A whistlefrom the direction of the house startled the lovers.
“Ah, that is Cal’s call to me,” said Arthur, “and I presume that the mail is received, a letter for me in it; perhaps one for you too, my Marian.”
“Oh, I hope so,” she said, “it is so long since I heard from my dear brother Sandy, my only one now.”
“Ah,” he said as they walked on to the house, for he had risen and given her his arm, “you must tell me about him, dearest, when opportunity offers. Your only brother? Well, I shall give you several more when you give yourself to me.”
They found the family all on the porch, most of them with letters, papers, or magazines in their hands.
Elsie looked smilingly at Arthur and Marian as they came up the steps, something in their faces telling what had passed between them since they walked down to the beach together.
Arthur saw and returned her smile, and leadingMarian to her, said in joyous tones, “You were right, cousin. I followed your advice, and she, dear girl, has given herself to me; or rather we have given ourselves to each other.”
His clear though not loud tones reached every ear, and in a moment all the relatives, old and young, had gathered about the happy pair with their hearty congratulations.
“I am truly glad, Miss Marian,” said Calhoun, taking her hand in a warm pressure; “glad for both you and Art, who will, I am sure, make the best of husbands, and for myself also that I am to have so sweet a new sister.”
“And we are to be sisters too, it seems,” Mary said, giving the young girl a warm embrace.
“And Hugh and I are to be left desolate and alone,” remarked Mr. Lilburn in a rueful tone. “Hugh, laddie, it is high time you were hunting up a wife.”
“I think I shall have to try, father,” returned the young man, coloring and laughing. “I contemplate robbing those who have robbed us; but a fair exchange is no robbery.”
At that both the Conlys turned surprised, inquiring looks upon him.
“Ah,” he laughed, “I perceive that I have stolen a march upon you. This, sirs,” holding up a letter, “is from your sister Ella, acceptingmy heart, hand, and fortune, which I offered her some days ago by letter.”
At that there was a murmur of surprise from the listeners, accompanied by looks of pleasure; then the brothers shook hands with Hugh, wishing him joy and saying they should be glad to receive him into the family.
“My! what a lot of weddings we seem to be going to have!” exclaimed Rosie. “I think I’ll wait for mine till they are not quite such common affairs.”
“Particularly as there’s nobody offering to pair off with you yet, my pretty young sister,” laughed Walter. “I think, though, that the school-room is the best place for you and me for a while yet.”
“Ah, Marian, here is a letter for you, my bonny lass; from your brother Sandy, I presume,” said Mr. Lilburn, holding it out to her.
She took it eagerly, exclaiming, “Oh, yes, that is Sandy’s writing! The dear laddie! how I have wanted to hear from him.”
“Read it, lass, and tell us if he says he will come to us, and if so how soon,” said the old gentleman.
She hastened to obey, and presently announced in joyous tones, “Oh, yes, Cousin Ronald, he is delighted with your kind offer, and will come as soon as he has finished his present engagement,which will be in about a couple of months.”
In the mean time Arthur had opened and read a letter handed him by his brother. He looked much pleased with its contents.
“Cousin Elsie,” he said, “do you think you can accommodate me here a few days longer?”
“I am quite certain of it, provided you will stay,” she answered with her own bright, sweet smile. “You need not have the slightest fear that you are not as welcome as the sunlight.”
“Thank you very much,” he said; “then I shall stay perhaps another week. This letter is from Cousin Dick Percival. He writes he has come there—to Roselands—for change of scene and air, as well as to see his relatives; can stay some weeks, and will take charge of my patients for a time, which he has in fact already begun to do.”
“How nice!” exclaimed Rosie. “Dick is a good boy to enable us to keep you a little longer, and when you go back he will, I hope, come and pay a little visit here himself.”
“Yes, I hope he will,” said her mother. “I shall write and invite him to do so.”
“Well, Cousin Art, I’m glad you are going to stay longer,” said Walter, “but I hope none of us will be expected to get sick in order to give you employment.”
“No, certainly not,” returned Arthur gravely. “You must remember it was not for work I came, but rest; so don’t trouble yourself trying to make business for me.”
“No, I will leave that business to Cousin Marian,” returned Walter, giving her a mischievous look which brought a charming blush to her cheek.
“Yes, Walter, I have given him a great deal of business in that line, I am sorry to say,” she returned; “so that he has had but little rest, and needs to stay and have some play-time.”
“So he has; but you are much better, I’m sure, for your cheeks are like as roses—not the white kind, either—and we’ll all endeavor to keep well so that he’ll have nothing to do but rest and recruit the remainder of the time he stays.”
“Well, what are the plans for the day?” asked Harold, addressing the company in general.
“Some of us want to do a little shopping, and would like to have you drive us in to the city,” replied his mother.
“I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, mamma,” he returned. “How soon do you wish to start?”
“I’m wanting a ride,” said Rosie. “I haven’t had one for some time, and am actually hungry for it.”
“Well, little dear, I’ll see what can be done to relieve your hunger,” said Herbert gallantly. “Are there any others of our company suffering from the same kind of hunger?”
“Yes; I’d like to go,” said Lulu. “May I, papa?”
“Yes; if the right kind of horse can be secured, so that I can feel that you will be safe. Violet, my dear, if you are not to be one of the shopping party, will you ride with me and the others?”
