That flow strewed wrecks about the grass;That ebb swept out the flocks to sea.A fatal ebb and flow, alas!To many more than mine and me.—Jean Ingelow.
The day after the terrible disaster the sun arose upon a scene of awful desolation!
Great was the devastation of lands and dwellings, and the destruction of life and property, by the memorable Black Valley flood!
The Black Valley itself, from its very form, position, and circumstances, seemed doomed to suffer tremendously from such a disaster.
It was a long, deep, and narrow valley, shut in by two high mountain ridges, which, interlocked in rude rocky precipices at its higher extremity, where the Black Torrent, dashing down the steeps, formed the head of the Black River, which, fed by many other mountain springs, ran down the whole length of the valley, and past the village of Blackville at its lower end.
By the fatal deluge of rain, all the mountain springs were raised to torrents, and the Black Torrent was swollen to a cataract, and all poured down vast floods of water into the Black River, which rose and overflowed its banks even to the mountains' side; so that the Black Valley became a black lake.
The advance of the day, and the retreat of the waters, showed at length the full extent of the disaster.
The dwellings in the valley, and in the village at its foot, were nearly all swept away. Only the strongest buildings, and those on the highest grounds, escaped destruction.
The hotel, the court-house, and the church, were each damaged, but not destroyed.
The prison was carried away, and several of the prisoners drowned.
The family of Dr. Hart were saved. Though more than once submerged, they clung to the floating roof, until they were carried down into calmer waters, where they were picked up by the men who were out in boats to rescue the drowning.
The Black Hall Manor suffered severely. The Hall itself was too strongly built, and upon too high ground, to be even endangered; but its detached offices and laborers' cottages were swept away by the flood. Their inmates happily had saved themselves by speedy flight up the mountain side, and were found the next day safe at Black Hall, where they had taken refuge.
But the sunlight also discovered many more wretches made homeless by the flood, and now sitting and shuddering upon the rocks, up and down the mountain sides.
But the dwellings of all those who had been so fortunate as to escape injury by the flood, were freely opened to receive the homeless sufferers.
It was late in the day before the condition of the ground enabled Lyon Berners, attended by some villagers, to seek the site of the late prison.
Not a vestige of the building remained. The very spot on which it had once stood was unrecognizable—a vast morass of mud and wreck.
The warden and his family, with Miss Pendleton and a few of the officers of the prison, were found about a mile beyond the scene, grouped together on a high hill, and utterly overcome, in mind and body, by the combined influences of cold and hunger, grief and horror.
"For the Lord's sake, where is my wife? where is Sybil?" anxiously inquired Lyon Berners, though scarcely knowing whether he hoped or feared she might be alive.
Beatrix Pendleton, who had sat with her head bowed down upon her knees, now raised it and said:
"Heaven knows! I tried to make them go and save her; but they would not! I refused to leave the prison without her, but they forced me on the boat."
"We couldn't have saved her," spoke the warden; "her cell was right at the corner of the building, at the joining of the creek and the river. It was overflowed before we got there, and the water, which must a busted in the window, was a rushing down the corridor and filling up the place so fast, that we had to run up the stairs to the next story to save our own lives."
"Heaven's will be done!" groaned Lyon Berners, who, heart-broken as he was, scarcely understood or believed the warden's explanation, or knew whether he himself were merely resigned, or really rejoiced that his wife had met this fate now, rather than lived to await a still more horrible one.
"And the poor woman who was attending her, and the young child, have also perished?" added Mr. Berners, after a pause, and in an interrogative tone.
Beatrix nodded sadly, and the warden said:
"Yes, sir, of course, which they all three being in the cell together, shared the same fate! And if we could a reskeed one, we could a reskeed all!"
"And where are your other prisoners?" inquired Mr. Berners.
"Some on 'em was drownded, sir, unavoidably. And some on 'em we reskeed by taking of 'em through the windows, and on to the boat; but Lord love you, sir, they give us leg bail the first chance they got; which who could blame them? Most on them as we reskeed has made off up the mountain, sir; and little use it would be to try to catch them, sir, even if we succeeded, seeing as we have got no place to lock 'em up. And as for me, my 'okkerpation'sgone,' as the man says in the play! But I'm not thinking of myself, sir. I'm mortal sorry for the poor wretches called so sudden to their accounts," added the warden, brushing the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
"Come, Martin," said Mr. Berners, who, even in the midst of his own despair, could not forget the claims of humanity—"Come, Martin! You and your companions in misfortune cannot sit here longer without great danger to health and life! You must get up and come away. The road, though very difficult, is passable, you see, since we come by it. Come away!"
"Come where? To the alms-house, I suppose," groaned the warden, dropping his head in his hands.
"My poor fellow, the alms-house has gone with the rest. There is no alms-house now."
"Then we may as well stay here and die; for there is no other place for us to go," groaned the ruined man.
"There are half a hundred places to go to. Every house that has been spared by the flood has, in gratitude to Heaven, opened its doors to receive those who are rendered homeless by this disaster. Come, my good friend; come with your companions to the village hotel. A number of us who have lost no property by the flood, have already clubbed together for the relief of those who have lost all. Come! if you sit here longer you will surely catch your death."
The warden arose with a groan; and his example was followed by all his comrades.
"My dear Beatrix, take my arm," said Mr. Berners, helping Miss Pendleton to rise.
"My brother! Where is my brother? He was far enough off to be safe from the flood; but why is he not here now."
"My dear Beatrix, he could not possibly get here yet. As soon as the water shall have settled he will come, no doubt," said Mr. Berners, as he led her down the hill towards the village.
The road was very bad. In some places it was nearly half a leg deep in pools of water, or in mud. But they reached the half-ruined village at length. And Mr. Berners, accompanied by the whole party, took Miss Pendleton to the hotel to await the arrival of her brother.
All the sufferers were hospitably received by the landlord's family, who furnished them with dry clothing, warm meals, and good lodging.
But it was not until evening that the subsidence of the waters permitted Captain Pendleton to make his way down the valley to the village, to look after his sister.
The meeting between the brother and sister was very affecting.
Beatrix wept on his shoulder.
"Thank Heaven, you are safe, my dear sister!" were among the first words that he said.
"Yes; I am safe, I am safe, Clement.But she is lost!Oh, Clement,she is lost!" cried Beatrix, bursting into tears.
Captain Pendleton started, and looked up to the face of Mr. Berners, as if asking for a confirmation or contradiction of these words.
Lyon Berners sorrowfully bent his head, and then turned away to conceal the strong emotion which he could no longer control.
It was not until the next morning that the waters had gone down sufficiently to enable them to go up the valley as far as Black Hall.
