For some time after rejoining the company, Florence was so busy with her thoughts that she paid little attention to what was going on about her. She was aroused from her abstraction by a sharp voice:
“Don't you think Captain Hornaby is a very handsome young man?” Florence looked and found that her questioner was Lady Elfrida Hastings, the only sister of the Earl. When that lady had visited them at Nahant, she had considered her the embodiment of all the female virtues. She recalled her statuesque repose, and her aristocratic manner which had so pleased her father. She also remembered the morning when she was discovered by Maude practising the Lady Elfrida's poses, and her sister's inquiry as to whether she had a chill and wanted the quinine pills.
Feeling the necessity of saying something, she replied: “I haven't noticed him particularly.”
The Lady Elfrida, perfect gentlewoman that she was, said severely, for her, “Your failure to do so, certainly was not due to lack of opportunity.”
So, her long absence in his company had been noticed. She was at a loss for a reply, when to her great relief the Earl approached and asked if she would play a certain piece which he had admired very much when in America.
“What was its name?”
“I can't remember,” said the Earl. “It ran something like this,” and he hummed a few measures.
“Oh,” cried Florence, “Old Folks at Home.” The scene through which she had gone with the Captain had awakened deep emotions, and her voice was in the temperamental condition to give a sadly-weird effect to the lines of the chorus. When she sang
“Oh, my heart is sad and weary”
the Lady Elfrida turned to Mrs. Ellice, the Rector's wife, and remarked, “There was a rumour that Captain Hornaby was greatly interested in Miss Sawyer, but from something she told me to-night I do not think it will be a match.”
“Why, what did she say?” asked Mrs. Ellice with natural feminine curiosity as regards love affairs.
“I hardly feel warranted in repeating it,” said the Lady Elfrida, “as it was given to me in confidence.”
Later in the evening the Lady Elfrida sought Captain Hornaby. “My dear Captain, don't you think Miss Sawyer sings divinely?”
The Captain, with his mind on Col. Spencer and the tenfold check, replied, rather brusquely, “I'm not a great lover of negro melodies.”
The Lady Elfrida felt sure that Captain Hornaby was still an “eligible,” but she reflected that he was a fourth son and dependent upon the bounty of his father and elder brother, and that her dowry must come from her brother who, in her opinion, had a very extravagant wife—but none of those American girls had any idea of economy.
The next morning, Captain Hornaby went to London in search of Colonel Spencer. He visited his clubs, and, because it was necessary, many of the gambling places, but his quest was fruitless. As a last resort he went to the War Office and learned that the Colonel had sailed the day before to join his regiment in India.
The Captain reported the failure of his mission to Florence.
“I have been talking the matter over with Aunt Ella. She advises me to send a cable message to father asking what bank the check was deposited in and by whom.”
“He may have cashed it at your father's bank,” said the Captain.
“Then Aunt Ella says my father can see the bank officers and make sure that the Colonel got the money.”
“I will go back to London to-morrow and send the message in your name.”
“The story deepens,” said the Captain, when he returned with the reply from the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer. It read,
“State National. Deposited five hundred. Revere House. Interviewed my bank.”
“What does it mean?” asked Florence. “So many words are omitted. I can't make sense of it.”
“It means,” said the Captain, “that Col. Spencer is innocent. He was staying at the Revere House when I paid him his three hundred dollars. He must have cashed your father's check at the hotel, they paying him five hundred dollars only, and they, I mean the hotel proprietors, deposited it in their bank, the State National.”
“But what do the last three words mean?”
“They mean that some one in your father's bank raised the check and he has seen the bank officers about it.”
“I'm so glad,” cried Florence. “You must come and explain it all to Aunt Ella.”
She was greatly pleased to learn that Captain Hornaby was innocent of any complicity in the embezzlement, and said to Florence: “You will get a letter from your father telling you who the real criminal is,” and turning to the Captain, continued, “We go back to Fernborough Hall to-morrow, Captain Hornaby, but when that letter comes we will send for you.”