“With pleasure, my dear,” she replied. “I dare say I am as hungry for a ride as my younger sister; and in your company it will be especially enjoyable.”
All then hurried to their rooms to don their riding hats and habits, while Harold and the captain went in search of the required steeds.
Arthur did not think Marian strong enough for such a ride, and Mary and Calhoun did not care to go. They would probably walk out presently, but just now were waiting to see the others off.
At Calhoun’s request, Mary sat down to the piano, Marian and Arthur drew near, and the four joined in the singing of some of their favorite hymns, Mary playing the accompaniment.
Presently Will Croly ran in, in his informalway, joined the little group, and added his voice to theirs.
Good-mornings were exchanged when they had finished their piece, then Croly said, “Now, Miss Mary, let us have ‘My days are gliding swiftly by.’ It is a great favorite with me, particularly the chorus:
“‘For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,Our friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.’”
“‘For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,Our friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.’”
“‘For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,Our friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.’”
“‘For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,
Our friends are passing over,
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.’”
Mary at once complied with the request, and they were singing the last verse when two young men, strangers to the family, came up into the porch asking for Croly.
“Ah,” said he, “I quite forgot my errand. Those are some strangers visiting at my uncle’s house, and I have promised to go in bathing with them—so called to ask my friends Harold and Herbert to go in with us.”
“I really don’t think they can to-day,” said Calhoun, and went on to explain how they had planned to spend the next few hours.
“Ah, then I must just go on with the others,” returned Croly. “Good-morning to you all,” and with the words he hurried out, joined the two strangers; the three went over to the bath houses, not very far away, and were presentlyseen coming out of them in bathing-suits and going down among the waves.
A few moments later those who had gone in search of horses and carriage returned bringing a full supply. Those expecting to go had crowded on the porch, all in good spirits, laughing and chatting, the younger ones especially full of mirth and gayety, when suddenly a cry of fright and distress came from the sea. “Help! help! he’s drowning! Oh, help! help! save him!”
With the first cry a deep hush had fallen on our friends upon the porch, but at the last word Captain Raymond, Mr. Dinsmore, Mr. Lilburn and his son, the two Conlys, Harold and Herbert, all dashed down the steps and away toward the spot from whence the cry came.
But a row-boat near at hand was already pulling for it, and was there before them. There seemed nothing for them to do, but they stood close by the incoming waves, waiting in breathless anxiety and suspense.
Some moments passed—then they saw an insensible, limp, dripping form drawn from the water into the boat, which immediately made for the shore with all speed.
“Oh, it is Will, dear Will!” cried Harold as he caught sight of the death-like face. “O Art,Cousin Art, do your best to save him, if there’s any life there. How glad I am you’re here with us.”
“I shall certainly do all I can,” returned Arthur in moved tones, “and do the rest of you ask the Lord to direct and bless my efforts.”
“Oh, yes, we will, we will,” responded several voices as the poor fellow was lifted from the boat and swiftly carried to the nearest house—the one occupied by our friends.
Arthur understood his business thoroughly and there were plenty of willing, helping hands. The news flew fast, and presently Croly’s aunt came, full of distress, to ask if there was any life, any hope.
“We have not given up, we will not while the least spark of hope remains,” Elsie answered; then told of the long and at last successful fight which had once saved her Harold from the grave.
“Oh, dear fellow, I hope he will be saved,” said the aunt, weeping. “You probably know, Mrs. Travilla, how anxious he has been about his parents: we have just had a telegram from his father, saying that they have landed in New York and will be here this evening. I think it will kill his mother—father too, perhaps, for he is their only child and just an idol with them both—to learn that he is lying here, to all appearancedead. I’ll have to put them off with the news that he went out on the sea before their telegram came and may be back in an hour or two.”
“Yes, I hope he will soon show signs of life,” Elsie said with emotion. “Oh, how sad, how heart-breaking for them to lose their only child in such a way—so suddenly and without a parting word!”
“They are coming home very happy,” continued the aunt; “the mother having almost entirely recovered her health, and if only they could find poor Will all right——” she ended with a burst of weeping.
“Dear Mrs. Croly, do not give up hope; we are all praying for him—that his life may be spared if the will of God be so.”
“Then I believe it will be, for God is the hearer and answerer of prayer,” returned the aunt; “and oh, I want to thank you for having poor Will brought here; for if he was with us the state of affairs could hardly be kept a moment from his parents, but now I hope it will be all right before they need to know.”
“You are very, very welcome,” Elsie replied, and Mrs. Croly went away somewhat consoled and hopeful.
The rides and the shopping expedition had been given up and the children and youngermembers of the family had gone down to the beach to be out of the way of those working with Croly; but Rosie, Lulu, Grace, and Walter were in a sad, subdued, and anxious mood. Mary and Marian presently joined them, and they talked feelingly of him whom they hardly dared to hope to see in life again.
Yet all had great faith in Arthur’s skill, and the younger girls, telling of Harold’s narrow escape some years before at Nantucket, cheered and encouraged the others with the hope that Croly might even yet be saved from temporal death, and live many years to be a comfort to his parents and a blessing to the world.
“I do hope he is not gone and will live for many years serving the Master here on earth,” said Mary, “but if he is gone, we know that it is to be with Jesus and forever blest. How he loved that hymn about the shining shore! and perhaps he has reached it now,” she added with a burst of tears.
