CHAPTER XVII.
AT CANE RIDGE AGAIN
Abner returned to Kentucky early in October. At Pittsburg, on his return journey, he had again fallen in with Judge Sebastian, who intrusted him with a packet containing a sum of money, and with a package of books, requesting him to deliver them to Judge Innes. Arriving at Lexington, he delivered the money and books, and then went on to Cane Ridge, reaching Mason Rogers' about nightfall.
The next morning he set out for his farm, intending, after he had looked after affairs there, to ride on to Bourbonton to post a letter, as it was the day on which the once-a-week mail-coach passed through the village.
Over three months had elapsed since he had seen Betsy Gilcrest; and although he meant to obey her hint and wait until November to renew his suit, he felt that there was no prohibition against his seeing her. Accordingly, he purposed to return from Bourbonton by way of Oaklands.
On the way to the farm he met James Drane. Abner had not made known to the Rogers family the nature of the business which had called him to Virginia, nor did he now say anything to the lawyer about consulting him professionally; for he had resolved that Betsy should be the first to be told of his good fortune. Drane, after congratulating Abner upon his safe return, and expressing an intention of calling soon to learn the particulars of the visit to Virginia, added that he must now hasten forward, as he had business to transact at Bourbonton. Whereupon, Abner, thinking to save himself a ride to the village, handed him the letter to post, and then went on towards his farm.
As soon as Abner was out of sight, Drane took the letter from his pocket. When he saw its address, Judge Benjamin Sebastian, he uttered an ejaculation of surprise and pleasure. He rode on slowly for a time, in deep thought, then turned and galloped rapidly towards Oaklands. In a field adjoining the road was Hiram Gilcrest, superintending some negroes gathering corn. Drane, riding up to the fence, hailed Gilcrest, who advanced to meet him. Drane then took the letter from his pocket, and, showing its address, said, "You see, Major, my suspicions regarding your neighbor are well founded."
"Has Dudley returned?" asked Gilcrest in some surprise.
"Yes, last evening. He passed through Lexington yesterday. While there he doubtless gathered important information from others of the band, and this morning he asked me to post this letter, which, of course, transmits this information to Sebastian."
After some further conversation, Drane exacted a pledge from Gilcrest of absolute secrecy in regard to the letter, and, declining an invitation to dine at Oaklands, rode away.
Much to Abner's chagrin, he found, on arriving at Oaklands an hour after the interview between Drane and Gilcrest, that Betsy was on a visit to her friend, Mary Winston, who lived near Lexington. Mrs. Gilcrest, however, was unusually animated, and evinced great interest in his recent journey, and questioned him about people and places, changes and fashions in Virginia. Yet Abner could not but notice the lack of cordiality in Major Gilcrest. Thinking this due to recollection of the discussion just before the trip to Virginia, Abner tried to avoid all topics even remotely approaching church matters. He described his visit to Blennerhassett Island. Gilcrest, becoming interested, melted perceptibly, for a time; but when the young man, in the course of his narrative, mentioned the names of his two traveling companions from Lexington to Blennerhassett Island, Gilcrest's manner not only lost its lately recovered geniality, but became harder and more frigid than ever.
After striving vainly to bring his host back to a more pleasant mood, Abner felt that he could not, in the face of Gilcrest's increasing sternness and coldness, prolong the visit. Although it was raining heavily, he declined Mrs. Gilcrest's timid invitation to remain to dinner, and left a little before noon. As he rode home through the rain he thought over every trifling incident of his hour at Oaklands. He recalled every topic of conversation, without finding a clue to the enigma. "He's harking back to my old transgression in upholding Stone," was his conclusion. "Interest in the account of my journey did for a time beguile him into forgetfulness of my offense, but his mind at last reverted to it; hence his return to the Frigid Zone. It was a regular freeze-out toward the end. If he were not Betty's father, I'd have nothing more to do with him. But what a fool I was to discuss theological matters with him in the first place! After all, this church trouble is no affair of mine, and Stone did not need my advocacy; he's quite able, single-handed, to play St. George to the dragon of sectarianism that trails its length through this region. A pretty time I'll have now, trying to reinstate myself in the old gentleman's good graces! I hope to heaven something will happen to call him out of the way the first of November; for see Betty then I will, no matter what happens."
When James Drane, after his talk with Gilcrest, reached the main thoroughfare, instead of choosing the turning towards Bourbonton, he took the opposite course towards Lexington. As soon as he was in his office, and had barred his door, he carefully cut around the seal of Abner's letter. It contained merely a few lines stating that the money and books had been delivered to Innes.
"The devil take it!" he ejaculated. "This shows nothing as to whether Sebastian and Murray took advantage of their opportunity to sound the schoolmaster; and I now very much doubt if the self-sufficient young prig can be drawn into our schemes. However, showing the address to Gilcrest this morning did my own personal cause a good turn. Now, how to follow up this advantage? I wonder if I could counterfeit Sebastian's peculiar chirography." From an inner locked drawer of his escritoire he took a small metal box, and from a number of papers contained therein he selected a letter which he examined closely.