And up to this time but few of the dead bodies of the victims had been found; but all these had been easily recognized, and were now prepared for burial.
Mr. Berners engaged special agents to watch for the appearance of Sybil's body, and to advise him the moment it should be discovered; and then, having made every necessary provision, in case of its recovery during his absence, forits reception at the church, and its retention there until his return, he set out for Black Hall, accompanied by the two Pendletons.
As no carriage could possibly pass along the roads in their present condition, our party were forced to go on horseback.
After a heavy and tedious ride through the deep mud left by the flood, they reached Black Hall, which they found half full of refugees; and where they were warmly welcomed by their faithful servants, who, up to the hour of their arrival, had supposed them to be lost.
But then came the question:
"Where is Miss Sybil?" asked almost in a breath by Joe and Dilly and Aunt Mopsa.
And grave and sorrowful faces answered, even before the tongue spoke:
"Lost in the flood!"
Then for a time loud wailing filled the house. But after a while it ceased, and comparative quiet followed.
"Where is Raphael and little Cro'?" at length inquired Mr. Berners.
"Raphael? Bless your soul, Marster, Raphael an't been seen in this house since you yourself left it," answered Joe.
"Then I am very much afraid the poor fellow has been lost," sighed Mr. Berners.
And then, having called Dilly to show Miss Pendleton to a bedroom, and ordered Joe to perform the same service for Captain Pendleton, Mr. Berners went to a back building of the house in which the poor refugees were gathered.
Here he found the people in great distress, mourning over the sudden loss of all their worldly goods.
He consoled them as well as he could; reminded them that, with all their losses, they had lost no members of their families, and promised them that he and his neighbors would rebuild and refurnish their cottages, and finally inviting them to stay at Black Hall until this should be accomplished.
Thanks and blessings followed his words, and then he asked:
"Has any one heard from my old overseer. Winterose? His house stands high, and I suppose that it is safe."
A half a dozen voices answered in a breath:
"Law, yes, sir; his house is safe."
"He's had a stroke, sir."
"They thought he was a dying."
"But he is better now; and his wife, who is a good judge, thinks he'll get over it."
"It gratifies me to hear this, my friends. But although the old man's house is safe, he has met with a much greater misfortune than any of you have in the loss of all you possess," said Mr. Berners, very gravely.
"Law, sir, what?" inquired a dozen voices at once.
"He has lost his eldest daughter," answered Lyon Berners, sadly.
"Who? Miss Tabby? Law, sir, no he an't!"
"She's home, fast enough!"
"She was brought home by a quarryman yesterday morning."
It was the habit of these people to talk all at the same time, so that it required a shrewd listener to understand them.
But there seemed so large an interest at stake in their present communications, that Mr. Berners understood even more than was intended.
"Miss Tabby saved?" he echoed.
"Yes, sir," answered a score of voices.
"And who with her?"
"No one as we know's on, sir."
"No one?"
"No, sir."
"How was she saved?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Nobody knows, sir."
"She don't even know herself, sir."
These replies were all made in a breath.
"Don't even know herself! What is the meaning of that?"
"Yes, sir. No, sir. You see, sir," began half a hundred voices.
"Hush, for Heaven's sake! Speak one at a time. Mrs. Smith, do you answer me. How was Miss Tabby saved?" inquired Lyon Berners, appealing to the oldest and wisest woman of the assembly, and silencing the others by a gesture.
"Indeed we don't know how she was reskeed, sir. She was brought home by a quarryman, but, she was in a cowld fever, and couldn't give no account of herself, nor nothing," replied the old woman.
"Where is she?"
"Up to her father's house, sir. They carried her there."
"I must go there and see her at once," said Mr. Berners, seizing his hat and hurrying from the house.
He walked rapidly through the kitchen garden, vineyard, orchard, and meadow, to the edge of the wood where the overseer's cottage stood.
He found old Mrs. Winterose with her hands full.
Mr. Winterose, who three days before had had a paralytic stroke, that had nearly brought him to the grave, had now so far rallied as to give hopes of his continued life.
He lay sleeping on a neat white bed in the lower front room of the cottage. His wife was the only person with him.
She came forward in great haste to meet Mr. Berners.
"Oh, sir!" she cried, "my child, Miss Sybil! was she reskeed?"
"Ah, Heaven! That is the very question I came to ask you, or rather to ask Tabby," sighed Mr. Berners, dropping into a chair.
"Oh, sir! Oh, sir!" wept the old nurse, "then I can't give you any more satisfaction than you can give me! Tabby don't know nothink! She's in bed up stairs, in a fever, and outen her mind, and Libby is a watching of her."
"Does she talk in her delirium?"
"Talk? Law, sir, she don't do nothink else at all! Her tongue goes like a mill-clapper all the time!"
"Let me go and see her. Perhaps by her rambling talk I may gain some clue to my poor wife's fate."
"I'm 'fraid you won't, sir.Ian't been able to yet. But you're welcome to come up and see her if you will," said the old woman, rising and leading the way to a neat room overhead, where Miss Tabby lay in bed, babbling at random.
Miss Libby, who was sitting beside her, got up and courtesied, and made way for Mr. Berners, who came forward and bent over the sick woman, spoke to her kindly, and inquired how she felt.
But the old maid, who was quite delirious, took him for the sweetheart of her young days, and called him "Jim," and asked him how he dared to have the "impidince" to come into a young lady's room before she was up in the morning, and she requested Suzy—a sister who had long been dead—to turn him out directly.
But though Mr. Berners sat by her and succeeded in soothing her, he gained no information from her. She babbled of everything under the sun but the one subject to which he wished to lead her thoughts.
At length, in despair, Mr. Berners arose to depart.
"Where does that quarryman live who picked her up and brought her home?"
"Up at the quarries, sir, to be sure."
"But there are fifty cottages up there, scattered over the space of miles."
"Well, sir, it is in the whitish stone one, the nighest but three to the big oak, you know; which his name it is Norriss, as you can find him by that. But, law, sir! he can't tell you no more nor I have," said Mrs. Winterose.
Before she quite finished her speech Mr. Berners ran down stairs and out of the cottage, and bent his steps to the quarryman's hut.
It happened just as the old nurse had foretold.
The man could tell Mr. Berners nothing but this: that Miss Tabby had come to his house just about daylight, having her clothing wet and draggled nearly up to her waist with mud and water, and shaking as with an ague, and sinking with fatigue.
He having neither wife nor daughter, nor any other woman about the house, had no proper dry clothes to offer her; but he made her sit by the fire, while he questioned her as to the manner in which she came to be so much exposed.
She answered him only by senseless lamentations and floods of tears.