“But oh, we will hope not! hope he is still living and will be spared to the parents who love him so dearly,” said Marian. “And I believe if anybody can save him it is your cousin, Dr. Conly.”
“I’ll run back to the house to see if there is any sign of life yet,” said Walter, and rushed away.
He was back again in a few minutes, running, waving his handkerchief over his head, and showing so joyous a face that the others exclaimed half breathlessly, “Oh, is he coming to?”
“Yes, yes, Cousin Arthur says there are signs of life, and he thinks that he will be able to save him.”
The glad news was received with a simultaneous burst of joyful exclamations.
“His parents have come,” added Walter, “and are, oh! so anxious to see him, but don’t know yet that anything is wrong with him.”
And now with their minds relieved the girls were able to give attention to anything that might be going on within the range of their vision.
A boat was tied to the wharf and they saw that persons had left it and were wandering along the beach, among them an elderly man having several children in his care.
Presently this little group had seated themselves on the beach quite near our little party, and the smallest, a child of three, came toddling toward them.
“How do you do, baby girl? Do you like candy? Will you have a bite?” asked Rosie, holding out a tempting-looking morsel.
The little one stood gazing for a momentwith her finger in her mouth, then she accepted the offer. “Dood!” she said smacking her lips. “Dot nudder bit for Sally?”
“Yes,” Rosie said, bestowing another piece.
But another, older girl came running. “Sally,” she said reprovingly, and seizing the little one’s hand in an effort to draw her away, “you must not tease the ladies; papa says so. Come with me.”
Sally resisted and Rosie said, “No, we are not teased. We’d like to have her stay and talk to us.”
But the father had come for his baby girl. “Please excuse her, young ladies,” he said, lifting his hat politely, “she’s pretty well spoiled. I’ve come to the seaside for a bit of rest and brought my children along, for I knew it would be quite a treat to them.”
“And see, we’ve all got on the Union colors,” said one of the little girls who had followed him, showing a rosette of red, white, and blue ribbon pinned to her dress. “Father was a soldier in the war, and we all love the old flag.”
“Oh, were you, sir?” cried Lulu delightedly. “Won’t you please tell us of your experiences there?”
The other girls joined eagerly in the request, and at length, evidently pleased that they caredto hear the story, he sat down on the beach beside them and began it.
“In the war of the rebellion I was in the Shenandoah Valley with the infantry troops; a mere lad I was, only fifteen. One day I slipped off without leave, to visit an aunt living in Washington. We were at that time in camp on Georgetown Heights. Going back that night I lost my way and did not feel safe to ask it lest I should be thought a deserter; so finally went down into an area and, wearied out with my wanderings, fell asleep. It rained heavily through the night, but I was so weary and so used to hardship that I slept on and knew nothing about that till morning, when I waked to find myself lying in a puddle of water. I rose and hurried on my way; finally got back to camp, but so rheumatic from my wetting that I was sent to the hospital—in Washington. There my gun was taken from me and a receipt for it given me; so that when at length I recovered sufficiently to go back to camp, I was without a gun.
“It was not supplied to me immediately, and in the mean time the troops with whom I belonged were ordered to guard some wagons—a very long train—and while it was moving on, Mosby came up with his cavalry, took us prisoners, rifled the wagons of such things as hecould carry away and use, and took the best horses for the use of his troops, leaving behind his own broken-down ones.
“Mosby’s own troops and his prisoners were allowed to help themselves to such provisions as they could carry. I think they burnt all they could not take. When the rebs came upon us, one demanded my coat. I pulled it off and gave it to him; another took my hat, a third my shoes, so that I was not particularly well dressed when they were done with me.
“But I, as well as others, filled my haversack with provisions—hard-tack, pork, and so forth—and as they moved on each prisoner was obliged to lead one or more horses. I had but one.
“When the troops halted for the night the prisoners—among others—were ordered to take the horses to the river and water them. I had been all the time since my capture trying to contrive a way to escape. Now I saw a way, told a fellow-captive my plan, and asked him to render his aid by taking charge of my horse in addition to several already in his keeping. He consented. I slipped from the horse’s back and, unobserved, got behind a large stone, allowed myself to sink in the water there till nearly covered—only able to breathe—and so remained till the troops of rebs and prisoners had left the spot.
“Then creeping cautiously out, I hurried on my way, going down the river bank, knowing the Union troops were camped somewhere lower down the stream.
“I trudged on all night, crept into the bushes and hid as day dawned—lying there all day tortured with heat and thirst as well as hunger—travelled on again the following night. Faint, weary, and worn with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, about nine o’clock seeing a light at a little distance I went toward it, feeling that I must venture for relief from my intolerable sufferings from hunger and thirst.
“As I drew near the light a dog began to bark from its vicinity and rushed out in my direction. At that I stood still and the dog came no nearer.
“But presently I heard the voice of a negro man asking: ‘Who dar?’ Knowing the negroes were always friends to the Union soldiers, I then came forward and told of my escape from the rebs and my desire to reach the Union camp, my ignorance of the right road, hunger, thirst, and weariness.
“The negro told me I was in a dangerous place—rebel troops being all about—and he and Dinah—his wife—had not much provision, but to come in and Dinah would give me something to eat, then I could go on my way, he showingme where to ford the river, the Federal troops being two or three miles farther down on the other side.
