefore, were to be celebrated with great pomp at All +Faith Church, Mondreer and Oldfield, in St. Mary’s County—that is to +say, the double marriage ceremony was settled to be performed at All +Faith Church, the wedding breakfast to be served for both parties at +Mondreer, and the evening reception to be held at Oldfield. + +After which Leonidas and Odalite would depart to spend their honeymoon +at their own little estate of Greenbushes, and Roland and Rosemary would +leave for New York en route for Europe. + +The ladies had settled this quite to their satisfaction before the +gentlemen all returned with the good news that all formalities had been +duly observed, and now Roland was a free man, without the smallest +suspicion of a blemish on his honor. + +“And now,” said Abel Force, “we may all go down into Maryland as soon as +we please, and show Enderby and Anglesea what our country life is like, +for they have both promised to be our guests for a season.” + +“That will be delightful, and I am rejoiced to hear it,” said Mrs. +Force, very cordially. At which the two invited guests bowed. + +Later on that evening, when Elfrida Force found herself alone with her +husband in their chamber, she said: + +“We cannot go down to Mondreer in less than a week. I must write +to-morrow to have the house prepared for the reception of our visitors. +And while that work is going on I must do some shopping here for the two +girls. You know they cannot be married without clothes.” + +“Without clothes! Good Lord, no!” exclaimed the squire, and he gave in +immediately. + +The next day Mrs. Force wrote to her housekeeper at Mondreer, addressing +that worthy woman as Mrs. Anglesea, lest, with her true name on the +envelope, the missive might not reach her, or if it did, might offend +her; but—addressing her so for the last time, for after announcing the +advent of her family and visitors at Mondreer, and instructing the +housekeeper in regard to the preparations to be made for their +accommodation, Mrs. Force wrote briefly of the facts which had come to +light concerning the impostor who had called himself Col. Angus +Anglesea, but who was really Byrne Stukely, an ex-midshipman in the +royal navy, long an adventurer, and lately a pirate. She suppressed only +one fact—the existence of Stukely’s wife and family at Angleton—and this +she kept in mercy to the deceived woman, since there could be no good +come of revealing it. She ended by advising the Californian to drop the +name of Anglesea, to which the man who had given it to her had no sort +of right, and to take back that of her late husband, who had had every +claim on her love and faith. She counseled her to do this the more +especially as the real Angus Anglesea was to be one of their visitors at +Mondreer. + +Having dispatched this letter by the morning’s mail, Mrs. Force ordered +a carriage, and in company with Mrs. Hedge, Odalite and Rosemary, drove +out to purchase wedding finery for the two brides-elect. + +Two days later all the Grandieres, together with Mrs. Hedge, Rosemary +and Miss Sibby Bayard, left Washington for St. Mary’s, partly on account +of the expense and inconvenience of sleeping in lodging houses and +eating at hotel restaurants, and partly as an advance guard to go before +and prepare the way for the wedding parties. + +Mr. and Mrs. Force, with their family and guests, expected to follow in +about ten days—or as soon as the wedding outfit for the two brides could +be completed, for the lady had undertaken the supervision of that part +of the program. + +Young Sam Grandiere had pleaded hard to be allowed to marry Wynnette at +the same time that Leonidas was to marry Odalite, and Roland Rosemary. +And neither Mr. nor Mrs. Force raised any objection. But Wynnette +herself resisted the proposal in a characteristic way. + +“No,” she said, “we must not think of ‘marrying or giving in marriage,’ +while our countrymen are falling in battle or dying in hospitals by +thousands and tens of thousands—many also perishing for want of help, +and not hands enough at leisure from business or from pleasure to give +it! No! I suppose it is necessary that these others should marry for +good reasons, but you and I must wait for better times, Sam, because, as +soon as the double wedding is over and the two ‘happy’ pairs gone, Elva +and I intend to return to Washington and go to work in the hospitals.” + +“In the hospitals! What can you two do?” had been Sam’s amazed +exclamation and incredulous question. + +“We may not be first-rate nurses, but we can help the nurses; we can +obey orders, step lightly, speak softly, fetch and carry, and do any +work we are put to do, and we mean to do it!” + +“And your father and mother mean to let you?” + +“Of course they do! That is what we all came home from Europe for. And +papa and mamma mean to offer their services, too.” + +“Well! If it were not you and your parents, Wynnette, I should say that +you were all the biggest fools in the world, and that each one of you +was the biggest fool of all the rest!” exclaimed the provoked lover. + +“And if it were not you, who couldn’t hit me back because you are a man +and I am a girl, I should box your ears soundly for saying that, Mr. +Samuel Grandiere!” + +“Oh, I shouldn’t mind that,” said Sam, with a laugh. + +And the honest young pair parted good friends, Sam going to escort his +relations on their journey to St. Mary’s. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIX + A DOUBLE WEDDING AT ALL FAITH + + +“It’s a habit he gibs hisse’f, ole mist’ess! Nuffin’ ’tall but a cussed, +infunally habit he gibs hisse’f! And he ought to be broke ob it, if it +breaks his neck! He to hab de darin’ impidence to take a rale gemman’s +name an’ to go paradin’ up an’ down de yeth an’ roun’ an’ roun’ de worl’ +a-deceivin’ ob young damsins like Miss Odilly an’ ole widdies like +you—de owdacious willyun! Wot you reckon dey’ll do wid him, ole +mist’ess?” + +Such were the comments and such was the question of Luce, after hearing +the letter of Mrs. Force which the housekeeper of Mondreer, with her +usually perfect openness, had read aloud to the colored cook. + +“Wot yer reckon dey gwine to do wid dat ’funally willyun, ole mist’ess?” +again demanded Luce, seeing that the other woman was studying the letter +in silence. + +“They’ll hang him! That’s what they’ll do with him. He’s been sent to +England—in chains, I hope—and they’ll hang him! By all accounts they +don’t fool with such people as we do. They hang ’em. And now, Luce, +don’t you ever dare to call me by that devil’s name again! And if +anybody else ever does call me so, I’ll sue ’em for slander and put the +damages as high as the law allows!” exclaimed the housekeeper. + +“All yight, ole mist’ess. I won’t call yer dat. But wot mus’ I call +yer?” + +“Call me Mrs. Wright. Wright is my right name, and I shall always write +it so, for all of that marriage rite between me and that yonder beat.” + +“Jes’ so, ole mist’ess—I’ll ’membeh!” + +“It was my dear old man’s name, and I ought never to have changed it. +And I never will again, so help me! And now, Luce, you and me has got to +stir our stumps and make this house jamb, for there’s not only two +weddings—and Lord knows one wedding makes fuss enough in a house!—but +there’s a whole raft of foreign company coming to stay.” + +“I t’ought as dere was on’y two st’ange gemmen.” + +“Well, but one’s a lord and t’other a lion! And them two’s as much as a +regiment! So look alive, nigger, and put your best foot first before the +foreigners,” said the housekeeper, with vim. + +While active preparations were in progress at Mondreer, all the +Grandieres, with Mrs. Hedge, little Rosemary and Miss Sibby Bayard, +returned to the neighborhood. + +The sensational news they brought from Washington spread “like wildfire” +through the county, and the capture of the _Kitty_ by the _Argente_; the +taking of the _Argente_ by the _Eagle_; the detection of the true +character of the adventurer whom they had known and lionized as Col. +Angus Anglesea; the discovery of Roland Bayard’s parentage; the +approaching marriage of Leonidas with Odalite, and of Roland with +Rosemary—formed the topics of conversation at all the tea tables and in +all the barrooms for many miles around. + +In the height of all this gossip, the Forces, with their two foreign +guests, returned to Mondreer. + +They immediately became the objects of daily, yes, hourly calls. Every +acquaintance of the family, high and low, rich and poor, came to welcome +them back to Mondreer, and all were received with courtesy. + +Invitations were sent out “broadcast” for the double wedding to be +celebrated at All Faith Church on the first of the ensuing June. + +When that day dawned at length the sun arose in a sky as bright and blue +and shone upon a world as green and fresh as ever blessed the bridals of +youth and beauty. + +At a very early hour the church