The Rev. Mr. Gay's parishioners looked at him in astonishment. He had disbelieved in God but had been converted in what seemed a miraculous manner. And yet, perhaps, after all, it was only a coincidence. Alice felt sure that Uncle Ike would be of that opinion.
The pastor, as soon as he had made his sensational declaration, said “Let us pray.” His appeal was for those who doubted—that God would open their eyes—but not as his had been—to acknowledge his power and mercy.
Then followed “Old Hundred.”
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,Praise Him all creatures here below.”
A benediction, and the service was over.
There were seats for four in the carryall. Maude preferred to walk and Mr. Merry was of the same mind. Mrs. Hawkins sat with Quincy on the front seat, and Alice with Uncle Ike.
“What did you think of the sermon, Uncle Ike?” Alice asked.
“A thrilling personal experience. The fear of death has a peculiar effect on some people—it kills their will power. Did Mr. Gay know that I was to attend his church?”
Alice flushed. “Quincy mentioned it at the breakfast table.”
“Was he informed of my opinions on religious matters?”
“They were not mentioned before him.”
“Another coincidence”—and Uncle Ike relapsed into silence.
As they were nearing the Maxwell house, Alice asked, “Uncle Ike, are you willing to have Mr. Gay call upon you?”
“I have no objection, if he will let me choose the subjects for conversation,” was the reply.
In the evening Maude and Mr. Merry walked to the Willows and back.
“Have you become a matchmaker?” Alice asked her husband.
“What prompts the question?”
“Maude and Mr. Merry have been thrown together very much. You approve of you would prevent their intimacy.”
Quincy laughed. “Maude undoubtedly has a heart, but she doesn't know where it is. Mr. Merry is too sensible a fellow to imagine Maude will fall in love with him, or that he could support her if she did.”
“Poor logic, Quincy. Such marriages take place often, but unless they are followed with parental blessings,—and financial backing,—seldom prove successful.
“Well, the intimacy will end to-morrow morning. He will return to the city, and, probably, never see her again.”
“I've no objection to Mr. Merry. I consider him a very fine young man. I was thinking of Maude's happiness.”
Mr. Merry did return to Boston early the next morning, and, to all appearances, Miss Sawyer looked upon his action as a very natural one, and one in which she was not particularly interested. If she had any secret thoughts concerning him they were driven from her mind by the receipt of a telegram just as they sat down to dinner.
“REDFORD, MASS., July 2, 187—.“MAUDE SAWYER, Care of Q. A. Sawyer,“Fernborough, via Cottonton.“Do please come home at once. Something terriblehas happened. FLORENCE.”
“What can it be? What do you think is the matter? The message is so inexplicit.”
Her brother replied, “Florence evidently is living, unless some one used her name in the telegram. If father or mother were sick or dead she certainly would have said so.”
“Perhaps not,” said Maude. “She might wish to break the news gently, in person.”
“I am willing to wager,” said Quincy, “that the trouble affects her more than any one else. But you must go, Maude, and Alice and I will go with you, by the first train to-morrow morning.”
Quincy had Andrew get the carryall ready and he and Alice went round to say good-bye. He told Arthur Scates he would come or send for him soon, and that his grandmother could go and help Mrs. Pettingill.
Andrew was told to return the saddle to Cottonton, and Quincy decided that they would go to Boston by way of Eastborough Centre, so Mr. Parsons could be informed that they were through with the saddle horses. They found Uncle Ike fully committed to the idea of founding the hospital. He had seen Squire Rundlett, who was drawing up his will. The goodbye seemed more like a farewell in Uncle Ike's case, for he had aged much in the last year and was really very feeble. Alice told him that Mr. Gay had promised to call upon him in a few days.
When they reached Boston, Quincy said:
“Maude, you must take the train at once for Redford and see what the trouble is. I will leave Alice at home and run down to see you this afternoon.”
Maude found Florence in her room, her nose red and her eyes filled with tears.
“Now, Florence, what is it all about?”
“Oh, it is horrible,” and there was a fresh flood of tears.
“Are you sick? Mother says she is well and so is father.”
“It's all about Reggie.”
“Capt. Hornaby? Is he dead?”
“Worse. I wish he was. No, I don't mean that. But the disgrace.”
Maude was getting impatient. “What has he done? Married somebody else? But he never proposed to you, did he?”