“I went with him into the cabin; an old negress greeted me kindly, and having heard my story undertook to get me some supper.
“She made a corn pone, took a pan with a division across the middle, put the pone in one side, some bacon in the other, and setting it on the coals, cooked them together, the fat from the bacon running through to the pone. It made as delicious a supper as I ever ate. She gave me a piece to carry along when I set out upon my journey again, as I did presently, travelling still farther down stream, till I reached a ford.
“Near there I lay down and slept soundly, not waking till the sun was two hours high.
“I was alarmed to find it so late, but I forded the river safely, and finally reached the Union camp.
“No one there knew me. I had not even a uniform to show what I was, so lest I might prove to be a spy I was ordered under arrest and confined till some of my own regiment who knew me came in and corroborated my story, or at least recognized me as one of themselves.”
“That was a very interesting story, and we are much obliged to you for it, sir,” said Lulu,as the narrator paused as if he had finished. “But can’t you give us another?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling in an absent-minded way. “I was just thinking of another and rather amusing occurrence that took place while I was a soldier, though it hadn’t much to do with the war.
“My parents were living in Baltimore then, and I was still in the Shenandoah Valley. At one time, blackberries being very plenty in the woods where I was encamped, I gathered great quantities, filled a box, putting green leaves under and over the berries, nailed it up and sent it by express to my parents. I wrote to them about it, but the box started ahead of the letter and arrived first.
“In the mean time my mother and grandmother had been talking of paying a visit to my older sister, who had married, was living in Philadelphia, and anxious and urgent to have them come on to see her and her first-born—a baby boy toddling about.
“They were most desirous to do so, as he was the first grandchild of the one, the first great-grandchild of the other. But before they had made ready to start upon the journey a letter was received from the child’s mother saying that he had been taken dangerously ill. The two grandmothers were greatly troubled and more anxiousthan ever to see the baby. The older one was in her bedroom, not feeling well; her daughter was with her. A vehicle was heard to drive up to the front door. Glancing from the window the younger grandmother saw it was the express wagon and a box was being lifted out, evidently for them. Thinking—its mother having said they should see it dead or alive—it contained the corpse of her baby grandchild, she hurried down, had it carried into the parlor and set upon a table. She then threw a white sheet over it and awaited in trembling and grief the home-coming of her husband—my father.
“When he came in she told of the box and its supposed contents, and he, also full of grief, set to work to open it. The lid was at length torn off, and great was the surprise and relief of both to come upon the fresh green leaves and berries beneath them.
“But the door-bell rang again, and there stood Hannah with her babe in her arms alive and well.
“Joyful was the welcome given to both; they were taken into the parlor, Hannah shown the box, which was still standing, and told the story.
“After a while the baby was allowed to trot about at his own sweet will, while the older people were taken up with each other (a cradlehad been brought down to the parlor to lay the baby corpse in before the box was opened, and there it stood covered with a spread or something white), so when the little chap was left unnoticed, he got at the box of berries, carried some to the cradle and threw them in on the dainty white spread.”
The little girls had been listening to their father’s story with as much interest as if they had never heard it before, though doubtless it was quite familiar to them.
“Wasn’t it funny?” asked one of them with a merry laugh, as he finished.
But just then a boy came running, calling out, “Pap, you’re wanted now. Please come right away, mother says,” and with a pleasant “Good-by, ladies,” the father rose, took Sally in his arms and went, the rest of the children following.
Theold soldier and his children had hardly left the vicinity of our young friends when Calhoun came to them with the glad news that Croly had so far recovered as to be able to speak naturally and recognize his friends, that his parents had been told of his danger and his rescue, and were now with him, weeping over his sufferings, rejoicing that he had been spared to them, and full of gratitude to Dr. Conly for his long-continued and untiring efforts for his resuscitation.
“I am proud of my brother and don’t believe there is a better physician in the United States,” concluded Calhoun, his eyes shining. “But, ladies and little folks, I just remember that Cousin Elsie charged me to tell you that dinner will be on the table in about ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, that’s good news, Cousin Cal!” exclaimed Rosie, “for I’m pow’ful hungry, as the darkies say. There’s nothing like sea-air to give one an appetite.” And with that they all started for the house.
Arthur was longing to be with Marian, but at the urgent request of the elder Mr. Croly and his wife, consented to stay with their son, who had been carried to his uncle’s cottage, through the rest of that day and the following night.
Then assuring them that Will had almost entirely recovered and there was no longer the slightest need of his services, he was beginning to bid them good-morning when Mr. Croly, laying a detaining hand on his arm, poured out earnest thanks for the service he had done them in saving the life of their only and well-beloved son, and delicately asked what was his charge for his services, hinting that both he and his wife thought it should be a heavy one.
“Oh, no, sir,” said Arthur, “I make no charge whatever for so trifling a service to one whom I had learned to love almost as a brother. I am more than repaid by his spared life—the blessing of God upon my efforts,” and with a pleasant good-morning he hurried away.
He met the family at the breakfast table and was received with joyful greetings. An hour later he and Marian sought the beach together. It seemed a long time that they had been kept apart, and they greatly enjoyed being again alone together for a time.
When the mail was brought to the house Walter, as usual, came running down to themwith their share—one letter for Marian and several for the doctor.