When her chill had gone off a high fever came on, and, the quarryman explained, he knew that she was going to be ill, so he offered to take her home; and, partly by leading, and partly by lugging, he had contrived to carry her safe to her father's cottage, which she reached in a state of fever and delirium.
This was all the information that Mr. Berners could get from the honest quarryman, who would willingly have given him more had he possessed it.
Lyon Berners went back to Black Hall, where he found Clement and Beatrix Pendleton waiting for him in the parlor, and wondering at his prolonged absence.
He apologized for having left them for so many hours, and explained the business that had called him so suddenly away, giving them the startling intelligence of Miss Tabby's unaccountable safety; which, he added, left the fate of his beloved wife in greater uncertainty than they had supposed it to be. She wasprobablydrowned, butpossiblyrescued. He could not tell. He and they must wait patiently the issue of events.
Wait patiently? Twice more that day he walked up to the overseer's cottage to find out whether Miss Tabby's fever had gone off and she had come to her senses, and he came back disappointed. And again, very late at night, he walked up there and startled the watcher by the sick-bed with the same question so often repeated:
"Has she come to her senses yet?"
"No; she is more stupider than ever, I think," was Miss Libby's answer.
"What does your mother think is the matter with her, then?"
"Oh, nothing but chills and fevers. Only Tabby has a weak head, and always loses of it when she has a fever."
"Well, Miss Libby, as soon as she comes to herself, if it is in the dead of night, send some one over to the Hall to let me know, that I may come immediately; for my anxiety to ascertain my wife's fate, which she only can tell, is really insupportable."
Miss Libby promised to obey his directions, and Lyon Berners returned to Black Hall.
But not that night, nor for many nights after that, did Miss Tabby come to her senses. Her illness proved to be a low type of typhoid fever, not primarily caused, but only hastened by the depressing influences of fear and cold from her exposure to death, and to the elements, on the night of the great flood.
For many weary weeks she lay on her bed, too low to answer or even understand a question.
And during all this time nothing occurred to throw the faintest gleam of light upon the deep darkness that still enveloped the fate of Sybil Berners.
This period of almost insupportable anxiety was passed by Mr. Berners in doing all that was possible to repair the damage done by the disastrous flood.
He was the largest subscriber to, and also the treasurer of the fund raised for the relief of the victims, and passed much time in receiving and disbursing money on their account.
And each will mourn his own, (she saith,)But sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan that young wife.—Jean Inglelow.
The Great Black Valley Flood, as it came to be called, had occurred on Hallow Eve.
Before Christmas Eve many of its ravages had been repaired.
The laborers' cottages had been rebuilt and refurnished. Other dwellings were in process of reconstruction; and the works were only temporarily suspended by the frost. The public buildings were contracted for, to be re-erected in the spring.
All the missing bodies had been recovered, and had received Christian burial, except those of Sybil Berners and her young child, neither of which had yet been found, or even heard of—a circumstance that led many to think that the mother and babe had been rescued and concealed by her friends.
And for many weeks Miss Tabby had lain prostrated in body and idiotic in mind, and thus totally unable to give any account of them.
Lyon Berners' anxiety and suspense gradually settled into deep melancholy and despondency. As a matter ofduty, he managed the estate as if Sybil or her child might one day reappear to enjoy it.
It may be remembered that when Lyon Howe, the young barrister, married Sybil Berners, the wealthy heiress, by the conditions of the marriage contract he took her family name, that it might not become extinct.
As an offset to this sacrifice on his part, it was stipulated in the instrument that, in case of his wife dying before him, without leaving children, he should inherit her whole property.
This, in the present state of affairs, gave him all the power he needed in the management of the great Black Valley Manor.
He lived at Black Hall, doing his duty for duty's sake, a very lonely man.
Now that Sybil was gone, the neighbors were all disposed to be too good to him. They visited him, and invited him out. But with a just resentment he declined all visits, and all invitations, except from those devoted friends who had been faithful to his wife in the time of her trouble: Clement and Beatrix Pendleton, young Sheridan the lawyer, old Mr. Fortescue the sheriff, and Robert Munson the soldier.
Miss Tabby at length rose from her bed of illness, and, to use her mother's words, "was able to creep about the house," but in a state of mental imbecility, which is not an unusual effect of a long, low type of typhoid fever. She was obstinate too, "obstinate as a mule," her sister said. No one could get a word of satisfaction from her upon the mysterious subject of Sybil's fate. When asked by Mr. Berners howshewas saved, she answered:
"I was picked up by a man in a boat."
"What sort of a man?"
"An or'nary man like any other."
"Did you know who he was?"
"No."
"Where did he pick you up?"
"Not far from the prison."
"Where did he put you down?"
"Close by the quarries."
"What became of Sybil?"
"I don't know."
"When did you see her last?"
"The last time I ever set eyes on herface, was when she was lying on her bed in her cell, and I went and laid the baby by her; that was just before the water rushed in. I an't set eyes onher faceor thebaby's facesince."
And this was literally true, for Miss Tabby had not seen theirfacesin the boat. But those who had not the key to her meaning, could not detect the equivocation.
She was cunning enough in her foolishness to keep her oath, and to leave upon the minds of her hearers the impression that Sybil and her young child were certainly lost.
But Miss Tabby had a tender conscience as well as a soft heart and a weak head, and the keeping of this secret, which she could not divulge without breaking her oath, nor conceal without trifling with the truth, caused her so much distress, that these frequent cross-examinations invariably ended, on her part, in a fit of hysterics.
This was the state of affairs on Christmas Eve following the great flood.
It was the saddest Christmas ever passed at Black Hall.
Mr. Berners had invited no one, not even his most intimate friends, to spend it with him.
But Captain Pendleton and Beatrix had come uninvited, for they were determined that Lyon Berners should not be left alone in his sorrow at such a time.
"We have rejoiced with you in many a Christmas holiday. Shall we not come and mourn with you now?" Beatrix gently inquired, as with her brother she entered the parlor, where Mr. Berners on this Christmas Eve was grieving alone.
He got up and welcomed his friends, and thanked them for their visit.
"I could not find it in my heart to invite any one, even you, true souls; but I amvery, veryglad you have come; though it is another sacrifice on your parts."
"Not at all, Lyon Berners; we love you, and had rather come here and be miserable with you than be merry with anybody else," said Clement Pendleton warmly.
But Mr. Berners was resolved that his generous young friends should not be as "miserable" as they were willing to be in the merry Christmas season. So he wrote a note of invitation for two other guests, and dispatched it by Joe to Blackville that very evening.
The note was addressed to Mr. Sheridan, with a request that he would come, and bring his niece, Miss Minnie Sheridan, to meet Captain and Miss Pendleton at dinner on Christmas-day, at Black Hall.