was filled with the nearest friends of +the wedding parties, while scores of invited guests who could not press +into the building for want of space sat in their carriages that filled +the grove. + +At ten o’clock the venerable clergyman appeared in the chancel, robed in +his white surplice, and attended by his curate and clerk, and with their +appearance a whisper went around the congregation that the bridal +procession was approaching. + +This was true. A moment later the doors were noiselessly thrown open, +and the ushers entered, standing on the right and on the left. Then the +bride, Odalite, appeared leaning on the arm of her father. Her dress on +this occasion was very plain and simple—a white silk, trained, and a +long, white tulle veil, with a very slender wreath of orange buds, +gloves, boots, handkerchiefs and bouquet to match, but no jewelry. +Behind her walked her bridesmaids, Wynnette and Elva, girls even more +simply dressed in white than herself. + +A few steps in the rear came the second bridal train—little Rosemary +Hedge, led by her greatuncle, Capt. Gideon Grandiere. She looked like a +light, floating cloud, with veil and dress all of snow-white tulle, +looped here and there with lilies of the valley. Behind her walked her +two bridesmaids, the little Elk girls, in simple white organdie dresses. + +Last of all came Mrs. Force, with the Earl of Enderby and other friends, +and Mrs. Hedge, with Miss Susannah Grandiere. + +As Odalite was led up to the altar by her father, Leonidas Force came +out of the vestry, followed by his groomsman, Sam Grandiere, and joined +them. The circle, immediately arranged itself before the altar—the +friends of the pair standing behind and on the right and left. + +The venerable rector opened his book and the rites commenced. + +Odalite was the palest bride that ever willingly gave her hand to her +chosen bridegroom; but, then, the shadow of the past overclouded her +spirit. + +Leonidas perceived this, and pressed her hand in silent sympathy and +reassuring tenderness. + +The rites went on to the end. The benediction was given, and the bride +and groom were warmly congratulated. + +Then the newly married pair, with their attendants, withdrew to the rear +to make way for the second wedding. + +Old Capt. Grandiere led his niece, Rosemary Hedge, up to the altar, +followed by her bridesmaids. There they were met by Roland Saviola and +his groomsman, Ned Grandiere. They formed before the altar, their +friends and relatives standing behind and on either side. + +Again the rector advanced and opened his book, and amid the deep silence +commenced the solemn rites. + +When they were ended, and the blessing was bestowed, the bride kissed, +and the bridegroom shaken by the hand, both the wedding parties withdrew +to the vestry to register the marriages. + +After this they made very slow progress out of the church, their way +being impeded by their acquaintances, who left the pews to offer their +congratulations. + +At length they were permitted to enter their carriages and take the road +to Mondreer, where the marriage breakfast was to be given. + +It was a great success, of course. The guests remained until two +o’clock, when they departed, well pleased, and leaving their +entertainers to take a few hours’ repose before repairing to Oldfield +for the evening’s ball. + +At the farm they all literally: + + “Danced all night till broad daylight.” + +Then, after coffee, the two brides and grooms put on their traveling +dresses and took leave of their friends. + +Leonidas and Odalite went to Greenbushes to spend their honeymoon +quietly. + +Roland and Rosemary left for Washington, en route for New York and +Paris. Mrs. Hedge and Miss Grandiere wept freely at parting with their +darling, but were consoled by the assurance from Roland that the trip +across the Atlantic was nothing at all in these days, and that he should +certainly bring Rosemary back to spend Christmas with them, and +afterward, if they pleased, take both of them to Europe to spend a long +time with Rosemary and himself. + +To Miss Sibby Bayard, who had been a true mother to the young man, and +who was weeping silently and wiping her eyes surreptitiously, as if she +were ashamed of her tears, Roland said: + +“Dearest Aunt Sibby, though I seem to be leaving you finally, yet it is +not so. You will see me much oftener, and for much longer periods, than +you used to do when I was mate on a merchantman