"No use to try imitation, when the original document will serve my purpose as well or better," he finally concluded. "The initials fit perfectly; and, thanks to Sebastian's cunning and to our cipher code, this letter is so obscurely worded that Gilcrest can gain from it no knowledge of our plans. But I'll have to wait some time yet in order to tell him a plausible tale. In the meanwhile, it would be well to try my skill at counterfeiting Dudley's writing. His precise, schoolmasterly hand would surely be easier to imitate than Sebastian's queer, crabbed characters, and there's no telling how or when my skill may be of use to me. But how to get more material to work upon? This short note to Sebastian isn't enough. Couldn't I get Dudley to copy some law papers for me?" He rose and paced the floor in deep thought. Finally he succeeded in elaborating a plan which would suit his purpose.
CHAPTER XVIII.
DRANE PRACTICES PENMANSHIP
One morning in October, Drane, who at this time seemed to have business demanding his frequent presence at Cane Ridge, passed by the Rogers' homestead just as Abner was coming from the house. The two conversed for a time at the stile, then Drane, as he was preparing to ride on, asked, "Any commissions I can execute for you in town, Dudley?"
"No," Abner replied, "I believe not; I was in Lexington myself Thursday. But stay," he added, "you may post a letter, if you will be so kind. Wait a minute," and he ran to the house and soon returned with a letter which he handed Drane.
This missive, which the lawyer opened as soon as he was in the privacy of his room, was addressed to Chas. M. Brady, Williamsburg, Virginia, and read as follows:
Cane Ridge, Oct. the 5, 1802.Honored Sir;—I was in Lexington again on Thursday; saw Morrison,and del'v'd y'r enclosure containing recommendations, etc. But just now,owing to the absence of two of the trustees, John Meeks and IsraelPower, I can accomplish nothing. Judge Barr favors y'r appointment,but he is so handicapped that he can do very little. I learn froma trustworthy informant that Ezra Spaiter, of Milledgeville, isalso an applicant for this professorship. Therefore, it would notbe advisable to open negotiations with Ingraham, for I know thathe is strongly in favor of Spaiter. Nor do I think it would bewell to make application through Brown, who, I learn, contemplateswithdrawing altogether from the University. Consequently, I advisethat you make no further move in this matter until you are apprisedof Power's return. I will see him and Tarr as soon as possible;and you may rest assured that I will do all I can for you.Y'r ob't, humble serv't to command,Abner Dudley Logan.To Charles M. Brady,Williamsburg, Va.
Cane Ridge, Oct. the 5, 1802.
Honored Sir;—I was in Lexington again on Thursday; saw Morrison,and del'v'd y'r enclosure containing recommendations, etc. But just now,owing to the absence of two of the trustees, John Meeks and IsraelPower, I can accomplish nothing. Judge Barr favors y'r appointment,but he is so handicapped that he can do very little. I learn froma trustworthy informant that Ezra Spaiter, of Milledgeville, isalso an applicant for this professorship. Therefore, it would notbe advisable to open negotiations with Ingraham, for I know thathe is strongly in favor of Spaiter. Nor do I think it would bewell to make application through Brown, who, I learn, contemplateswithdrawing altogether from the University. Consequently, I advisethat you make no further move in this matter until you are apprisedof Power's return. I will see him and Tarr as soon as possible;and you may rest assured that I will do all I can for you.
Y'r ob't, humble serv't to command,
"Now, what does this mean?" Drane thought as he saw the full signature, Abner Dudley Logan. "Has the fellow been adopting an alias? I must investigate this matter. But meanwhile I've another task before me," and he spread the letter before him on the table, drew forth writing materials, and set to work. The next evening and the next found him similarly engaged, until by dint of repeated effort and close observation, aided by natural aptitude for such work, he produced a fair counterfeit of Abner's writing. While thus engaged, another scheme presented itself to his fertile brain. To carry out this scheme, he first made a copy of the letter to Brady. The wording was the same as that of the original, and the penmanship so good an imitation that only a suspicious and close observer could detect the difference.
"As this Brady is far away, and probably not so well acquainted with the schoolmaster's fist as Gilcrest is, it will be safer to send my copy to him," Drane decided, "and manipulate the original for the Major's benefit. If this, in conjunction with that other document I shall show at the same time, doesn't put an end to that upstart's chances with Gilcrest's daughter, I'm much out of my reckoning. Ah, Betty! bewitching, tormenting Betty! I'll have you yet in spite of your stand-off airs and half-veiled scorn of James Anson Drane."
The next afternoon found this unscrupulous plotter closeted with Major Gilcrest in the pleasant library at Oaklands.
First pledging Gilcrest to absolute secrecy, Drane submitted a letter beginning with the address, "Dear A. D.," and signed with the initials "B. S." Much of the letter was couched in language so obscure as to bear no precise meaning without a verbal interpretation which, the letter stated, would be given by the bearer, S. Swartwourt, to whom "A. D." was referred. The letter alluded to the confidence the writer had hitherto placed in "A. D.," and to the former correspondence between them. It also mentioned an enclosure from "Gen. W.," written in cipher, to which cipher "B. S." stated "A. D." had a key. "B. S." ended his letter with the request that the enclosure from "W." be shown to Messrs. "M." and "A.," and then promptly forwarded to "T. P."
Before showing this communication from "B. S." Drane had torn off that part which bore the date, "May 2, 1802," and at the bottom of the page had added in a fair likeness of the handwriting of "B. S.," the date, "Oct. 12, 1802."