Now this Miss Minnie Sheridan was an orphan heiress, the daughter of the young barrister's eldest brother. By the death of both her parents, she had been left to the guardianship of her young uncle, who, with his youthful niece, now boarded at the Blackville Hotel.
It was reasonably to be expected that these young people would, on Christmas-day, willingly exchange the hotel parlor and the society of strangers, for the drawing-room at Black Hall and the company of their friends.
Moreover, Mr. Berners had noticed a growing esteem between the brilliant young barrister and the beautiful Beatrix Pendleton, an esteem which he hoped and believed, for their sakes, would ripen into a warmer sentiment. Therefore he invited the Sheridans to meet the Pendletons at the Christmas dinner.
Miss Tabby had, within a few days, returned and resumed her position as housekeeper at Black Hall. Her office was something of a sinecure. She could do little more thanfret at the servants. She was not strong enough yet to scold them vigorously.
On the night before Christmas it snowed, but just enough to cover the ground a few inches deep.
Christmas-day broke clear, bright, and beautiful.
Lyon Berners arose early in the morning, to be ready to greet his two friends upon their entrance into the drawing-room.
Although his heart was aching with grief for Sybil, he was resolved to wear a cheerful countenance for the sake of those two loyal souls who had been so devoted to her, and were now so constant to him. He little dreamed how great would be his reward before the day should be over.
Clement and Beatrix Pendleton did not keep him waiting long. They soon came down from their chambers, and greeted him affectionately.
"This cannot be a 'merry' Christmas to you, dear Lyon, but it may be agoodone. Will you accept this from me? See! with the faith or the superstition of the old Christians, I opened it at random to-day, to find your fate in some text. And this is really what my eyes first lighted on," said Beatrix Pendleton, as she placed an elegantly bound pocket Bible in the hands of Lyon Berners, and pointed to this passage:
"There shall be light at the evening tide."
"Thanks, dear Beatrix! thanks for the sacred gift and happy augury!" said Mr. Berners, as he took the book and read the lines. "'Light at the evening tide,' That, I fancy, means the evening of life. A weary time to wait, Beatrix. Ah! Clement, good-morning. I may wishyoua merry Christmas, at least," he added, suddenly turning to Captain Pendleton, who had followed his sister into the room.
And they shook hands and went in to breakfast.
There were no more Christmas presents exchanged. Noone there, except Beatrix, had thought of giving one; though hers had been graceful and appropriate.
After breakfast they went to church at Blackville. They were drawn thither in the roomiest carriage, by a pair of the strongest horses, with Joe on the box; for they expected to pick up the Sheridans after the morning service, and to bring them to Black Hall to dinner.
The distance between Black Hall and Blackville was considerable, and the road was rough, and so it was rather late when our party reached the church.
The congregation were already in their seats, and the pastor was in his pulpit; so there was no opportunity for our friends to meet until after the benediction was pronounced.
Then, as the people were all leaving the church, Mr. Berners sought out young Sheridan and his little niece, and after paying them the compliments of the season, invited them to take seats in his carriage to Black Hall.
They accepted his offer with thanks, and allowed him to conduct them to the coach, in which the Pendletons were already seated.
There was a merry meeting between the young people, notwithstanding the sadness of some reminiscences.
Youth cannot for ever be sorrowful.
Joe put whip to his horses, and started them at a brisk trot over the snow-clad roads, and under the brilliant sky of that clear December day.
They reached Black Hall in good time.
The splendid Christmas fires were blazing on every hearth in the house.
Beatrix Pendleton took Minnie Sheridan to her own bed-chamber, that they might there lay off their bonnets and shawls and prepare for dinner.
Captain Pendleton went off alone to his room, and Mr. Berners was just about to conduct young Sheridan to somespare bed-chamber, where he could brush his hair, when the barrister laid his hand upon his host's shoulder, and stopped him, saying:
"No; stay here. I have something which I must show you while we are quite alone."
And he shut the doors, and then drew his companion away to the furthest window, out of earshot of any chance eavesdropper.
"What is it?" inquired Mr. Berners, much mystified.
"I do not know; something very important I fancy. But read this first," said the barrister, placing an open letter in his friend's hand.
Lyon Berners in great curiosity examined it. It was addressed to —— Sheridan, Esq., Counsellor at Law, Blackville.
It contained these lines:
"Take the enclosed letter to Mr. Lyon Berners on Christmas-day, when you find him quite alone. If this should reach you before Christmas, keep it carefully until that day; then deliver it to its address with secrecy and discretion."
"Take the enclosed letter to Mr. Lyon Berners on Christmas-day, when you find him quite alone. If this should reach you before Christmas, keep it carefully until that day; then deliver it to its address with secrecy and discretion."
"In the name of Heaven, what is this? Where is the letter? When did you get it?" demanded Lyon Berners, in astonishment.
"It seems to be a mystery. I got the letter only this morning, else in spite of the injunction I should have delivered it to you before. Here it is now," said young Sheridan, placing the mysterious epistle in the hands of his friend.
Lyon Berners examined it in haste and excitement.
It was superscribed:
"To Lyon Berners, Esq., Black Hall. To the care of---- Sheridan, Esq. To be delivered secretly on Christmas-day."
"To Lyon Berners, Esq., Black Hall. To the care of---- Sheridan, Esq. To be delivered secretly on Christmas-day."
Mr. Berners tore off the envelope, when he came to another one, on which was written:
A Christmas gift for Mr. Berners.
A Christmas gift for Mr. Berners.
This also he hastily tore off. Then he ran his eyes rapidly over the contents of the letter, and with a great cry—a cry of joy unspeakable—he threw up his arms and sank to the floor.
He who had never been conquered by fear or sorrow or despair, was now utterly vanquished by joy!
Do you blame me, friend, for weakness?'Twas the strength of passion slew me.—E. B. Browning.
With an exclamation of dismay Sheridan raised his friend, and helped him to an arm-chair, and sat him back in a reclining position on it.
And at the same instant hurrying steps were heard approaching, and some of the servants who had been loitering in the hall, startled by the noise of the cry and the fall, rushed into the room to see what the matter could be.
Lyon Berners had not quite lost his consciousness, and the entrance of the men at once restored his senses.
His first act was to point to the letter which had fallen from his hand to the floor, and say:
"Pick it up and give it to me, and send these people away—quickly, Sheridan, if you please."
The young lawyer immediately went after the intruders, exclaiming,
"Come, come, old Joe, Tom, Bill; what do you mean by rushing in upon us in this way when we are having a good humored rough and tumble wrestling match among ourselves? Be off with you, you barbarians!"
And so with affected mirth, which really deluded the simple darkies, he turned them out of the drawing-room, and locked the door.