Florence wiped away her tears. “No, not exactly. But we understood each other.”
“Well, I can't understand you. Why don't you tell me what he's done?”
“Well, you know that father loaned him some money when he lost his pocketbook in the pond.”
Maude sniffed. “I imagined he did—nobody told me so.”
“Father gave him a check for five hundred dollars.”
“And the Captain's run away and won't pay. Those foreign fellows often do that. What an appropriate name Hornaby Hook is.”
“He has paid. He sent father the money and said he was going back to England at once.”
“So, ho! I understand now. My sister has been deserted, jilted, snubbed, and her Sawyer pride is hurt. If you'd written me that I'd be in Fernborough now, and so would Quincy and Alice. Florence, it was mean of you to send such a bloodcurdling telegram for so simple a thing.”
“But that isn't all,” cried Florence. “When the check for five hundred dollars that father gave him came back it had been raised to five thousand, and father has lost all that money. Oh, it is all over, and I shall never see him again.”
Another paroxysm of sobs, and a flood of tears. Maude's sisterly sympathy was, at last, aroused.
“Don't take on so, Flossie. Perhaps he didn't do it after all.”
“But father is so indignant. Think of his being paid back with his own money.”
Maude could not help laughing. “That was rather nervy, I'll admit. But that very fact makes me think he's innocent.”
She didn't really think so, but Florence was likely to go into hysterics and something must be done.
“You know his address. You had better write to him and see what he has to say for himself.”
“I can't. Father says if I have any further communication with him, directly, or indirectly, he'll disown me.”
“Well, wait awhile. Father'll calm down in time. Cheer up, Flossie, dry your eyes, and do put some powder on your nose. It's as red as a beet.”
* * * * * * *
A little later in the season, Quincy and Alice started for their summer home at Nantucket, where they spent a pleasant two months, Quincy going up to Boston when needed at the State House. As autumn approached, and the time for the state election drew near, great influence was brought to bear on Quincy to make him rescind his decision, and run for governor a second time, but his mind was fully made up, and in spite of the urgings of the leaders of his own party, as well as those of the public at large, he remained firm in his resolve.
Mr. Evans worked hard for the nomination, but his predilections were well known among the labouring classes, and he failed to receive the necessary votes. Benjamin Ropes, a man respected by all, was elected governor, and in January Quincy retired from public life, and settled down to what he thought would be a period of rest and quiet with his wife in the Mount Vernon Street home.
About the middle of the month, however, a letter came from Aunt Ella.
* * * * * * *
“MY DEAR QUINCY AND ALICE: I was going to write nephew and niece, but you both seem nearer and dearer to me than those formal titles express. I see that Quincy is now out of politics, and I know that he needs a change. Your rooms are all ready for you here, and I want you both to come, just as soon as you can. It will be the best for you, too, Alice, as you will escape the very bad winter that Boston always has. I was delighted to hear the news, and I do hope and pray it will be a boy,—then we shall have a Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior.
“I wish Maude could come with you. I could introduce her to society here, and, I have found—don't think me conceited—that there is nothing that improves an English gentleman so much as having an American wife. If some of your nice young American gentlemen would marry some English girls and transplant them to American soil, I think the English-speaking race would benefit thereby.
“Sir Stuart is well, and so is“Your loving aunt,“ELLA.”* * * * * * *
“The same Aunt Ella as of old,” said Quincy, “always full of new ideas and quaint suggestions. It would be a good thing for you to go, I think, Alice, and I should really relish the change myself. What do you say, a steamer sails next week from here; shall we go?”
“Why, Quincy, it is rather sudden, but I should be glad to see Aunt Ella and Linda again, and I really see no reason why we should not go.”
“Well, we will call that settled, then. And Maude, do you think she would join us?”
“Not unless you take Mr. Merry with you,” replied Alice with a good natured laugh.
Quincy called at the Beacon Street house that afternoon, and had a talk with Maude about going to Europe with them. He read her Aunt Ella's letter, and added,
“You see, she wishes you to come with us.”
“Well, I won't go. She wants to marry me off to some Englishman with a title and no funds. If I ever get married, my husband will be an American. No, take Florence, and let her hunt up Captain Hornaby, her recreant lover,—if he was one. She says they 'understood' each other, but it's evident none of us comprehended—I came near saying apprehended—him.”