It will be remembered that at this period there was a renewal of the old rumors in regard to Spanish intrigues, and that Gilcrest on April court day had seen Abner in what had appeared to be a confidential conversation with Wilkinson, Sebastian and Murray; and also that Abner, when calling at Oaklands after his return from Virginia, had mentioned traveling in the company of Sebastian and Murray and stopping with them at Blennerhassett Island. Moreover, early in the year, Gilcrest, through his friend, Dr. Bullock, of Louisville, had been apprised of a conspiracy in which Thomas Power, a Spanish emissary, and the three prominent Kentuckians, Wilkinson, Sebastian and Murray, were suspected of being involved. So great was Gilcrest's infatuation for Drane, he had violated his promise made to Bullock, and had hinted of these intrigues to Drane, who thus had much material to work upon in his attempt to prejudice Gilcrest against Betsy's lover.
"How in the world did this paper fall into your hands?" was Gilcrest's first query, after examining the communication of "B. S."
"Wait," Drane answered, "until you have seen this," placing before the old gentleman the following torn and crumpled fragment:
CanHonored Sir:—I was in Lexington againand del'v'd y'r enclosure containing recoowing to the absence of two of thePower, I can accomplish nothing. Judbut he is so handicapped that he caa trustworthy informant that Ezalso an applicant for this probe advisable to open negotiationhe is strongly in favor of Spaiwell to make application through Bwithdrawing altogether from the Unithat you make no further move in thed of Power's return. I will see himand you may rest assured that I willY'r ob't, humble serv't toAbner Dudley
Can
Honored Sir:—I was in Lexington againand del'v'd y'r enclosure containing recoowing to the absence of two of thePower, I can accomplish nothing. Judbut he is so handicapped that he caa trustworthy informant that Ezalso an applicant for this probe advisable to open negotiationhe is strongly in favor of Spaiwell to make application through Bwithdrawing altogether from the Unithat you make no further move in thed of Power's return. I will see himand you may rest assured that I will
Y'r ob't, humble serv't to
Abner Dudley
After this, too, had been examined, Drane explained. A short while before, he said, he was returning from a ride to Frankfort, and as he was on the road just by the woodland pasture belonging to Mason Rogers, had dismounted to dislodge a stone from his horse's foot. As he was preparing to remount, he spied a folded paper peeping out from some underbrush on the roadside. He had examined it. It was this enigmatical letter from "B. S." to "A. D." "I had my strong suspicions," Drane continued, "as to the identity of both writer and recipient; but, of course, not being sure that the document belonged to Abner Dudley, I did not think it wise to give it to him. Furthermore, it seemed that in view of what you had revealed to me in regard to certain malignant conspiracies with the Spanish Government, it behooved me to be cautious. It was too late in the day to see you; so I returned home, resolving that at the first opportunity I'd advise with you. The very day after finding that letter, last Thursday afternoon, Dudley rushed into my office and asked for writing materials. I furnished what he required, and he sat at my desk to write. He made several attempts and ruined several sheets of paper, which he tore up and tossed into the fire—all save this scrap," indicating the fragment shown above, "which lay on the floor under the desk and escaped his notice. He finally wrote a letter to suit him. This he sealed and directed, and then, saying a messenger was waiting, he thanked me hurriedly and rushed out. I have little doubt that this messenger was the 'S. Swartwourt' mentioned in 'B. S.'s' letter; for Swartwourt was in town that Thursday. I had seen him at noon at the tavern in close converse with William Murray, Isaac Adamson (in all likelihood, the Messrs. 'M.' and 'A.' of 'B. S.'s' letter), and Abner Dudley, who is as certainly 'A. D.' as 'B. S.' is Benjamin Sebastian; and that torn fragment before you is that shameless young hypocrite's answer to Sebastian's letter of October 12."
"You are undoubtedly correct in your surmises," said Gilcrest when Drane had finished. "The 'Power' referred to in this torn piece, and the 'T. P.' referred to in the letter signed 'B. S.,' both mean that vile and most dangerous diplomat, Thomas Power; and, see, Dudley mentions 'the enclosure,' too, which he had probably shown to Murray and Adamson, and then forwarded to Thomas Power. Notice, too, the expression in Dudley's letter, 'he is strongly in favor of Spai'—meaning, of course, Spain; and also this line, 'withdrawing altogether from the Uni', which last word, with its missing letters supplied, would be Union. Why, man, this is a most dangerous conspiracy against the Federal Government! We must be very wary indeed, if we would succeed in bringing the whole matter to light. But how careless of Dudley," he continued after a moment, "to lose that letter by the roadside! It is unlike his usual caution, and certainly not in keeping with the diabolical cunning and consummate skill with which the movers in this plot appear to be working. However, as the enclosure was already forwarded, and as the letter itself without the verbal interpretation is so obscure as to have no real meaning for one not in the scheme, I presume Dudley was not as cautious as he would have been had he dreamed that any one in this neighborhood had an inkling of these nefarious plots they are concocting."
After some further consultation and further pledges between Drane and Gilcrest as to caution and silence, the former prepared to leave.