Then he went back to Mr. Berners and inquired:
"Now what is it, if I may ask?"
"She is safe! My dear Sybil is safe!—safe beyond all pursuit; beyond all possibility of recapture!" exclaimed Mr. Berners, triumphantly.
"Thank Heaven, with all my heart! But how, and where?" inquired Sheridan, excitedly.
"She was rescued by Raphael! She is on mid-ocean now, in a British ship, under the protection of the British flag, God bless it!"
"Amen! But tell me all about it, or let me read the letter."
"Stop! I must call Pendleton and Beatrix. Those two true friends must hear my secret and share our joy," said Mr. Berners, rising and going to the door.
But there was no need to call, for he had scarcely turned the lock before he heard the light steps of Miss Pendleton approaching.
"What is the matter? Lyon, you are happy or crazy! Which is it? I am sure something delightful must have happened to make you look so! What is it?" demanded Beatrix, as she slided into a seat.
Before Mr. Berners could answer, the door once more opened, and Captain Pendleton entered.
"What is up?" was his first question, on seeing the excited countenances of his friends.
"We have good news. But—where is Miss Sheridan?" inquired Mr Berners, suddenly remembering his youngest guest.
"Oh, Minnie is curling her hair in my room. Her ringlets were so blown by the wind that it was necessary to dress it over again. She wouldn't let me wait for her," explained Beatrix.
"It is just as well," added Mr. Sheridan. "Minnie is a good girl, but she is little more than a child; and though I could answer for her honesty, I couldn't for her discretion."
"Then," said Lyon Berners very gravely, "then let what I am about to read to you remain an inviolable secret between us four."
"Certainly," answered Sheridan.
"Shall we swear it?" inquired Pendleton.
"Yes! yes! if necessary. But, oh! do go on! It is something about Sybil," impatiently exclaimed Beatrix.
"Yes, it is something about Sybil. You need not swear to be secret on this subject. You have given me your words, and that is sufficient. Indeed, I feel sure that without any request on my part or promise on yours, you would still have been secret, for you would still have seen the necessity of secrecy. Now I will read you the letter, which will explain itself," said Mr. Berners, as he unfolded his mysterious epistle, and read:
"British Merchantman Deliverance, }"At Sea, Lat. 35 deg. 15 m., Lon. 49 deg. 27 m.,}December 1st, 18—. }"To Lyon Berners, Esq.: Sir—As you and your set made such a mess of it in trying to save Mrs. Sybil Berners from the injustice of 'justice,' I, who am an outlaw, undertook to take her from out of all your hands."The instrument of my work was my dutiful son Raphael. We had intended, with the help of our brave band, to storm the prison, and deliver the fair prisoner by force of arms. But before we were quite ready for that difficult enterprise, the flood came and made all easy. We had only to hire a boat, get into it, and permit ourselves to be lifted by the riseof the waters to the level of her cell window, beat it in, and take her out. We did that and saved her, and also, incidentally, the infant girl and the old maid."We put out the woman at the foot of the Quarries, having first bound her by an oath to secrecy as to the means of her rescue and the safety of Sybil Berners—an oath, by the way, of which you hereby have the authority to release her, should you see fit to do so."We placed the child at nurse with a woman by the name of Fugitt, who is the wife of the overseer at Colonel Poindexter's plantation, not far from Blackville. The nurse knows nothing of the child, except that she was paid a hundred dollars down for taking care of it, and asking no questions."We took the mother to the old ruined wind-mill, where we had a snug room or two. There she was skilfully nursed by our old housekeeper through the dangerous fever that followed her confinement and her exposure. After her recovery and her full restoration to reason, we, avoiding every reference either to her long imprisonment or maternity, both of which events she had forgotten in the delirium of her illness, we took her away to Norfolk, where we went on board the British merchant ship 'Deliverance.' I write this letter from the sea, about half-way across the Atlantic, and I wait to send it by some homeward-bound ship."December 9th.—The man on the look-out reports a sail in sight, heading this way. If she should prove to be an American-bound ship, her name ought to be 'The Surprise,' for when I send this letter by her she will take you a very great surprise."If this should reach you in season, pray accept it as a Christmas gift."Mrs. Berners is still improving, though not yet well or strong enough to accommodate herself to the motion of the ship sufficiently to enable her to write to you. Nor will shesend any confidential message through me. She will not even see or speak to me. She keeps her state-room, attended by my wife."She still resents her rescue, which she calls her abduction, and she feels grief and indignation at being taken away from you, rather than joy or gratitude at being saved from death. But then it is true that she thinks she was only rescued from drowning in the flood. She does not know that she was saved from a still more horrible fate."The mild insanity which appeared several months ago, and disappeared at the birth of her child, and which then shielded her from all realization of the horrors of her late position, still saves her from all knowledge of what it was. Although now perfectly sane, she is entirely ignorant that she was ever put on trial for her life, or condemned to death, or sent to prison."Nor would I enlighten her on that subject lest the fate of the sleep-walker should be hers—who, having safely walked over the parapet of a bridge above an awful chasm, fell dead with horror the next morning at beholding the peril he had escaped. I would advise you to maintain the same inviolable secrecy on that subject. She does not know the dangers she has passed, and she need never know them."They have spoken the ship, and I will go up and see what she is."Later.—She is not the "Surprise," as she ought to have been. She is the "Sally Ann," of Baltimore, homeward bound, with a cargo of silks. She will lay alongside for half an hour to exchange letters and some provisions."A few words more. Don't forget where I told you, you might find your child, and then go and accuse me of stealing it."Remember that you have my authority for releasing the old woman from her oath, that she may give you every detail of the rescue. But I counsel you, that as soon as you shall have heard all that she has got to tell you, you will seal up her lips with another oath even more binding than the first."The continued existence of Sybil Berners should be kept a profound secret from all others, except those few devoted friends who will follow her into exile; and it should be kept so, for this reason; that sometime, sooner or late, there will be an extradition treaty between all civilized nations, for the delivering up of fugitives from justice, which impending treaty may or may not have a retrospective action. Therefore it is better that Mrs. Berners should be supposed to have perished in the flood, and that the secret of her rescue and continued life should be carefully kept from all, except those already mentioned."A last word. The only way in which my wife can keep her quiet, is by promising that you will follow her immediately. Come as soon as you can. I am weary of my charge. Why I ever undertook it, is my secret. We will await you in Liverpool. A letter addressed to 'Raphael,' through the general post-office in that city, will find us."And now I must seal up, wishing you a merry Christmas. From your
"British Merchantman Deliverance, }"At Sea, Lat. 35 deg. 15 m., Lon. 49 deg. 27 m.,}December 1st, 18—. }
"To Lyon Berners, Esq.: Sir—As you and your set made such a mess of it in trying to save Mrs. Sybil Berners from the injustice of 'justice,' I, who am an outlaw, undertook to take her from out of all your hands.