“I will speak to father about it,” said Quincy. “Please tell him that I'll call at his office to-morrow morning. Give my love to Florence. I won't trouble her about it until I've seen father.”
Alice thought Florence's substitution for Maude, as regarded the trip to England, was advisable, and certainly showed Maude's good-heartedness.
When Quincy saw his father he made no mention of the Hornaby incident in connection with Florence joining them on their trip abroad, but in spite of this the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer was, at first, strongly opposed to the idea of his daughter going away from home. Quincy knew his father too well to argue the matter, and turned the conversation to other subjects.
“I have brought my will, father, and wish you would put it in your safe. I have left everything to Alice to do with as she pleases. I have named you and Dr. Paul Culver as my executors. Have you any objection to serving?”
“You will be more likely to act as my executor than I as yours, but I accept the trust, feeling sure that I shall have no duties to perform.”
“There's another matter, father, I wish to speak about. My former private secretary, Mr. Merry, is studying law. When my term expired he, of course, lost his position, for my successor, naturally, wished one of his own friends in the place. If I were a lawyer, I would take him into my office, but—”
“You can't use him in your grocery store,” interrupted the Hon. Nathaniel. Quincy took the sarcasm good-naturedly, and laughed. That his father had, to some extent, overcome his displeasure at his son becoming a tradesman, was shown by his next words.
“Our law business is increasing daily, and perhaps I can make an opening for him in the near future. I will bear him in mind.”
The Hon. Nathaniel reserved his decision in relation to Florence's trip until he had discussed the matter with his wife, but the next day Maude saw Alice and told her that her father had consented, on one condition, and that was that Quincy would bring her back with him when he returned to America. The Hon. Nathaniel was still suspicious of Aunt Ella, and evidently thought that she wished to get control of his daughter as she had of his son.
Quincy gave his father the required promise. Florence must have time to prepare for such a long journey, so Quincy was obliged to give up the plan of sailing from Boston on a certain date as he had intended. Besides, he wanted, personally, to see how Arthur Scates was getting along at the Sanatorium which was at Lyndon in the Adirondacks, and so he booked passage on the steamerAltonia, to sail from New York in three weeks.
“Florence will be ready to start to-morrow,” said Alice. This was welcome intelligence to Quincy, who wished several days to spare in New York before sailing.
As soon as his wife and sister were located at a hotel in New York, he made the trip to Lyndon in the Adirondacks to see Arthur Scates. He found him greatly improved, and he told Quincy that he had not felt so well in years. The doctors, too, were more than pleased with his condition, and said that it was only a question of a few months when he would be entirely well again.
When he returned to New York he found that Alice had been to visit Mrs. Ernst in West 41st Street. Madame Archimbault lived with them and still carried on the millinery establishment on Broadway, in which Quincy had accidentally discovered the long-sought Linda Putnam masquerading under the name of Celeste. How that discovery had operated to change the lives of many people came forcibly to Quincy as he sought Leopold Ernst in his down-town office.
Leopold was almost hidden behind piles of manuscripts and newspapers when Quincy entered his room.
“Up to your neck, Leopold?”
As soon as Leopold saw who had addressed him, he jumped up, pushed a pile of manuscripts from his desk to the floor, and grasped Quincy's extended hand in both of his.
“Let me help you pick up your papers,” said Quincy.
“No, they're in their proper places. They're rejected. I have accepted two out of fifty or more. The American author sends tons to the literary mill, but it grinds out but a few pounds. But the novices are improving. They will yet lead the world, for we have a new country full of God's wonderful works, and a composite population whose loves and hates reproduce in new scenes all the passions of the Old World. They are the same pictures of human goodness and frailty in new frames—and my business is to judge the workmanship of the frames.”
They talked about old times, particularly the success of Alice's first romance.
“Marriage is often fatal to literary activity. Is your wife to write another book?”
“I think not. We expect an addition—not edition—to our family library soon after our return from England.”
“That settles it. Literature takes a back seat when Maternity becomes its competitor. It is well. Otherwise, how could we keep up our supply of authors?”
The evening before the sailing of theAltonia, a happy party assembled in a private dining room at Quincy's hotel. Toasts were drunk. Alice and Rosa sang and Florence accompanied and played classic selections upon the piano.