"No, James," said Gilcrest, when the lawyer reached out to get the two documents, "you are impetuous and rather thoughtless; and besides, you are frequently away from home; so I had better take these papers into my charge for safe-keeping. You'll be showing them to some one, or, rather, somebody may get at them while you are out of town, and——"
"But, Major Gilcrest," remonstrated Drane, secretly much frightened at this unexpected move on the part of his confidant, "I—I found them, and they belong to me. I assure you they will be perfectly secure with me, and—and—I——"
"But they'll be safer with me," persisted Gilcrest.
James argued and remonstrated as much as he dared without endangering by overeagerness his own nefarious little plot; but he could not shake the old gentleman's purpose, and at last he had to depart, thoroughly discomfited. Much enraged he was, too, as he rode homeward, and fully determined, as he said, "to regain possession of those two documents, in spite of that blamed, stubborn old blockhead, Hiram Gilcrest."
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BETROTHAL
"For I'll believe I have his heart,As much as he has mine."
"For I'll believe I have his heart,As much as he has mine."
"For I'll believe I have his heart,
As much as he has mine."
Betsy came home the last week in October. Even her mother, the least observant of women, noticed her daughter's unusual silence and restlessness for the first few days after her return, and, attributing it to loneliness, wished Betty had brought Mary Winston home with her for a visit.
"Rantin' 'roun' 'mong fine folks doan seem to 'gree wid you, honey," old Aunt Dilsey said one morning when she found Betsy in the parlor, her hands folded listlessly on the unheeded sewing in her lap, as she gazed dreamily before her. "You'se all onsettled sence you'se come home. Things would go tah rack an' ruin heah, wid yo' ma allus ailin', an' you so no-'count, ef 'twan't fur ole Dilsey tah keep dese lazy niggahs frum gwinetah sleep en thah tracks. I usetah think you'd be a he'p an' a comfo't to yo' old brack mammy, an' turn out ez fine a man'ger an' housekeepah ez Miss Abby; but you hain't been yo'se'f sence thet camp-meetin'. I 'lowed et fust 'twuz too much 'ligion wuckin' in you, an' thought it would bring you all right to go to Miss Mary Winston's fine place; but you'se come back wussen evah. You hain't gwinetah be sick, is you, chile? One minit you looks lak thah warn't a drap o' blood in yo' body, then suddent lak, you flash up an' look so narvous an' so excited thet I fears you'se tekin' the fevahs."
"No, mammy, I'm not the least sick. Nothing ails me, except that I feel the change a little from the gay times I've been having at Maybrook. I'll be all right presently."
Soon after dinner upon the first day of November, Betsy, evading Aunt Dilsey's watchful eyes, called Jock, the old house-dog who was dozing in the south porch, and set off for a ramble. The balmy air and the brisk walk refreshed her, and by the time she reached the bars separating the upper from the lower woods, she felt lighter hearted than she had for a long time. Her eyes glowed with exercise, a bright tinge showed in her cheeks, and her red cloak and brown quilted bonnet lined with crimson made a warm bit of color in the landscape, and blended harmoniously with the rich shades of the trees. Nature was steeped in that tender, dreamy haze peculiar to Indian Summer, and the air held a pleasing odor like that of burning leaves. The songbirds had gone away to winter homes in the South, and the stillness of the forest was broken only by the dropping of nuts from the hickory-trees.
"The first day of November!" she thought, as she stood leaning on the bars, with old Jock lying at her feet. "I wonder how soon he will come," and she smiled tenderly. "Not to-day or to-morrow, I know; for he has gone to Lexington again, so Susan said, and will not be back until the last of the week. It has been four months since I saw him. Perhaps I should not have kept him so long in suspense, but a girl should not be too easily won, and he must never know how nearly I came to complete surrender when he rode by my side that May day. How hard it was to resist the pleading tenderness of his eyes! Oh, Abner, Abner! how I love you!" she murmured, leaning her head upon the bars.
Approaching footsteps made no noise on the carpeting of leaves and moss in the pathway over which she had come; and Betty, absorbed in her love and yearning, did not look up, even when Jock gave a joyous bark of welcome to the young man standing behind her.
I have come for my answer, Betty."I have come for my answer, Betty."
"I have come for my answer, Betty," he said, laying his hand over hers clasped on the topmost bar.
Her eyes lit up with gladness as she raised her face, suffused with crimson, toward him; but she uttered no word of welcome.
"You surely expected me," he said; "you did not think I'd wait one hour beyond the time, did you? Ah, sweetheart, did you but know what a torment of suspense and longing these last six months have been, you'd—— But now it's November, your favorite month, you said, because Thanksgiving comes in it. So now, my darling, say the word that alone can give me a thankful heart. You'll listen to me now, won't you, dear?" he asked of her as she still stood in trembling silence.
"I suppose I must, sir," she said, dimpling and blushing, with a saucy toss of her head. "I can't very well stop my ears, seeing that you have imprisoned both hands. Oh, don't! don't! I haven't pledged myself yet," she stammered, as he, raising her hands, drew them around his neck, folded her in his arms, and kissed her brow. Then, still holding her closely in one arm, with the other he turned her face to meet his, murmuring, "Not just your forehead, sweetness—O sweetheart! darling! wife!" as his lips closed over hers in a clinging kiss. "It is thus I take my pledge. You are mine, mine, you bewildering, tormenting Betty."