Glancing at his he noticed that one was without a postmark, and somewhat curious to know whence it came, he opened that envelope first. It proved to be from the elder Mr. Croly, and contained a note and another paper. Arthur opened and read the note first. In it the writer stated that he felt that he owed a debt of gratitude for the spared life of his only and well-beloved child which he could never by any possibility repay, and that the doctor who had been instrumental in saving that life would confer a favor by accepting the inclosed certificate of stock as a small token of the grateful affection of Will Croly’s parents and of the dear boy himself, who would be delighted to have him do so, and feel that it was far from being an adequate return for the inestimable service rendered. The writer added that they would all feel sadly hurt should he refuse. All this Arthur read with a pleasant glow of feeling. “They are far more grateful than most people,” he said to himself as he opened the accompanying paper.
“Can I believe my eyes?” he exclaimed mentally as he hastily glanced over it, then gave it a more careful examination.
The certificate was for stock to the amountof one hundred thousand dollars yielding six per cent; there could be no mistake, and he felt that he had suddenly become a rich man.
But at that instant a low sob from Marian caught his ear, and instantly everything was forgotten but that she was in trouble.
“My darling, what is it?” he asked, putting an arm about her and drawing her closer to him.
“Oh, I am so frightened!” she said with quivering lips. “Read this letter from Sandy.”
He did so at once. The boy wrote warning Marian that their father had in some way learned that Captain Raymond had shown himself a friend to her, so suspected that she had gone to him for protection, had found out the captain’s address, and started east with the probable intention of hunting her up and carrying her back to Utah with him.
“Oh, what can I do? Can you protect me from him?” asked Marian, as Dr. Conly refolded the letter and drew her closer into his arms.
“He shall never take you from me,” he returned in determined tones and holding her close to his heart. “I think the surest thing will be for us to marry at once, if you are willing. O my darling, you are not afraid to trust me?”
“No, no, indeed!” she exclaimed, adding, “if you are willing to take me just as I am, only half educated and——”
“More, much more than willing,” he replied. “But there is no time to be lost. Let us go up at once to the house and consult with the friends there.”
“Yes; especially Cousin Elsie, and my best and kindest of friends, dear old Cousin Ronald.”
They were glad to find all the family in, and quickly told them their story; Arthur concluding with, “I think the best thing we can do is to marry at once, so that I shall have a prior right to that of Mr. McAlpine, and can prevent him from carrying her away from us.”
“I agree with you, sir,” said Mr. Lilburn, “and should think it well for you to carry her away to some place unknown to the unnatural man, till he wearies of his search and goes back to Mormon-land.”
“Then, if the plan is approved by my wife and others, I will go at once for theDolphin, and we will sail or steam away to-night with the bride and groom,” said the captain. “We can visit Mount Desert and whatever other points we please along the whole coast between this and our city, making occasional calls here if we like, and go home when we wish and are satisfied that the danger there is over.”
“Oh, by all means let us go!” said Violet: “nothing could be more delightful.”
“And Herbert and I will drive in at once for a minister to perform the ceremony,” said Harold, taking up his hat. “Have you any choice, Marian?”
“I know none of them but the one to whose preaching the rest of you have been listening, and who kindly called to see me the other day,” she replied with a blush.
“Then we will go for him,” returned Harold. “But stay a little, Harold,” said his mother; “dinner is just ready, and you will have time enough afterward.”
The summons to the table came at, that moment and all answered it promptly.
At the conclusion of the meal the captain, Harold, and Herbert drove into the city—the first to see that all was right with the yacht and order it brought that afternoon to the landing nearest the house, the other two in search of a minister to perform the ceremony that was to unite Marian and the doctor for life.
“Now,” said Rosie as soon as they were gone, “we must help the bride dress. Come, mamma and Violet, your help will be needed, for it is well known and freely acknowledged that you both have excellent taste.”
“Ah,” sighed Cousin Ronald, “I am sorrythere is no time for furnishing a handsomer trousseau. But fortunately it can be done afterward.”
“No, no, dear Cousin Ronald, I have plenty of fine clothes,” said Marian. “You have been so, so good to me.”
At that Dr. Conly, remembering the munificent fee he had received that morning, smiled quietly to himself; but not a word did he say to any one about it. He felt that words could not express his appreciation of Mr. Croly’s generosity to himself and others instrumental in the saving of his son’s life; for he had learned from Harold that the men in the boat that picked up the nearly drowned young man had each been liberally rewarded, the one who drew him from the water especially so. Calling his Cousin Elsie aside, “Can we have any invited guests, do you think?” he asked with a humorous smile.
“Guests?” she repeated, with a look of surprise. “I hardly know where to find them in time for so hastily gotten up a ceremony.”
“The Crolys are near at hand,” he suggested.
“Oh, yes! invite them if you wish to,” she returned with an amused laugh. “But we cannot get up anything like a proper wedding-feast on so short a notice.”
“Oh, I dare say they will make due allowancefor haste, and expect little entertainment besides a good look at the bride,” he said laughingly.
“Then I will send them a note of invitation. Also one to the younger Mr. and Mrs. Croly and to our poor friend Will.”
“Cousin,” he said with a joyous look, “I have something for your ear alone; other relatives and friends shall know of it by and by.” Then he read her Mr. Croly’s note and showed its inclosure.