"The instrument of my work was my dutiful son Raphael. We had intended, with the help of our brave band, to storm the prison, and deliver the fair prisoner by force of arms. But before we were quite ready for that difficult enterprise, the flood came and made all easy. We had only to hire a boat, get into it, and permit ourselves to be lifted by the riseof the waters to the level of her cell window, beat it in, and take her out. We did that and saved her, and also, incidentally, the infant girl and the old maid.
"We put out the woman at the foot of the Quarries, having first bound her by an oath to secrecy as to the means of her rescue and the safety of Sybil Berners—an oath, by the way, of which you hereby have the authority to release her, should you see fit to do so.
"We placed the child at nurse with a woman by the name of Fugitt, who is the wife of the overseer at Colonel Poindexter's plantation, not far from Blackville. The nurse knows nothing of the child, except that she was paid a hundred dollars down for taking care of it, and asking no questions.
"We took the mother to the old ruined wind-mill, where we had a snug room or two. There she was skilfully nursed by our old housekeeper through the dangerous fever that followed her confinement and her exposure. After her recovery and her full restoration to reason, we, avoiding every reference either to her long imprisonment or maternity, both of which events she had forgotten in the delirium of her illness, we took her away to Norfolk, where we went on board the British merchant ship 'Deliverance.' I write this letter from the sea, about half-way across the Atlantic, and I wait to send it by some homeward-bound ship.
"December 9th.—The man on the look-out reports a sail in sight, heading this way. If she should prove to be an American-bound ship, her name ought to be 'The Surprise,' for when I send this letter by her she will take you a very great surprise.
"If this should reach you in season, pray accept it as a Christmas gift.
"Mrs. Berners is still improving, though not yet well or strong enough to accommodate herself to the motion of the ship sufficiently to enable her to write to you. Nor will shesend any confidential message through me. She will not even see or speak to me. She keeps her state-room, attended by my wife.
"She still resents her rescue, which she calls her abduction, and she feels grief and indignation at being taken away from you, rather than joy or gratitude at being saved from death. But then it is true that she thinks she was only rescued from drowning in the flood. She does not know that she was saved from a still more horrible fate.
"The mild insanity which appeared several months ago, and disappeared at the birth of her child, and which then shielded her from all realization of the horrors of her late position, still saves her from all knowledge of what it was. Although now perfectly sane, she is entirely ignorant that she was ever put on trial for her life, or condemned to death, or sent to prison.
"Nor would I enlighten her on that subject lest the fate of the sleep-walker should be hers—who, having safely walked over the parapet of a bridge above an awful chasm, fell dead with horror the next morning at beholding the peril he had escaped. I would advise you to maintain the same inviolable secrecy on that subject. She does not know the dangers she has passed, and she need never know them.
"They have spoken the ship, and I will go up and see what she is.
"Later.—She is not the "Surprise," as she ought to have been. She is the "Sally Ann," of Baltimore, homeward bound, with a cargo of silks. She will lay alongside for half an hour to exchange letters and some provisions.
"A few words more. Don't forget where I told you, you might find your child, and then go and accuse me of stealing it.
"Remember that you have my authority for releasing the old woman from her oath, that she may give you every detail of the rescue. But I counsel you, that as soon as you shall have heard all that she has got to tell you, you will seal up her lips with another oath even more binding than the first.
"The continued existence of Sybil Berners should be kept a profound secret from all others, except those few devoted friends who will follow her into exile; and it should be kept so, for this reason; that sometime, sooner or late, there will be an extradition treaty between all civilized nations, for the delivering up of fugitives from justice, which impending treaty may or may not have a retrospective action. Therefore it is better that Mrs. Berners should be supposed to have perished in the flood, and that the secret of her rescue and continued life should be carefully kept from all, except those already mentioned.
"A last word. The only way in which my wife can keep her quiet, is by promising that you will follow her immediately. Come as soon as you can. I am weary of my charge. Why I ever undertook it, is my secret. We will await you in Liverpool. A letter addressed to 'Raphael,' through the general post-office in that city, will find us.
"And now I must seal up, wishing you a merry Christmas. From your
Unknown Friend."
"Thank Heaven!" fervently exclaimed Beatrix Pendleton.
"Amen," earnestly responded her brother.
"You will go soon, Lyon?" eagerly inquired Beatrix.
"Soon? I would start instantly if I could. But there is no coach that leaves for Baltimore or Norfolk until the day after to-morrow. To-day I will give orders to my servants to pack up. To-morrow I will ride over to Fugitt's to inquire after my child, which for its own sake must still be left in their care, I suppose. And the day after I will leave in the early coach for Baltimore. There I shall certainlybe able to meet a clipper bound for Liverpool," answered Mr. Berners, speaking very rapidly.
"And in the mean time?" anxiously inquired Captain Pendleton.
"In the meantime, that is, to-day, I must give my friend Sheridan here a power of attorney to manage this estate during my absence. For you—you hold to your purpose of visiting Europe, Pendleton?"
"Oh, yes; and if you could wait a week, while I make the necessary arrangements, Beatrix and myself might accompany you; but that is too much to ask of you under the circumstances," smiled Clement Pendleton.
"I should be so rejoiced to have you both go with me, especially as the voyage is going to be a tedious one at this season of the year; but how can I delay a day while my poor Sybil, an exile among strangers, waits for me?"
"Oh, of course you could not possibly do it. But we will follow you soon, Berners, rely upon that."
Lyon Berners pressed his friend's hand in silence, and then went to meet Minnie Sheridan, who had glided shyly and silently into the room.
She must have heard the latter part of the conversation, but without apparently understanding it; for she came forward blushing and smiling, as usual, and took her seat beside Beatrix Pendleton.
The conversation concerning Sybil ceased then. Some one started the subject of the Christmas sermon, and they talked of that until dinner was announced.
It was a much happier feast than Lyon Berners had ventured to hope for. They sat long at table. After they withdrew to the drawing-room, Mr. Berners sat the two Pendletons and the two Sheridans down to a rubber of whist, and then excused himself to them, and went out in search of Miss Tabitha Winterose.
He found that faithful creature in the housekeeper's room, sitting at a little table, drinking tea and dropping tears.
"What is the matter, Miss Tabby?" he inquired cheerfully.
"What is the matter!" she repeated, reproachfully. "Is it what is the matter you ask me, Mr. Berners;you? An't this Christmas-day the first Christmas-day since ever she was born, as she hasn't passed here? And to see how you all went on at dinner, eating and drinking and laughing and talking as ifshewasn't lost and gone!"