“Bon voyage,” cried Leopold, as they separated. “Make notes of somethingreally new, make a book of up-to-date travels, and our house willpublish it for you, for I'll recommend it no matter how bad it is. Wehave to do that often for friends of the firm,—why not for our own?”A foggy night on the ocean. The barometer ranged low. An upwardglance disclosed a black mist—no sign of moon or stars. A bad night onland, when trains of cars crash into others laden with humanity—somedying mercifully without knowing the cause; others cruelly, by slowcremation, with willing hands nearby powerless to help.
A bad night off shore, when freight-laden craft, deceived by beacon lights, are beached upon the treacherous sand or dashed against jagged rocks. The life-savers, with rocket, and gun and line, and breeches-buoys, try in vain, and, as a last resort, grasp the oars of the life-boat and bring to safety one or two of a crew of ten. Sad hearts in homes when the news comes; but it is only one of the scenes in the drama of life.
A bad night at sea—with a great ocean liner, its iron heart pulsating, plunging through the black waves into dense mountains of fog.
Despite the darkness and chill of the winter night, Quincy, Alice, and Florence were on the deck of theAltonia. Alice shuddered and Quincy drew her wrap more closely about her.
“Shall we go down into the cabin?”
“Not yet. There is nothing enjoyable about this Cimmerian gloom, and yet it has its attractions. Florence, what is it that Tom Hood wrote about London fog?”
“I only remember one line, and I'm not sure I can quote that correctly. I think it reads: 'No sun, no moon,' I should add 'no stars, no proper time of day.'”
During the two days since leaving New York, Florence had been a creature of moods: sad, when she brooded over her trouble due, she felt sure, to another's act; light-hearted when she thought of the prospect of again meeting Reginald and having him prove his innocence.
She had been spared newspaper publicity. Not for ten times the sum he had lost would the Hon. Nathaniel have had his daughter's name in the public prints. He was a lawyer, but it was his business to get other people out of trouble, and not to get his own family into it—which shows that great lawyers are not exempt from that very common human frailty, selfishness.
Sounds of applause were borne to their ears. “Let us go in,” said Florence, “some one has been singing.”
In the main saloon, all was merriment. Each passenger had faith in Capt. Robert Haskins, who had crossed the Atlantic hundreds of times. TheAltoniabelonged to a lucky line, the luck that follows careful foresight as regards every detail, the luck that brings safety and success from constant vigilance.
In the first cabin were more than two hundred souls—young and old, maids and matrons, young and middle-aged men, and a few beyond the allotted three score years and ten.
Mlle. Carenta, a member of a troupe of grand opera singers, whom many had heard during the company's engagement in New York, arose from the piano amid cries of “bravo,” for her superb vocalism. She had sung Gounod'sAve Maria.
“How sweetly she sang,” said Alice, as she touched her husband's arm to more fully draw his attention from the beautiful vocalist. “Don't you think so, Quincy?”
“Divine,” was the reply. “One can almost fancy the doors of Heaven are open.”
The cabin was warm—in reality, hot,—but Alice shuddered as she had when chilled by the mist and cold. She caught quickly at her husband's arm.
“I wish we were safe at Fernborough Hall with Aunt Ella.”
“And so do I, my dear, but the walking is poor, and we must put up with our present method of locomotion for a few days longer. Think of the good times we have had and those in store for us.”
Alice reassured by the words and the accompanying pressure of Quincy's hand exclaimed: “How delightful it was in the country, and how I enjoyed our visits. I shall always love Mason's Corner as it was called when—”
“I met my fate,” her husband added. “My line fell in a pleasant place—”
“Don't call me a fish,” said his wife, as she smiled half reprovingly.
“Well, we're on the water; if we were in it, we all might wish to be fish—or rather whales.”
The next moment all was confusion. Faces that were white became red—those that were red turned white—even through the colour that art had given to niggardly nature. Fully half the occupants of the saloon were thrown violently to the floor in a promiscuous heap. Others saved themselves from falling by grasping frantically at the nearest object. Many of the lights went out. Some of the women swooned, while men who had deemed themselves brave shook like palsied creatures.
A man half ran, half fell, down the stairway that led into the saloon and stood before the affrighted passengers. No tongue could form a question, but each eager face asked,
“What is it? What has happened?”
His voice came, thin and husky, “We've been struck by another ship in the fog!”