“Oh, Art, I am so glad, so very glad!” she said, her eyes full of happy tears. “Yes, my dear fellow, give them all the warmest of invitations, though I hardly think Will or his father or mother will come; but they shall have the warmest of welcomes if they do.”
“Is not that your place as mistress of the house, Cousin Elsie?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” she replied. “I will write a note at once and send it by one of the servants.”
“And, if you please, I will send a note of thanks along with it. I will write it at once.”
“I will send it with pleasure,” she said. “Oh, Cousin Arthur, I am so glad for you! It is not an extravagant gift for a man of Mr. Croly’s means—and I think you have fairly earned it—but it must make you quite rich.”
“It does indeed,” he said in joyous tones, “and will put it in my power to make the deargirl who is trusting her happiness to me very comfortable. It will also enable me to help those of my brothers and sisters who may need aid.”
“You have always been a generous fellow,” she said, giving him a look full of appreciation and affection, “but I think if they do all they can to help themselves they will need very little assistance from you. But,” she added with a smile, “we have each a great deal to do in a little time and must not hinder each other.”
The delegation sent to the city was very successful. The young men returned early in the afternoon, bringing the minister of Marian’s choice, and shortly after the captain came in from his yacht, which lay at anchor at no great distance from the shore.
Neither Will Croly nor his mother ventured out, but his father came, bringing his sister-in-law with him.
Marian looked very sweet and lovely in white tarletan and orange-blossoms brought by Harold from the city; and Arthur, still rather youthful in appearance, seemed a not unsuitable bridegroom for her. Mary Keith, Rosie, and Lulu, Calhoun, Harold, and Herbert acted the parts of bridesmaids and groomsmen.
The ceremony was short and followed by somesimple refreshments—several kinds of cake, ice-cream, and lemonade.
Trunks had been packed and sent aboard the yacht, and before sundown the passengers followed; the bride and groom, Calhoun and Mary, and the captain with his entire family. It was not at all a sad good-by to either those who went or those who stayed behind, for it was expected that theDolphinwould touch frequently at that port, so that her passengers could pay a visit to the friends on shore, often on their return taking some of them for a short distance out to sea.
The evening air from the sea was very cool, and for Marian’s sake—she being as yet not far from on the invalid list—the older people confined themselves most of the time to the saloon. But Lulu, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, went out upon the deck, where she seated herself and gazed silently out upon the sea.
They were steaming northward scarcely out of sight of the shore. It was a beautiful night, the moon shining brightly in the dark blue of the heavens, flecked here and there with soft, fleecy, white clouds, and the sea beneath looking like molten silver where her rays touched it.
Lulu enjoyed the sight and the delicious breeze that was blowing softly shoreward, yether thoughts were on other matters and she was unusually silent and still. She had no one to talk to, but was very apt when alone at such time and place to sing softly to herself.
She had not moved for some minutes when she felt a hand laid gently on each shoulder, while her father’s voice asked in affectionate tones, “What is my little girl thinking of?” He bent down over her as he spoke and she looked up into his face.
“Oh, I’m so glad you have come, papa!” she said.
“Are you, daughter?” he returned, coming around, seating himself by her side, and putting an arm about her waist. “I don’t know when I have seen you so perfectly quiet and still. A penny for your thoughts.”
“They’re not worth a penny, papa,” she said laughingly, laying her head on his shoulder and looking up lovingly into his eyes. “I’m afraid they were rather foolish, but you can have them for nothing if you want them. You know I belong to you—I’m so glad I do—so you have a right to my thoughts; haven’t you?”
“We will leave that question to be considered at another time,” he returned laughingly, hugging her up closer and giving her a kiss; “but since you are willing, you may tell me what was the occasion of so much grave thought in thislittle careless head,” stroking her hair and repeating his caress.
“Well, then, papa, it was mostly about Marian I was thinking, and that I should not like to be in her place. I like Cousin Arthur ever so much for a doctor, but to have to leave my dear father and go to live with him instead would be just dreadful. But then her father can’t be one bit like mine, and I think that if I were his daughter I’d be glad enough to leave him for Dr. Conly.”
“And I think no one could reasonably blame you if you were; especially if, as in Marian’s case, it was to escape being forced into a marriage with one who was far from agreeable to you and had already several wives—which is a very wicked thing, forbidden by the law of both God and man. But, situated as you are, it would, I think, be a very silly thing for you to do as Marian has done, even were you of her age, and you are really some three or four years younger.”
“And that’s a very great difference,” remarked Lulu soberly, “and I’m glad of it, because I do so like to be my father’s own little girl. And you won’t ever make me get married if I don’t want to, will you, papa?”
“No, daughter, certainly not. I shall be onlytoo glad to keep you—have you always and altogether my own.”
“It’s so good of you, you dear papa,” she said, nestling closer to him. “I feel almost sure I shall never love any other man half so well as I do you.”
“That is pleasant news to me,” he said, with a smile down into the large, dark eyes lifted to his.
Thenext morning after the sailing of theDolphinbrought to Mrs. Travilla the news that her son Edward and his family, accompanied by Ella Conly, were on their way north, intending first to visit the Lelands at Evelyn’s cottage on the Hudson, then to come on to spend a few weeks with her at the sea-shore.
Everybody was glad, for the departure of so large a number of those who had made up their family for weeks past had left them all feeling somewhat lonely.