“I can bear the suspense now that Colonel Spencer and myself are free from any charge of criminality, but I greatly regret, Miss Sawyer, that your father has met with such a heavy loss.”
“Don't worry, yet, Captain,” said Aunt Ella. “Florence's father won't be out any money if there's any legal way of making the bank bear the loss.”
When Aunt Ella and Florence returned to Fernborough Hall they told Alice the wonderful story.
“I am so glad for your sake, Florence, and the Captain's too. I think Aunt Ella's suggestion about sending the cablegram to your father was an excellent one.”
The story was told, also, to Sir Stuart. He was gratified to learn that two officers of Her Majesty's army had been freed from the charge of embezzlement, but deplored the fact that gambling was so prevalent among them.
“I am an Englishman born and bred,” said he, “but I think the law of primogeniture is, as a general rule, a bad one. Driving, as it does, the younger sons into the army, the navy, the church, and the law may be beneficial, for the branches of our national defence and the professions must be recruited from a stratum of intelligent men; the lack of money may be a spur to ambition in many instances, but it often leads to devious practices, and—” he saw that he had three interested listeners—“the whole system is contrary to your countrymen's idea that all men are created free and equal. While I cannot accept that doctrinein toto, I do believe that the bestowal of titles and fortune upon the eldest son is attended with grave evils, not only among our nobility, but in our royal successions. The Almighty does not follow such a law in endowing his children, and it is contrary to Nature'sdictum'the survival of the fittest.'”
Sir Stuart had expressed such opinions during his term in Parliament. The path of the political pioneer is strewn with temporary defeats, but all reforms, based upon truth, are ultimately successful, or life would be a stagnant pool instead of a river of progress.
A letter from Maude contained a solution of the mystery.
“DEAR AUNT ELLA AND SISTER FLO:—What a rumpus there has been about that raised check. Father was as dumb as an oyster about the affair until he had it all settled, then he told ma and me.
“How you two feminines must have suffered—one from hopeless love—and the other from helpless sympathy. But it is all over now, and the probity of two, presumably, gallant officers is vindicated, while the paying teller of father's bank is behind the bars with a certain prospect of years of manual labour for bed and board. Why will men be so foolish? Easily answered. The love of gold, not made in an honest way, but by speculating with other folks' money. Mr. Barr, the aforesaid teller, is a nice young fellow with a wife and two children, but his life is wrecked. Of course she will get a divorce and try to find a better man. We are all well, including Mr. Merry. He intended to take the place in father's office that Quincy spoke about, but Harry—there, I've written it, so will let it go—had a better position offered him by Mr. Curtis Carter, one of Quincy's old friends, and he's doing splendidly Mr. Carter told me.
“I am heartbroken about Quincy. I trust Alice's hopes may be realized and most of the time I share them.
“How's that nephew of mine? Send him over and we'll bring him up a Yankee boy. He's no Englishman.
“We are all well, and everybody sends love to everybody. MAUDE.
“P. S. Father didn't lose anything on the check. The bank paid the money back to him.”
* * * * * * *
Aunt Ella kept her promise to the Captain and the part of Maude's letter which concerned the check was read to him. He improved his opportunity by asking Florence to be his wife.
“My father was greatly pleased with you and will welcome you as a daughter.”
“Whether my father will welcome you as a son is the question,” said Florence. “My father is a very wealthy man. I know the conventionalities and requirements of English life, and although my love for you is not dependent upon your having or not having a fortune, I cannot become a burden to you, or dependent upon your family, as I might become if my father refused his consent.”
“You American girls are intensely practical.”
“Are not Englishmen equally so when they pay court to American heiresses? I don't mean you, of course.”
“My father and brothers will allow me twenty-five hundred pounds a year, about twelve thousand dollars of your money.”
“Could we live, as we have both lived, on that income, Reginald?”
“To be honest, Florence, I don't think we could have a town house, a place in the country, and entertain much.”
“Certainly not, Reginald. If my father gives his consent, I will be your wife whenever you say. If he refuses, we must wait.”