At sea, at night, and that a night of winter chill—and the fog! Such the thought. The fact—ten thousand tons of steel and wood, the product of man's industry, fashioned by his brain, and blood, and bone, crushed and useless, and half a thousand human beings—looking forward to years of happiness—doomed to a terrific struggle with the elements. Strong, courageous, creative man—now a weak, fear-stricken, helpless creature!
“To the boats!” came the cry from above, and it was echoed by hundreds of voices. In those three words were a gleam of hope: they opened a path, but through what and to what would it lead? The other ship, a tramp steamer, which had collided with theAltoniawas already sinking, and in a few minutes went down, bow foremost, only a few of the crew having escaped in their own boats.
Quincy had been an athlete in his college days. In time of danger, whether the man be ignorant or educated, one feeling—the instinct of self-preservation—is paramount. Alice and Florence had stood mute, helpless. Quincy put an arm about each and sprang to the narrow doorway. It was blocked by two stout men who fought frantically to gain precedence.
Quincy placed his wife in front of him, and, with the hand thus temporarily freed, he grasped one of the men by the collar and threw him back into the saloon where he was trampled upon by the frenzied passengers.
Regardless of the consequence of his act, Quincy mounted the stairs quickly and gained the deck. The boats were being filled rapidly. He placed his wife and sister in one of them.
Alice cried, “Come, Quincy, there is room here.”
“No, Alice, not yet. The women must go first.”
“I will not go without you.”
“Yes, you will, Alice—and you know why.”
The mighty craft was filling rapidly. Captain Haskins feared that like the tramp steamer it would founder before the passengers could get into the boats—their frail hope for safety. For himself, he asked no place. He had the spirit of the soldier who expires beside his dying horse, looking fondly at the animal that has borne him so many times in safety, and now gives up his life with his master's.
“For God's sake, come, Quincy!” cried Alice. “For our sake!” and Florence added her entreaties.
Quincy turned and saw a woman with a child by her side. She had made her way from the steerage. She was being deported, for she suffered from trachoma. She had been refused permission to land and join her husband who had stood outside the “pen” and gazed at her and the child. Quincy placed the woman in the boat beside his wife and put the child in its mother's arms.
“Lower away!” came a shrill cry.
“Oh, Quincy, must we part thus?”
Captain Haskins grasped Quincy by the arm.
“Get into the boat, Mr. Sawyer.”
Quincy saw that the boat, filled with women, was already over-loaded.
He turned to the Captain and said: “There is more room here with you.”
Nature's ways are mysterious but effective. A brisk breeze broke thefog, and the rays of the noonday sun fell upon a placid sea. The boatcontaining Alice and Florence was picked up by theMacedonianofa rival line and the rescued made comfortable. For hours the steamercruised about rescuing hundreds of theAltonia's passengers, but someof the boats were never heard from.
Alice and many others had hoped that the wrecked vessel was still afloat, but theAltoniahad disappeared,—was far below in hundreds of fathoms of water.
Fernborough Hall,—not a hall in the town of Fernborough in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, but a rambling, old-fashioned brick building in the County of Sussex in “Merrie England;” a stately home set in the middle of hundreds of acres of upland, lowland, and woodland. Wings had been added as required, and a tower from which, on a clear day, the English Channel could be seen with the naked eye, while a field-glass brought into view the myriad craft, bound east and west, north and south, on the peaceful missions of trade.
There was no terrace upon which gaudy peacocks strutted back and forth, but in front of the Hall was a small artificial lake in which some transplanted fish led the lives of prisoners. Lady Fernborough begged the Baronet to end their miserable existence, but, to him, innovation was folly and destruction bordered on criminality.
“When I am gone, Ella,” he would say, “you may introduce your American ideas, for everything will be yours. When the Fernborough name dies, let the fish die too.”
The long search for his lost daughter had made him misanthropic. His knowledge of her sad death had been accompanied, it is true, by the pleasing intelligence that his daughter's child lived, but that grand-daughter, though of his blood and British born, had not been educated according to British ideas. To be sure, she was now a Countess, but she had been transplanted to her native soil, and had not grown there.