Hugh Lilburn felt very loth to leave just as his betrothed was coming, for the visit on the Hudson was not to be a long one; besides, he was unwilling to leave his father to encounter McAlpine without being there himself to defend him in case the Mormon should become abusive.
That he decided in his own mind would be worse than allowing his business interests to suffer somewhat by a prolonged absence from his newly acquired property.
But it was growing late in the season; the cottage nearest to the house occupied by the Dinsmores, Mrs. Travilla, and the others of thatparty was rented by them for the expected ones from New York, and in a week from the departure of theDolphinand her passengers they arrived and took possession.
But they were much like one family, taking their meals at the larger house, spending the greater part of the day there or on the beach, or taking walks and drives together.
They had letters now and then from the party in the yacht, who seemed to be enjoying themselves greatly, and in a week after this last arrival the vessel touched at Gloucester, and Mary Keith, Calhoun, Herbert, and Harold landed, spent a few hours in the city, then returned to their sea-side home, where they were welcomed with demonstrations of delight.
They reported that Arthur and his bride seemed to be having a delightful honeymoon and deemed it best to remain on the yacht somewhat longer, unless they should hear of the whereabouts of McAlpine and know that they would be safe from a visit from him, which, unless he became a changed man, would undoubtedly be far from pleasant.
“I told them,” said Calhoun, “that I should rather enjoy giving him a piece of my mind.”
“Yes, probably rather more than he would,” laughed Harold.
“I dare say,” returned Calhoun, “but I can’tsay that I am particularly anxious or desirous to give him pleasure. However, I think he will find us too large a party to attack with anything worse than hard words; and those I am by no means unwilling to stand for the sake of my pretty young sister-in-law.”
“Marian is a sweet girl,” said Mary Keith, “and as Dr. Conly’s wife she has made certain her escape from a dreadful fate.”
It was after tea and they were all in the parlor; for it was a cool evening, cloudy and occasionally drizzling a little.
Mary had scarcely ceased speaking when a loud peal from the door-bell startled every one. Harold stepped out to the hall to answer it. There stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, who accosted him with, “How do you do, sir? I understand that this is the house occupied by Mrs. Travilla, Captain Raymond, and others.”
“Mrs. Travilla is here; Captain Raymond is not,” returned Harold. “May I inquire what is your errand to either of them?”
“Yes. I understand that they are harboring here a daughter of mine, considerably under age, who ran away from me some months ago. I have come to take possession of her; and let me say I intend to do so, let who will object.”
“She is not here,” answered Harold.
At that the man pushed him suddenly andrudely aside and walked boldly and defiantly into the parlor. Mr. Lilburn instantly rose and faced him. “William McAlpine, what brings you here?” he asked in stern tones.
“Is it you, Ronald Lilburn?” exclaimed the other in astonishment. “I thought you were in auld Scotland and probably under the sod long ere this. And is it you that’s carried off my bairn?”
“I have never seen Mormon land and didna carry her off,” was Mr. Lilburn’s reply in a tone full of scorn and contempt; “but if I’d had the chance I wad hae rescued her at the risk o’ my life from sic a fate as you—unnatural beast o’ a mon that ye are—had prepared for her. You are worse than a heathen, William McAlpine, wi’ your three or four wives; and you broke the heart o’ Marian’s mither, my ain sweet cousin, who demeaned hersel’ to marry you—a mean fellow not fit to wipe the dust from her shoon.”
At that the man turned white with passion and lifted his clinched fist as if about to strike the old gentleman down. But his son Hugh sprang in between them, and at the same instant Edward and Harold sprang forward and each seized an arm of the stalwart stranger, while Herbert and Calhoun showed themselves ready to assist in preventing him from harming their old friend.
But at that instant a woman’s voice, seemingly coming from the next room, spoke in sadly beseeching tones:
“O Willie, Willie, wad ye harm my own dear auld cousin who has never shown aught but kindness to us and ours? Is it not enough that ye broke the heart o’y ain wife that loved ye better than all the warld beside? And wad ye kill my ain bairn—the bonny lassie that we baith loved so well when she was a wee toddling thing? Dinna meddle wi’ her, Willie; dinna harm a hair o’ her head or I’ll haunt ye to the last day o’ your life. Forsake your sins, Willie, put away your mony wives and be a true servant o’ the Lord, or ye’ll never win to heaven; your soul will be lost and I that loved ye so lang syne will see ye no more forever.”
McAlpine’s face turned ghastly white while he listened and his eyes seemed starting from his head; then as the voice ceased he suddenly wrenched himself free from the hold of Edward and Harold and rushed from the room and the house like one pursued by an avenging foe; they heard his steps echoing down the garden path, out into the road, and away till the sounds were lost in the distance.
Then Mr. Dinsmore spoke, breaking the astonished silence:
“He is badly scared, and I think will hardlyreturn to pursue his search for his missing daughter.”
“I trust not, sir,” responded Cousin Ronald. “Fortunately I was able to remember and reproduce the tones of his dead wife’s voice. My God-given talent is sometimes useful, as well as a source of amusement to my young friends.”
“And older ones also,” Elsie added with a smile.
“Yes, indeed,” said Rosie; “the man fairly frightened me, for he acted as if he were wicked enough to hurt or even kill every one of us. I don’t wonder Marian ran away from him and was so frightened at the very thought of seeing him again.”