and away to sea three +years at a time. Besides, you will come and stay with us on the other +side as often and as long as you please—forever, if you will. We should +like it.” + +“Yes, honey! Never mind me! I’m not crying! What should I cry for, when +you are so happy? I love you too true for that! Rale love, sez I, always +rejoices in the good of its objects, sez I! And them as snivels at the +happiness of their children, sez I, hasn’t much love, but a deal of self +in their souls, sez I!” Miss Sibby concluded, with a glance of reproach +on poor Mrs. Hedge and Miss Grandiere. + +At last they were gone. + +And the invited guests soon followed. + +Oldfield was left to itself, except for the presence of the Forces, who, +being very tired, had accepted Mrs. Grandiere’s pressing invitation to +remain and rest for the whole day. They all retired to their rooms to +lie down and sleep—all except the California widow, who, with her +instincts of order, volunteered to help to put the farmhouse “to rights” +after the party. She called to her aid Luce, who had come to Oldfield in +attendance on her mistress. + +Luce’s eyes were red, and her nose was swollen through much crying. + +“Now, come out of that, you fool!” exclaimed the widow, who had finished +with her own crying. + +“I can’t help ob it!” sobbed Luce. “Dese yere boys an’ gals is ’nough to +break a body’s heart! Allers, eberlastin’ gettin’ married world without +end! But wot’s de use ob talkin’? It’s a habit dey gibs deirse’ves! +Nuffin’ ’tall but a habit dey gibs deirse’ves! An’ dey’ll nebber be +broke ob it—nebber!” + +“Oh, hush, Luce! Look up! Look up, woman! There is a good omen! The sun +is rising!” + + + THE END + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + POPULAR BOOKS + + + By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH + + In Handsome Cloth Binding + + Price per volume, 60 Cents + + * * * * * + + Beautiful Fiend, A + + Brandon Coyle’s Wife + Sequel to A Skeleton the Closet + + Bride’s Fate, The + Sequel to The Changed Brides + + Bride’s Ordeal, The + + Capitola’s Peril + Sequel to the Hidden Hand + + Changed Brides, The + + Cruel as the Grave + + David Lindsay + Sequel to Gloria + + Deed Without a Name, A + + Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret + Sequel to A Deed Without a Name + + “Em” + + Em’s Husband + Sequel to “Em” + + Fair Play + + For Whose Sake + Sequel to Why Did He Wed Her? + + For Woman’s Love + + Fulfilling Her Destiny + Sequel to When Love Commands + + Gloria + + Her Love or Her Life + Sequel to The Bride’s Ordeal + + Her Mother’s Secret + + Hidden Hand, The + + How He Won Her + Sequel to Fair Play + + Ishmael + + Leap in the Dark, A + + Lilith + Sequel to the Unloved Wife + + Little Nea’s Engagement + Sequel to Nearest and Dearest + + Lost Heir, The + + Lost Lady of Lone, The + + Love’s Bitterest Cup + Sequel to Her Mother’s Secret + + Mysterious Marriage, The + Sequel to A Leap in the Dark + + Nearest and Dearest + + Noble Lord, A + Sequel to The Lost Heir + + Self-Raised + Sequel to Ishmael + + Skeleton in the Closet, A + + Struggle of a Soul, The + Sequel to The Lost Lady of Lone + + Sweet Love’s Atonement + + Test of Love, The + Sequel to A Tortured Heart + + To His Fate + Sequel to Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret + + Tortured Heart, A + Sequel to The Trail of the Serpent + + Trail of the Serpent, The + + Tried for Her Life + Sequel to Cruel as the Grave + + Unloved Wife, The + + Unrequited Love, An + Sequel to For Woman’s Love + + Victor’s Triumph + Sequel to A Beautiful Fiend + + When Love Commands + + When Shadows Die + Sequel to Love’s Bitterest Cup + + Why Did He Wed Her? + + Zenobia’s Suitors + Sequel to Sweet Love’s Atonement + + * * * * * + + For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of + price. + A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS + 52 Duane Street New York + + Copyright, 1882, 1889 + BY ROBERT BONNER + Renewal granted to Mrs. Charlotte Southworth Lawrence, 1910 + + “WHEN SHADOWS DIE” + + Printed by special arrangement with STREET & SMITH + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + Page Changed from Changed to + + 31 Mr. Force, who placed him in Mr. Force, who placed him in the + charge of a respectable charge of a respectable + + 228 fondly as ever mother did, yet fondly as ever a mother did, yet + I loved them no more I loved them no more + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75317 *** |