"No! no!" she protested stammeringly, as she struggled to free herself. "Oh, you're too—too—you hold me so close! You lose count of time and season, sir," she added presently with an attempt at playfulness, and trying to assume an ease and nonchalance she was far from feeling. "This is November, remember—solemn, quiet Thanksgiving time. The summer of fulfillment hasn't come yet."
"Yes, it has," boldly asserted her lover. "Winter is past, and summer is here—glorious, satisfying harvest time—and—and—it is thus I garner in my wealth," he murmured with tender rapture, gathering her still closer, and kissing the sweet eyes and throat and mouth. "No more half-way measures between us now! No more tormenting reserve! You trust me, sweetheart? You give yourself to me, do you not?"
"I don't seem to have much liberty of choice," she replied with a resumption of her old sauciness, as she again freed herself from his embrace. "As you have already stolen my heart, I may as well trust you with the rest—and I do, I do," she added solemnly. "My welfare, my happiness, my life itself, I commit to your keeping," placing both hands in his. "I give all unreservedly. You are worthy the trust."
"No," she said presently, in answer to the inevitable question as to when she had first begun to love him; "I shan't tell you that. You're too conceited and masterful as it is."
"But you have promised to tell me everything," he said teasingly.
"No, some things are better left unsaid, and if I were to tell you that, I'd never be able to get the upper hand with you again."
"But you know you always did obey me," he answered, smiling reminiscently, "though it was often with a sweet rebellious look in your eyes; and besides, a wife is bound to obey her husband."
"I don't know about that, sir. If that is the rule, I mean to be the exception that proves it; for I fully intend that you shall be the submissive one in our future relationship."
"In that case, fair lady mine, the sooner you marry me, the better; for even with so competent a ruler as yourself, it will take long and close application on my part to learn the role of submissive husband. You see, my position of schoolmaster has weakened my natural talent for meekness and submission, so that at present these qualities are far from being in perfect condition."
"You needn't tell me that," rejoined Betsy, with a demure smile and nodding her head sagely. "Cupid hasn't so blindfolded me but that I can still see a wee bit out of the corner of my eye—well enough, at least, to perceive that my lover has several imperfections in addition to a lack of meekness."
"That, my dear, isn't the fault of Cupid's bandages, but it is due to your always having held me at a distance," he answered placidly, drawing her nearer to him. "Seen at close range, these little peculiarities of mine, which you have labeled defects, will turn out to be budding virtues of the finest quality."
"Ah, then, most perfect and approved good master, you must give me back my pledge. I could stand a few faults and minor vices in my future lord; but such an array of excellencies appals me. I wed you not, Sir Paragon," she said, looking him full in the face and then dropping him a mocking little courtesy.
"'By my troth and holidame,' I could have better spared a better Betty!" Abner exclaimed with mock fervor. "No, no, sweet mistress mine, rather than resign this dimpled hand of thine, I'll begin at once to uproot all my promising little sprouts of virtue, and plant in their stead an assortment of fine, robust misdemeanors, for which, in truth, the soil is well adapted."
"Very well, then," she said with an air of resignation, "I foresee that I shall have to grow a few additional faults myself, to compete with you."
"And I don't think, my dearest, that you'll have much difficulty in doing so," was his audacious rejoinder, as he pinched her cheek. "Natural aptitude counts for a great deal, you know."
"Methinks, my lord, too much happiness hath weakened thy brain; what nonsense thou dost chatter," and she laughed with joyous abandon.
"Oh, anybody can talk sense, but it takes a heap o' sense to talk nonsense sensibly," he said suavely, with a fine air of self-complacency. "Until to-day I did not know I had it in me to be so brilliant a conversationalist. Happiness is bringing out all my latent abilities. Ah, Betty, sweetest, dearest, most bewitching of girls," he added, fervently, "how happy you have made me!"
They were now seated on a fallen tree, he indulging in a blissful sense of happiness realized, she sitting quiet and somewhat pensive. Presently he asked: "Of what are you thinking? Your brown eyes are filled with something that is almost sadness. Have you any regrets, any unfilled wish? I haven't—except that November might have come sooner."
"Yes, I have a regret," said Betty, laying her hand upon his shoulder and looking wistfully at him. "I give you everything—my present, my future, and my past; but you—I know you love me now, but I am not the one you loved first. That is what makes me sad. I want your past as well as your present and future. Perhaps you think I didn't see. You supposed, when you were so miserable after Abby went away, that I didn't understand! Many and many a night have I lain awake, sorrowing over your sorrow and my inability to help you."
"Listen to me, Betty dear. My feeling for your cousin, though pure and tender, was as nothing compared to what I have for you. Even when I was most under the spell of her beauty and sweetness, I thought of you as one who might well stir the pulse and thrill the heart of any man not made armor-proof by love for another."
"But you did love Cousin Abby?" she questioned with another wistful, half-timid look.