“Nor I,” said Zoe, looking at her husband with eyes full of tears. “O my dear Ned, I was so afraid he would do you some dreadful harm! And what if he should even yet; he may come back! Oh, let us shut doors and windows.”
“I think there is hardly any danger of his returning,” remarked Hugh Lilburn in a reassuring tone; “at least not to-night.”
The other gentlemen agreed in that opinion, and the ladies were sufficiently reassured to be able to pass a comfortable night.
But though they were ignorant of the fact, McAlpine was in no condition to injure any of them or even to return to their dwelling.
In the darkness and the confusion of his mind, he had wandered from the path and fallen down a hill, landing on a bed of stones, striking his head on one of them so that he was insensible for some hours, breaking a rib and receiving internal injuries that proved fatal in a very short time. In the morning some one passing heard his groans, went for assistance, and he was carried into a house and a surgeon sent for, who after making an examination told him he had but a few hours to live, and if he had any affairs to settle he would do well to attend to them immediately.
McAlpine was thrown into great distress of mind by the announcement, and begged to have word sent to the house where he had been the night before, with an earnest request that Mr. Lilburn would come to him, for at least a few moments, as he had something he wished to say.
Shocked at the news of the man’s condition, Mr. Lilburn at once hastened to his bedside.
“They tell me I’m a dying mon, Ronald Lilburn, and I maun ease my mind afore I die, wi’ a word for my daughter Marian. Tell her for me that I own I’ve been a hard father to her, and was—O God, forgive me—a cruel, unfaithful husband to her mither after I turned Mormon. It’s a lustful, wicked pretence o’ areligion, is Mormonism, and I dinna want Sandy brought up to believe in it.”
He paused from exhaustion, and Mr. Lilburn told of his plans for Sandy and the offers he had made the lad to educate and start him in life.
“God bless you for it,” returned the dying man. “I find now my death is near that I care more for those two o’ my bairns than I thought. And now I maun think o’ my soul! O Ronald Lilburn, what must I do to be saved? Is there ony hope for such a sinner as I?”
“Yes, William. ‘The blood o’ Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin,’ and while there is life there is hope. Flee to Jesus, the sinner’s friend, remembering his own words, ‘Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.’”
“Lord, I come, I come; be merciful to me a sinner; save me for thine own name’s sake,” came in earnest, pleading tones from the dying lips; a few long-drawn breaths followed and the soul had fled.
TheDolphinwas known to be far out at sea; word of her father’s arrival and his speedy and unexpected death could not be sent to Marian, so the body was carried to an undertaker’s and the next day quietly buried from there, Mr. Lilburn, his son, and the other gentlemen of the family attending the funeral services.
When at length the news reached Marian,something of her early love for her father seemed to return to her. She shed some tears over it, yet in a short time her grief was more than swallowed up in a sense of relief.
She was very, very happy with Arthur, who proved himself the kindest and best of husbands. It was not thought necessary that her father’s death should be made known in their home neighborhood, and on her return she dressed as a bride. Her husband had told her of his improved circumstances and was disposed to lavish upon her everything that heart could wish. But she was not extravagant in her tastes or desires, and he was satisfied to let her follow her own inclination in regard to that and the continuing of her studies with Captain Raymond, at least for a time.
That pleased the captain, and he was more than willing to receive her as a pupil when they should all return home and he resume his labors as instructor.
The entire family had now been let into the secret of Arthur’s wonderfully large fee for his medical service to William Croly, and heartily rejoiced with him.
Dr. Dick Percival joined them for a week at the sea-side, after which all returned to their homes.
Calhoun had tried to induce his Mary to followwith him the example set them by his brother and Marian, and Hugh Lilburn let his Ella know that he would be far from objecting to making it a double wedding; but neither lady would consent. Each wished to go home first and make suitable preparations for the important event, Ella adding that Isadore and the other sisters and brothers would have reason to be hurt if she did not invite them all to be present at her wedding.
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Travilla thought she took a proper view of the matter, as did Mary also, in regard to the time and place of her own nuptials.
So Calhoun took her to her own home and left her there, with the understanding that he was to return for her some weeks or months hence—the day having not yet been fixed upon.
But before leaving their sea-side home all spent a day there together. Naturally one of the principal topics of conversation was the approaching journey to their southern homes.
“I wish I could take you all with me in the yacht,” said Captain Raymond, addressing the company in general, “but unfortunately there is not accommodation for so many. Mother, we must have you and Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore, as it is a more restful way to travel than by the cars. The doctor and his bride arealready engaged to us, and we must, I think, take Evelyn, Rosie, and Walter; we should hardly know what to do without them any longer,” he added with his pleasant smile. “We have eight family and passenger state-rooms, and beds can be made up at nights in the saloon,” he continued, “and in that way we can make room for several more.”
He paused for a reply, but no one spoke, each seemingly waiting for the others.
At length Violet said: “I think you and your babies should be with us, Zoe; then of course Edward would need to be there to take care of you all; for he would not be willing to trust that business to any one else. And Harold and Herbert ought to be with their mother, having, poor little lads! been so much away from her for the last few years,” she added in a sportive tone.
Every one approved, and so it was settled. The journey was a safe and prosperous one with all; they arrived at their homes, Ion, Woodburn, and Roselands, without accident or loss, and presently had settled down for the duties and pleasures of the fall and coming winter.
THE END.