The next mail brought a short letter for Florence from her sister.
“DEAR FLO:—I didn't want to put what I'm going to write now in my other letter. I suppose Reggie will propose now. Don't you accept him until Father is told. You love money and style, and the first enables you to indulge in the second.
“I don't blame Reggie for borrowing if he was hard up, but knew he could pay. But most men are deceitful creatures, anyway. Don't let Aunt Ella write to father. He was always sore about her influence over Quincy, and he mustn't think Aunt Ella made this match. If the Countess would write him, puffing up Reggie's ancestors, and his blue blood and ancestral home, and a hint (I hope it is so) that the Hornaby's are a very wealthy family and related (distantly of course) to royalty, Pater may say 'yes,' and give you his blessing. I do, if that will help any. Your loving sister,
* * * * * * *
Florence had to make confidantes of Aunt Ella and Alice. She repeated her conversation with Reginald and allowed them to read Maude's letter.
“Maude has a level head,” was Aunt Ella's comment. “I'll go and have a talk with Linda. If she will write your father in the Captain's behalf, I think things will come out all right.”
Linda was not only willing to assure the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer that Capt. Hornaby belonged to an old and honourable family, but also that he did not seek his daughter's hand because her father was a wealthy man, for the Hornaby estate was a large one, and the rentals sufficient to allow the Captain an adequate income, although there were other brothers to share the patrimony.
The Hon. Nathaniel deliberated before answering. Florence had always been a dutiful daughter and the fact that she would not become engaged without his consent was an acknowledgment of his parental influence which was vastly pleasing to his vanity. He had been tricked into accepting Alice as his son's wife, and he knew that Maude, when she made up her mind to marry would be guided little, if any, by his advice. Filial love and respect deserved their reward.
He wrote the Countess giving his consent to the marriage, and, what was most important, declared his intention of allowing Mrs. Captain Hornaby an income of fifteen thousand dollars annually, and a liberal provision at his death. He was very sorry, but pressing legal duties would prevent his attendance at the wedding if it took place in England.
The Countess insisted upon the wedding taking place at Ellersleigh. She had obtained the, otherwise, obdurate father's consent, and demanded compensation for her services.
So many weddings have been described that novelty in that line is impossible. Sufficient to say that the Countess fulfilled expectations and more, and the event was the year's sensation in Sussex, the echoes of which reached imperial London, and far off democratic America.
The Lady Elfrida Hastings was present at the wedding. She congratulated the Captain and his bride, but took occasion to say to the latter,—
“My dear, don't sing those sentimental American songs any more. That night you looked sotristeI was afraid the present delightful affair would never become a reality.”
Florence did not confess that, on the evening in question, she had misgivings herself.
The Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer sat in his library reading a ponderous legal document. It was full of knotty points requiring deep thinking, and the Hon. Nathaniel was breathing deeply and thinking deeply when the door was opened quietly and a young girl looked in. She stood for a moment regarding the reader.
“Father, are you very busy?”
The man finished reading the page before noticing the speaker.
“I am always busy, Maude, except when asleep, and I sometimes think my subliminal consciousness is active then.”
Maude's inclination was to say “Oh, my!” but she repressed the ejaculation.
“I can give you a few minutes, Maude, if the subject is an important one. Come in.”
Maude entered, seated herself, folded her hands in her lap and regarded her father as a disobedient pupil would a teacher.
“Father—”
The Hon. Nathaniel was listening attentively.
“Father—”
“Repetition is effective if not indulged in to excess. I often use it in my arguments before juries.”
Maude flushed. She was particularly sensitive to sarcasm, but could stand any amount of good-natured raillery.
“Father, I'm going to be married.”
The Hon. Nathaniel readjusted his glasses and regarded the speaker.
“It must be a clandestine attachment. I am not aware of meeting any gentleman who declared any desire to make you his wife. At whose house have you met your intended? I have no reason to suspect your Aunt Ella owing to her absence in Europe.”