"Yes, I did, in a dreamy, poetical way. Or, rather, I was in love with love and romance, and all that, and she seemed the embodiment of beauty and poetry. But I never touched even the outer edges of her susceptibilities, and it was this complete unresponsiveness that healed my wound, even before I was aware. A man, warm-blooded, ardent, as I am, must have an answering love to keep his own alive. There was nothing in that first romantic feeling that need give you a pang of regret. It was a mere boyish fancy; this, dear, is the love of my manhood. And in fact, my darling, I don't believe there is so much as a kiss to choose between your love for me and mine for you. If there is," he added humorously, "this will restore the balance," and he kissed her fondly. "And now, my dear girl," he went on, speaking soberly, but with a glad light in his eyes, "I have great news for you; but first, let me ask, by what name do you propose to be known when we are married?"
"Well," exclaimed the girl in some bewilderment, "I said awhile ago that happiness had addled your brains; but I really did not suspect the trouble to be so serious as this. By what name, pray, should I be known but that of Mistress Betsy Dudley—ugly though it be? Oh, I see!" she cried, thinking she understood his meaning. "You don't like the name Betsy. Neither do I. It's perfectly horrid; and it is my standing grievance against my parents that they saddled upon their innocent babe so uncouth a prenomen. If father did wish to honor his mother by endowing his first-born with the name, why could he not have softened it into Betty, or Bettina, or Bessie, or, better still, have christened me Elizabeth, instead of insisting, as he always does, that I shall be called Betsy? I'll tell you what," she added archly, "when I'm married, I shall insist that everybody shall address me as Elizabeth. Isn't that more to your taste, my lord?"
"Elizabeth what?" he persisted.
"Upon my word, I begin to think you really are daft! Why, Elizabeth Dudley, of course," she said, flushing and looking shy and embarrassed; "that is, unless you mean for me to wed some saner man than this Abner Dudley, Esquire," she added saucily.
"Would not the name Elizabeth or Betty or Betsy Logan suit you better?" asked her lover, who then proceeded to tell her all.
She was greatly astonished, and rejoiced to learn of his brightened worldly prospects; but when he told her his full name, her countenance changed.
He was too absorbed to note this, and went on: "The question now is, my dearest, how soon will you marry me? I need you now. Every day, every hour, I long for you, my pet. So I shall speak to your father at once. For some time he has been rather cool with me—ever since last summer, when I argued with him about Barton Stone's views. But he's too just and reasonable to refuse me your hand, upon no other objection than that I did not side with him in a church quarrel. I will see him to-morrow, and——"
"No, no!" Betsy interrupted, "do not speak with him yet; and please do not let him know that your name is Logan. Let me tell him that, and also about your new inheritance."
"But, my dear girl, why should not I tell him?"
"I can't make it plain to you, I'm afraid," answered Betty; "but I have an instinctive feeling that things will not run at all smoothly—just at first, you know—when he learns your news."
"All the more reason, then," Abner said, "for my telling him at once, and thus get over this rough part as soon as possible."
"No, please let me speak to father first," urged Betsy.
"I fail to see why you should wish to do so," Abner said; "and it certainly is my duty to speak to your father myself. Nor would it be manly in me to shirk this duty off upon you."
"As I said," Betsy persisted, "I can't make my meaning clear to you. In truth, I can't understand myself why I wish this; but of one thing I am quite sure, both my father and mother, for some unknown cause, are greatly prejudiced against the name 'Logan.' Mother, in particular, abhors it. At some period of her life, she must have had some terrible knowledge of some one of the name—you know there are many Logans in this State and in Virginia—but whatever the reason for her extreme aversion to the name, that aversion certainly exists. Therefore, it behooves us to be very tactful in telling father and mother that you are a Logan. Just now I feel sure it would be unwise to tell them; for mother is unusually weak and nervous this fall, and father is so harassed over this church trouble that he is irritable and unreasonable, even with mother and me. We can't very well be married before spring, anyway; and long before then father'll be as cordial as ever with you; and he and mother will be fully reconciled to your new name, too. I'm your promised wife, and—and—I love you with all my heart. Isn't that happiness enough for you for awhile?"
"But, dearest, I think your parents should be told at once that you are my betrothed wife. I don't like any appearance of secrecy. I'm too proud of my love for that."
"No," Betsy still urged, "I know father better than you do. Please be guided by me in this, and say nothing to him for awhile."
"But I can not delay much longer to make public that my name is Logan, and about my newly acquired property. There's business to be transacted in regard to this Henderson County land; and your father must inevitably soon hear of my name, from some one; and it would be better from me than from an outsider."
However, Abner finally yielded to Betsy's pleadings, and agreed that they should take no one into their confidence at present in regard to their engagement; and that he should tell the Rogerses and James Drane about his real name, and of the inheritance left him by the will of the late Colonel Hite.
"And you mustn't even come to see me," said Betty. "In father's present mood it would only irritate him to have you come. Besides, if you did come, they'd be sure to find us out; for we couldn't act toward each other just in the old, quiet, friendly way—at least, I couldn't and—and—oh, I know it will be hard, this restraint, this secrecy; not to see you, and not to let every one know that we are pledged to each other. But for my sake, and because it is for the best, you will be patient, won't you?"
"I will try; but Heaven send your father a speedy change of heart toward your poor lover!" Abner fervently exclaimed as he kissed Betty good-by.
CHAPTER XX.
THE LONE GRAVE IN THE MOUNTAINS
That same evening, Abner took Mr. and Mrs. Rogers into his confidence concerning his name, and the business which had called him to Virginia. The good couple were greatly excited, and they could not have been more delighted had the inheritance fallen to one of their own children.