It might be asked, if he was so insular in his ideas, why had he taken an American wife, and she a widow? He had been charmed by her vivacity. She lifted him out of the gloom in which he had lived so long. If she had been tame and prosaic, she would have worn the weeds of widowhood again in a short time. She made him comfortable; she surrounded him with the brightest people she could find; he was not allowed to mope indoors, and Sir Stuart Fernborough and his sprightly American wife attended all the important social functions of the County, and many in London, and at the houses of their friends. And now a great joy was to come to Lady Fernborough. She expected visitors from the United States, and what she considered needful preparations kept her in a flutter of excitement.
“How soon do you expect them?” asked Sir Stuart at breakfast.
“To-morrow, or next day. They sailed on the tenth; to-morrow is the seventeenth, but they may rest for a day in Liverpool—”
“Or stay a day or two in London,” suggested Sir Stuart.
“I hope not, for my guests will be impatient to see a real live American ex-governor. Quincy's political advancement has been very rapid.”
“America is a rapid country, my dear,” was Sir Stuart's comment.
When Lady Fernborough reached her boudoir, she seated herself at her writing desk and wrote rapidly for nearly an hour.
“I don't wish too many guests,” she soliloquized as she sealed the last invitation. “Now, I must write to Linda.”
“My dear Linda,
“I have a great surprise for you. You must forgive me for keeping a secret. I do it so seldom, I wished the experience. I am like the penniless suitor who proposed to an heiress, who, he knew, would reject him, just to see how it would make him feel to lose a fortune. I think I saw that in Punch, but it fits my case exactly. They will be here,sure, day after to-morrow. I mean Quincy and Alice, and, I hope, Maude. Come and bring all the children. I suppose Algernon is in London helping to make laws for unruly Britishers, but we will make merry and defy the constables. Despite my marital patronymic, and my armorial bearings, I am still, your loving aunt Ella.”
Alice was not to tell the sad news to Lady Fernborough. The telegraph outstrips the ocean liner, and a newspaper, with tidings of the great calamity, was in Aunt Ella's hands long before the arrival of the broken-hearted wife and disconsolate sister. The invitations were countermanded, and days of sorrow followed instead of the anticipated time of joyfulness.
Alice and Florence told the story of the tragedy over and over again to sympathizing listeners.
“That was just like Quincy to give his place to that poor woman and her child,” said Aunt Ella. “Like Bayard he was without fear and he died without reproach.”
Alice would not abandon hope. She racked her brain for possibilities and probabilities. Perhaps there had been another boat in which her husband and the Captain escaped. They might have been discovered and rescued by some vessel bound to America, or, perhaps, some faraway foreign country. He would let them know as soon as he reached land.
Aunt Ella, though naturally optimistic, did not, in her own heart, share Alice's hopeful anticipations. Perhaps Florence's somewhat extravagant account of the collision and the events which followed it led her to form the opinion that her nephew's escape from death was impossible.
Hope takes good root, but it is a flower that, too often, has no blossom. A month passed—two—three—four—five—six—and then despair filled the young wife's heart. She could bear up no longer, and Dr. Parshefield made frequent visits.
Aunt Ella pressed the fatherless infant to her breast.
“What shall you name him, Alice?”
“There can be but one name for him. God sent us two little girls, but took them back again. We both wished for a son, and Heaven has sent one, but has taken the father from us.”
“And you will name him—”
“Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior,” was the answer. “It is his birthright.”
“But,” said Aunt Ella, “they never add Junior to a boy's name unless his father is living.”
Alice sat up in bed, and her eyes flashed as she said,
“My heart has renewed its hope with this young life. I believe my husband still lives, and, until I have conclusive proofs of his death, our son's name will be Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior.”
Time, it is said, will dull the deepest sorrow. There are some who put out of sight everything to remind them of the lost one, while others treasure every memento, and never tire of recalling the virtues of the departed.
In Alice's case the presence of her little boy was a constant reminder of her husband. In Aunt Ella she found a willing listener, and talking of her past happy married life aided greatly in restoring her nerve power and improving her general health.
She said one day, “Aunt Ella, don't you think it better to face your troubles bravely than to fly away from them?”
“I certainly do. You are following the right course, Alice; the same as I did when Robert died. Your parting with Quincy was sad, inexpressibly so, but imagine my feelings to awake and find my husband dead in the bed beside me. Did I try to forget him? You remember his rooms in the Mount Vernon Street house. They became my Mecca—the place to which I went when I had a 'blue fit,' or was depressed in any way. God has sent you a child to keep your husband's memory fresh. I repeat, Alice, you are doing the right thing.”
“I do it,” said Alice, “for two reasons. One is that it makes me happy. The other is, that believing that my husband still lives, I wish to bring up his son so that he will be proud of him.”
Florence, after awhile, made a confidante of Aunt Ella and told her about Captain Hornaby. She confessed her interest in him and said that notwithstanding his crime she loved him, but that her father would never forgive him.
“What part of England did he come from?” asked Aunt Ella.
“He said from Hornaby—that the place was named after his family. Their home was called Hornaby Hook, because, as he said, it was built upon a promontory in the form of a hook.”
“What is his father's name?”
“Sir Wilfred, and Reginald is the fourth son.”
“No chance of his ever getting the title,” remarked Aunt Ella.
“I wonder where Hornaby Hook is,” said Florence.
“That's easily found out. Linda hasBurke's Peerageand I'll write to her to-day.”
Lady Fernborough more than kept her promise, for in her letter she told the Countess Florence's unhappy love story besides asking for information about the Hornaby family.
Linda's reply was a revelation.
“I was very sorry to hear that Quincy's sister has been so unfortunate in her love affair, and astonished to find that Captain Hornaby is the cause of it. You will be surprised to learn that Algernon is well acquainted with Sir Wilfred who is an old-fashioned English gentleman and the soul of honour. He has met the Captain and thought him a fine young fellow. Hornaby Hook is on the Sussex coast about ten miles from us. Come and see us and bring Florence with you. Perhaps there is an explanation of the affair which the Captain can give. He should not be condemned without a hearing. Give my love to Alice and tell her I'm coming to see that baby very soon. With love, ever yours, LINDA.”
Aunt Ella was now in her element. There was a mystery to be explained and she held the key. She told Florence where Hornaby Hook was, and that the Hornaby family was a fine one, and that Sir Wilfred was held in the highest respect by everybody, but did not mention Linda's suggestion of a visit, and a possible explanation. She knew Florence would not accompany her if there was any possibility of her meeting the Captain. It would appear as though she was running after him, and no American girl, especially a Sawyer, would do that.
Sir Stuart was greatly interested in young Quincy, and Mrs. Villiers, the housekeeper, thought him the handsomest and best baby she had ever seen. Thus the way was paved for the first step in Aunt Ella's plot.
“Alice, do you think you would be very lonesome if I went away for a week?”
“Why no, Aunt Ella. Why should I be? I have the baby, and Sir Stuart and Mrs. Villiers are both goodness itself to me.”
“Florence is not looking very well. Don't you think a week at the seashore would do her good?”
“I wish she could go, poor girl. When I think of her, I say to myself that I have no right to be unhappy. If Quincy is dead, he died nobly, to save others. But the shame connected with Captain Hornaby is what Florence feels so deeply.”
That same day Aunt Ella wrote to Linda that she was coming with Florence, and that Algernon and she must arrange in some way to bring about that “explanation.”
Algernon, Earl of Sussex, and the Countess Linda lived at Ellersleigh in the County of Sussex, not many miles from historic Hastings. To Aunt Ella and Florence they extended a warm and heartfelt welcome, and Florence, used as she was to the luxuries of life, could not but marvel at the beauty and even splendour that surrounded the Countess—once an American country girl named Linda Putnam.
“I have sent out cards for a dinner party next Thursday,” said Linda to Aunt Ella. “There will be an opportunity for that 'explanation,' but you must assume the responsibility if there should be a tragic ending.”
“We must hope for the best,” replied Aunt Ella. “I will gather up the fragments after the explosion.”
From the expression on Florence's face, when Sir Wilfred Hornaby and Captain Reginald Hornaby were announced as guests, the explosion seemed imminent.
In her mind, she had looked forward to such a meeting with a sensation of delight. Now that it had come her pride was up in arms. She had been tricked into coming. The Countess and Aunt Ella had arranged this meeting. Perhaps he had been told that she would be present. Well, if they did meet, he would have to do the talking. She had no explanation to make. If he had one, he must introduce the subject.
At the dinner Florence sat next to Sir Wilfred, but the Captain was far removed on the other side of the long table. Sir Wilfred was politely attentive. Did he know of his son's crime? Evidently not—but, if he did, he had condoned the offence. But how could he if he was the man of honour that the Countess had pictured him in her letter to Aunt Ella? No, the son had deceivedhisfather as he hadherfather. Did she really love him? Had she forgiven him? If he had proposed when Florence was in that state of uncertainty, his rejection would have been swift and positive.
When the dinner was over, the Captain, apparently unconscious of guilt, approached Florence. He offered his arm.
“Will you come with me, Miss Sawyer? I have a very important question to ask you.”
Should she go? He was going to ask her a question. She had many to ask him. This unpleasant uncertainty must end—now, was the accepted time.
She took his arm, and he made his way to the conservatory—that haven of confidences, where so many lovers have been made happy, or unhappy.
“Why have you not answered my letters?” he said.
“I never received them.” Her voice was cold, and she removed her hand from his arm.
“I sent them in your father's care.”
“That is probably the reason why I did not get them.”
“Why should he refuse to give them to you? I borrowed money from him but I repaid him before I left America.”
He thought she was not acquainted with his perfidy. She would undeceive him.
“Did you tell him the truth when you borrowed it?”
His face flushed. How could she know? But she did. He would be honest with her.
“No, I did not.”
“I knew it. My sister Maude recovered your coat, but there was no money or bills of exchange in your pocket book—only a few visiting cards bearing the name of Col. Arthur Spencer.”
The young man bowed his head. He was guilty. She would leave him without another word. She turned to go. He caught her hand, which she, indignantly, withdrew from his grasp.
“I will explain, Miss Sawyer.” Was he going to tell the truth, or invent another story?
“Arthur Spencer was the Colonel of the first regiment with which I was connected. I do not belong to it now. He is a poor man, and an inveterate gambler. I had not seen him for two years, when we met in New York just before I went to Boston. You are tired, Miss Sawyer.”
He pointed to a seat beneath some palms, and led her, unresistingly, to it.
“He asked me to dinner with him, and I went. Then he suggested a game of cards while we smoked and I foolishly consented. The stakes, at first, were small, and he won rapidly. He increased his bets and I was forced, against my will, to meet them. When we stopped playing, he had not only won all my money, but had my 'I O U' for three hundred dollars. I had to borrow money from him to pay my hotel bill and fare to Boston.”
Florence nodded. She could not speak.
“I had letters of introduction to Boston families—among them, your own. When that accident happened—” she looked up at him inquiringly—
{Illustration: “You have acknowledged that you are a gambler}
“No, don't think that of me—it was not intentional on my part—I was without money—the Colonel must be paid—my allowance was not due for ten days—I invented the story that I told your father.”
“It was a lie!” Florence choked as she uttered the accusing words.
“Yes, it was a lie, and one for which I have sincerely repented, I told my father, and he forgave me, but said, as the coat was gone, to let the matter drop, that nothing would be gained by confessing to your father as he had been paid, and had met with no loss.”
Florence sprang to her feet. “No loss!” she cried. “How can you say that? You have acknowledged that you are a gambler and a liar—why not finish the story and confess your crime?”
“Crime, Florence! What do you mean?”
Her lips curled
“You do not know what I mean?”
“No, as God hears me, I do not. You accuse me—of what?”
She felt that the crux was reached. “Did you not know when the check for five hundred dollars came back to my father's bank that it had been raised to five thousand dollars?”
The Captain reeled, and came near falling. He clutched at the palm tree which sustained him until he regained his footing.
“My God! And you have thought me the thief!”
“What else could I think?”
“I can't understand.... I met Col. Spencer in Boston—those birds of prey always follow their victims, and gave him the check, receiving two hundred dollars in return. He must have—and yet I cannot believe he would do such a thing. He is in London now. To-morrow I will go and find him.”
“But if he denies it—how can you prove him guilty?”
“Unless he frees my name from such a charge—I will challenge him—and kill him!”
Florence could no longer act as accuser. Her heart plead for the young Englishman who had confessed his error, but who so strenuously denied his participation in a crime. “Miss Sawyer, will you mercifully suspend judgment until my return from London?”
She did not reply in words, but gave him her hand.
When they rejoined the company both Linda and Aunt Ella noticed Florence's heightened colour and the brightness of her eyes.
“He must have explained,” said Linda, “when an occasion offered.”
“I hope so,” was Aunt Ella's reply, and she felicitated herself upon the success of their joint plot.