“I've never been to anybody's house. I've walked with him on the Common and in the Public Garden.”
“Ah, two parks frequented by the elite of the city.”
Maude resented his last remark. “Just as good people as I am go there.”
“Do you mean that you are no better than those who go there?”
His voice was stern. Maude saw that she had made a mistake. “Some of them,” she said in a low voice.
“Who is the favoured gentleman? Have I the honour of his acquaintance?”
“Why, yes, you've met him. It's Harry, I mean Mr. Merry.”
“The young man who was Quincy's private secretary. Quincy wished me to take him into my office, but he never appeared in person.”
“He's with Mr. Curtis Carter on Tremont Street. Mr. Carter was one of Quincy's most intimate friends.”
“And Mr. Merry preferred going to one of Quincy's friends, than to me, and criminal cases rather than civil procedure. Mr. Carter revels in murder trials. But why has this young man failed to consult me on a matter so greatly affecting your future? Why have you assumed the initiative? This is not leap year.”
Maude was ready to cry, but she choked down her rising temper.
“I think he's afraid to.”
“What has he done that he should fear me?”
Maude made another mistake. “He never borrowed any money of you.”
The Hon. Nathaniel disliked any reference to that raised check. “If he marries you, perhaps he will find it difficult to support you without borrowing money—but I shall not loan him any.”
“He says he can support me as well as I wish, and I am going to marry him.”
This was flat-footed defiance, and the Hon. Nathaniel grew red in the face at being thus bearded in his den.
“Maude, I am astonished. I command you not to meet this young man again unless in my presence or that of your mother. When I meet him, I shall have something to say to him.”
He resumed the reading of the document, and Maude, knowing that it was useless to say more, left the room.
The next day at noon, Maude told her mother she was going to make some purchases on Winter Street. As no objection was made, Maude felt sure that her father had not mentioned their conversation to her mother. She met Harry and they walked down the “Long Path” on the Common, made famous by the genial “Autocrat,” not only of one breakfast table, but of thousands of others.
“He will never consent,” said Maude.
“I thought so.”
“He was real mean to me—as sarcastic as he could be.”
“Rich fathers are usually indignant when their daughters wish to marry poor men. He can have no other objection to me.”
“Have you any money saved up, Harry?”
“Yes, I've got two thousand dollars in the bank to furnish our flat with.”
“We shall have to go to a justice of the peace, for father will not let me be married at home. Oh, if Aunt Ella were here.”
“Where is she?”
“In England. She's the wife of a baronet, and he is rich and so is Aunt Ella.”
“Maude, let's elope and go to England for our honeymoon.”
* * * * * * *
Aunt Ella and Alice had been to Ketchley to make some purchases for young Quincy's wardrobe. As they entered the house a maid said that a young lady and gentleman were waiting to see them.
“Both of us?” queried Aunt Ella.
The maid replied: “They said they wished to see Lady Fernborough and Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer.”
“I will see if baby is all right and join you in a few minutes,” said Alice.
Aunt Ella passed her hat and wrap to the maid, and entered the drawing room.
“Maude Sawyer, what cloud did you drop from? Where did you come from? Excuse me,” said Aunt Ella as she espied Maude's companion, who had kept in the background.
“This is my husband, Mr. Harry Merry. We're just from London. We've been doing the town. What a big noisy place.”
Alice came in and the introduction was repeated.
“Well, Maude,” said Aunt Ella, “we're delighted to see you and your husband, but your arrival was so unexpected that you must pardon my evidences of surprise.”
“They're very excusable,” said Maude. “I can hardly realize, myself, that we are here. You and Alice are wondering what brought us, and you are entitled to an explanation. We just eloped because father would not give his consent.”
The presence of Mr. Merry made the situation an awkward one, but Aunt Ella was a woman with opinions and was not afraid to express them. So she said:
“I suppose your father will disinherit you. I hope that will not mar your future happiness.”
“I don't think it will. Harry has a good position, we've got some money in the bank, and we're going to have a nice little flat in Cambridge or Roxbury. I want to see my little nephew, Quincy's boy, and then we are going right back to London.”
“Come with me,” said Alice, “and see the baby, but Aunt Ella and I will never consent to your leaving us so soon. You must pay us a long visit.”
“I would,” replied Maude, “but for one thing father said to me. We will stay over night, for I have so much to tell both of you.”
“Come to the library,” said Aunt Ella. “I will introduce your husband to Sir Stuart, and then we will go to the nursery where we can talk as long as we wish.”
When they reached the nursery, Maude's first wish was gratified—she held, and hugged and kissed, and praised her brother's boy. Alice's face beamed with delight.
“Now, Maude,” exclaimed Aunt Ella, “why this runaway marriage? Tell us all about it.”
Maude laughed. “It's so funny. I told father I was going to marry Mr. Merry, and he about the same as said I shouldn't. He told me not to meet him again unless in his presence or mother's.”
“That was reasonable. Why did you object?” asked Aunt Ella.
“It wouldn't have done any good. He's opposed to Harry because he isn't rich. Was Nathaniel Adams Sawyer rich when he married your sister, Aunt Ella?”
“I should say not. They began housekeeping in three rooms, but my brother-in-law is a born money-maker.”
“We're going to have five rooms, and I think Harry has it in him to make money—at any rate I'm going to give him a chance and help him all I can.”
“How did you manage to get away?” asked Alice. She remembered that Quincy married her without his father's consent. But for the fact that she became famous by writing a popular book, he would never have welcomed her into the family. In fact, he had been “cornered” and had to surrender. So, she was full of sympathy for Maude, for her own fate might have been similar.
“That's the funny part,” said Maude. “I could get away easily enough, but I wanted my clothes and many things that I prized. I knew it was wrong, but I deceived my father. I am sorry for that, but I couldn't give Harry up.”
“What did you do?” asked Aunt Ella.
“Why, I told father if he wanted to get me away from Harry that he must let me come to England and see Florence. I didn't say I was coming to see you—”
“That wouldn't have appealed to him,” interrupted Aunt Ella.
Maude continued: “Then everything was plain sailing. He gave me money for an outfit, bought my ticket and return, found me a chaperone, a brother lawyer and his wife were coming over, and gave me five hundred dollars to spend. I consider that is my dowry, for I don't expect any more. Florence gets fifteen thousand a year and I get five hundred all in a lump. But I am not envious of Florence. She needs the money, and I don't.”
“Then your father does not know that you are married?” said Alice.
“Certainly not. Harry was on the same boat, but we never spoke to each other all the way over. We suspected that father had spoken to Mr. Harding or his wife about Harry, and so we were very circumspect and gave no cause for suspicion.”
“Well,” said Aunt Ella, “I will go with you to see Florence, but Mr. Merry—”
“Please call him Harry, Aunt Ella. Isn't he your nephew—in-law?”
“Then,” Aunt Ella continued, “Harry must stay here. Alice and I will think out some way of breaking the news to your father. I'm glad you told me the whole story, for I think I see a way to overcome his objections.”
The visit to Mrs. Captain Hornaby was paid, and Maude Sawyer was obliged to kiss and be kissed by her brother-in-law.
“You didn't win the canoe race,” said Maude, “but you were determined to have that kiss and so you married Florence;” but her sister was not present when she made the remark.
“Where is your friend, Colonel Spencer?”
“In India. I have never seen him since I gave him that check.”
“That paying teller got twenty years in prison for his penmanship,” said Maude. “Father thought you were the bad man until Aunt Ella sent the message that led father to investigate and find out who deposited the check. I was awful glad that you got out of it so nicely.”
“So was I,” said Reginald. “I hope some day I can help somebody else out of a bad box just to show my gratitude.”
Maude thought of her “bad box,” but Reginald could not help her or Harry.
“Are you going to India?” she asked. “How is it that you are not with the army?”
“I have sold my captaincy. Florence did not wish me to leave her, and my eldest brother decided the matter. He hates farming and accounts. I love both, so I am in charge of the estate. My brother Paul has been given a living as they call it in the church, and Geoffrey has entered the navy. My brother Wilfred will inherit the title, so we are all provided for.”
Aunt Ella and Alice had many long confabs about the young couple, and how to reinstate Maude in her father's good graces when the truth became known to him.
“I have an idea,” said Alice one morning to Aunt Ella. “Yesterday I had a letter from Dr. Paul Culver, one of the executors of Quincy's will. He says his practice is so great that he cannot do justice to my interests, and asks me to suggest some one to be appointed in his stead.”
“What's your idea? Though perhaps I can guess,” said Aunt Ella.
“I am going to suggest Mr. Merry. I had many talks with him while you were away with Maude, and I am deeply impressed in his favour. Are you surprised?”
“Not so much as you will be when I tell you that Florence and her husband are going back with Maude. Harry will have to go too, so something must be done. Now, you know that I gave Quincy an allowance of five thousand dollars a year when he was married. I am going to give it to Harry.”
“And why not let them live in the Mount Vernon Street house—until—” Her voice broke.
“I know what you were going to say, Alice. It is a good idea—all furnished and ready for occupancy. I shall never see it again—and you may not for years—for I can't spare you.”
“When do they sail?” Alice asked.
“In about a week. I'm going to write a letter to Sarah to-night to pave the way.”
It was midnight when Aunt Ella completed a letter that seemed to fit the case.
“MY DEAR SISTER SARAH:—I write to let you know that Florence and her husband will sail for America in about a week. This may not be news to you, for probably Florence has written you, but it will be news when I tell you that Maude and her husband, Mr. Merry, will sail on the same steamer. They have visited Florence and are now here with me.
“I presume Nathaniel will be very angry, and he may say that I am responsible, as he did in Quincy's case. I did help Quincy and Alice and I am going to help Maude and Harry. I am going to allow them five thousand a year and Alice gives them the free use of the Mount Vernon Street house. She has written Nathaniel about Mr. Merry taking Dr. Culver's place as one of Quincy's executors.
“Now, if Nathaniel gets very angry and threatens to disinherit Maude, just ask him, for me, why it is that all his children have been married away from home. Has it always been their fault, or is his home discipline in part, or wholly, the cause? It didn't make so much difference in Quincy's case, but here in England no girl is married outside of her father's house, unless it be in church.
“Your children are now all married, and, I think, well married. Let Nathaniel make the best of it, and, instead of keeping up a family warfare, change his tactics and become an indulgent, loving father.
“Your sister,
“P. S. Let Nathaniel read this letter. It will do him good.”
Aunt Ella read her letter over before sealing it. There was a quiet smile on her face as she pressed the seal upon the melted wax. Then she soliloquized:
“Yes, it will do him good to read that letter. He has no one else to boss now but Sarah, but she doesn't resist, and ready acquiescence takes away the pleasure of domineering. The boss wishes to break stout twigs, not simply press down pliant willows.” There came a sharp rap upon the door—it was thrown open, and Alice entered.
“Oh, Aunt Ella, Quincy is very sick. He is choked up so he can hardly breathe. I'm afraid it is the croup.”
“We must send for Dr. Parshefield at once. But who can go? Henry injured his foot to-day and cannot walk. Lennon, the butler, cannot ride a horse, and Simon, the stable boy, would be frightened to death so late at night.”
“Oh, what shall we do?” cried Alice.
“Do?” exclaimed Aunt Ella. “I'll go myself. It's only two miles to Ketchley and I can ride back with the Doctor. I'll get Harry to help me harness the horse. Open the windows to give your boy plenty of air, and fan him.”
She took up the oil lamp that stood upon her writing table. “This is whale oil—a nauseous smelling compound. Rub his neck and chest well with it.”
Alice sought the nursery and followed Aunt Ella's directions. She was sitting by the crib watching her child's laboured breathing when her aunt returned.
“Harry is going on horseback. He knows the road to Ketchley and where the Doctor lives. Give him some more of the oil.”
It was administered and the child began to choke—he seemed to be strangling—then the phlegm that had impeded his breathing was thrown off, and his face resumed its natural colour. When the Doctor arrived an hour later, he was sleeping quietly. Aunt Ella told what they had done by way of emergency treatment.
“Evidently a very effective treatment,” said Dr. Parshefield. “I could not have done better myself.”
“It was so good of you, Harry,” said Alice. “I shall never forget your kindness.”
Then she threw her arms about Aunt Ella's neck.
“Oh, Auntie, if he had been taken from me, I could not have borne it.”
It had been arranged while Aunt Ella and Maude were at Ellersleigh that Florence and her husband should come to Fernborough Hall and make a visit before their departure for the United States. Owing to Harry's presence at the Hall it became necessary, when they arrived, to divulge the well-kept secret of Maude's unconventional marriage.
Aunt Ella managed the introduction with her usual straightforwardness, treating it as a matter of course. Florence and her husband were naturally surprised, but both of them liked Harry Merry. Had Florence been married at home, with the usual family friends and accessories, she would have looked with less tolerance on Maude's elopement. To be sure she had not eloped, but when she looked into her own heart she had to confess to herself that she would have married Reginald even if her parents had refused their consent. So, as the intent makes the offence, she forgave Maude for her escapade, and during their stay at the Hall they manifested more sisterly regard for each other than they had ever before shown.
Reginald and Harry “hitched horses” at once. Men who marry sisters are united by a stronger tie than the usual brother-in-law bond, and the Englishman and the American felicitated themselves upon their capture of the Sawyer sisters. They played billiards on a table where the balls had not clicked for a generation. They smoked in a room which had been free from the odour of tobacco for a score of years. They rode horseback upon steeds whose principal duty, as Harry expressed it, had been to “heat their 'eads horff.” They even fished in the miniature lake and gave their catch to dogs who knew so little about real sport that they thought the fish were game. They took long walks together and knew by name every man, woman, and child on the estate. The conservative Englishman, if alone, would not have gone so far, but the democratic American took the lead, and politeness, if not inclination, forced his companion to follow.
They often passed an evening with Sir Stuart in his library. The Captain related incidents in his military life, while Harry, who had been a great reader, drew on both memory and imagination for tales of the Great West, with an occasional ghost story, supported by irrefutable witnesses. The day before their departure, Aunt Ella took Florence to her boudoir and told her what she had written tohersister, Nathaniel's wife, about her children's marriages.
“I hope Sarah will let your father read my letter. I said just what I thought, and I shall stand by Maude and her husband come what may.”
“And so will I,” cried Florence. “You helped Reginald by solving the mystery of that check, and I will do all I can to help Maude and Harry. I think he is a fine fellow, and Reggie says they have become like two brothers.”
“I am glad to hear,” said Aunt Ella, “that they are bound by love as well as by law.”
In about a month there came a long letter from Maude.
“DEAR AUNT ELLA AND SISTER ALICE:—I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin. We had a fine trip—no storms—and none of us missed a meal, which was bad for the company. But they made up their loss on others who ate a supper on leaving England and a breakfast on reaching America.
“Mother was delighted to see us and father was so nice to us all that I came near fainting. He is a changed man. I wonder what drug he has been taking.”
* * * * * * *
“Didn't you tell Maude about your letter to her mother?” asked Alice.
“No, I told Florence, but thought Maude would appreciate the change now,ifit took place, if she was ignorant of what influence had been brought to bear on her father.”
Aunt Ella continued the reading.
* * * * * * *
“Harry and I have been to Fernborough. Alice's brother sent us word that Uncle Isaac Pettingill was dead and we went to the funeral. He had no complaint. He was tired out, so Mrs. Maxwell told us, and went to sleep. He left each of Mrs. Maxwell's boys five thousand dollars, and the same amount to Quincy Adams Pettingill. The remainder of his fortune, I don't know how much, is bequeathed to build a free hospital in Fernborough.
“There's another good man dead—Deacon Mason,—and his wife has gone to live with her daughter, Mrs. Pettingill. That funny little man, Mr. Stiles, has gone there too.
“I saw Mrs. Hawkins, and she said: 'I mos' cried my eyes out when I heerd 'bout that collision at sea, an' what it did. I can't see no sense in them captains bein' so careless and reckless. Tell Miss Alice I wish she'd come home and bring that boy. I want ter see ef he looks like his father.'
“I came near forgetting what to me is the most important part of my letter. Harry has been appointed as Quincy's executor in place of Dr. Culver, and, this is the wonderful thing, father has induced Harry to leave Mr. Carter's office and go into his office. He told Harry that they were all getting old and they needed young blood in the firm—but Harry's not in the firm yet. No more this time from your loving,
“My letter to Sarah did do some good,” said Aunt Ella triumphantly.
“Poor Uncle Ike, I wish I could have been with him. I wonder if I shall ever see Fernborough again?”
Aunt Ella did not answer the question as she would have liked to, and Alice went to her room to recall those former happy days which would never come again.
Nearly nine years had passed since young Quincy's birth, and Alice was still at Fernborough Hall. She could not leave it now, for Aunt Ella was again a widow. Her mind was troubled about her boy. He had recurrent attacks of throat trouble, and was not strong as she wished him to be.
“It's the damp, foggy weather,” said Aunt Ella. “We're too near the water, and this country, beautiful as it is, is not like our bright America.”
Dr. Parshefield suggested a trip to the South of France, but Alice declared that was impossible.
“Something must be done—now what shall it be?” was Aunt Ella's declaration and inquiry. Then Alice remembered what Maude had said in one of her letters—that young Quincy should be brought up as an American. She spoke to Aunt Ella about the matter, repeating what Maude had written.
“Where could we send him?”
“Thewhereis not so important” Aunt Ella remarked, “as theto whom. Florence and Maude are both out of the question for they have young children of their own who might, or might not, take to an outsider. Quincy's mother would be delighted to have him for he is her son's son, but Boston, with its east winds would be no better than here. Besides, his grandfather would say that he'd raised one family of disobedient children and he wanted a quiet life.”
The question remained unsettled that day, but the next morning Aunt Ella burst into Alice's room with a loud cry—
“Eureka! I have it! Why didn't we think of it before?”
“You say you have it,” said Alice, “but what is it? That pattern that you were looking for?”
“No, a happy home for this youngster,” as she patted his curly head lovingly.
“Now, can't you guess?”
Alice shook her head.
“Well, I must say, you are not a very thoughtfulsister,” and the last word was strongly emphasized.
“What, do you mean—'Zekiel?” cried Alice.
“The very man, and Fernborough is the place. You must write to your brother at once.”
As Alice was writing the thought came to her, “Perhaps if my boy goes to Fernborough, some day I may go to see him, and the old town, and the people there, once more.”
In due time a reply came from 'Zekiel. It was short, but to the point. “Huldy will be delighted to have him. Our boy Quincy is nearly fourteen years old now and he'll take good care of his little cousin. I'll try and be a father to him until you come for him.”
The important question, “How was the boy to reach America?” was answered by one of those happy coincidences which happen often in books and occasionally in real life, such as is being depicted. The Rev. Mr. Gay, who had been a constant visitor to Uncle Ike during his last days, paid a visit to Fernborough Hall on his return from a trip to the Holy Land.
“Heaven must have sent you,” said Alice, and she told him of her desire to have her boy go to Fernborough.
Mr. Gay consented to take charge of young Quincy. In a few days the parting came. The mother's heart was sorely tried. But mother-love is unselfish, and Alice's only consolation came from the conviction that her temporary loss was for her son's permanent good.
Her nights were sleepless, filled with thoughts of accidents, and storms and collisions at sea, until a welcome letter dispelled her imaginings, for it brought the intelligence that young Quincy was safe with his father's friends.