A few days later, Abner went to see James Drane.
"So old Colonel Hite is dead, and you are his heir," was Drane's astonished exclamation when his client had explained his business, and had shown a copy of the will. "I congratulate you most heartily upon your good fortune. Of course, I know all about this Henderson County tract; for my father was employed to survey it, and to record the claim, and afterwards to transact all business pertaining to it, until his death, five years ago; then I was employed as agent. I have here in my escritoire all papers relative to the business, and copies of all correspondence which passed between father and Colonel Hite. Colonel Hite visited Kentucky in '80 or '81, when I was a small boy; but I remember the circumstance. From what I can recall of him as he appeared then, and from what I gather from his correspondence since, I judge him to have been a very eccentric man. For several years after the tract came into Hite's possession, my father had considerable difficulty with rival claimants—squatters, you know, who claimed it by right of first settlement; but all such difficulties were adjusted long before the agency fell into my hands, and now I can foresee no trouble, nor any very great delay, in establishing you in your rights—to this part of your inheritance, at least. As to the Virginian estate, of course, you have already placed your interests in the hands of some competent attorney in that State, and have complied with all the necessary legal formalities. Now, in regard to this land of which I have been acting as factor," Drane continued, examining some papers which he had taken out of his desk. "Samuel Whitaker, whose claim adjoins the southeastern boundary of the Hite section, pays a yearly rental of forty-six dollars for 258 acres of the Hite land; and Daniel Pratt, who owns the homestead adjoining the southwestern boundary, holds a ten years' lease (three of which are unexpired) to 285 more acres. The remainder of the section—ninety-seven acres—lying on Buffalo Creek, is low and swampy, and has never been reclaimed."
A few more business details were explained, and then Abner told the lawyer, as he had already told the Rogerses, that for the present—until all business relative to the winding up of the Hite estate was completed—he preferred to be known only as Abner Dudley. He then took his departure, leaving with Drane a copy of the will.
When his client had gone, the lawyer barred his door, and then carefully examined the will. Although he had had the art to hide his feelings during the interview just closed, he was more astonished and puzzled than he had ever been before. Several months before this, in looking through some documents pertaining to the Gilcrest property, he had made two startling discoveries: First, that Mrs. Gilcrest's maiden name was Sarah Jane Pepper, instead of Jane Temple, as even her own children supposed it to be. Second, that she was a widow when Hiram Gilcrest married her, and that her first husband had been a John Logan who was killed in the battle of Monmouth Court-house. At the time when Drane had made these discoveries, Gilcrest had explained that Mrs. Gilcrest's first husband had been a worthless, bad fellow, and that for that reason her desire was that her children should be kept in ignorance of her ever having made this first marriage. On this account, and for another reason which Gilcrest did not confide to Drane, she had led her children to believe that her maiden name was Jane Temple, her maternal grandmother's maiden name.
Abner had stated that his father was John Logan, a soldier in the Continental army, who was killed in the battle of Monmouth Court-house. "It may be a mere coincidence," thought Drane, "that two men named John Logan were killed in that battle; but, then, why should this fellow have, until now, worn the name of Dudley? Then, there's the unusual wording of the will," and he seized the document and read the words, "'to her' (Mary Belle Hollis Page) 'legitimate offspring, if any.' 'There's something rotten in the state of Denmark'," was Drane's conclusion; "but how to discover it? Let me see, I'd better not mention this to old Gilcrest yet awhile; and certainly I must let no inkling of my suspicions escape to this Abner Dudley, or Abner Logan, or Page, or whatever his right name may be—why, good Lord! I don't believe he has a legitimate right to any name whatsoever. And this is the fine gentleman who dares lift his eyes to the peerless Betty! I needn't have run the risk I did in forging that letter, it seems; this will, I suspect, settle the schoolmaster's pretensions even more effectually, and with no danger to myself, either. But here, if his father and Madame Gilcrest's first husband were one and the same man, I must work very cautiously until I ascertain the exact date of the John Logan alliance with Sarah Jane and that of his connection with Mary Belle. It would be a pretty kettle of fish if I should take old Hiram into my confidence, and it should afterwards be revealed that Sarah Jane was the paramour and Mary Belle the true wife. Pshaw! that's not probable. Then, there's Hite's singular expression, 'to her legitimate offspring.' What a fine thing it would be to discover that Mrs. Gilcrest is Hite's lawful legatee. To do the schoolmaster justice, though, I believe him entirely innocent of intentional deception in this matter; but I'd stake my reputation for acuteness that this old Richard Dudley knows—only, of course, he bases his nephew's claim upon the fact that Mary Hollis Page was still living at the time Hite made this insane will. Abner Dudley, or Abner Logan, as the case may be, stated that she died in August, 1782. My first step must be to ascertain if this be correct. Let me see, Tom Gaines used to live in Lawsonville, and is still living in Culpeper County. I'll write him for information. On account of his connection with our Spanish schemes he can be trusted to mention my letter to no one. I'll write him immediately, and, while waiting his reply, I'll hover about Oaklands as much as possible, and try to ascertain the date of the Logan-Pepper alliance; and at the same time make another effort to recover possession of Sebastian's letter and that dangerous little specimen of forgery."