"Now, Miss Tabby, you know well enough that Mrs. Berners is quite safe."
Miss Tabby started, spilt her tea, nearly dropped her cup, and—gazed at him in consternation.
"I know that you know she is safe," repeated Mr. Berners.
"I don't know nothink of the sort! How should I? And neither do you. How should you indeed, when even I don't?" said Miss Tabby, defiantly.
"Now, my good soul, you were present when Mrs. Berners was taken through the window of the flooded prison on to the boat," said Mr. Berners.
Miss Tabby stared at him aghast.
"How—how—how do you know that?" she gasped and faltered.
"My good creature, because the man who rescued her and her child and you, has written and told me how he did it, and all about it."
Miss Tabby's mouth and eyes opened wider than ever.
"And is she—is she safe?" she inquired.
"Yes, she is safe, on her way to a foreign country, where I shall follow her."
"Well, my good gracious me alive; how uncommon strange things do turn out! Well, I never did hear the like to that! Well, thanks be to goodness!" ejaculated the poor woman fervently, clasping her hands.
"Now, Miss Tabby, this letter-writer tells me that hebound you by an oath never to divulge the secret of Sybil's rescue; but, mark you, that he gives me the authority to release you from that oath, so that you may give me all the particulars of that event," said Mr. Berners, and then he waited for her to speak. But she kept a resolute silence.
"Come, Miss Tabby, tell me all about it," continued Mr. Berners, seating himself to listen to the story.
"I an't got nothing to tell you any more than I have told you already," answered the woman doggedly.
"Why, you never told me anything!" exclaimed Lyon Berners, impatiently.
"Yes, I did too! I told you as how the last time I seen Miss Sybil's face, or the baby's face, was when they was both a layin' side by side on the bed just before the water rushed into the broken winder; and how I myself was picked up not far from where the prison was," said Miss Tabby, stubbornly.
"Which was all a prevarication, Tabby, though to the letter true. Come. You can tell me more than that."
"No, sir; I told you thatthen, and I can't tell you no morenow."
"But I know you can. See! this letter releases you from your oath of silence."
"No letter can't release me from no oath, sir, which I took upon the Bible," persisted Miss Tabby.
"Was there ever such fanaticism!" exclaimed Lyon Berners, impatiently.
"I don't know what sort of a schism fanaticism is, sir, but I know I an't left so far to my own devices as to be let to fall intoanyschisms, so long as I prays faithfully into the litany every Sunday to be delivered fromallschisms."
"Heaven and earth, woman! That has nothing to do with it. Here is a man writing to release you from an oath you took tohimto keep secrecy on a certain event, of which it is expedient now for you to speak. He frees you from your oath, I tell you."
"Which he can't do, sir, begging of his parding and yours. If so be Itookan oath, which I don't acknowledge as Ididtake," said Miss Tabby, cautiously, "hecan't free me from it no more 'n no one else. And if so be you could put me on the rack like a heathen and torter me to death, I would die a marture to the faith rayther than break my oath," snivelled Miss Tabby.
"Who the demon wants to put you on the rack, you intolerable old idiot?" exclaimed Lyon Berners, driven past his patience by her obstinacy. "Will you, or will you not, tell me all the particulars of Sybil's rescue?"
"No, sir, I will not, because I cannot without breaking of my oath," persisted Miss Tabby, with a constancy which compelled respect for her honesty, if it inspired contempt for her judgment.
"Well, I hope also that you will never mention the matter to any one else," said Mr. Berners, one little comfort mingling with his disappointment.
"That I never will, sir; but will suffer my tongue to be tored out by the roots first. If I have strength to withstandyou, sir, don't you think as I shall have strength to withstand others?"
"I think it quite likely. Well, Miss Tabby,Iknow you understand me, whether you will divulge anything to me or not, and so I shall soon give you certain instructions as freely as if there were an outspoken confidence between us," said Mr. Berners, rising to leave the room.
"That you may do, sir, with full faith in me," answered Miss Tabby.
And then Mr. Berners left her, and returned to his guests.
Mr. Berners and his guests passed that Christmas evening, not in playing Christmas games, but in transacting important business.
The three gentlemen excused themselves to the twoladies, and leaving them to practice a new duet together on the piano, withdrew to the library, where documents were drawn up giving lawyer Sheridan full powers to manage the estate in the absence of its proprietors.
When these were duly signed, sealed, and delivered, and all the details of the agency and of the voyage had been thoroughly discussed, they returned to the drawing-room.
It was now late, and the guests arose to take leave, but at Mr. Berners' earnest invitation, they consented to remain, not only for the night, but for the two days that their host would be at home.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, Mr. Berners mounted his horse and rode over to the plantation where his child had been placed to nurse. He was determined, as a matter of prudence, not to divulge to the nurse the parentage of the child. He knew that to do so would start a furor of gossip and speculation that would be both unpleasant and inconvenient.
On reaching the plantation, he rode up to the gate of the substantial stone cottage belonging to the overseer, alighted, tied his horse to a post, and went up to the house door and knocked.
A rosy-cheeked girl of about twelve years of age opened the door.
"Is Mrs. Fugitt in?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir," replied the girl, stretching wide the door to admit the visitor.
Mr. Berners stepped into a very clean and comfortable room, where a woman sat with one young babe at her breast and another in the cradle beside her.
She took her foot from the rocker of the cradle and arose with the babe still in her arms to meet the stranger.
"Mrs. Fugitt?" inquired Mr. Berners.
"Yes, sir, that's my name. Will you sit down? Betsy Ann, hand the gentleman a chair."
The little girl brought forward a country made chip-bottom chair, and with a bow, the visitor seated himself.
The woman also sat down, and waited in some little curiosity to find out the object of the stranger's visit.
"You have a young child at nurse?" he said.
"Yes, sir; this one that I have upon my lap. That one in the cradle is my own."
"Are you strong enough to nurse two children?" inquired Mr. Berners.
"Betsy Ann," said the woman, turning to the little girl, "call your sister Nancy 'Lizabeth in here."
The child went into a back kitchen, and returned with another child the counterpart of herself.
"There, now! You two stand right up there before the gentleman."
The children joined hands, and stood before Mr. Berners for inspection.
"There, now, sir! You look at them."
"They are very well worth looking at; a pair of stout, rosy, healthy, happy lasses, I'm sure," said Mr. Berners, smiling at them, and feeling in his pocket for some loose coins.
"Well, sir, them's my twins. I nussed 'em both myself without any help from a bottle—either a bottle forthem, sir, or a bottle formyself," said the mother, proudly.
"They do you much credit, certainly," said Mr. Berners, who had now found two half-eagles.
"Well, sir, they never had a day's sickness in their lives. I showed 'em to you, sir, to prove as I could nuss two children successful."
"I'm convinced of it."
"One of 'em is named Elizabeth Ann, and the other Ann Elizabeth. The same name because they're twins, sir, only put backwards and forwards like, so as to tell one gal's name from t'other's. And I call 'em Betsy Ann andNancy 'Lizabeth on week-days and work days; and I call 'em Elizabeth Ann and Ann Elizabeth on Sundays and company days."
"Quite right," said Mr. Berners, smiling.
"And now, gals, you may go," said the mother.
"Here, my dears! Here is somethings to buy you a Christmas gift each," said Mr. Berners, slipping the gold coins into the hands of the children.
"There! thank the gentleman, and then run out and peel the potatoes and turnips. And be sure you don't lose your pennies," said the woman, who had no idea that the children's gifts had been half-eagles.
The well-trained little girls obeyed their mother in every particular. And as soon as they had left the room, Mr. Berners turned to the woman and inquired:
"Are those fine children your only ones?"
"I never had any but them until about three months ago, when that boy in the cradle came to put a surprise on me. Look at him, sir! An't he a hearty little chap for a three monther?"
"Indeed he is!" acknowledged Mr. Berners, as he turned down the coverlet and gazed at the fat, rosy babe. "And now," he continued, as he replaced the cover, "will you let me look at your nurse-child? I—I am its guardian, and responsible for the expense of its rearing."
"So I judged, sir, when I first saw you. The gentleman that brought the child to me, and gave me a hundred dollars with it, told me how, in about a couple of months, the guardian of the child would come to make further arrangements. And you're him, sir?"
"I am he," gravely replied Lyon Berners, as he gazed fondly down on the face of his sleeping babe, and traced in the delicate features and silky black hair and faintly drawn black eye-brows the lineaments of its mother.
"Well, sir, I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that the child is in good hands."
"I have no doubt of it. And," he continued, after some hesitation, "I can tell you, foryoursatisfaction, that the child is all right. She was born in lawful wedlock."
"I'm glad to hear that, for the child's sake, sir; though if what you tell me is true, as I suppose it is, I don't see why the parents can't own their child."
"There are good and sufficient reasons which may be made known to you at some future time," replied Mr. Berners.
"Humph! then I s'pose it's a case of asecretmarriage, that can't be acknowledged yet a while, upon account of offending rich parents, and being cut off from their property or something. I have heard of such things before now. Well, sir, I don't want to intrude on your secrets, and I know how to keep a still tongue in my head. And as for the baby, sir,shehas made her own way into my heart, and whatever her parents have been and done, I shall love and nuss her as if she was my own."
"You are a good woman, Mrs. Fugitt; and now to business. I, as guardian to that child, wish to make some definite arrangement for her support for the next two years at least."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know lawyer Sheridan?"
"Of course I do, sir; he drawed up the papers between the Colonel and my old man when my old man made an engagement with the Colonel to oversee the plantation for five years."
"Very well. This Mr. Sheridan will pay you quarterly installments of money amounting to six hundred dollars a year for the support of the child."
The overseer's wife was a very simple-hearted woman, so she burst out, with her surprise:
"But that is a great deal of money, sir. More than twice too much."
"I do not think so. The child is entitled to much more, if she could use it. At any rate, that is her allowance. And here is the first quarterly payment in advance," said Mr. Berners, placing a roll of bank-notes on the woman's lap.
"But, sir, I haven't used a quarter part of what the other gentleman paid me. In truth, I only spent what I did to buy the baby's clothes, of which she hadn't a rag but what was on her when the other gentleman put her in my arms."
"So much the more reason I should advance you this money."
"Why? because I have got so much already, sir?"
"—Because you are so simple and honest. Few people would believe in such simplicity and honesty, Mrs. Fugitt."
"Then Lord forgive 'em, sir."
"Amen. And now, Mrs. Fugitt, a last word, and then good-bye. If you should ever wish to communicate with me, you may do it by inclosing a letter to Mr. Sheridan, or sending a message by him."
"Yes, sir."
"And now let me take another look at this little one."
"But there is another thing, sir: What is her name? I asked the gentleman, and he said he did not know, but you would tell me."
"'Her name?'" repeated Lyon Berners, as he gazed down upon the face of the sleeping child—the prison-born child—"Her name? It is Ingemisca; call her Ingemisca."
"Yes, sir," said the woman in a very low tone, for she was awed by the looks and words of the speaker—"Yes, sir; but would you please to write it on a slip of paper? It is a strange, solemn sort of a sound, and I'm sure I never could remember it."
Lyon Berners tore a page from his tablets, wrote the name in pencil, and handed it to her.
Then he kissed his infant daughter, breathed a silent blessing over her, and took his leave.
He returned to Black Hall, well satisfied with the woman in whose care he had left his child.
That afternoon he dined with his friends for the last time for many years. That evening, with their assistance, he concluded the very last business he had to transact, before leaving his home and country.
Beatrix Pendleton had been busy all day, looking up and packing up Sybil's costly jewels, laces, and shawls. Valuable as they all were, they filled but a small trunk, which Miss Pendleton assured Mr. Berners he could easily put inside his great sea-chest without crowding out other things.
Beatrix Pendleton and Minnie Sheridan volunteered to remain at Black Hall for a few days after the departure of the proprietor, to see that all things were properly set in order.
Among the last arrangements made was that by which honest Robert Munson, the young soldier who had befriended Sybil Berners, was appointed assistant overseer of the plantation, with the use of a cottage and garden, and with a considerable salary.
All the arrangements for the voyage of Mr. Berners, and the management of the manor during his absence, were completed that evening.
The next morning Mr. Berners accompanied by his friends, Captain Pendleton and lawyer Sheridan, set out for Blackville, to meet the stage-coach for Baltimore.
There, at the stage-office, Mr. Berners took leave of lawyer Sheridan, but not of Captain Pendleton, who made up his mind, at the last moment, to accompany him as far as the sea-port, and to see him off on his voyage.
After two days' journey, the friends arrived safely in Baltimore.
On consulting the shipping list, they found the fast sailing clipper Dispatch, Captain Fleet, advertised to sail for Liverpool the same afternoon.
Lyon Berners, with his friend, hastened to the agent to secure his passage, which he was so fortunate as to get.
He had barely time to hurry his luggage on board before the clipper set sail.
The very last words addressed to Mr. Berners by his friend Captain Pendleton were these:
"Give our love to Mrs. Berners, and tell her that Beatrix and myself will follow you soon. Heaven bless you with good luck!"