The postal system of our country was a slow business in that day and time; but, in due course, Drane had Gaines' reply. From this he learned that a certain old tombstone in the Lawsonville graveyard bore this inscription:
MARY BELLE HOLLIS PAGEborn Feb'y 16th, 1758died Aug. 21st, 1782.
MARY BELLE HOLLIS PAGEborn Feb'y 16th, 1758died Aug. 21st, 1782.
Other information contained in Gaines' letter was this, Mrs. Page had not died at Lawsonville, notwithstanding the tablet erected there to her memory. She had married Marshall Page in October, 1781, and she and her husband and the little Abner had migrated to Kentucky. Late in the next year, a brother of Marshall Page, who had accompanied them to Kentucky, returned to Lawsonville with the little boy, Abner Logan, and the intelligence that Marshall Page had been killed by Indians, and that Mary Page had died at Bryan's Station. The child had been committed to the care of Mrs. Page's relations in Lawsonville, the Dudleys, who had adopted him. Drane's informant also wrote that it had always been the impression with the people of Lawsonville that Mary Hollis had not been legally married to Abner's father, but that she had been entrapped into a form of marriage with John Logan at a time when he had a wife still living.
"By the heavens above, this is the strangest affair that ever came within my ken!" said James Drane after reading Gaines' letter. "Why, I verily believe that the dainty schoolmaster is a bastard; and, what is more, that he has no claim to the Hite fortune. He certainly has not, if my surmises concerning that half-forgotten episode of that hamlet in the Cumberland Mountains be correct."
The episode to which he referred was this. He, when a boy of ten, had once accompanied his father on a visit into southwestern Virginia. On the third day of their journey night had overtaken them near Centerton, a little settlement of five or six cabins in the Cumberland Mountains. They had stopped for shelter at one of these cabins, owned by a family named Wheeler. The next morning there was a terrible rain storm which had detained the travelers in the village until the following day. While there James had seen a neglected grave marked by a wooden slab, on the mountain-side, just back of the Wheelers' cabin. He was filled with boyish curiosity concerning this lonely grave, and had asked its history.
Several years before, so Mrs. Wheeler had told him, some emigrants on their way into Kentucky had stopped at the Wheeler cabin. The wife of one of these emigrants had been bitten or stung on the cheek by some poisonous reptile while the party was camping in the mountains the night before. The poor woman was suffering horribly when they reached the Wheelers', and she died there the next day from the effects of the venomous wound in her face. They buried her under the trees back of the cabin, and her husband cut her name, age and the date of her death upon that oak slab, and placed it as a headstone to mark the last resting-place of his wife. He and the other emigrants then continued on their journey.
This sad story and the lonely grave on the mountainside had made a deep impression upon the lad, James Drane. He now recalled the story, and he was sure that the name upon that slab was Mary Page. Moreover, he believed that the date recorded on the wooden slab was that of a day of the spring of 1782. After much reflection, Drane decided to tell Major Gilcrest of these discoveries and surmises.
To say that Hiram Gilcrest was amazed at the story which the lawyer related would but feebly express his state of mind. "If our suspicions are correct," he said when he had thought over Drane's story, "as to the date of this woman's death, and if this son of hers is illegitimate, he has no rights at all, under the provisions of this will, to the Hite estates. My wife, in that case, is the heir; and, by heaven, she shall have her rights! It is not that I care so much for the monetary value of what this Andrew Hite left. I am not prompted by mercenary motives; for I have plenty to keep my wife and children in comfort, nor would I covet aught that lawfully or justly belonged to another; but I do not mean to be cheated, or to allow my wife to be cheated, out of her just rights by the crafty schemes of this Dr. Richard Dudley in behalf of his base-born nephew. I must say, though, that I have considerable commiseration for this young fellow, who is, I believe, not a party—that is, an intentional party—to this fraudulent scheme, notwithstanding his undoubted entanglement in those political plots of Sebastian, Wilkinson and Powers. I protest, I was never in all my life so deceived in a man as I have been in Abner Dudley, or Logan, if he pleases; and I flatter myself, too, upon being a pretty good judge of character. I was much taken with him when he first came to this community. I liked his face, his conversation, and his general bearing, and would have taken oath that he was one to be trusted in all things."
"We must move warily in this matter, James," was the Major's caution, after musing awhile, "until the affair is in shape to be proven in court. I would spare my wife all agitation, if it were possible. She is in an extremely weak, nervous condition, and until it is absolutely necessary to do so, I wish her to know nothing of this matter; and even when it must be brought up in court, I want to spare her all the details of the affair—if that can be done; for any mention of the matter will cost her much excitement and will bring before her again all her old troubles."
After further consultation and many admonitions from Gilcrest as to caution and secrecy, it was agreed that the lawyer should go at once to Centerton.
He started the next morning. Reaching there three days later, he could find no trace of the Wheelers. Their cabin was now occupied by another family who knew nothing of the former occupants except that they had moved away eight years since, and that their present habitation was supposed to be somewhere in the mountains of northern Georgia. No one now living at Centerton could give any information about the grave on the mountain-side. Drane visited it. It was now but a sunken spot covered with a tangle of vines and weeds. The slab was still there, but it was prone on the ground, face downwards, and was much worn and defaced. Drane copied in his note-book all of the inscription that was legible: